A groan of desire mingled with denial. He could not have her.
And even if he could, this was not the time.
His son had been kidnapped. Every second counted.
Banishing the erotic images along with the voice nagging at him that he might be too late for Timmy as he had been for Marie, he spread the printouts on her kitchen table and skimmed the names. First, the list of people in the courtroom during the trial.
Because the press had raised the Slasher to celebrity serial killer status, death threats had come in against Dugan, along with protestors saying the cops had railroaded him just to cover their butts for letting four women’s murders go unsolved for so long. The judge had instilled strict security measures. Everyone in the courtroom had been searched and had to provide ID.
Cameras, including cell phones, had been banned.
As soon as he skimmed the names from the trial, he compared them to the visitor’s log at the prison. He flipped through the first week’s, then the second and found nothing. But on the first day of the third week, a name registered.
Janet Bridges.
She had attended the trial the first two weeks. She had also visited him in jail at the beginning of week three when the defense began to present their side, which had only lasted four days.
But she hadn’t been present for the reading of the verdict.
Adrenaline pumped hope through him. He logged on to the police database and plugged in her name. No arrest record.
A little more digging and he discovered she was a real estate broker who had worked with Dugan to expand his businesses. She had a home in Santa Fe.
He dialed her phone number but there was no answer. Next he tried the office number listed, but received a message that she was unavailable.
“Miss Bridges,” he said as he drummed his fingers on the counter. “This is Detective Miles McGregor. It’s urgent that I speak with you. Please call me back.” He left his phone number, then hung up with a frown.
Dugan had mentioned that she didn’t believe him. Had she known something about the case that would have helped nail Dugan? Or had she disappeared to cover for him? Could she have killed June Kelly to free Dugan? Would she talk to him when he found her?
Hell yes, she would. He’d make her.
His son’s life depended on it.
And if she had helped Dugan with the murders or was hiding him now, he’d make sure she went to jail with him.
* * *
JORDAN DRIED OFF, applied antibiotic ointment and a bandage to her shoulder wound, then cleaned the cut on her forehead. Barring makeup, she couldn’t do anything to camouflage the bruise on her cheek; it was already turning a nasty purple and black.
But she’d never been vain or taken much time with her appearance, and now wasn’t the time to start worrying about it.
She yanked her hair back into a ponytail, dressed in clean jeans and a white shirt and hurried back to the den. Miles was seated at the computer, scribbling on a pad.
“Did you find something?” Jordan asked.
He glanced up, winced as his gaze fell on the bruise on her face, then shrugged. “I think so.” He stood. “I think this woman Janet Bridges may have been the woman Dugan talked about. I have an address I’m going to check out.”
“Let’s go.”
“Jordan, no.” He moved to her and touched her cheek. “You’ve been through enough.”
“We’ve already discussed this,” Jordan said as she reached for her denim jacket. “I was getting to Dugan. I may be able to help.” She squeezed his hand. “Besides, I’m a counselor. If this woman is confused or torn over what to do, she might listen to me before she does the man who put Dugan in jail.”
He looked as if he was going to argue, then seemed to accept that she might be right.
“All right, come on.”
Jordan nodded, grabbed her purse and followed him to the Jeep. She was tired though and lay her head back and fell asleep on the drive to Santa Fe. When she awakened, Miles was pulling into a row of pricey-looking upscale condos on the outskirts of town.
Janet Bridges must have done well in her job. Either that or Dugan had paid her off.
Miles led Jordan down a brick walkway through an outdoor garden, then up to the front door. He buzzed the doorbell, and they waited, each of them scanning the exterior in search of the woman.
“She might be at her office,” Jordan suggested.
“I called but no answer. I left a message. Let’s canvass the neighbors. Maybe one of them knows where she is.”
They knocked on three doors. An elderly woman with hearing loss answered at the first one, and claimed not to know Janet at all. The other two were empty, the residents probably already at work.
Jordan noticed a young woman in a sports bra and workout pants exiting the condo to the left of Janet’s and rushed toward her.