Jaded Hearts

JADED HEARTS

Copyright © Louise Crawford, Ramona Butler, 2011

Smashwords Edition ISBN 978-1-4658-9437-3

Cover art by Louise Crawford

For other books by Crawford and/or Butler: http://www.LouiseCrawfordbooks.com or http://www.LFCrawford.com or http://www.RamonaButler.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted to any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, 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.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Merri Akiyama for her help and research, and to Eric Regan and all the staff at Niavaroni’s Kickboxing Academy. Thanks also to fellow writers: Jennifer Helgren, Susan Scheibel, and Suzanne Suzuki for your friendship, support, and feedback. Any errors or discrepancies in this work are not theirs, but the authors’ The authors assert literary license in the mention of a test to identify the Philadelphia Gene. To the best of their knowledge such a test is being developed but is not yet available.

Prologue

Wipe her out, Lady O!

Shred her!

Punch her lights out, Tamiko!

Wild applause and even wilder shouts filled the amphitheater, reverberating off walls and expanding to a deafening roar so intense it was almost suffocating. The boisterous, bloodthirsty crowd was typical of kickboxing spectators. He knew it for a fact...from personal experience. It was especially true at this level of competition.

Tamiko was good, damn good! Her kicks were lethal. Another jab. Another spinning kick. A swirl of jet black hair, an explosion of determination in her dark eyes.

Hidden amidst the crowd, he could watch without drawing attention to himself. Tamiko, busy in the ring, was too focused on her opponent to be aware of her audience...or his presence.

A roar of foot-stomping washed over him like a giant wave and spurred another rapid-fire exchange between contenders. Then, another roll of noise as her spinning back-fist connected. A quick double-jab, right-cross combination forced her blonde adversary to back off and regroup.

As he watched, bitterness roiled in his belly. The bitch was too damned good. Tamiko had her opponent hanging onto the ropes, with nowhere to go. She snapped a round-kick to the head and the other woman dropped like a limp rag doll.

An explosion of solid sound erupted from the crowd as Tamiko claimed the National title!

It was past time to put her in her place, once and for all. But not tonight. He intended to pick the place, choose the moment. Soon, he promised himself. Very soon!

Standing proud in the middle of the ring, Tamiko lifted her gloved hands into the air, her expression exultant, her body glistening with sweat.

He snarled a raspy oath as he whirled and threaded his way toward the exit. The jubilant shrieking mob’s enthusiasm fanned his rage, until he thought of what they really were: banshees warning death, Tamiko’s death.

He smiled to himself, imagining her broken body at his feet. He’d crush her, and anyone else who stood between him and what he wanted.

Chapter One

Congratulations on wrapping up the case, Kristie.

Agent Kristie Nishihara had learned a long time ago not to expect flowery accolades from Barry Matthews, her F.B.I. boss. Receiver pressed to her ear, she smiled into the phone as she stretched out across the hotel bed. Thanks. Feels good to know the bad guys didn’t win this time.

So take a couple of days off while you’re there in Las Vegas, have some fun. Go visit that big, new Bellagio resort and the white tigers at The Mirage. You should enjoy wrestling one of those Siberian beasts.

Only two-legged monsters, Boss Man. She forced a laugh as she pulled pins from her chignon, allowing her hair to trail down her back. Sin City doesn’t hold much appeal when you wear a white hat.

Then maybe you should take off the white hat once in awhile, Nishihara. Show off those pretty green eyes.

She thought of her failed relationship with agent Jockstrap Joel. She’d taken off a lot more than her hat, but the fun was short-lived. Been there. Done that. It didn’t work.

Commitment hadn’t even been in the jerk’s dictionary.

One bad apple... Barry trailed off with a fatherly laugh. Well, you know...

Several long coppery strands tested her patience by falling across her face. She brushed them out of her eyes. If you were ten years younger, Barry...

She imagined him smiling.

Isn’t your sister there in Vegas for a kickboxing match? Drag her to a few shows or out to Lake Mead. That new Visitor’s Center at the dam is a beaut.

Tamiko’s match had taken place two days before and Kristie’d insisted her sister fly back to Reno the same night. With the Sin City Killer making headlines in Vegas, big sister hadn’t wanted Tamiko in town any longer than necessary. Tamiko fit the victim profile too closely.

Kristie didn’t mention her fears to Barry, though. Instead, she said, Tamiko’s back in Reno now, celebrating the bout and mothering Sara. The thought of her seven-year-old niece was like a ray of sunshine after a long grey winter.

Besides, Tamiko’s so much younger, she considers me a nag, not someone to have fun with. She wondered if the two of them would ever iron out their differences. Between Tamiko’s quest for a national title, and her own far-flung F.B.I. assignments, they rarely had a chance to even see each other.

So, hit the Gold Coast Gym. It’s always open. I understand Metro cops consider it their home away from home. The place has everything a body could want.

Not her body.

Thanks, Barry, but I’ll probably fly home ASAP. See you Monday morning.

As she hung up, she glanced around. Even with its flashy decor and bright colors, loneliness reverberated off the hotel room walls. Nothing like a fun-filled weekend in Vegas, she muttered, and then sighed.

Two minutes later, neither the TV or the paperback on her nightstand holding her interest, she grabbed her gym bag and fled the empty room, dashing from the elevator through the noise-filled gamblers’ paradise, into the crush of tourists out on the sidewalk. Eyes stinging from the cloud of cigarette smoke she’d had to wade through, Kristie inhaled the hot desert air with short-lived relief. Whew, her lungs felt scorched. The temperature was well over a hundred, typical for late August. She’d have been better off staying in her nice air conditioned room and watching a movie. Heat seeped through the soles of her sandals and her tank top clung, damp with perspiration by the time she shoved through the gym’s door into a blast of cool air.

Well, now that I’m here... she murmured to herself as she signed in and plunked down her money. Might as well go for the gold.

After stowing her street clothes in a locker, she headed for the nearest treadmill, determined to jog four miles, then spend a half hour stretching, then an hour on the free weights. After all that, she should sleep like a pooped prairie dog.

She hit the one mile mark, her body in a rhythm. Not bad for thirty-seven, she mused, letting her thoughts wander as she stared into the mirrored wall which faced the treadmill.

She passed the second mile and increased the uphill grade to ten percent, bemoaning the fact that it took so much more work to stay in shape now than during her own kickboxing days.

Feeling suddenly ancient, she watched a pert young aerobics instructor through the plexiglass wall. Petite and blonde and oozing sex appeal, and apparently unfazed by her own strenuous workout, the woman flashed a smile to the broadest expanse of shoulders east of the Sierra. Kristie couldn’t see the man’s face, but she saw the slight jerk of his head, motioning toward the door as the aerobics class ended and the other students left. The blond gave him an answering nod, and disappeared into the dressing room, making Kristie feel like a voyeur. Well, at least they wouldn’t be lonely tonight.

Three miles. She knew without checking because her sluggishness was gone. She felt like she could run forever.

Shoulders drifted into the equipment room and strode toward her. Shirtless, his tanned torso was smooth as a bodybuilder’s and glistened with sweat, making her want to run her fingers over the well-defined muscles of his chest and biceps. The man could be Mr. Nevada any day of the week. Lush dark lashes fringed even darker eyes. The only thing he lacked was a bump on his strong, straight, aristocratic nose to dignify the Michael Douglas chin.

He smiled, robbing her of breath. She mis-stepped, then quickly corrected her pace. The heat in her face climbed a notch, but not from exercise.

Garbed in neon green jogging shorts, Shoulders ambled over to the empty treadmill beside hers, and set it in motion. He captured her gaze in the mirror, and matched his gait to hers, breathing effortlessly. Every stride stretched, then relaxed, thin nylon fabric against his lower half, showcasing his physical attributes.

Green immediately became her favorite color.

His gaze dropped to the newspaper which had been discarded on the floor between the two treadmills, his mouth tightening.

"SIN CITY KILLER GONE FOR GOOD?" She read the headline aloud.

Not likely, Shoulders muttered, snagging her gaze again in the mirror.

Thankful Tamiko was safe at home, Kristie gave an involuntary shudder. Think the cops are waiting for another victim? Sometimes that’s all they could do.

Hardly. Something potent glittered behind the flirtation in Mr. Nevada’s eyes, a raw, wounded flash that vanished into a come-on grin.

Certain she’d touched a sore spot, she wondered if he was one of the cops who called this place their second home. Except for the sudden intensity in his expression, he looked more like a movie idol than a member of Metro.

She ran faster. He ran faster. She slacked off. He did the same. She was mesmerized. Las Vegas really did feel like Sin City, and she felt ready to jettison her white hat, do a bit of sinning herself.

Kristie closed her eyes to escape a rush of yearning, mindful of her dream of finding a man who would accept Kristie Nishihara for the person she truly was...strong and independent. Hadn’t the disintegration of her last romantic involvement proven that such men were damn scarce? She wasn’t likely to find him on a Las Vegas treadmill.

When she opened her eyes again, the blonde aerobics instructor was giving Shoulders an unmistakable come-hither look from across the room, but his eyes were too busy to notice.

Will you be here tomorrow night? Seduction hummed in his voice.

Ignoring the question, she nodded toward Blondie, whose form-fitting minidress showcased full curves...a distinct contrast to Kristie’s own too tall, too lean self-image. I think your master is calling, she quipped, the sarcasm slipping out without warning. This hungry-eyed wolf was on the prowl, but she was not about to be his next meal.

Until tomorrow night, he rumbled before flashing her another killer grin. He stepped off the treadmill, then crossed the room and stole a quick kiss from Blondie. As he led the other woman toward the exit, he glanced back at Kristie.

Was he having trouble making a choice? If he’d bothered to ask, she’d have told him not to spend any time fretting over it, she wouldn’t be here tomorrow night. He was another Jockstrap, no doubt about it.

So why couldn’t she shake off his invitation? And her own abrupt desire to come back? Hmm....

She hurried through the rest of her workout, then found herself day-dreaming about Mr. Nevada while soaking in the Jacuzzi. So what if his chocolate-colored eyes warmed her insides? So what if he looked strong enough to toss her over his shoulder, carry her off into one of those romantic desert sunset? She’d be a fool to show up here again.

Determined to ignore her overheated hormones, she returned to the hotel. What she needed was a couple of days in an isolated retreat, no badge, no beeper, no link to the outside world.... And no temptations.

Kristie grabbed a few essentials, left everything else in her room, and drove toward an old Buddhist monastery she’d last visited as a child...when her parents were alive. Maybe a day of meditation would tame her lustful thoughts, sober up her skyrocketing imagination and bring it back down to earth.

*****

Jackson Mac McKinley kissed the blond Good Morning and then Goodbye. He didn’t promise to call, and she didn’t say she’d be waiting to hear from him. It was a perfect arrangement, no strings. By the time he reached the Vegas station house, he was all cop, his mind filled with the business at hand, the Sin City Killer.

On his desk, he had a stack of files to review on the victims, all female, all of them karate experts who knew how to protect themselves, but who’d still ended up dead. He’d checked out the local gyms, talked to more kickboxing enthusiasts than he could count. Nada. Whoever had taken these women out was keeping a damn low profile.

That woman at the gym...the one with the intriguing green eyes...had asked if the cops were waiting for another victim. She seemed to understand his frustration. Cops needed clues. They also needed a chunk of luck, needed the killer to make a mistake. Every killing increased those odds.

And every victim haunted Mac.

As did the memory of the buff babe with the exotic eyes. Was she one of the new dispatchers hired last week? He was sure he’d never seen her at the gym before. Would she be there tonight? She hadn’t said yes...or no. He knew sparks as well as the next guy though, and there had definitely been sparks there.

By nine-thirty that evening, however, he’d jogged ten miles on the damn treadmill and spent enough time on the blasted rowing machine to have crossed Lake Mead and back at least half a dozen times--and still no sign of the green-eyed dream weaver.

Women! There was no figuring them. He’d been so damned certain she’d be there.

He glanced at the clock. Tenacity was his strong suit. He’d row that ridiculous machine across the lake one more time, dammit. Green Eyes would show.

But at ten-thirty, Mac turned in his towel and headed for home, puzzled over his determination to see those green eyes again, feeling like a fool. Tomorrow, the Sin City Killer would get his full attention.

*****

Kristie felt edgy, restless. She’d spent two days in quiet solitude, but instead of peace, erotic images of the hunk in green shorts tempted her to cut her retreat short. Resisting temptation was harder than she’d expected. And, beneath the lure of Mr. Nevada, she had a growing sense of disaster.

At dawn, she headed back to her hotel room feeling a disquiet she didn’t understand, but could no longer ignore.

At the hotel checkout, she was forced to endure that by-now-familiar skeptical look from yet another desk clerk, an attractive young woman who lifted a questioning eyebrow on hearing Kristie’s Japanese surname. Copper-brown hair and dark green eyes were exotic physical characteristics for someone named Nishihara, and invariably elicited the same reaction.

I should be used to it, Kristie told herself.

Just a moment, mouthed the hopelessly busy clerk as she punched one of the four flashing buttons on her overtaxed telephone, then murmured sweetly into the receiver, Hotel Coronado, may I help you?

Vaguely, Kristie wondered if Mr. Nevada would have reacted in a similar manner, first disbelief, then curiosity, and finally, subtle withdrawal.

She shrugged off the question. The answer didn’t matter. She was leaving for home first thing in the morning. Reno had its share of problems, but Las Vegas was all sham. A fantasyland with a dark, sinister underbelly, its people plastic, but obscenely beautiful, like Mr. Nevada.

Seeing him again in her mind’s eye, she gave herself a mental shake. Why did she always fall for the ones who were all brawn and no brains?

The clerk hung up the phone, then took a deep breath before continuing with Kristie. You have a trillion messages from a Barry Matthews, she gushed, slapping a stack of messages in Kristie’s palm. "He even went so far as to have someone check your room. Guess he didn’t believe me when I told him you weren’t here. He said to call him right...."

Kristie raced up the stairs to her room. Her heart was pounding as she burst through the door and grabbed the phone. She knew Barry’s number by heart.

Kristie? My god, where’ve you been? I’ve had everybody in three states looking for you.

At the tone of his voice, pure dread washed over her. Tell me.

The rustle of papers and a clearing of his throat telegraphed bad news. He snarled a bleak oath. I wish... His pause gave her time to brace herself. Tamiko’s been murdered, Kristie.

She dropped to the bed, trying to convince herself she’d misheard.

Kristie?

Oh God, oh God... Why would anyone--

Hero Nyogi discovered her body, Barry continued, compassion reducing his voice to a rasp. He said when she didn’t show up for their victory celebration, he got worried...went by her condo...

The words created an avalanche of emotions Kristie had been trained to dig through quickly. This time, however, she couldn’t get free of the landslide.

Disbelief sucked the air from her lungs. She felt far away, like a wraith without substance. She fought for calm, but found none. Denial slammed against reality.

Barry cleared his throat, a strangled sound across their long-distance connection. The detective handling the case called me when your name turned up in Tamiko’s personal effects and he couldn’t reach you.

Where’s Sara? she asked, hating the panic she heard in her own voice. Sara, who looked so much like Tamiko had at that age, would be eight in a couple of weeks. Barry, where’s--

Sara’s fine. Safe. Staying with a neighbor, Eve Shaw.

Kristie shuddered with relief. Alive and safe with Eve, a friend who lived in the same condominium complex as Kristie and Tamiko, each of them having their own place there. Sara and Eve’s daughter, Lauren, were almost inseparable.

She was spending the weekend at Ms. Shaw’s, Barry said. The police couldn’t locate Sara’s father or any grandparents, so she’ll stay with Ms. Shaw until you get here.

Kristie took a deep breath. Her grandparents are dead, and her father’s an S.O.B. who’s finally out of her life. Keep it that way, Barry.

It’s not up to me, Kristie. He sounded tired, discouraged. This is a local police matter.

She bristled, wanting to lash out, to feel anything but the anguish that gripped her. I’ll take care of my niece. She paced around the double bed, carrying the phone with her, strangling the cord. I may need some time off, Barry.

As much as you want.

There was no hesitation, and for that she was grateful.

*****

Kristie’s plane lifted off the runway. It was a relatively brief flight from Vegas to the Reno-Tahoe International Airport. She’d be there by mid-afternoon. She closed her eyes, blocking out her surroundings, but was still forced to suffer a seat partner who yakked non-stop.

We’re on our way to the Hot August Nights extravaganza, he enthused. Like a kid anticipating a treat, he’d told her that three times already. If she heard another word about poodle-skirts and sock hops, rock’n roll and classic cars, she’d scream.

The possibility that Tamiko’s killer might be one of the visiting tourists nagged at her as she hurried to deplane, then pushed her way through the crowd and out of the terminal. She’d used the in-flight phone and called Barry, who had a car waiting for her, a thoughtful gesture she deeply appreciated. Now she needed to get to Sara, hold her, let her know she wasn’t alone.

Construction of a new parking garage snarled airport traffic, but she managed to avoid the worst of it. Still, it took twenty minutes to get home, memories crowding her the entire way: Tamiko at five, looking cute but bewildered in her new school clothes, home early from kindergarten because her father, Yoshi Nishihara, Kristie’s step-father, had died in an automobile accident. Tamiko at six, by then wise to the meaning of death when their mother succumbed to cancer.

Kristie remembered her own anguish at assuming the role of Tamiko’s parent when she herself was only eighteen, and later, after Tamiko’s divorce, the disaster of sharing an apartment with her and Sara, who was then only two. They were troublesome recollections which Kristie didn’t want to think about now.

She pulled into the condo complex. A quick look-see by the security guard into the unfamiliar car and then he waved her through. Moments later, she was at Eve’s door. Now came the hard part, facing Sara’s tears. She heard hushed movements in response to her knock, but the door didn’t budge.

Eve? It’s me...Kristie.

The lock clicked and the door swung open to the saddest little face she had ever seen, a sight that squeezed her chest like a vise. She knelt down.

Aunt Kristie... Sara flung herself forward, burrowing her tear-stained face into Kristie’s shoulder. Kristie gathered the child to her, unable to stop the dampness welling in her eyes. I love you, she murmured as Sara’s small arms wrapped around her neck. This precious little girl with the doll-like features and jet black hair was her responsibility now...her family, her only family. It would be just the two of them from here on out. Now if they could just get through the next few days.

Then what? the more logical half of her brain demanded.

Eve appeared from the kitchen, her hands coated with flour, her smile as fake as plastic fruit. We were making pizza.

Pizza sounds good, Kristie said, forcing a smile as she tried to ignore the nagging question in her head--Then what? Then what?

Eve’s voice dropped to a murmur. I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.

Infinite sorrow formed a knot in Kristie’s throat. Tamiko was gone, and the chance to overcome the differences which had kept them from being close was now lost forever.

*****

Hours later, as night fell, Kristie trudged upstairs to her own condo with Sara asleep in her arms, the warm, leggy body snuggled against her, so trusting and innocent that tears again stung Kristie’s eyes.

She tucked Sara into bed, feeling as protective as a mother bear who would rip off the head of anyone who threatened her cub. Who had killed Tamiko and why?

Ask questions tomorrow, she muttered, the emotions she’d held at bay suddenly swamping her. Tomorrow... Tomorrow...

She lay awake all night, her mind filled with hurtful memories, the most recent coming after Tamiko’s bout in Las Vegas. Kristie had burst into the dressing room, saying, "Congratulations, Sis, you were great!"

"Thought you didn’t like the sport anymore, Tamiko said, turning away. Why’d you come?"

The petulant response had stung, prompting an impassioned reply. "Because you’re my sister. And because I love you."

It would have been more accurate to say half-sister, but being so much older than Tamiko, Kristie had always felt more like her mother than her sister, and now she felt as though she’d lost her own child.

After hours and hours of mental reruns of that painful scene, Kristie was more determined than she’d ever been in her life...she would find the bastard who’d murdered her sister. There would be no closure, no moving on until she did.