Two police cruisers were parked in front of Jamie’s house when Michael pulled up. Jamie and three uniforms stood outside on her walkway, talking in a tight circle. She had on snug black running shorts that left nothing to the imagination and made him catch his breath. Holy crap. Did she actually wear those in public? Anger blew away his shock as he realized the backs of her upper thighs were bandaged.
All four turned as he slammed his door and jogged across the street. Jamie’s arms were tightly folded across her chest like a protective shield, her face pale under her tan.
Her face. Michael wanted to strangle her intruder. She had a large white bandage on the right side of her face, and her lips were swollen and starting to scab.
He strode straight to her and pulled her against his chest in a bear hug, not caring if she thought he was being too forward. After what she’d been through, she had to need a human touch. She stiffened for a second and then blew out a deep breath and relaxed as he rubbed his hands across her back. Her Lycra tank was smooth to his touch, but not nearly as smooth as the silkiness of her skin. She kept her arms across her chest but carefully leaned her forehead against his cheek. She shuddered.
“I’m okay.”
He rubbed her back for a few seconds longer and then stepped back, keeping a firm grip on her shoulders and looking her in the eye. “What happened?”
One of the uniforms coughed, and Michael glared his way. “Is the house clear?”
“Yes, we cleared it. Ms. Jacobs hasn’t gone back in to see if anything is missing yet.” The cop raised an eyebrow at Jamie, and Michael wanted to kick him for pressuring her. His name tag read “Byers.”
“I’m ready now,” she said. She reached up and took one of Michael’s hands off her shoulders, gripping it. “Will you go with me?”
Like anyone could stop him.
She started toward her front door, and Michael glanced at the cops just in time to see their gazes drop to her ass. “Christ,” he muttered, and their gazes immediately bounced up. Protectiveness washed over him, and he bit back a growl.
Jamie stepped through the doorway and slowly walked down the hall. Michael felt a tremor in her hand as she turned into the kitchen. “Should I be walking in here?” she asked. “Am I going to ruin evidence?”
“Just don’t move anything till they get some pictures,” Michael said. “It’s not a murder scene.”
It looked like a tornado had ripped through the room. His gaze focused on three big zigzagging brown smears on the floor. “Is that his blood or yours?”
Jamie blinked at the smears. “Mine. I think that one is from my face.” She pointed. “And the others must have happened when I was kicking him from the floor. I cut the backs of my legs on broken glass. I didn’t even feel it.” She touched the bandage on her right thigh, a bewildered look on her face. “The EMTs spotted the blood.”
“Is anything missing?” Byers patiently asked.
Jamie surveyed the room. “I don’t think so. Nothing of value in here. Unless he likes Mauviel.”
Simultaneously, Michael snorted and Byers asked, “Likes what?”
“Cookware.” Michael pointed at the shiny copper pans strewn on the floor. “Spendy.”
Byers raised a brow at him.
“My mother likes it,” Michael explained.
A five-minute walk-though of the house turned up nothing missing. But someone had been thorough. Every drawer was pulled out and overturned. Closets emptied. Byers’s partner silently snapped digital shots. Jamie discovered her jewelry intact and her electronics untouched. The tenseness left Jamie’s shoulders, but she paced the kitchen, unable to relax. Nervous energy bleeding out her pores.
“They dug through everything,” Michael said. “How long were you gone?”
“About twenty minutes. I usually run for an hour, but my leg was bugging me.”
“You run every day?”
“Most days.”
“Same time of day?”
“Always at seven.”
Michael exchanged a look with the cops. “Someone knew your schedule. He thought he knew exactly how long he had. You must have surprised him before he could take off with anything.”
Jamie shook her head. “He wasn’t looking for valuables. He was looking for Chris.”
Electric shocks shot through Michael’s nerves. “What?”
The uniform taking notes said, “He kept asking where her brother was.”
Michael clutched at Jamie’s arm, whirling her to face him. “He wanted Chris? He said that?”
She nodded. “He said Chris would remember his cigarette burns. He’s the one, Michael, he’s the one who hurt Chris. He must be the one who killed all those children…and your brother.”
Daniel. Michael eased his grip on her arm and rubbed at it in apology. His mind felt ready to explode. The man who killed Daniel is still here. I will find him.
“Sorry, princess.” He turned to Byers. “You’ve got to contact Detective Callahan in OSP’s Major Crimes.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed. “Major Crimes? Why? We’ve called out one of our robbery and assault detectives.”
Michael shook his head. “You’ve got to contact Callahan. This is related to a murder case he’s caught.”
Byers glanced at Jamie for confirmation. She nodded, still silent. “What the hell?” Byers asked. “Everyone out. Out of the house now.” He stepped closer to Michael. “You better know what you’re talking about. Why the fuck didn’t the two of you say something to start with?” His glare included Jamie.
Michael’s hackles rose. “Because I didn’t know till she mentioned her brother, and she was in too much shock from fighting for her goddamned life.” He challenged Byers’s stare.
“I’m sorry—” Jamie started.
“Not your fault. Not your fault at all.” He rubbed his hands over her shoulders. “Did you get a look at him?”
She nodded and then started to shiver.
“Christ. Let’s get out in the sun. You got a coat you can grab?”
“Don’t take anything out of the house yet,” Byers interjected. “I’ve got a Mylar blanket in the car she can use.”
Jamie’s teeth started to chatter.
“Jesus,” said Michael. “Outside. Now.”
She couldn’t get warm. She was wrapped in two Mylar blankets and in full sun, lying flat on her back in the middle of her front yard. Michael had wedged a backpack from his truck under her feet and knelt by her head, rubbing at her hands.
“Just a little shock, princess. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.”
“Why do you keep calling me princess? And make them go away.” Her teeth still chattered as she glared at the circle of uniforms staring down at her. Wasn’t she conspicuous enough? What were her neighbors thinking?
“Back off,” Michael directed. The cops obeyed. “Princess popped in my head the first time I saw you. Actually, I thought you looked like a queen. Something about the way you carry yourself. You’ve got a regal bearing. Not snooty or stuck-up. Just…calm, kind, and self-confident.”
Regal? “I’d call it my principal posture. Makes the kids listen to me.” Her damned body wouldn’t stop shivering. “I can’t get warm.”
Michael leaned closer, green eyes concerned.
Jamie blew out a long breath, closed her eyes, and concentrated on making her muscles relax. The shivering dropped to short spurts, down from continuous attacks.
“That’s better,” he said softly. “Do you think you can talk now?”
She opened her eyes. The concern in his gaze touched her deep in her chest. She nodded. “Sit me up.”
He shook his head. “Not yet.” He gestured for Byers to come back.
“How much description of the guy did she give you already?”
Byers consulted his flip notebook. “Caucasian male, probably six foot one or six foot two, medium build, late forties or early fifties, sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, navy light running pants, long-sleeved white T-shirt, tattoos on backs of both wrists.”
Jamie nodded in agreement. “I think the tattoos went up his sleeves. Like they covered his arms. I could see faint patterns through the material of his shirt.”
“Probably why he was wearing long sleeves in the middle of July,” Michael commented. “Wonder if the long pants were for the same reason?”
“More tats?” Byers asked.
Michael shrugged. “Possibly.”
Jamie’d had enough of being on her back and having people speak down to her. “Sit me up.”
Michael gently pulled her into a sitting position and steadied her with a hand on her back. And left it there. Its heat soaking into her skin felt heavenly.
“I don’t recall getting a glimpse of his legs or even ankles.” Jamie mentally reviewed her struggles with the assailant. “But he looked weird.”
“Define weird.” Michael’s lips curved up on the right.
She paused. “His eyes weren’t right. The color seemed fake.”
“Lenses?” Byers asked.
She nodded slowly. “Maybe. It was the same with the hair. The color seemed forced. Like a home dye job.”
“Christ. Vain,” Michael said wryly. “Can’t handle a little gray hair?”
“Maybe his hair was actually really dark, almost black. And he lightened it to throw her off. Same with the eyes. Maybe they’re brown or hazel,” Byers theorized. “You feel positive about the colors being changed? I mean, I had no idea my wife’s been coloring her hair for the last five years until her sister mentioned it. How can you tell?”
Uncertainty crept into Jamie’s brain. Maybe she was wrong. “Women look at hair. Most men don’t. It’s just a gut instinct with this guy.” She fumbled about for a way to explain. “You asked for his hair color. I pictured it and stated what I remembered, but something bugged me about my answer. I think it didn’t feel accurate because I’d imperceptibly picked up that it was colored. And that didn’t register till a minute ago.”
Both men stared at her. Byers’s pencil hung motionless above his notebook.
“Women can tell these things,” she asserted.
Byers recited as he wrote in his notebook: “Female instinct says hair colored and colored contacts.”