Prime Suspect

By Maggie Price

Women to Watch

" spine–tingling suspense and sizzling romance I can't wait for the next story from this talented author!"
Award–winning and bestselling author Merline Lovelace

MAN OF ICE

It was rumoured that Lieutenant Michael Ryan had ice running through his veins. A dedicated detective, he never let emotion interfere with his job. But his unwavering discipline was shaken by one beguiling and beautiful suspect, a woman who could help him catch a grisly serial killer .

A. J. Duncan's reputation as a criminal profiler was exemplary, but her involvement in her cop brother's death was suspicious. And as the two investigations heated up, Michael realized he'd crossed the line and fallen for a woman forbidden to him.

For larger–than–life love stories, award–winning author Maggie Price is one of our Women to Watch

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460874646

Maggie Price

Maggie Price turned to crime at the age of 22. That s when she went to work at the Oklahoma City Police Department. As a civilian crime analyst, she evaluated suspects methods of operation during the commission of robberies and sex crimes, and developed profiles on those suspects. During her tenure at OCPD, Maggie stood in lineups, snagged assignments to homicide task forces, established procedures for evidence submittal, even posed as the wife of an undercover officer in the investigation of a fortune-teller. Drawing on her 12 years experience in law enforcement, Maggie penned her first novel, Prime Suspect. One week after Silhouette acquired the novel of romance and intrigue, the Romance Writers of America awarded Prime Suspect its prestigious Golden Heart Award for Best Romantic Suspense. Maggie has conducted extensive research for her novels that thrill and chill by visiting OCPD s forensics laboratory, taking aim on the police firing range, riding the graveyard shift with patrol officers, and hitting the streets with OCPD s Vice Detail during the conduct of a prostitute sting. Maggie loves to hear from readers! She invites you to write to her at: 5208 W. Reno, Suite 350, Oklahoma City, OK 73127. Or send her an email at: [e-mail] She also welcomes visitors to her web site at http://members.aol.com/magprice.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A.J. Duncan drove through the icy November dusk, the apprehension holding her in its grip deepening with every mile. Ten days ago the grim-faced police chaplain had broken the devastating news of her brother’s line-of-duty death. Since then, the outer world had appeared unfocused and unreal, like something viewed through a pool of water.

The needles of dread that now pricked her skin were all too real.

Tightening her gloved hands around the steering wheel, she took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. She had only a few more minutes to get her emotions under control. A glance at the department memo on the seat beside her heightened the sick feeling in her stomach. A uniformed officer had delivered the summons as she locked the door to the Crime Analysis Unit after her first day back at work. Report to Internal Affairs. Below the computer-generated sentence, Sgt. Michael Ryan had signed his name in precise, angular letters.

Internal Affairs. Cops investigating cops. The feeling of dread settled into a hard knot in her chest. God, there was no avoiding what lay ahead, no getting around the awesome power that Ryan’s unit yielded.

The sprawling brick structure housing the Oklahoma City police department’s training, personnel and internal affairs divisions came into view just as the clock on the dash glowed 5:30. A.J. nosed her red Miata into the ice-glazed parking lot. The reserved spaces were empty, except the one marked Commander—IAD. In it sat a black Bronco, its antennae encrusted in ice. Across the lot a few cars huddled in the gloom near the door that led to the gym where the department’s recruits and officers trained. A.J. bit her lip against an instinctive sureness that told her Ryan had timed their meeting so they’d have the building essentially to themselves.

She shoved open the car door and stepped into the frigid wind, wincing against tiny pellets of sleet.

Clenching her teeth against the constant age-old ache in her right thigh, she paused in the building’s dim foyer, her stomach churning. She had never met Michael Ryan, yet a disgruntled cop whose career had barely survived an IAD investigation once told her Ryan was the worst of the lot—because he was the best.

He would ask her about Ken. What would she say? What the hell could she say about her brother?

IAD’s outer office was dark. Like a moth pulled to a scorching flame, A.J. made her way through a shadowy labyrinth of desks and chairs toward the wedge of light that jutted from a back office. A low voice drifted on the still air; A.J. paused outside the door, her spine stiff as wire.

Inside, Michael Ryan stood beside his desk, telephone receiver trapped between his shoulder and cheek. Even after a full workday, his starched white shirt appeared unwrinkled, its collar a crisp fold over a knotted paisley tie. He had one hand clamped at his waist, holding back the flap of his navy suit coat. Light glinted off the gold badge clipped to his belt.

A.J. pulled off her gloves then slipped out of her coat. The hand she used to smooth the skirt of her gray suit trembled. Inching back into the shadows, she used the time to look Ryan over.

He was in his midthirties, she judged, tall and lean with the build of an athlete, his thick hair as dark as a starless night. His face was high boned, his mouth firmly molded, his eyes ice blue. Under Ryan’s command, Internal Affairs operated with spit and polish, and he had the same look about him—sharp and controlled.

We agreed Megan would spend Christmas with me, Ryan said into the phone. That was the deal. A.J. picked up an undertone of steel in his voice.

Folding her coat across her arm, she pulled her gaze from his intense profile. Ryan’s office was cool black metal and white walls. No clutter. Except for the telephone, an overstuffed file folder was the only item on his desk. The credenza spanning the back wall displayed a lone brass frame holding the picture of a preteen girl with an impish, lopsided smile. Her dark good looks and piercing blue eyes gave silent testimony of a blood lineage with the man who stood scowling inches away.

One weekend in three months. Ryan’s hand curled into a fist as he spoke. That’s not too much to ask. He paused to listen, his shoulders stiffening. Have Megan call me. Collect, he added, then settled the receiver onto its base with a thud.

Dammit! he muttered. He shoved his fingers through his dark hair. A muscle flinched in his jaw. He stepped to the credenza, swiped up the photograph and stared down at the picture. Regret, raw and dark, settled in his eyes.

Breath hitching, A.J. stood outside the doorway, still as death. She knew what it was like to gaze at a photograph and feel the ache of remorse.

As if suddenly sensing her presence, Ryan’s chin came up and he turned. The small clench of empathy that had tugged at A.J. died when his expression sharpened.

A.J. He returned the photograph to the credenza; his unwavering gaze locked with hers while he walked the few steps to the door. I’m Michael Ryan. I don’t think we’ve ever met, he added, extending his hand.

We haven’t, she confirmed. Heart pounding, she slid her hand into his, hoping direct contact wouldn’t betray her uneasiness.

I appreciate you meeting me here.

She forced a thin smile and pulled her hand from his firm, warm grip. I wasn’t aware I had a choice, Sergeant. When someone needs information from my unit, they usually just call.

He raised a dark brow. I’d have done that if I needed the services of a crime analyst. He stepped aside and motioned toward the chairs at the front of his desk. Have a seat.

She left her coat and purse in one chair, then settled into another, feeling his blue stare following her every move.

This concerns Ken, Ryan said as he leaned a hip against the front edge of the desk. A.J. waited, feeling time inch its way forward as his gaze slid from her eyes, to her mouth, then down her body. He was sizing her up, assessing her—looking for what, she didn’t know. With tension knotting her throat, she shifted in her chair and waited.

I apologize if this is painful, he continued after a moment. But it’s waited too long as it is.

What about my brother? she asked, forcing an evenness into her voice.

Are you aware of any problems Ken was having—personal or with the job?

For a mindless instant, the threatening voice of the anonymous caller who’d startled her from a sound sleep swirled in her brain. Your brother’s gone bad. Tell him to cooperate with his new partners...or else. She’d tracked Ken down after anxious hours of searching and told him about the call. He’d cursed, rage darkening his face. I’ll kill the bastard for involving you in this, A.J. So help me God, I’ll kill him.

"Involving me in what?" she’d demanded, more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, and not sure why. But her question and the ones that followed drew only Ken’s unnerving, thin-lipped silence. Without saying another word, he had stalked out, his oath to kill some unnamed person her final memory of him.

It was the last time she’d seen her brother alive.

A.J. took a deep breath against the familiar swell of grief that settled around her heart. Ken had always been there to fix her troubles. They’d had a parentless childhood; he’d helped their aunt raise her, been her adviser, protector and a million other things. Now he was dead, and she was left with a black void of questions.

Was Ken having problems?

The hard edge that had settled in Ryan’s voice snapped her gaze up. My brother died while investigating a burglary. Shouldn’t you be looking for the bastard who murdered him?

No, Ryan answered bluntly. That’s Homicide’s job. But you’ve spent your fair share of time working with that unit, so I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.

She shifted her attention to a metal bookcase filled with precise rows of binders and departmental manuals. Ryan had done his homework. He knew that beside her duties as civilian supervisor over Crime Analysis, her training as a profiler drew her special assignments to homicide task forces. Dread tightened her jaw. OCPD had hundreds of employees—this man, with whom she’d never before exchanged words, wouldn’t know her work history unless he’d made the effort to find out.

Was Ken having problems? Ryan persisted.

If he was, he didn’t confide in me. Whatever his secrets, Ken had taken them to the grave. A.J. intended they stay there.

I know you and your brother were close, Ryan commented, his gaze unyielding. I understand loyalty. But Ken’s dead now, and things will go easier for you if you tell me what you know.

A.J. stared at him, her spine going rigid. She’d heard cops interrogating suspects before, and that was how Ryan sounded now. As if she were a suspect. I have no idea what you’re getting at, Sergeant.

Then I’ll make my point. Ken had a checking account at Savings National. As he spoke, Ryan reached behind him and lifted the thick file folder off the desk. During the last week of Ken’s life, separate cash deposits totaling over ten thousand dollars were made into his account.

I... There’s some mistake, A.J. said with disbelief. She was the one with a head for finance, not Ken. Her brother had no talent for managing money; he lived from paycheck to paycheck.

No mistake, Ryan answered. I have copies of the deposit slips. The records show you’re a cosigner on the account.

A.J. blinked and gave a wary nod. Ken opened it after his divorce. He wanted my name on the account in case something happened.

Ryan pushed away from the desk, straightening to his full height. "Something did happen. Ken died. And he left a lot of questions."

That I don’t have the answers to. Ten thousand dollars, she thought weakly. Where the hell had the money come from?

Mouth set in a thin line, Ryan pulled a computer printout from the file folder and handed it to her. This came out of Ken’s locker.

Sweat slicked A.J.’s palms as she stared at the printout, its top page smudged with black fingerprint powder. She knew the exact day the printout had disappeared from her office. Moved by an instinct she didn’t understand, her search for it had turned frantic after she’d received the anonymous call.

The data on those pages is classified, is it not? Ryan asked.

She met his gaze. Yes.

From it, your unit sends Patrol reports of the districts hit hardest. Those areas are assigned the highest number of black-and-whites. Right?

A.J. gritted her teeth and nodded. Why was Ryan even bothering to ask? The sureness in his eyes made it clear he already knew the answers to his questions.

You also recommend the times and locations for plainclothes stakeouts, he continued. Say, for instance, someone running a burglary ring knew those assignments in advance, he’d move his operation to the districts with the fewest patrols. Tell his people to avoid the stakeouts. Wouldn’t be hard to find a buyer on the street for that kind of information.

A.J. rose slowly; the thick ream of paper slipped from her fingers, waterfalling into a heap at her feet as she glared up at Ryan through a haze of anger. "Maybe the printout wound up in Ken’s locker, but you can’t prove he put it there."

He nodded, his expression unreadable. True.

Turning her back on his piercing gaze, she willed her knees not to tremble as she walked the few steps to the room’s only window and stared out at the frozen parking lot. Think, she commanded herself, her hand rising to her throat. Think.

A car backed out of a space near the gym door, its headlights licking across the lot’s blacktopped surface.

Think.

You said the deposits to Ken’s account were in cash, she said, watching the car make a cautious turn into the street.

That’s right.

"Anyone could have made them. All they’d need to know was the name of Ken’s bank and the account number.

Possible.

She turned back to face Ryan, refusing to allow the doubt she’d heard in his voice to further unsettle her. Ken got his paycheck by automatic deposit. Most of us do.

Ryan shrugged. What’s your point?

Ken had to fill out an authorization card for that. It has the bank’s name and his account number, and it’s kept on file in payroll. Any enterprising cop with a lock pick and a talent for computers has access to the files.

Ryan cupped his hand to his chin and tapped a finger against his firm-set lips. You have an explanation for everything.

I’m guessing, Sergeant, but so are you. In themselves, your allegations mean nothing.

They suggest quite a lot.

So does your timing. She shoved a tumble of dark hair behind one shoulder. If you had proof Ken and I were selling information, you wouldn’t have waited until now to pull me in.

You’re right, I don’t have proof, Ryan agreed quietly. Not yet.

You’ll never get it, she countered, her voice shaking. Because I didn’t give that printout to anyone, and I resent your implying I did. I know right from wrong—because of Ken. When I was little, he’d read me the riot act if I lied about brushing my teeth. Ken taught me honesty. That’s how he was. Honest.

Ryan gave her a dubious, narrow-eyed look. You’re talking about a cop who not too long ago came off administrative suspension.

IAD’s entire case was based on circumstantial evidence, A.J. said through her teeth.

We had enough to prove Ken violated department policy. Enough to bust him from detective to patrolman.

A.J. gestured toward the floor. And because of that, you think he took this printout.

No. I think he took it because his fingerprints are all over it.

I can explain that.

Ryan cocked his head. I’m listening.

Courage seeping out of her, A.J. retraced her steps and lowered herself onto the chair. Inside, she was falling apart. Her right thigh ached, her pulse hammered in her ears. The idea that Ken had involved himself—and her—in something illegal was like slow paralysis.

The printout disappeared from my desk the day before Ken died, she said in a wooden voice.

Had he been in your office that day?

Yes, she said, and raised her gaze to meet Ryan’s. He and his partner came by.

Greg Lawson?

A.J. nodded. They wanted a computer run done on robberies that had gone down in their district. Greg met with one of the analysts—Tim Ford, I think it was. While Greg did that, Ken came in my office to talk.

What about?

A.J. narrowed her eyes. A personal matter.

I need to know.

Our aunt’s ill, she answered after a moment. I’d taken her to the doctor that morning. Ken wanted to know how it went.

Ryan nodded. Go on.

A.J. gestured toward the floor. I had the printout spread across my desk, using it to compile a report. Her throat tightened against the image of her tall, wide-shouldered brother striding into her office in his sharply pressed uniform. His dark, solemn-eyed handsomeness habitually pulled women’s gazes like radar, and taking into account the wistful looks A.J. had seen coming from the two female analysts in the outer office, Ken’s appeal on that day was as devastating as ever.

Ken gathered up the printout and held it so he’d have room to sit on the desk while we talked. A.J.’s voice hitched. God, the memories hurt. Tears welled and she blinked them furiously away. She hadn’t cried since Ken’s death, and she’d be damned if Michael Ryan could make her start now.

I can get you some water, he offered in a soft voice.

The only thing I want is to leave.

When we’re done.

She took a deep breath, thinking about the grimness she’d seen in Ken’s eyes that last afternoon. When she’d asked him what was wrong, his gaze shifted for a split second out the door of her office, then settled back on her face. I’m worried about Aunt Emily, was all he’d said.

A.J. had sensed there was more bothering Ken than just their aunt’s health, but she hadn’t pressed. Ken had taken his suspension and resulting demotion hard—if his current assignment to the Patrol Division had put the bleak look in his eyes, she hadn’t wanted to bring it up.

How long did Ken stay in your office that day?

Maybe fifteen minutes, she answered, meeting Ryan’s gaze. Then Greg came to get him.

Did Lawson come in?

A.J. frowned. I don’t think so, she said after a moment. I barely knew Greg...then. He and Ken hadn’t ridden together long. I seem to remember that Greg poked his head in to tell Ken he had what they needed. Ken handed me the printout and left.

Ryan leaned toward her until his face came even with hers. You’re sure? he asked, his voice a soft presence on the still air. One hundred percent sure Ken didn’t walk out with that printout?

Positive. The warm, spicy scent of Ryan’s aftershave filled her lungs as A.J. kept her gaze locked with his.

What makes you so sure?

I started back to work on my report after Ken left. Tim and I went to a meeting about an hour later.

The room had suddenly become uncomfortably warm. A.J. felt her flesh heat beneath her gray wool suit. She ran a hand across the back of her neck before continuing.

The meeting ran long, so Tim and I didn’t go back to the office. The next morning, the printout wasn’t in the desk drawer where I’d left it. I asked the two other analysts if they’d seen anyone in my office while I was at the meeting. They’d been at the computers with their backs to the door. They hadn’t seen anyone.

Ryan shifted his gaze to the floor where the crumpled printout lay, the lines in his forehead deepening. Confidential information came up missing from your unit, and you didn’t make a report. Why?

I intended to. Captain Harris had taken a day of leave, so I made an appointment to see him the following day. But Ken died that night. A.J. bit back the anger that surged inside her. This was what Ken had gone through before his demotion, she realized. Facing an accuser with no evidence to back him up.

She rose, feeling as though she’d spent a lifetime in Ryan’s disconcerting presence. If you’re finished grilling me, Sergeant, I have a question for you.

The ghost of a smile played at his lips. I’m not quite finished with the...grilling, but go ahead.

Why don’t you quit wasting time looking for dirt on Ken, and find out who set him up?

Ryan took a step toward her, his eyes intense. All right, A.J., let’s suppose for a minute Ken was set up. Whoever’s behind it implicated you, too. Think about it. Just because Ken’s dead doesn’t mean whatever’s going on is over. Something in Ryan’s expression softened before he added, If that’s the case, you’d best watch your back.

I don’t know anything. She dragged an unsteady palm across her forehead. I don’t stand in anyone’s way to anything.

Someone may think you do, he countered. You’re grieving for your brother. People with their defenses down make perfect targets.

I told you, I don’t know anything.

A headache pounded behind her eyes; her throat was bone-dry. She needed to think, needed to remove herself from Ryan’s unsettling presence, was desperate to get out of range of those see-through-you blue eyes.

She snatched her coat and purse off the chair, then turned to face him. I’m late for an appointment. I’ll be in my office tomorrow if you feel the need to continue this... interrogation.

As she spun toward the door, a sudden wave of nausea lurched in her stomach. A.J. grabbed for the back of the chair; her coat and purse tumbled into a heap at her feet.

Sweet Jesus! Ryan caught her by the shoulders as dizziness swirled up from the ground.

I’m...fine. She made a weak attempt to escape his iron grip. Fine, she repeated a split second before her knees buckled.

Fine, hell, he muttered and eased her onto the chair. The last time I saw someone as pale as you was at the morgue.

Just need...a minute... She shut her eyes against the blinding white spots spinning before them.

Ryan’s hand settled against her spine and nudged her gently forward. Lean down and take deep breaths.

Please, God, don’t let me heave on his shoes, A.J. prayed as she dragged a series of shaky breaths into her lungs. Her hands shook; clammy perspiration covered her heated skin.

Ryan crouched beside her chair, his hand sliding down to rest at the bend of her waist. Despite her dazed senses, she felt the pressure of each of his fingers through the fabric of her skirt, was aware of the latent strength in his touch.

Will you be all right if I leave for a second? His voice held a softness that had not been there before.

His touch, his closeness made A.J.’s pulse quaver. She wanted desperately to leave, but she could barely stand, much less walk.

I’ll...be fine, she mumbled, keeping her eyes on the blurred toes of her shoes. Ryan was right, she thought miserably. At this instant her defenses were down and she was about as helpless as a newborn.

I’ll be right back. He rose and disappeared from her line of sight, his footsteps hollow echoes as he stepped around his desk.