Fatal Recall

By Gini Rifkin

Hudson Kincaid prefers the wide-open spaces. But tracking down a serial killer means hanging out in Denver as he investigates neuroscientist Dr. Marilyn Monrose. So far, he can't figure out if she's a city kitty in high heels or a country kitten in cowgirl boots.

Marilyn's experiment in ramped-up virtual reality captures the final moments of each murder victim's life, a chilling discovery she's trying to keep secret. The last interruption she needs is a determined private detective barging into her lab—no matter how sexy he looks wearing his Stetson hat.

When word of her research gets leaked to the press, Marilyn becomes the killer's next target.
Now the woman Hudson races to save is the one who has stolen his heart.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Aug 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509238453

Book preview

Hud stepped across the threshold and into Marilyn’s lab. She waited for the security door to close and lock before she spoke.

Let me remind you, PI Kincaid, all information you learn here is classified. In fact, I found out yesterday the Government has shown a passing interest in my work.

Our government?

Yes, of course.

Why?

I’m not aware of the specifics. But every application I can come up with sounds like Black Ops, or Army Intelligence, or something equally scary.

That sounds ominous. Maybe you’d better explain to me exactly what you’re doing?

If I take you into my confidence, you have to promise you won’t tell anyone. If they find out I leaked even one iota of this information, I will disappear. And you might too.

What do you mean by disappear?

I’ll be transferred to a lab Heaven-knows-where to continue the work until it’s completed, or my contract is up. Hard telling what will happen to you.

This gave him pause. She sounded serious. But how could he rationalize being in possession of crucial information without sharing the data with the DPD—or at least with Marco?

Promise me.

She was taking a leap of faith in trusting him, and the soulful pleading in her eyes made him want to comply. In fact, he wanted to promise her more than to keep his mouth shut. He wanted to promise her sunsets on the front porch and breakfast on the veranda.

Praise for Gini Rifkin and…

UNDERCOVER OUTLAW

~5 Stars Readers’ Favorite Award

~5 Stars Long and Short Reviews

TRAPPER’S MOON

~Winner, Reader’s Choice Award, Still Moments Magazine

~5 Stars from N.N. Light Book Heaven

COWBOYS, CATTLE, AND CUTTHROATS

~Finalist, Colorado Romance Writers’ Beverley Award

~4 Stars from NetGalley

A COWBOY’S FATE

~5 Stars from Still Moments Magazine

~Winner of Maple Leaf Award, best short story

~5 Stars from NetGalley

SPECIAL DELIVERY

~Five Stars and Publisher’s Pick from Still Moments Magazine

~5 Stars from Fall Into Reading Reviews

SOLACE: Fae Warriors Book 1

~5 Stars from N.N. Light Book Heaven

~Finalist, Paranormal, Romance Guild Reviewer’s Choice Award

BLISS: Fae Warriors Book 2

~5+ stars from N.N. Light Book Heaven

PORTENCE: Fae Warriors Book 3

Great ending to a spectacular trilogy!

~5 Stars from N. N. Light Book Heaven

Fatal Recall

by

Gini Rifkin

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Fatal Recall

COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Virginia A Rifkin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3722-7

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3845-3

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

Dedicated to my friend, Faith.

Thank you to the Wild Rose Press, and the amazing Amanda Barnett.

Chapter One

October, Denver Colorado.

She didn’t deserve to die. Why couldn’t he take the money and run?

Screaming, she struggled in the dingy alleyway. He slammed one hand against her chest, pinning her in place. Her head snapped back and hit the cold brick wall at her back. His other hand wielded a knife, the blade glimmering in the moonlight.

She’d always loved the moon. Now this symbol of girlish dreams betrayed her, illuminating this hideous moment of terror about to end in her death.

Kicking and striking out with her fists made no difference—he’s so strong. He growled at her as if he were a beast. Hatred radiated from his body like heat off a matchhead. He didn’t have to kill her—he wanted to.

Heart pounding, her breath escaped in little gasps.

She should have left with the other girls. She should have waited for the night watchman to escort her to her car. She should have done so many things differently. Now it was too late.

His eyes shone bright. He snarled and snapped his teeth as if ready to tear her apart.

The blade arched through the air—searing pain followed. Now the knife hung suspended before her. As if in slow motion, thick red blood drip…drip…dripped from the razor-sharp metal. Each drop like the ticking of a clock stealing away the remaining seconds of her life.

Thoughts of her boyfriend and the future they would never share blurred through her mind. No life together, no children, no anything. This was all there was. And tomorrow the world would go on as if she had never existed.

They were calling. She knew those voices. She was floating away, going beyond the pain.

With her last bit of strength, she angled her head to one side to stare up at the stars. She refused to let the eyes of this madman be the last thing she saw before dying.

****

Fighting her way back to the here and now, Marilyn tore the virtual reality gear from her head. The horror of what she’d experienced had her flinging the equipment aside as if it were radioactive. She didn’t flinch when the fragile VR apparatus hit the floor with a resounding crash.

Overcome by nausea, she bolted from the chair, barely reaching the laboratory disposal unit before vomiting up the high-priced lunch eaten two hours before. With a shaking hand, she shoved the stray strands of hair back from her face and into the bun at the nape of her neck.

Her theory had worked.

But should she thank the Lord or pray for forgiveness for stealing the last thoughts of a dying woman? Falling to her knees, she wept. The coldness of the linoleum seeped through her light wool skirt, and she hugged herself against the shivers racking her body.

When another bout of nausea threatened, she shifted around and sat on the floor, her back against the wall. Blotting away the tears with the sleeve of her lab coat, a few deep breaths helped to settle her nerves and stomach.

This is what she’d been hoping for, had struggled and worked so hard to attain. After all these years, her idea had become reality. What a magnificent achievement—what a terrifying triumph. Three minutes of pure horror. Three minutes of visions locked away in the deep recesses of a dead person’s brain.

What now?

She glanced around the room as if an answer might be written on the wall.

Her deceased subject had been murdered by a serial killer. Should she notify the police? Doing so would lead to a lot of inconvenient questions. Besides, she’d only seen a quick flash of the killer’s eyes and mouth, not his entire face. Still, she had to tell someone.

Warren came to mind. Bad choice. Lately, he seemed overly curious about her project. Being the chief financial officer for the Kingsley Institute, he would be aware of the large sum of money allocated to her research—a decision not done frivolously.

Involving Warren would complicate matters as well.

She stared at the disposal unit. Today, trying to impress her, he’d taken her to lunch at Lafontaine’s, the most expensive restaurant in Denver. He’d be aghast to learn the high-priced food and wine was fermenting in a hazardous waste bin.

One thing for sure, she couldn’t blurt out her news indiscriminately. Secrecy from other research labs was supremely important. The realm of science, whether for humanitarian needs or for profit, was a dog-eat-dog arrangement—only the alpha animal kept getting the golden cookies in the form of funding.

There was nobody with whom she could celebrate her long-awaited achievement. A rare bit of self-pity tainted her mood. But being alone, and burying herself in her work, had been her idea leaving no one to blame but herself.

A high-pitched alarm severed the quiet. The grating sound shattered her introspection and nearly sent her jumping out of her skin. All Kingsley employees had key cards, which meant an outsider had been buzzed through to the research wing.

Levering up off the floor, Marilyn struggled to her feet. The room spun at a cockeyed angle. Grasping the edge of the stainless-steel counter, she held tight until the dizziness passed.

Now the signal on the door of her personal lab erupted. The shrill bleat sent a shock wave of surprise and concern racing through her. Surely there was some mistake. Nobody ever came to visit her at Kingsley, and her boss hadn’t alerted her of any impending meetings.

Walking slowly so as not to jostle her aching head, Marilyn stepped to the door, opened the security panel, and peered out. A human cliché awaited. Tall, dark, and handsome appropriately described the man on the other side. His light green eyes boldly returned her stare.

Miss Monrose? He directed the question through the speaker panel.

Yes.

I’m Private Investigator Hudson Kincaid. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. He held up a license encased in black leather.

Not a real cop—was she obligated to speak to him?

The urge to run streaked through her, but there was nowhere to go, and technically she had done nothing wrong—other than not reporting the terrifying results of her research experiment. But how could he have found out about her subjects, or in what manner she obtained her data?

What do you want? I’m terribly busy today. Maybe she could reschedule, have him come back when she was able to reason logically.

Like I said. Just a few questions, ma’am.

She ground her teeth at being ma’amed—the word made her feel ancient. About what?

May I come inside?

She’d rather keep the advantage of the five-inch-thick steel reinforced door between them. It’s a hazardous bio area. Would that scare him off?

He stepped closer and scowled. Yeah, well so’s a good portion of the rest of the world. Open up.

Catching sight of several colleagues gathered farther back in the hallway, she gave in to his request. No use putting on a show for the other inmates.

She keyed in the security code, and the door swooshed open breaking the seal. Three fans in the ceiling ramped up to high speed, recycling the room air at a faster rate to offset the security breach.

Thank you. Without hesitation, the man strode across the threshold. The door at his back closed with an impressive thud, and the lock reset with a loud click.

Marilyn sized him up. She figured he must be close to six-foot-three. Being on the taller side herself, she appreciated and was attracted to men of a decent height. Conversely, looking up at a person was unusual for her, adding to her growing dislike for this man and his invasion of her privacy.

Standing at ease, he scrutinized the room. Despite his casual manner, she had no doubt behind those engaging eyes his mind registered every detail about her and the laboratory. Now his gaze drifted lazily over the entire length of her body, stopping one degree short of being rude.

She tried not to fidget. Why didn’t he speak? He’d said he’d come to ask her questions. Well? she prompted, breaking the strained silence. He stared back and forth between her and the name scrawled on his note pad, and his reason for contemplation sank in.

Her name, Marilyn Monrose, spelled so closely to her idol’s, often inspired presuppositions as to her appearance, imaginings she couldn’t live up to. Sorry, no blonde hair or luscious curves. I do have a PhD in biochemistry with a minor in quantum technology and neuropsychology. Oh, and I definitely agree diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

The man cleared his throat, stifled a grin, and had the decency to restrict his concentration to her face. I’m investigating a recent spate of murders, Miss Monrose.

Dr. Monrose.

Yes, of course. Sorry. Dr. Monrose, I’m sure you’ve read about them in the newspaper.

Getting down to business, the spark of amusement in his eyes turned dead serious.

This had been a mistake. She shouldn’t have let him in. Who hired you? Who are you working for?

Why is that important?

I handle classified information.

You mean for the government?

Not exactly, it’s classified because of the threat of corporate espionage.

You’re not doing a particularly good job of keeping things quiet. According to the paperwork I’ve seen, your name is listed on the logbooks at Bancroft labs for each of the victim autopsies. A point of interest, wouldn’t you say?

Balling her hands into fists, she slipped them into the pockets of her lab coat. She hadn’t thought those records would be so easily accessed. Her pulse pounded in her temples causing her head to ache all the more. My presence at the morgue is not unheard of. She worked at sounding nonchalant but didn’t think she’d been successful. I’m employed by the Kingsley Institute, and Kingsley owns Bancroft Labs where the procedures and tests were performed. As a courtesy for the common cause, we often help out by assisting with work from several different law enforcement agencies and hospitals.

Yes, so I’ve learned. But Bancroft usually comes into play when there is an overload elsewhere. The city morgue and the Denver Police Department lab were both fully staffed, and business was slow on the nights of the murders.

I don’t know what to tell you. Folks around here do what they’re told, no questions asked. Me included.

And who do you suppose told the chief medical examiner to perform the work at Bancroft rather than at the city morgue?

I have no idea who specifically sent out the request. This admission was one step removed from a bald-face lie. To facilitate her research, she had petitioned for the autopsies to be done at Bancroft, but she truly had no idea who made the call. Was there a problem with my work? How many of her reports had he managed to track down?

I’m not here to judge the worth of your expertise. I’m making basic inquiries, following up on a hunch.

I’m not sure I like being considered a hunch in a murder investigation.

He flipped his notepad shut, and along with his pen, he shoved both into the pocket of his sport coat. It beats being a victim. There was an unmistakable