Partner-Protector Read online

  She rested her elbow on the corner of the detective’s desk and leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You understand that I don’t always see evidence in the same way you do, Mr. Banning.”

  His green eyes filled with skepticism. “So I’ve heard.”

  “I don’t dream this stuff up, Detective. I possess a psychic ability to sense things. When I put my mind to it, I can see things especially clearly. When I touch people or objects, I pick up emotions, memories—”

  “You predict the future.”

  Kelsey bristled. “Look, Banning, do you want to know what I saw or not?” She waited for his prompt to continue. “I believe I’ve accidentally come across an object that has something to do with one of those prostitutes who’ve been murdered around Christmas and New Year’s over the past decade.”

  “Nine murders in eleven years,” he clarified. “Don’t tell me you’ve found the murder weapon?”

  “No. But it’s something one of the victims touched. I’m sure of that.”

  “So you’ve found some object that somebody touched, and you think it will solve the case for us?”

  Mr. Uptight, Suit-’n’-Tie wasn’t going to cut her a break, but she wasn’t about to back down. Lives were at stake!

  Julie Miller

  THE PRECINCT

  Partner-Protector

  For Denise O’Sullivan.

  I’ve worked with many people at Harlequin over the years, but you’ve always been there—on the front line or in the background, watching over me like a guardian angel.

  We share a love for Intrigue and dark, tortured heroes. You answer my rambling e-mails kindly and precisely. You don’t see anything wrong with my penchant for blowing up things and stabbing people .

  And you taught me the valuable lesson that it’s all about the reader.

  Thank you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

  Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PZ. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

  Books by Julie Miller

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  588—ONE GOOD MAN*

  619—SUDDEN ENGAGEMENT*

  642—SECRET AGENT HEIRESS

  651—IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE*

  666—THE DUKE’S COVERT MISSION

  699—THE ROOKIE*

  719—KANSAS CITY’S BRAVEST*

  748—UNSANCTIONED MEMORIES*

  779—LAST MAN STANDING*

  819—PARTNER-PROTECTOR†

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  45—INTIMATE KNOWLEDGE

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Detective Thomas Merle Banning—Once the rookie computer geek of the Fourth Precinct, brains, hard work and a couple of gunshot wounds had finally earned him some respect. So why was he being partnered with a psychic consultant to solve a cold-case murder? And why did somebody want her dead?

  Kelsey Ryan—The Flake. With a nickname like that, how could anyone, especially the cops, believe she’d “seen” a grisly murder?

  Rev. Ulysses Wingate—He runs a mission in downtown Kansas City for those in need.

  Doc Siegel—Someone has to graduate at the bottom of the class.

  Zero—A prince among pimps. Or so he claims. His girls might have a different opinion.

  Rebecca Page—The crime beat reporter wants to finish the story her father never could.

  Patrick Halliwell—He gave money to reputable causes. And some not so reputable.

  Ed Watkins—He’d worked the Fourth Precinct for a lot of years.

  Jezebel—Eleven years ago, she’d known how to show a man a good time. She’d paid for her expertise with her life.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “I beg you. Please. Don’t.”

  She backed away as far as she could go, giving a soft, startled yelp when she hit the hard, dark wall. Trapped.

  Splinters of rough wood caught in her hair, scratched the bare skin of her shoulders. She crossed her arms in front of her, but there was no place to hide, no way to shield herself.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know there were rules.”

  But there were no words to placate the anger she saw, no words to assuage the hatred. She was cold. Shaking. Crying.

  He was coming.

  “Sorry about the gift, big boy.” Fear dulled her reasoning, made her grasp at the first thought that flashed in her mind. “Big boy. You like that?” She reached out, but he wouldn’t take her hand. She curled the rejected fingers into her fist and clutched it over her naked breast.

  She tried to smile, but her lips quivered. The tears kept falling. The wall was cutting into her back and she was afraid.

  “I can call you that. Big boy. I can do whatever you want.”

  Her breath caught in her chest and couldn’t seem to get past her pounding heart. He didn’t care. She’d laughed.

  She shouldn’t have laughed.

  “Most men bring cash. I didn’t understand. I’m surprised, that’s all. It doesn’t mean I don’t like it. I can learn to appreciate it.”

  He caressed her face. She jerked her head to the side, hating his touch. Her cheek scraped against the unfinished wood. The pungent smells of cold and rot stung her nose. His finger traced a gentle path down her neck, over her breast. Such a loving caress. She nearly gagged.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to go to that distant place inside her head she always went when men touched her. But she couldn’t find it. He was talking now. She couldn’t make out the words. She was cold and shaking and naked and so afraid.

  She had to make this right.

  Her life depended on it.

  She bit her lips to bring their color back. She lowered her arms to show him everything he’d come for. She dropped her voice to a husky pitch that had seduced before.

  She looked up into his shadowed expression. “Just tell me what you want. Anything you want. I’ll do it. No charge.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scarf. It was long and narrow, tattered as if it had come from an old woman’s attic or a flea market. Its mustard-yellow trim and fuschia dots were the only colors that registered in the darkness.

  Mustard and fuschia, with the hard wall cutting into her back and his nonsense words condemning her.

  The damn thing was ugly. But she didn’t look away.

  She held her breath as he let it unfurl, shivered as the silk slid over her breasts.

  “That’s pretty,” she lied. “Is that for me, too?”

  Her entire body jerked at the exact moment she realized it wasn’t another gift.

  “No!”

  Suddenly it was too dark to see anything, to know anything beyond the pain that clutched at her throat. She pounded her fists. She twisted. She fought.


  Scratches flayed open as he shoved her brutally against the wall. Her hair tangled in the wood’s coarse texture and ripped from her scalp.

  As darkness closed in, fear dragged her down into its frigid grasp. Her screams gurgled in her throat. Her windpipe snapped. Starved for oxygen, her lungs imploded. Lights danced before her eyes. Her knees buckled. Blackness caved in all around her.

  No more pain.

  “Wake up! Wake up!”

  Kelsey Ryan was clawing at her own throat when the voiceless words roused her from her nightmare.

  Only, she knew it was no nightmare.

  She snapped her eyes open and looked straight into two round, dark eyes, a black nose and a pair of paws on the pillow beside her. “Frosty?”

  Real dog. Real time. Real world.

  Not dead.

  Kelsey grabbed the miniature poodle and sat up, hugging him tight, burying her nose in the soft mop of silver curls atop his head and inhaling his familiar scent. The rasp of his friendly tongue along her jaw and neck warmed the winter chill that clung to her skin.

  “Did I scare you, sweetie?” She swiped her spiky bangs from her eyes and leaned over to turn on the lamp beside her bed. No wonder her faithful guardian had been so concerned. She’d trashed half her room this time. “Mama’s sorry. I’m okay.”

  She kissed his furry head, then set him on the floor. Her reassurance was apparently all he needed to hear before trotting back to whatever chair or rug he’d deemed his bed for the night.

  Kelsey untangled her legs from the wedge of sheets she’d thrashed between her legs and climbed out of bed. The late December deep freeze radiated from the polished wood floor through her stockinged feet. But even bundled in the gray sweats she wore for pajamas, she knew she wouldn’t feel warm any time soon.

  She righted the clock that had tipped over. Three-thirteen in the morning. Hopefully, she hadn’t screamed out loud. Not that her retirement age neighbors paid her too much mind. As long as she kept her sidewalk shoveled in the winter and her yard trimmed in the summer, they seemed content to leave her alone in her cottage-style house in an old neighborhood on the north side of Kansas City.

  Still, a random scream in the dark of night…

  Wave after wave of shivers cascaded down Kelsey’s spine. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and hugged herself, trying to block out the memories. But they wouldn’t stop. She pursed her lips and breathed deeply, but the remembered terror wouldn’t go away.

  There’d been nothing random about what she’d sensed.

  She’d felt that woman’s pain.

  She’d lived that woman’s fear.

  She’d seen that woman’s death.

  A crushing sense of destiny opened Kelsey’s eyes. Something had triggered that episode. She had to find it.

  Moving quickly now, she methodically put her room back in order. Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she waited for the inevitable attack.

  Kelsey picked up the wad of blanket she’d kicked to the floor, and tucked in the sheet she’d ripped from the corner of the mattress. After retrieving the pillow she’d tossed against the wall, she picked up the dolls that had toppled over on the nightstand where she displayed them. She must have knocked them over when, barely awake, she’d reached for a tissue in the middle of the night.

  One by one, she stood her little treasures up and rearranged them. The porcelain-head doll her grandmother had sewn such exquisite dresses for. The brocaded Beast doll she’d made herself with paints and thread and love. The fairy-tale princess—a Christmas present to herself—she’d found in an antique shop to go with him.

  Kelsey picked up the princess by her narrow waist.

  Cold. Fear. Pain. “Help me!” Death.

  The same bombardment of words and images jerked through her.

  She dropped the doll as if her fingers had been burned.

  It lay on the bed now, a seemingly innocent package of old silk and beads and embroidery. She stared at it. Hard. Knowing what she must do. Hating it.

  Gandalf the Grey hadn’t dreaded touching the One Ring as much as she was loathe to touch that doll again. But she pulled the afghan from the foot of the bed and tossed it over the doll. Careful not to touch it directly, she carried it into the kitchen, dug the box it had come in out of the trash and carefully placed it inside.

  Then, with every light in the kitchen blazing, she pulled out the phone book and looked up a number. The call could wait until morning, but there’d be fewer people around to laugh this time of night.

  She knew that woman had been all alone. Wouldn’t be missed.

  Kelsey understood the feeling without having to see it in a dream or vision or impression.

  That meant she was the only one who could help.

  Conscience, and a promise to her grandmother said she must.

  Pushing aside her own fears and stiffening her spine, Kelsey took a deep, fortifying breath and dialed.

  “K.C.P.D. Crime Hot Line,” a tired, bored voice answered.

  Not for the first time in her life, Kelsey wondered why she’d been cursed.

  “I’d like to report a murder.”

  Chapter One

  “You’re assigning me to The Flake?”

  Detective Thomas Merle Banning stared across the office at his captain, Mitch Taylor. Nice back-to-work-after-Christmas present.

  Yeah, right.

  “Actually, I’m assigning her to you.” The distinction wasn’t any comfort. “You’re the detective, she’s the departmental consultant.”

  “She’s the nutcase everybody jokes about in the coffee room.”

  “Nonetheless, she’s expecting to meet with you later this morning.”

  How the hell had he gotten so lucky? He no longer had anything to prove, did he? His arrest record was solid, his aim good enough to earn a marksman’s pin, his reports spotless down to the minutest detail. And no one who knew him—with two rare exceptions—dared call him nerdy Merle to his face anymore. He’d long since outgrown terms like rookie and computer geek.

  But this smacked of some kind of practical joke or penance.

  “Why don’t you just shoot me now and put me out of my misery?” He marched across the room in his determined, rolling stride and faced Mitch across his desk. “I thought you were putting me on the cold-case detail for the next few months while Ginny’s on maternity leave.”

  “I am.”

  “Then put me on a desk. Let me work. Don’t waste my time with this woman.”

  “This woman believes she’s seen something that can help one of those cases.”

  With his regular partner, Ginny Rafferty-Taylor, assigned to extended bed rest for the last trimester of her pregnancy, Merle had already been taken off the active homicide investigation team and relegated to sorting through boxes of dead-end cases. He hadn’t argued the reassignment because Captain Taylor had played to his ego, telling him he had a real knack for uncovering details others missed and patiently piecing together random clues to complete investigative puzzles.

  But no amount of ego stroking was going to make this right. He worked with the smartest, prettiest, classiest woman on the planet. Not UFO-chasing, crystal-ball-reading, hocus-pocus crackpots. It was hard enough to lose Ginny. But to let another woman try to take her place as his partner?

  Make that departmental consultant.

  Merle scrubbed his palm across his clean-shaven jaw and shrugged. “The Flake?”

  “She has a name.” Captain Taylor’s resonant voice reprimanded him like the father he’d lost so long ago. “Kelsey Ryan. She has a degree in criminal justice studies and teaches a course in psychic forensic science over at University of Missouri-Kansas City.”

  Psychic science? Wasn’t that some kind of oxymoron? “What the hell is that? Since when does K.C.P.D. rely on psychobabble to solve cases? She’s nothing but a PR nightmare. No one will take me seriously if she’s attached to me. I’d rather work alone.”

  He pulled back the front of his tweed jacket
and shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks, pacing the confines of the small office. The twinge in his right knee was more pronounced with the bitter temperatures plaguing the city these past few weeks. But pain was just something a mature man lived with. Banning had been on the force for seven years now, had been a detective for five. He’d long since outgrown his naive new kid on the block status.

  Taking a couple of bullets that left his body scarred and his soul ancient beyond his twenty-nine years did that to a man.

  In those seven years of service, he’d unholstered his weapon only twice while on duty. He’d been forced to kill a man each time.

  Those were the kinds of odds that sobered a man’s way of thinking. Made him understand the value of cold, hard facts and leaving nothing to chance.

  That’s why this made no sense.

  He stopped and looked into his superior’s sage brown eyes. “Why me, Captain?”

  For such a big, robust man, Mitch Taylor was surprisingly gentle as he adjusted the framed picture of his wife and young son on the desk in front of him. When he sat down, Merle took the clue and eased into a chair on the opposite side. The old man wanted to talk, and Merle had learned it paid to listen to the veteran cop.

  “One thing I’ve learned about you over the years, Banning, is that you’re smart. You don’t just learn from your books and computers, but from people. From mistakes and successes, your own and others’. I’m counting on the fact you might be willing to learn something from Ms. Ryan, too.” The captain nodded toward the blind-covered windows that separated his office from the rows of desks and cubicles that formed the Fourth Precinct detective division. “I can name at least a half-dozen men out there who’d just brush her aside. But I can count on you to be gentleman enough not to laugh in her face when she tells her story.”

  Merle couldn’t stop the sarcasm from bleeding into his voice. “You want me to work with her because my mother taught me good manners?”