Chasing the Violet Killer Page 3

  For an instant, Naomi froze in her tracks, feeling as though someone were watching her through an upstairs ornamental window. Was she imagining things? Or had someone broken in, trying to take advantage of the tragedy, and was caught in the act? After peering at the window again and seeing no one, she quickly dismissed this as the jitters of coming to a now-empty house that sat on two acres of land and overlooked a creek. Stepping onto the front porch with its tapered columns, she took the key out of her hobo bag and unlocked the door.

  Inside, Naomi set her bags down and took in the stucco walls, rustic log furniture and parquet flooring. There were a few framed photographs on a living room wall of her uncle standing tall and proud as a detective with the Pebble Creek Police Department and alongside other officers. She moved up to the stone fireplace mantel, where there were photographs of her, Naomi’s parents and Roger in happier times. One picture, in particular, caught her eye. It was of Dylan and her, taken by Naomi’s uncle while they were at a county fair three years ago. She was surprised he’d kept the photo on display. Or maybe not, considering how fond he was of Dylan, who was like a son to him in every sense of the word. Naomi knew the feeling was mutual, meaning Dylan was probably struggling just as much as she was with her uncle’s untimely and violent death in spite of Dylan’s loyalty to his job as a detective with the Pebble Creek PD, which needed to come first as he looked into the homicide. Naomi choked back tears as the image of her uncle being gunned down once again flashed in her head. Shaking it off, she walked through the house, soaking up more pleasant memories and reacquainting herself with the surroundings. In the kitchen, dirty dishes were still on the quartz countertop and in the farmhouse sink. Her uncle had never been the tidiest person. Now, sadly, it would be up to her to clean up for him, as though he would eventually come through the front door and thank.

  Naomi grabbed her laptop shoulder bag and a garment bag and headed up the squeaky L-shaped stairs. Bypassing the master suite, she stepped inside the spacious bedroom that had once been hers and that Uncle Roger had insisted would always be there any time she wanted to visit. It was taupe colored with a platform bed and pine dresser. A glass computer desk and ergonomic stool sat in the corner. She set up her laptop there, unpacked a few things and took a long shower, feeling lethargic after the long plane ride.

  After putting on a fresh set of clothes—a yellow, white-striped top with cuffed sleeves, black straight-legged slacks—she pulled back her thick hair and tied it into a ponytail, applied a tiny amount of makeup, for effect, then slid her feet into a pair of loafers. Naomi headed back downstairs while checking her cell phone for messages. She half expected one might be from Dylan, making sure she had arrived safely. Not that she needed a polite gesture for old times’ sake from an ex-boyfriend who had likely moved on to someone else. As it was, there was no call or message from him. Probably just as well, she thought, even if a part of her felt just the slightest—or maybe more than that—disappointment, for whatever reason.

  There was, however, a text from her boss, Jared Falcony, the hard-nosed US Secret Service special agent in charge of the Miami Field Office. Though she had taken a few personal days off, Naomi had learned since working for the Secret Service that everyone had to be ready at any time to assume an official capacity in the event of an emergency. But he only wanted to reiterate his condolences for her loss and allow her the time needed to do what she must to get her uncle’s affairs in order. She texted back, thanking him.

  There was a voice mail from her Secret Service colleague and roommate, Sophia, who specialized in computer and telecommunications fraud investigations. Naomi listened as Sophia offered any help she needed, then updated her on the latest in-house gossip. Nothing out of the ordinary or otherwise to be concerned about.

  Naomi was just about to shut off the phone, when a text message appeared. It came from a caller identified as Blue Violet. The message read simply:

  I see you.

  Her heart skipped a beat. A Peeping Tom? Or worse, a serial killer? Naomi’s heart skipped another beat and her eyes darted around the living area as if someone were actually standing there watching her. She saw no one. Could the person be hiding somewhere, waiting to spring out at her like a ravenous leopard? Feeling panicked, she swiftly moved toward the piece of luggage near the door that contained her department-issued firearm. Unzipping the bag, she removed a locked hard-sided container and managed to steady her trembling hands enough to unlock it. She pulled out a Glock 9-millimeter pistol and a loaded magazine, bringing them together to form a usable weapon of self-defense in this instance.

  Crouching low, Naomi moved toward the clerestory windows and peeked through a sliver in the faux wood blinds. There was no indication of anyone surveying the house. Or her. Not that she could see the entire landscape and places one could be hiding atop one of several hills. Or amid the tall cottonwoods and cherry trees on the property. But there was still the possibility that an intruder was inside the house, though Naomi was certain she had locked the front door. Could a window have been left open by Uncle Roger to let fresh air in? And, unknowingly, a dangerous killer?

  Determined to maintain her cool under fire, even while potentially in harm’s way, Naomi methodically checked each room downstairs, keeping the gun aimed and ready to fire at a moment’s notice. She made her way back upstairs and did the same thing, fearful that someone could come out of nowhere and attack. But again, she came up empty. Maybe it was a prankster who had somehow stumbled onto her cell number. Or even a wrong number that came at the wrong time.

  While still keeping the firearm handy, Naomi slowly descended the stairs and, thinking she heard a sound, moved cautiously toward the front door. She sensed someone—perhaps her uncle Roger’s shooter—was on the other side, hoping to catch her off guard. Not a chance. After sucking in a deep breath, she quietly unlocked and gripped the brass knob, before slowly turning it.

  Yanking the door open, she stepped back and aimed the barrel straight at the tall and physically imposing killer’s face, while yelling, “Don’t move!” Or so she’d imagined the dark-haired, gray-eyed man standing there was the killer.

  Naomi reconsidered this belief and gulped when she stared up at the good-looking, square-jawed face and dimpled chin of Dylan Robert Hester.

  Though clearly startled, he didn’t make a move. Broad shoulders were covered with a navy knit blazer worn over a solid-fitting light pink shirt, and the rest of his well-developed frame filled out nicely in dark blue twill pants. He kept black apron-toe leather shoes firmly in place on the wooden porch.

  With a straight look, in a crisp tone of voice, he said coolly, “Welcome back to Pebble Creek, Naomi.”

  * * *

  HONESTLY, DYLAN HAD expected a less-than-enthusiastic greeting from the woman he had never quite been able to extricate from his mind, as if meant to forever haunt him with all she brought to the table. Indeed, had she told him to get lost or please don’t try to re-create a past she had no interest in resuming, he would have completely understood. After all, her intentions had been pretty clear two years ago where they were concerned. What he hadn’t expected was to be treated like an enemy combatant. Especially under the circumstances where they were on the same page, insofar as mourning Roger’s death as a homicide. Dylan stared into the barrel of the gun she still had pointed at him, as though in a trance. What was that all about? Had the stress of what happened to her uncle been that much to stomach? “Hello to you, too,” he said sardonically. He raised his hands in a mock surrender. “Okay, you’ve got me. Now would you mind putting that damned thing down, Secret Service Special Agent Lincoln, before someone—me—gets hurt...or worse...?”

  Naomi’s diamond-shaped face was even lovelier than before, if that was possible. And her tall and slender frame, with long and shapely legs, still left her about six inches shorter than his height of six-three. He liked the ponytail but hoped to get the chance to see her long hair flowing freely while in town, which in his mind enhanced her natural features. Her eyes, an enticing mixture of brown, gold and green hues, locked with his for a long moment as if still assessing her next move. Or target.

  “Sorry.” She finally lowered the gun while still clutching it tightly. “Thought you were someone else.”

  “For his sake, I hope the man keeps his distance,” Dylan couldn’t help but quip, though she had obviously been shaken by someone. Who?

  Naomi regarded him suspiciously. “How did you know I was here?” He noticed she was less defensive in her tone, but no less cautious.

  “I didn’t,” he admitted. “I dropped by hoping you would have arrived safe and sound.” He grinned sidelong. “Looks like you were ready and waiting...”

  “It’s not what you think.” She glanced at the gun and back. “Didn’t want to shoot you.” A soft smile played on her thin lips. “Not this time anyway—”

  “So you say.” He met her eyes dubiously. “Are you going to invite me in?” Naomi seemed to ponder the notion for a long moment, before finally nodding. She stepped aside as Dylan walked past her. When she closed the door and faced him, he had to ask, “What’s with the gun? Who did you think was on the other side of the door?”

  “I’m not sure...” She walked over to her bag and put the weapon away, replacing it with her cell phone. “Someone calling himself Blue Violet sent me a text.” She showed it to Dylan.

  “‘I see you.’” He read the disturbing words aloud. Even more alarming to him was the sender’s handle, Blue Violet. Though this wasn’t generally known to the public, it was a moniker that had occasionally been used by the Violet Killer when taunting the police. The perp always used a disposable burner phone for cryptic messages, making i
t all but impossible for police to track and identify the caller. Was this their serial killer? And why did he send Naomi, of all people, a text?

  “I wasn’t sure if it was some creep’s idea of a sick joke,” she said warily. “A voyeur hiding in the woods. Someone who latched onto me randomly and is not watching at all, but getting a charge out of keeping me wondering.” Her lower lip quivered. “Or something more sinister, such as this Violet Killer coming after me, like he must have come after Uncle Roger. Either way, it spooked me. Then I heard someone at the door...and, well, I thought I might need to defend myself—”

  “I understand.” Dylan was glad to know she was well equipped and clearly capable of protecting herself from a dangerous perpetrator. He was less comfortable with the notion that she may have unknowingly made herself a target by returning to Pebble Creek. “You did the right thing.”

  Naomi peered. “You don’t think it was just a prank, do you?”

  “No,” Dylan told her candidly, not wanting her to let her guard down by sugarcoating it.

  She arched an eyebrow. “What aren’t you telling me...?”

  Normally, he acted on a need-to-know basis during a criminal investigation. But in this case, with the victim being her beloved uncle and her own life at risk, Dylan didn’t see any way around it other than being straight with Naomi. He looked at her worriedly. “The man we believe to be the Violet Killer has been known to use Blue Violet as his handle when harassing investigators. He typically tosses the phone after leaving an enigmatic or mocking message.”

  “But how would he have gotten my cell phone number that’s unlisted?” she questioned, ill at ease.

  “Roger’s cell phone is missing. We think it was taken by the killer, along with his laptop. The unsub would’ve had access to your cell number and any other personal information stored on the two devices.”

  Naomi rolled her eyes but remained mute as if waiting for what came next.

  Dylan drew a breath, wishing he didn’t have to feed her hunger for pertinent information. But the circumstances left him no choice. “Afraid there’s more to it than that...”

  Her lashes fluttered nervously. “Such as?”

  “A violet was found stuffed inside Roger’s mouth,” Dylan uttered painfully. He shifted his weight from his right foot to the left. “It’s the perp’s calling card. Meaning that your uncle was, in fact, targeted by this serial killer—most likely because Roger had made it his mission to bring him down and was zeroing in on a suspect.”

  Naomi sighed. “I believe Uncle Roger was about to tell me more about the killer when he was silenced...” she spoke bitterly.

  “Looks that way.” Dylan hated that she had been forced into this investigation, but there was no getting around it. The killer clearly knew who she was and apparently where.

  “So, what does he want with me?” Naomi’s eyes widened disquietingly. “Or do I even need to ask, given the young women of a similar profile he’s gone after...?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Dylan suggested, even if he suspected otherwise. But tossing at her the worst-case scenario could do more harm than good. Better not to scare her to death for the time being. “Could be that this is just part of the unsub’s sick games, meant to scare you and keep us guessing while we track down any leads in the investigation.” In truth, Dylan instinctively was troubled by this unexpected twist in the case. Like it or not, so long as she was in town, Naomi had a giant target on her back. Which meant he had to do double duty in both protecting the former love of his life—whether she wanted this or not and in spite of essentially kicking him to the curb two years ago—and capturing a ruthless killer who seemed as confident in his scheming as he was reckless. Dylan hoped that it was the latter that would prove to be the unsub’s undoing.

  Chapter Three

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Naomi asked as Dylan moved his large hand toward her face. The last thing she wanted was to give him the idea that this more-than-a-little-awkward reunion between them was step one in getting back together. Not that the notion was unappealing to her on the whole, having thought about what they once had many times and how nice it would be if things had gone in a different direction in their lives. But why start something neither of them was prepared to finish? For better or worse, her life was in Miami now, even if she missed him much more than she cared to admit.

  “Just doing you a little favor.” He pushed away a tendril of hair that had found its way out of Naomi’s gathered hair and fallen across her forehead. His deft finger burned against her tender skin, reminding Naomi of what it felt like when he touched her. “That better?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she confessed, resisting the urge to scratch where the hair had been.

  “Good.” He flashed her his trademark crooked grin that always seemed to win her over. “Now, where were we?”

  Naomi found herself weak in the knees as she took in Dylan, who was every bit as nice on the eyes as the day she walked away from him and what they had. The slate-gray eyes were as deeply sexy and mesmerizing as ever. She zeroed in on the cleft in his chin that had always captivated her all by itself. She fought an urge to touch it, hoping he wasn’t somehow able to read her mind.

  Naomi forced herself to refocus on the moment at hand, freaked out at the thought that a killer had invaded her sense of security and was out there somewhere waiting to strike again. With her as a potential target, so long as she was in Pebble Creek. “Do you think the perp could have been in this house?” Her eyes went around the room, imagining that he had breached her uncle’s property—perhaps right under his nose—before turning back to Dylan.

  His brows twitched. “Was there any sign of forced entry?”

  “No, not that I could detect.” But had she been thorough in checking every possible point of access? Maybe she missed something. Wasn’t a diabolical killer capable of almost anything, if he put his mind to it?

  “I doubt the unsub has been that brazen as to break into Roger’s house,” Dylan said, rubbing his chin. “Not that I would put it past him, if he was desperate enough—such as believing Roger had kept incriminating information in the house.”

  “I haven’t seen any sign that he brought his work home,” she pointed out. Which wasn’t exactly the same thing as saying that hadn’t been the case.

  Dylan chewed his lip. “I didn’t get that impression. But still—”

  Naomi watched as he scanned the place and could read his mind. “Though Uncle Roger talked about doing it, I see that he never got around to installing a security system, believing the property’s location and surroundings to be safe enough to put it off.”

  “Yeah, I got on him about that.” Dylan frowned. “Nowhere in Pebble Creek is safe enough these days, I’m afraid. That notwithstanding, chances are the killer got what and who he was after in Roger’s office—and isn’t gutsy enough to press his luck by breaking into an ex-cop’s house as well, knowing we’re in hot pursuit. But that doesn’t make the threat any less serious. To be on the prudent side, I’ll have a forensics team dust for prints and run a sweep for any hidden cameras or obvious gaps in security.”

  “Thanks.” Naomi appreciated his help to ease her concern, even if Dylan was only doing his job and what came natural as a detective. She supposed it was more than that, given his loyalty toward her uncle. And, if honest about it, Naomi decided that with her past involvement with Dylan, he wouldn’t want to see her hurt, in spite of the way things ended between them. Her mind turned to Uncle Roger. Growing up, Naomi had always believed him to be tough as nails, practically invulnerable. Now she knew he had proved to be all too vulnerable against a determined foe who wanted him dead and made it happen.

  “In the meantime, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here,” Dylan cut into her thoughts. He fixed his gaze upon her as if it was more than a mere suggestion.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said bravely, even if feeling less than confident on that front. “As you suggested, the killer isn’t likely to show his face around here—regardless if I may have overreacted earlier. I just got here and am not about to let him or anyone else drive me away like a frightened little rabbit needing to run for cover.”