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No, she thought, this was not a sympathy card, not intended for condolence. This particular piece of paper was a warning.
Intended for her.
She sucked in a sharp breath. Though she tried to argue with herself, she’d worked on too many weird real-life crimes not to see some validity in her thoughts. She wasn’t letting her imagination get the better of her as she stared at the card with the black rose inked onto the thick white paper. She was facing the mind-chilling truth.
The attack on her hadn’t been random.
Someone was seeking his sick kind of revenge.
And her valiant husband had lost his life defending her.
Sadness stole over her, but it quickly gave way to anger. Who the hell was behind this? Why? And God, why did Jay have to die? Seething, she climbed the stairs to her office under the eaves, fired up her iPad, and found the app for the security cameras Jay had installed around the house. Studying the recent footage, she found what she was looking for. Amid the deliveries by the postman and florists was a figure clad in black, wearing a ski mask and poncho, dark glasses covering his eyes as he avoided looking at the camera as if he knew where it was, then slid the white envelope through the mailbox slot.
She froze the frame, but saw nothing identifying about him. Nor was there any vehicle parked in the view of the camera. But she had a time stamp and would send a copy of the footage along with the card to her father, who would go through hell and back to nail the murdering prick.
“We’ll get you,” she vowed to the gray image. “And when we do? Hell will be waiting.”
CHAPTER 6
Montoya came in hot.
He barely spoke a word as he stripped out of his leather jacket and dropped into his desk chair. These days, due to recent and ongoing renovations in the department, he and Bentz shared an office, their desks pushed together, their privacy nil.
Bentz leaned back in his chair. “Somethin’ up?”
“Yeah.” Montoya’s dark eyes flashed. “It’s personal.”
“If you say so.” Bentz wasn’t one to pry, and with his partner, he rarely did.
“You got a smoke?”
“I quit,” Bentz reminded him.
“I know, but—”
“So did you.”
“Maybe it was a bad idea. I could use, I mean really use a Marlboro about now.” Scowling and agitated, Montoya rolled his chair up to the desk, and turned his attention to the monitor of his computer. “What’ve we got?”
“On Jay McKnight’s homicide? Nothing new.”
“Shit.” Montoya frowned, lips tight in his goatee.
Bentz waited, started scrolling through e-mail. Montoya would say what was on his mind. He always did. After he smoldered a while.
It didn’t take long.
“Okay, fine!” Montoya said, almost exploding. He kicked his chair back and stood, a vein showing in his forehead. “It’s Cruz, okay?”
“Your brother?”
“Who else? How many other Cruzes do you know?” He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Jesus, could the guy ever settle down, y’ know? Be like a normal man? God Almighty, I swear—” And he did, rattling off invectives in Spanish in a loud, long rant with Bentz only understanding a few of the words. He didn’t need to. He got the message.
Footsteps in the hallway heralded the arrival of Brinkman, a heavyset, ponderous detective who was a pain in the butt. “Problems?” he asked with obvious pleasure. He was dressed in jeans that had seen better days, a polo shirt, and rumpled jacket that was a size or two too small.
Montoya glared at him. “I thought you retired!”
“Soon.”
