Forbidden Temptation

Too late.

Chapter Two

Rose called the flower shop as early as she dared the next morning. As soon as someone answered the phone, she forced the reluctant words from her mouth. “Is Alice Donovan there?”

“She’s not in yet.”

“When do you expect her in?”

A thick pause greeted the question. When the woman finally spoke, the anxiety in her voice was palpable. “An hour ago.”

Rose’s nightmare flashed through her mind, chilling her to the bone. Her voice cracked. “Have you tried her home number?”

“She’s not answering her home phone or her cell.” The woman’s voice shook. “She’s never late like this.”

Rose tried to keep her voice even. “I met her last night. I said I’d give her a call—I’m a wedding planner and I can always use a new flower source.”

“Was she okay when you saw her?”

Rose closed her eyes. “She was fine, heading home the last I talked to her. Does she live nearby?”

“On Doberville—the Brookstone Apartments.”

Rose gave a start. A block away, easy walking distance.

“I’d go check on her,” the woman continued, “but I’m the only one in the shop….”

“I’ll check, if you’d like. I live nearby. What apartment?”

The woman hesitated, as if realizing she’d already given out a lot of personal information to a stranger. “Maybe I should call the police.”

“Definitely do that. But they won’t do anything yet—she’s an adult and she’s been missing only an hour. I know you don’t want to give out that kind of information to a stranger on the phone. My name is Rose Browning. Like I said, I have a wedding planning company. You can look me up in the Yellow Pages or on the Internet. I just want to help, and I live so close…”

“Apartment 2-D,” the woman said softly.

“I’ll go right now.” Rose hung up and started dressing, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t too late.

That Alice wasn’t already dead.

THE MORNING CHILL curled around the collar of Daniel’s suit jacket, making him wish he’d worn an overcoat. Ahead, yellow crime tape cordoned off a large square where the crime-scene unit gathered evidence while detectives watched from the sides.

Daniel steered clear of the tape, blending into the crowd of locals watching from across the street. He edged toward the local television reporters setting up for live shots nearby.

A pretty black woman in a red wool coat was doing sound checks, practicing her copy for the technician.

“Police report that a couple of joggers found the body here just outside the Mountain View Golf Course. Police have not identified the victim, a woman in her mid-twenties.”

An image of the dark-haired woman at the Southside Pub flashed through Daniel’s mind. Unease settled low in his gut.

He needed to see the body. See who she was, if she was displayed. The crime-scene unit surrounded the body, their camera flashes piercing the tree-sheltered gloom of the brush bordering the golf course.

He circled the scene, vines and brambles tugging his pant cuffs as he edged away from the sightseers and climbed a slight rise for a better vantage point. He settled between a couple of trees. His line of sight wasn’t perfect, but he had a pretty good view of the body. He pulled a small pair of binoculars from his jacket pocket and trained them on the scene.

Though nobody looked the same in death as in life, he quickly ascertained that the woman lying faceup in the tall grass was not the dark-haired beauty he’d seen at the pub the night before. This woman was about the same age, but her hair was lighter in color, with an unruly wave to it.

Ignoring a twinge of relief, he trained the binoculars on the victim’s face. He could see little of her features behind the roadmap of slashes marring her pale skin, but what he saw of the wound patterns answered the most pressing question. She was victim number three. She lay posed on her back with her hands crossed over her chest, just like the others.

Just like Tina.

“Danny?”

A man’s voice nearby sent a jolt down Daniel’s spine. He turned to find a clean-cut man in a trim gray suit standing a few feet away, his head slightly cocked.

Daniel was mentally prepping his explanation when he realized the man had called him by name. Recognition dawned, unexpected and not entirely welcome.

No longer the gangly teen Daniel had known, Tina Carter’s brother, Frank, was now in his thirties. He’d gone from bony to wellbuilt and, while still not exactly handsome, women would like him, especially with the badge hanging low on his hip.

Daniel pocketed his binoculars. “Didn’t know you’d become a detective, Frank.” He crossed to the man and held out his hand.

Frank shook it firmly. “You didn’t know I was on the force at all, Danny.” He shrugged off Daniel’s apologetic expression. “What are you doing here? Nobody called the FBI.”

“I’m not with the FBI anymore. I teach college now.” Daniel nodded toward the crime scene. “This is number three, isn’t it? Here, at least.”

Frank glanced toward the scene. “Why would a college professor want to know?”

“Just looking.”

Frank’s frown tightened. “I’ve got to get back before my captain realizes I’m not around. I suggest you be gone before she starts trolling the crowd for witnesses. Unless you’re ready to explain why you’re sneaking around her crime scene uninvited.”

Daniel wasn’t. “Good to see you, Frank.”

Frank just gave a curt nod and strode back down the shallow incline toward the cordoned-off crime scene.

Daniel waited until Frank had slipped under the yellow tape before he followed, skirting the crowd again to keep his distance from the cops and technicians still swarming the crime scene. It was possible someone might recognize his face from his TV appearances.

Daniel wasn’t ready for that to happen. Not yet.

Not until he knew if these murders really were connected to Tina Carter’s.

He settled behind the wheel of his Jeep, his attention focused on the police officers on the scene. Sooner or later, detectives would head for the victim’s home, looking for a murder scene that would provide them with more evidence than the carefully staged dumpsite they were scouring at the moment.

And when they did, Daniel intended to tag along.

THE BROOKSTONE APARTMENTS on Doberville Road had been built in the twenties, a redbrick Colonial Georgian the owner had partitioned into apartments years ago when apartment housing in Birmingham’s vibrant Southside community had become a hot-ticket item. Alice’s apartment was on the backside of the building, making it easy for Rose to approach from the alley without attracting much attention.

She climbed the exterior stairs, the memory of the death veil quivering over Alice’s face haunting her. She should have made Alice believe her. Maybe if she’d come across matter-of-fact, less uncertain…

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe Alice just had a bad hangover and had overslept. No need to give up hope yet.