he thought nothing she could do would surprise him, she began to beat her fist on the steering wheel.
Then her eyes met his in her rearview mirror again. No mistaking it. The woman was glaring angrily at him. He shook his head. This was not the way to react to being pulled over by a cop. He ought to know.
His radio crackled. “I got that name on the phone number you gave me, Jack. Listed to Liz Jones.”
He wondered what his Girl Next Door was doing with the murdered woman’s phone number. It kept getting more and more curious by the moment.
“Run me a plate, would you?” He read the numbers off the license on the Honda in front of him and waited.
“Karen Anne Sutton.”
He wrote down her address and phone number, then he opened his door and cautiously walked toward her car.
She rolled down her window with the same kind of anger he’d seen in her rearview mirror.
“Goin’ a little fast, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Do you realize what you’ve just done?” she demanded.
“Pulled you over for speeding?” Jack stared at her. Her eyes weren’t brown. But a combination of blues and greens flecked with gold. Hazel, he supposed, but at the moment, they were more blue. An electric blue that hurled flaming arrows. At least he’d gotten the freckles right. A sprinkling of them ran across the high cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, standing out against her pale skin. The freckles picked up the golden brown of her hair, which had now pretty much escaped from the ponytail. Even disheveled she looked good. Wholesome. Just not quite so innocent as he’d first thought.
“Speeding?” she cried.
“Speeding and failing to slow down and pull over after an officer of the law both flashed his lights and siren for you to do so,” he added.
“I wasn’t speeding,” she snapped. “I was chasing a killer. Well, a possible killer.”
“I guess I didn’t see the distinction,” he said carefully. “I thought cops chased possible killers. May I see your driver’s license and car registration, please?”
She made no move for her purse. “I was trying to get his license-plate number. He was driving a larger, newer model, dark-colored sedan with a dented left rear fender. Well? Aren’t you going to do something?”
He shifted his gaze to the highway. Cars breezed past. Some large, dark-colored, newer model American cars. Some dented. If she had been chasing someone, he was gone. And if she hadn’t—
Jack looked down at her, afraid to take his eyes off her for long for fear of what she’d do next. “Your driver’s license and car registration, please?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Those expressive eyes blinked, still hot with anger. She started to reach for her purse but stopped in midmotion and blinked again, as if seeing him for the first time, really seeing him.
It was one of the few times he wished he looked a little more like a cop. Instead he was dressed a lot like her. Faded hockey jersey, worn jeans, Top-Siders. No socks. Definitely should have taken off the baseball cap, though.
Indecision and alarm flashed over her features. She glanced back at his Jeep, the light on top still flashing. She wasn’t buying that he was a cop. Why wasn’t he surprised? Par for the morning.
As he dug his badge from his jeans pocket, he noted that all four doors of her car were locked and she’d left her engine running. Worse, she looked ready to run again herself. He just wondered what she was running from. Or chasing.
He held the badge up and watched her study it intently.
“And you are—?” she asked, pointing out his lack of a name tag.
“Detective Jack Adams. Now may I see your license and registration?”
She flashed him a smile about as genuine as Naugahyde. “Of course, officer.”
He watched her rummage in her purse. She was all nerves and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d pulled a pistol out of her bag. He wondered if the nerves were her way of showing anger. Or fear? Either could make her dangerous.
With a start, he caught a glimpse of a spray can in her purse. Then her fingers were grasping it and as if in slow motion, he watched her pull it out. He stepped back, now fully expecting the worst. Pepper spray.
That’s when he spotted a blue dress in the passenger seat. A dress with what appeared to be a huge bloodstain.
“Drop that and step out of the car,”