Christmas Crime in Colorado

“Far from it.”

The fact that she is a beautiful and desirable woman doesn’t matter a whit. My mission is to keep her alive. No one else would die at the hand of Robby Lee Warren’s avenger. In that way, Michael would honor the vow he’d made to the memory of Grant Rawlins.

At the hotel, he turned his car keys over to the valet while Brooke looked at him with a curious expression.

“Nice hotel,” she said.

“I thought so.”

“At the boutique this afternoon, you didn’t wince when I told you how much those gorgeous leather gloves cost.”

He nodded.

“There aren’t many cops who can afford the prices in Aspen.”

“I suppose Aspen is a bit pricey.” He glanced at the streets of the mountain town, decorated with garlands and sparkling lights. “Reminds me of a Christmas card.”

“Classy but quaint,” she said. “When I lived in Atlanta, I always missed the snow at Christmastime.”

“I could do without the cold.”

At the door to the hotel, a young man in jeans and a ski patrol parka called out, “Brooke! Hey, Brooke!”

She held up a hand to acknowledge the guy, but she clearly didn’t want to talk to him.

He hustled closer—close enough that Michael could smell the beer on his breath when he said, “I heard about what happened to Sally.”

Brooke edged closer to Michael. “There was nothing I could do.”

“It was suicide, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“I never knew anybody who killed themselves. Amazing.” He dragged his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. In spite of the mountain cold, he wasn’t wearing gloves or a hat. “Wait until Tyler hears about this.”

Tyler who? Michael had to wonder. Despite his conviction that Sally had been mistakenly killed by the serial killer, further investigation might be necessary.

In a glance, he analyzed the man who stood before him—a typical tanned ski bum, carefree and full of beer. But he had an edge, an anger in the depths of his brown eyes. Michael held out his hand and introduced himself.

After a muscular handshake, the young man said, “I’m Peter Thorne.”

“And you were friends with Sally,” Michael said.

“Hell, I slept with her.”

Beside him, he heard Brooke inhale a sharp gasp. “That’s enough, Peter.”

“I might have been her first score when she got to Aspen,” he said. “Didn’t take Sally long to move on to bigger fish, though. Guys who were famous and rich, like Tyler Hennessey.”

“Never heard of him,” Michael said.

“Man, you are definitely not from Aspen. Tyler’s a superstar. For sure, he’ll be going to the Olympics in snowboarding.”

Michael barely knew what snowboarding was. “So, Sally dumped you for this superstar?”

He gave a hard laugh. “Dropped me like a landslide.”

Though Michael’s first concern was to get Brooke safely to the room, he wanted to find out more from Peter Thorne. “Breaking up is no fun. That must have ticked you off.”

“I’ll tell you this.” He jabbed a drunken forefinger toward Michael’s chest. “Sally ticked off a lot of people. Am I right, Brooke?”

Silently, she nodded.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Peter, “if this wasn’t a suicide. There are lots of guys who wouldn’t mind seeing Sally Klinger dead.”

“We have to go,” Brooke said. “Good night, Peter.”

Michael watched Peter stagger along the sidewalk. There seemed to be no lack of motive for people who wanted to hurt Brooke’s roommate. Boyfriends. Ex-boyfriends. Her husband.

Even Brooke had admitted that she wanted to get Sally out of her life.

He took another look at the auburn-haired beauty who entered the hotel in front of him. Had her anger toward her roommate turned violent? Was it possible that the woman he’d come to protect from a serial killer was a murderer?

Chapter Four (#ulink_a61b1740-cc4f-5409-8f45-4786805c2d01)

With Brooke asleep in the bedroom in his hotel suite, Michael poured himself a shot of Kentucky bourbon and added ice—a sin to purists, but he liked his liquor cold.

After Grant’s murder, he’d gotten into the habit of having a drink every night before he went to bed in the hope that he wouldn’t lie awake, unable to shut off his mind. The fact that Grant’s killer hadn’t been brought to justice tore him up inside.

For ten years, Michael had been chasing down leads and solving crimes, but his experience as a cop was no help at all when it came to dealing with Grant’s murder. He raised his glass to the memory of his friend. Here’s to a fallen comrade. A good man, a good soldier, a good friend. Semper Fi.

The bourbon rolled across his tongue, leaving a mellow aftertaste. The hotel’s concierge had stocked the kitchenette with the things he’d requested: milk, fruit and bourbon. Two healthy items out of three wasn’t bad.

The hotel was turning out to be more than adequate. The spacious living room with a view of the ski slope had a kitchenette and a small bathroom of its own. In spite of the earthy Southwestern colors, the rustic furniture reminded him of his uncle Elmo’s hunting lodge. Although the hunting lodge had just about as much class as a rusted tin can.

He listened but heard no sound from the bedroom. Within minutes after Brooke said good-night and closed the bedroom door, he heard her running the shower in the bathroom. If his prior experience with victims held true, he figured she’d be scrubbing herself clean, trying to wash away the memory of violence.

But was she a victim? He gave serious consideration to the possibility that Brooke might have killed her roommate. It seemed unlikely that Brooke had the necessary physical strength to haul Sally through the house and fling her over the balcony. Also, when he arrived on the scene, Brooke’s desperation was real—she wanted to help Sally, to save her.

Nope, Brooke wasn’t a killer.

He had the sense that she was stressed to her breaking point, though. It seemed that her life had been a rough ride, and one more bump in the road—finding her roommate dead—could send her over the edge. Sally’s death wasn’t just a bump in the road—it was more like getting mowed down by a trauma the size of a semi-truck.

Crossing the room, he turned on the gas fireplace and sat on the sofa. His laptop rested on the coffee table in front of him. Time to review his research on the lady who had taken over his bedroom. Thirty-two years old. No arrests. No criminal record. She’d been secretary of the Atlanta Junior League. Active in charity events, her picture popped up on the society page. The black-and-white photo showed a slender, unsmiling woman standing beside an athleticlooking guy in a tux. Her husband, Thomas. She’d taken out a restraining order on him and filed two police reports claiming that he’d harassed her. After a prolonged separation and court battle, their divorce was final four months ago. She’d left town almost immediately afterward.

What made this lady tick? She’d readily admitted that she sometimes saw things that weren’t there but wasn’t currently on medications. Very likely she’d been seeing a therapist. It sure would be handy to talk to that counselor, but psychiatrists wouldn’t talk without a warrant—and sometimes not even then.

First thing tomorrow, he’d put in a call to a friend in the Atlanta police department and see if he could unearth any pertinent information on Brooke Johnson.