Chasing the Violet Killer Read online

  “Such a pretty violet. Too bad she had to die. You’re next...”

  Dylan wrapped Naomi within his protective arms, fully understanding why she was shaken up. “Don’t let this creep get to you,” he cautioned Naomi as best he could, offering reassurance.

  “How can I not?” she shot back. “I know it’s just words. But they have meanings, and since the unsub’s already proven what he’s capable of, I have to wonder when the frightening texts will turn into something more sinister—”

  As if on cue, Dylan’s own cell phone rang. He reluctantly released Naomi from his grip. The caller was FBI agent Patricia Stabler.

  “Hey,” he said tentatively. “What’s up?”

  “A woman was found dead this evening in her apartment.” Patricia sucked in a deep breath. “Looks like the Violet Killer has struck again.”

  CHASING THE VIOLET KILLER

  R. Barri Flowers

  R. Barri Flowers is an award-winning author of crime, thriller, mystery and romance fiction featuring three-dimensional protagonists, riveting plots, unexpected twists and turns and heart-pounding climaxes. With an expertise in true crime, serial killers and characterizing dangerous offenders, he is perfectly suited for the Intrigue line. Chemistry and conflict between the hero and heroine, attention to detail and incorporating the very latest advances in criminal investigations are the cornerstones of his romantic suspense fiction. Discover more on popular social networks and Wikipedia.

  Books by R. Barri Flowers

  Harlequin Intrigue

  Chasing the Violet Killer

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Naomi Lincoln—The Secret Service special agent returns home to Pebble Creek, Oregon, to bury the uncle she witnessed being murdered on her laptop. She finds herself drawn into the police investigation into a serial killer with the lead detective, her ex-boyfriend.

  Dylan Hester—A homicide detective for the Pebble Creek PD, he is tasked with catching a serial killer while protecting the woman who left him heartbroken. Can he keep her safe and win back her love?

  Patricia Stabler—The FBI special agent and criminal profiler is determined to solve this case for the Bureau. Persuading Naomi to take an active role in the investigation makes sense, but could it backfire?

  Zachary Jamieson—The florist has a passion for violets, a criminal record and is a primary suspect as the killer. Has he taken things to the next level as a serial murderer?

  Roger Lincoln—The retired police investigator turned private eye was killed in pursuit of a murderer. Can he still help solve the case from the grave?

  The Violet Killer—The elusive serial killer of local women leaves a single violet as a calling card. Will Naomi become his next strangulation victim?

  In memory of my beloved mom, Marjah Aljean, who inspired me to be my best and was a longtime fan of Harlequin romances. To Loraine, the love of my life, who has never allowed me to stop believing in myself, and to the many fans of my romance, mystery and thriller fiction over the years. Lastly, a nod goes out to editors Allison Lyons and Denise Zaza for the opportunity to lend my voice and creative spirit to the Intrigue line.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Pursued by the Sheriff by Delores Fossen

  Prologue

  They had become far too predictable. The nice-looking, shapely young women would leave themselves open to whatever—or whoever—came their way, as if they had not a care or concern in the world. Whether it was jogging for no good reason, walking by their lonesome in the dead, dark of night, being utterly lackadaisical in an unattended parking garage, stupidly leaving a car unlocked, a window open or other avoidable means of vulnerability, they were ripe for the picking, like a perfect and delicious red apple. Or even a green one—that worked for him, too. It made his mission almost too easy for someone who liked challenges. Not that he had anything against hardly having to work to satisfy his cravings, per se. Why should he care if the pretty, sexy ones fell right into his trap like enticing lambs to the slaughter? Wasn’t that what every sensible and eager serial killer dreamed of?

  He broke free of his admittedly dark reverie, recognizing that the moment at hand was quickly approaching. It wouldn’t be very smart if his own overconfidence and, frankly, lack of scruples cost him another victim to add to his lovely collection of violets. There she was. Just like clockwork. Ticktock. Ticktock. He remained hidden and motionless in the shadows, watching excitedly as she tied her long and curly raven hair in a ponytail, adjusted her earbuds and set off running in colorful designer jogging attire. On the surface, the wooded area full of Douglas firs and Western white pines seemed safe enough, even during twilight hours, with lamps giving off just enough light and other runners to pass by for a sense of security. He assumed that was the runner’s calculus, false as it was. Perhaps she planned to meet her husband or boyfriend afterward for dinner and sex or whatever. Or maybe she would settle for a nice hot shower and good night’s sleep, before starting the boring work grind all over again tomorrow.

  Unfortunately, she would never live to see another day. Or even an hour. She had seen to that herself. She was like a cornered and helpless rat, and it was time to take out of its misery by going in for the kill. Anticipating her every move like a champion chess player who had an aversion to losing, he was faster and smarter, enabling him to beat her to the point where she would normally have veered off to the left and another, more active jogging trail.

  Instead, he was waiting for her there, flexing an expensive silk scarf as a prelude to what was coming. The terrified look on her pretty face and in those big, brown eyes was almost worth the satisfaction welling within him like a furnace ready to erupt. Almost. It wasn’t till she tried halfheartedly in a moment of desperation to escape the trap that he had set that he cut her off and made sure her attempt fell like a flattened tire. Before any screams could erupt from her full mouth, he had already wrapped the scarf around her neck, twisting and tightening with pleasure in silencing her till her last breath was expended. Only then could he breathe a sigh of relief that he had succeeded in killing once again.

  As the victim sank down to the ground, he pulled out a single blue violet and stuck it between her lips that had remained parted even in death, as if welcoming his going-away-from-life present.

  Chapter One

  “We just got a report of a man being shot at an office building on Seventeenth and Bedford,” the 911 dispatcher said tensely. “The victim has been identified as Roger Lincoln...”

  Detective Dylan Hester’s heart sank into his stomach as the name smacked him like a solid punch in the gut. Roger Lincoln was a former homicide detective for the Pebble Creek Police Department in the quaint Oregon town eighty-five miles south of Portland. Dylan canceled plans to stop by Lesley’s Restaurant on Crome Street for a slice of homemade apple pie in lieu of lunch, and immediately headed straight to the scene—unsure if it was a crime, accident, suicide or attempte
d suicide. He hated to think any was the case, all things considered. A criminal act of violence would certainly be a hard pill to swallow. Especially at this stage of the game for the retiree. An accidental shooting of himself, as someone experienced with firearms, was hard to fathom. But wanting to check out on his own terms was no less painful to contemplate. Yet, for one reason or another, the man had shockingly been a victim of gunfire...

  “I’m just two blocks away, Lily,” Dylan told the dispatcher, ill at ease, hoping against hope that they weren’t dealing with a fatality here.

  Roger Lincoln had been his partner, mentor and good friend. He’d been someone Dylan had continued to rely on for advice even after Roger’s sudden retirement last year at the relatively young age of fifty-eight. When his bad back made it impossible to do his job effectively, rather than take a desk job stacking papers, as someone who loved being out in the field as an investigator, Roger chose to walk away with his pension and pride intact after nearly thirty years on the force. He had remained connected to the department as a consultant on the Violet Killer case. A serial killer was strangling attractive young women, disturbingly leaving a single blue violet in their mouths as his calling card.

  The case had been laid squarely on Dylan’s lap as the youngest but most accomplished member of the homicide unit, at thirty-three years of age. A decorated veteran and former member of the US Army Special Operations force, he’d served in Afghanistan and Iraq, and had a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and master’s in criminology. Not that professional and educational achievement or persistence had done him much good as yet in tracking down the cunning killer. Thus far, he had murdered seven local women over two short years—the latest victim just two days ago—in various locations and remained elusive as ever, in spite of the painstaking efforts of the Pebble Creek PD, working in conjunction with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Oregon State Police and Blane County Sheriff’s Department to identity the perpetrator and bring him to justice for his crimes. Could Roger, who had made no secret of his desire to get the Violet Killer as his going-away present to the department and doing right by the victims and the loved ones they left behind, have homed in on the killer’s identity, thereby making him a threat that needed to be neutralized?

  Dylan swallowed that chilling thought and asked Lily, “Who reported the incident?”

  “The caller identified herself as the victim’s niece, Naomi Lincoln. Apparently, she was having a video chat on the computer with him when the shooting occurred—”

  That unexpected revelation threw Dylan for a loop, leaving him even more unsettled and causing the car to jerk toward oncoming traffic before he managed to regain control. Naomi Lincoln. He could only imagine the horror of what she must have witnessed before her very eyes. The name rang in his head as though surrounded by flashing lights, spurring a wave of emotions in Dylan, as someone he had tried hard to forget, failing miserably in that impossible endeavor. Naomi Rachel Lincoln happened to be his ex-girlfriend and almost fiancée, who had stunningly and inexplicably tossed aside what he’d thought was a love match made in Pebble Creek, if not heaven and earth, in favor of joining the US Secret Service two years ago. It broke his heart in more places than one, not to mention his spirit, when she told him the opportunity was simply too much to pass up. Even if it meant ending their relationship then and there. She did just that, without apparently much hesitation or looking back once she was fast out the door, leaving him high and dry.

  Rather than try to talk her out of it—not sure he could have, even with what he considered pretty damned good powers of persuasion, given her own stubbornness and strong determination—Dylan did what he thought was the honorable thing, if not the most foolish, as a man who’d fallen in love with the biracial and shapely beauty who had him tied up in knots. He took a step back, maybe a few steps, wished her well and tried to get on with his life, hard as it would be without her in it. But pretending she didn’t exist at all—a herculean task—was never in the cards. Through Roger, he’d kept tabs on Naomi and her burgeoning career in Miami. By all accounts, she was truly in her element as a Secret Service special agent, assigned to the investigation detail in building upon her previous career with the county as a crime victims service coordinator. But Roger had been quick to point out, whether Dylan wanted to hear it or not, that she wasn’t seeing anyone seriously as far as he knew, as if to leave that window open for them to someday get back together.

  Even if a small part of him found much appeal in that possibility, Dylan didn’t see that happening, as too much time had passed and neither seemed willing to give up the lives they had carefully constructed like a well-built fortress on opposite sides of the country. He wouldn’t ask or expect her to do what he wasn’t willing to do himself. Some things simply weren’t meant to be. He was sure this was one of them.

  He pulled his unmarked dark-colored vehicle into the parking lot on Bedford Avenue of the three-story brick building that housed Roger’s office. A squad car, its lights flashing, and a detective’s cruiser were already at the scene. Dylan could hear the siren of an ambulance approaching. He raced inside and ran up one flight of stairs and down a long hall, turning to the right at the end, with a shorter hall that led to the second-floor office he’d visited several times since Roger set up his private detective and consultant agency, Lincoln Investigations.

  An officer was standing guard at the door, looking grim. Dylan showed his identification. His deep molten-gray eyes rose over the officer’s wide shoulders and spotted the detective inside. Apparently, they weren’t dealing with an active gunman still on the scene to prevent Roger from getting treatment. But there may have been more than one victim.

  “How many people are injured?” Dylan asked the officer just to be sure.

  “Just one,” he said tonelessly.

  “Still one too many,” Dylan grumbled, as knots churned in his stomach, which often happened when he had a bad feeling about something.

  He stepped inside the midsized office, cluttered with folders on top of folders Dylan knew were files on national cold cases Roger consulted on or hoped to. There was a double-hung window overlooking the street. Careful not to contaminate what may be a crime scene as he walked across vinyl composite tile flooring, Dylan sidestepped potential evidence and was met halfway by his friend and colleague Detective Gregory Hwang.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice level. “Just beat you here.”

  “What have we got?” Dylan asked routinely, though knowing this was anything but routine. He glanced over at Roger Lincoln, who was sitting motionless in a high-backed ergonomic leather chair. His upper body was slumped over one side of an L-shaped wooden desk as if he had fallen asleep. Something told Dylan that he wasn’t waking up anytime soon. If ever.

  Hwang, a thinly built, seven-year veteran with short black hair and a heavy-stubble beard, was South Korea born, pushing forty and a single father of twin eight-year-old girls. He had been on the Violet Killer case from the start. Furrowing his forehead in three places presently, he confirmed Dylan’s worst fears when he said, “There’s no other way to say this, Dylan... Lincoln’s gone...”

  Dylan offered no response, though he was certain his dour expression said it all. How could this have happened? Did he really want to know? No, he needed to. He approached the desk and got a closer look. Roger’s head lay in a pool of his own blood, soaking into thinning gray hair that was raggedly swept to one side. There was what looked to be a massive gunshot wound to his temple, marring the hardened, contorted features of his dark-skinned face. If he had to make a guess, based on his knowledge of firearms and their capabilities, Dylan would bet that the weapon used was a .45 ACP pistol. It appeared that a single shot was fired at point-blank range.

  “Any sign of the firearm?” Dylan asked, while gazing at the blood-splattered floor around the desk.

  “Not yet.” Hwang flexed one of his hands covered by a nitrile glove.
“I’m pretty sure we’re not looking at a suicide here, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I wasn’t.” Dylan knew for a fact that, since retiring, Roger favored a Ruger Blackhawk .44 Magnum revolver as his weapon of choice. This meant that the killer most likely used his or her own weapon to commit the crime. “Whoever did this was obviously smart enough not to leave the gun just lying around.” Seeing no sign of Roger’s weapon, Dylan figured the killer took it, too.

  Even with the stark reality that this was murder, Dylan felt somewhat relieved that they weren’t looking at a suicide, knowing Roger as he did. His differences with Naomi aside, Dylan wouldn’t have wanted her to have to deal with such a crushing blow of Roger dying by his own hand. Not that the cold-blooded murder of Naomi’s uncle would be any easier for her to deal with.

  “Could we be looking at an attempted or completed robbery?” Hwang asked, not sounding as if he believed this.

  “I doubt it. Robbers don’t usually expect to find a pot of gold in a private detective’s office.” Dylan pinched his nose thoughtfully. “No, this was personal.” Just how personal, he wasn’t quite sure yet, but he had his suspicions.

  Hwang cocked a brow. “You think it had something to do with a case he was working on?”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Dylan said, remaining noncommittal for the time being. “Better get the crime scene unit in here,” he muttered bleakly.

  “They’re on their way, even as we speak,” Hwang pointed out expectantly. “Whatever went down in this office and for whatever reason, Roger Lincoln didn’t deserve to die this way. He was one of us and we’ll do it by the book in solving this case as quickly as possible.”

  Dylan nodded, knowing the detective was just as up to the task as he was in dealing with a violent criminal act that needed to be properly investigated till its closure. Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan spotted something shiny beneath Roger’s desk. Donning a pair of nitrile gloves, he bent down and grabbed it. It was a shell casing. Gazing at the manufacturer’s marking, he saw that it corresponded with his estimate on the type of weapon used to shoot Roger. Holding up the spent casing, Dylan said, “Looks like the shooter left something behind after all.”