Take the Key and Lock Her Up Page 2

  Ping. A muffled, metallic sound filtered through the door. Ping. Her finger jumped on the trigger, nearly firing her Glock. She forced herself to ease the pressure and focus on the noise. Ping. What was he doing out there?

  A loud thump vibrated through the wall behind her, and the door fell back into the hallway with a loud crash. The man she’d seen through the window stepped into the cell, looking around as if to find her. She swung her Glock toward him. Her mind registered that he wasn’t holding a gun just as she squeezed the trigger. At the same time, he dove at her, knocking her gun arm up. The bullet whined harmlessly past him and buried itself in the wall.

  They both fell, a tangle of arms and legs. He twisted, bearing the brunt of their fall, landing on his back with a solid whump and a guttural curse. She landed on top of him, her chin smacking his hard chest.

  For the space of a heartbeat, neither of them moved or spoke. He blinked, as if stunned from slamming his back and maybe his head against the concrete floor. Her gaze darted around the room, which had lightened to a murky gray because of the open doorway. Where was her gun? There, lying three feet away. She lunged for it. He cursed and grabbed her, turning and pulling her beneath him. Now she was the one flat on her back and he was the one on top. She desperately tried to shove him off her.

  He tightened his hands around her wrists. “Stop fighting me before you hurt yourself.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her own. “I’m here to help you.”

  “I’m a police officer, Detective Emily O’Malley,” she uttered through clenched teeth as she kept struggling to free her hands. “Let me go.” Without waiting for his response, she jerked her knee up, aiming for his groin.

  He twisted, easily blocking her assault, then used his weight to press her down so she could barely move. It seemed like every muscle in his body was plastered to her softer curves. She gave up her ineffectual struggles and squinted up at him in the dark, trying to confirm whether he was the man who’d kidnapped Hawley.

  With the light from the open doorway behind him, she could see only the vague outline of his face and his eyes since he was so close. But his voice—he’d sounded exasperated, concerned, when he’d told her he was there to help. Definitely not what she’d expect from a psychopath. Then again, what should she expect of a psychopath in this situation?

  For one thing, he’d probably have a gun. And if he had locked her in this cell, wouldn’t he have used a key to open it instead of breaking down the door? Yes—he would have. Which could mean only one thing. He wasn’t the man she’d chased into the basement.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  His gaze dipped to where her breasts were crushed against him, and he cleared his throat. “My name is Devlin.” His white teeth flashed in a wry grin. “But given our current . . . predicament . . . you can call me Devil.”

  Her face flushed hot as she realized exactly what he meant by “predicament.” His body’s response to their closeness was starting to harden against her belly. A completely inappropriate tingle of awareness shot through her, making her grit her teeth.

  She tugged her hands again, trying to free them and to free herself from this impossible and embarrassing situation. “If you’re here to help, then prove it by letting me go and getting off me. Now.”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Only if you promise you won’t try to castrate me again,” he teased, even as he subtly shifted his hips so that he wasn’t pressed so intimately against her.

  His outrageous comment had her wanting to shoot at him. Again.

  “I won’t try to knee you again. Promise.” She had no intention of keeping her word. She’d use every dirty trick she knew if it would help her escape.

  He laughed—a deep, husky sound that sent a delicious shiver all the way to her toes. Good grief, what was wrong with her?

  “Liar,” he said. “But I’ll take my chances and let you up anyway.”

  As he eased to the side to lift himself off her, the light from the doorway struck his face, and hers, giving both of them their first clear look at each other. He drew in a sharp breath and froze above her, suddenly studying her with an intensity that should have frightened her. But it didn’t. Probably because she was studying him just as intently.

  His nose was slightly crooked. But it did nothing to detract from the fierce, masculine beauty of his features. Enviably thick lashes framed dark, hungry eyes that admired her with open appreciation, sending excitement pulsing through her. He was all sharp angles and perfect symmetry, framed with a light dusting of dark stubble along his jaw, as if he hadn’t shaved in days.

  Chemistry. That was the only way she could explain this raw, physical attraction that had her fingers curling into her palms. The only thing keeping her from being completely disgusted with herself over her unwelcome fascination with this stranger was that he was a stranger. His face, just inches above hers, was handsome and compelling, yes. But it was also completely unfamiliar. Which meant he was not the suspect.

  Feet shuffled in the hallway. They both started as if coming out of a daze and looked toward the door. Two men rushed into the cell, guns drawn. Devlin shoved himself up and whirled around in one seamless movement that was astonishingly fast and graceful for a man his size. He crouched in front of her, as if he were trying to protect her.

  “Police,” one of the men yelled. “Hold it right there.”

  Devlin slowly straightened, as if to make sure he didn’t spook the police, and held his hands in the air. Emily certainly couldn’t blame him for that worry, not after being shot at once already.

  She scooted back several feet. The cell was almost too bright now because of all the flashlights being aimed inside. Jones was the one who’d yelled “police” and was pointing his gun at Devlin. Tuck stood beside him. And outside the cell, three uniformed officers aimed their guns and flashlights at Virginia Hawley’s abductor.

  Except that he wasn’t Hawley’s abductor.

  When Emily had chased the suspect into the basement earlier, he’d turned and looked directly at her before slamming the door. Only a few feet had separated them. And the bright sun had shined straight down on his face. She knew exactly what he looked like.

  This man, Devlin, was tall and had deep black hair like the suspect, but that was where their similarities ended. Devlin was far too . . . attractive, for lack of a better word, than the other man had been. And Hawley’s abductor was clean-shaven, with none of the sexy stubble that shadowed Devlin’s jaw.

  “You okay?” Jones hauled her to her feet. “You have a red spot on your forehead. Did this guy hit you?” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward Devlin.

  Emily’s stomach sank when she saw Tuck handcuffing Devlin’s arms behind his back.

  “Let him go,” she said. “He’s not the suspect.”

  “But he hit you,” he insisted.

  “No, no, he didn’t. I ran into a wall in the dark. No one struck me. I’m fine. Please, Tuck, let him go. He’s a witness. He’s not the one who abducted Hawley.”

  Tuck frowned but did as she asked. He removed Devlin’s cuffs and handed them back to the officer he must have borrowed them from.

  Devlin rubbed his wrists and gave Emily a crisp nod of thanks.

  “Everyone, holster your weapons.” The men exchanged uneasy glances but did as she’d ordered. Tuck made a show of resting his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, as if in warning.

  Emily let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and hurried to explain. “I chased the suspect and the victim into the basement. But both of them disappeared.” She waved toward the cot on the far wall. “I came in here, saw the body on that cot, and thought it was Hawley. But when I ran inside, someone closed and locked the door behind me. This man, Devlin, busted the door open to let me out.” She glanced from Jones to Tuck. “Please tell me you found Hawley and that she’s okay.”

  Tuck slowly shook his head. “You and this guy are the only people we’ve
seen since we got here.”

  Her shoulders slumped.

  Another uniformed policeman with a flashlight in his hand rushed to the doorway. “I can see skeletons through the windows in two other rooms.”

  Damn. “What about Mrs. Hawley?” Emily called out.

  “No sign of her so far.” He and two of the other officers headed back toward the other cells, leaving one uniform with her, Tuck, and Jones.

  Emily retrieved her Glock from where it had fallen during the scuffle and shoved it into her holster.

  “What about the white truck I followed here?” she asked no one in particular.

  The remaining beat cop trained his flashlight inside the cell.

  “There’s a white truck parked out front. A Ford F-150,” Tuck said.

  “The suspect wasn’t driving a Ford. He was driving a Chevy,” Emily told him.

  “The Ford is mine.” Devlin’s deep voice cut through the gloom with the sound of authority, snapping everyone’s attention back to him. “The man I assume you’re looking for took off in his truck when I pulled into the yard.”

  Emily closed the distance between them and craned her neck back so she could look him in the eyes. Good grief he was tall, probably six foot three. How could she ever have thought he resembled the suspect when the man she’d chased into the basement had been just a tad over six feet tall and without the solid muscle that filled out Devlin’s impressive frame?

  “I’m Detective Emily O’Malley,” she reminded him, wanting to establish formality between them and gloss over the awkward intimacy from earlier. “Who are you? Full name this time.”

  He hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Finally, he said, “Buchanan. Devlin Buchanan.”

  Buchanan. Why does that sound so familiar? “You said you saw our suspect. What did he look like?”

  She was testing him to see if he was telling the truth. From the wary look in his eyes, she thought he might be trying to hide something. She studied him closely. Reading people’s body language, interpreting the subtle changes in their tone of voice and how that related to what they were actually saying was her forte. It was one of the reasons her boss and peers often asked her to interview suspects on cases that weren’t even hers.

  “He looked a bit like me,” he admitted. “Caucasian, short dark hair, tall, probably mid-thirties. And the answer to your next question is no, I didn’t see anyone in the passenger seat. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t anyone there. The driver took off as soon as I pulled into the driveway. He tore across the field to the road out front and I didn’t get more than a quick look at him.”

  His description was spot-on. And his body language told her he was probably telling the truth. “Which direction did he go?”

  “West.”

  “Jones,” Emily said, “I gave dispatch the license plate number and description of the truck when I was following it here. Put out a—”

  “BOLO. Will do. Every law-enforcement officer within a hundred miles will be on the lookout for that truck. We’ll get him.” He pulled out his cell phone.

  “You’ll have to go outside to make the call. No coverage in here,” she said.

  Jones hurried out of the cell and down the hallway, leaving Tuck and the officer holding the flashlight on Buchanan to back Emily up.

  “Start talking,” Emily said. “Why are you here? If you were trying to help me, how did you know I needed help in the first place? This is a fairly deserted rural area. Seems oddly coincidental you were driving down that road the same time as me and just happened to come into the basement after I was locked in this cell.”

  He hesitated again, then let out a deep breath, as if resigned to answer her questions. “I keep a police scanner in my truck. I heard you ask for backup and figured the odds were against any other cops being in the area. I thought you could use the help.”

  If he was telling the truth, he’d just risked his life for a complete stranger. But far from wanting accolades or thanks, he seemed impatient and uninterested in any attention—which made Emily all the more suspicious. There was something else going on. What was he hiding?

  Normally when she and Tuck interviewed witnesses, they would take turns firing off questions, ferreting out the clues. But since she hadn’t briefed him yet on what had happened, he stood silently beside her, trusting her to ask the right questions.

  “How did you know I was in this cell?” she asked.

  Buchanan gave her a bland look, as if she was wasting his time. “I didn’t. But when I didn’t find you in the rest of the basement, I figured you were behind one of those doors. I tried all of them and they were locked, so I decided to bust them open one at a time to look for you.”

  “I didn’t hear you opening any other doors. You expect me to believe you just happened to open my cell first, without knowing I was inside this one?”

  He shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less whether she believed him or not.

  “If you were trying to help Detective O’Malley,” Tuck said, “why were you on top of her when we got here?”

  Great, of all the questions Tuck could have asked, he had to ask that one.

  Devlin’s lips twitched, as if he were trying not to smile. His heated gaze met Emily’s, leaving no question that he was remembering the feel of her body crushed against him, and her unfortunate movements that had elicited a response she didn’t think either of them had expected. He seemed content to let her answer Tuck’s poorly worded question.

  Not wanting to humiliate herself further, she decided it was time to get rid of her audience. She motioned to the officer holding the flashlight. “Get Mr. Buchanan out of here. I’ll interview him at the station.”

  Her casual dismissal of him had Devlin stiffening. But he didn’t protest and allowed the policeman to escort him out of the cell, leaving Emily alone with Tuck. She breathed a sigh of relief and ran a shaky hand through her shoulder-length hair as soon as they were gone.

  “What’s going on?” Tuck demanded. “Why were you on the floor when I got here?”

  “I might have . . . tried to shoot Buchanan, and he was forced to knock me down in self-defense.”

  He blinked. Twice. “You tried to shoot him? You fired your weapon?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “He busted into the cell. It was dark. I thought, for a split second, that he might have a gun.”

  “You thought he might have a gun?” Tuck glanced around the cell. “He didn’t?”

  She let out a long breath. “No. He didn’t.”

  He slowly shook his head. “Emily—”

  “I know, I know. Lousy under pressure. You don’t have to remind me.”

  “Lieutenant Drier is going to be pissed.”

  Her fingernails bit into her palms. “He has every right to be. I screwed up. Big-time.”

  A civilian would be easily forgiven for the mistake she’d made. But a trained police officer knew better. She shouldn’t have fired at an unarmed man. She should have maintained control of the situation. She should have kept her distance from the cell door, announced she was a police officer, given him a chance to surrender. Instead, she’d guaranteed he had to attack her to avoid being shot.

  If she was lucky, her mistakes today would just become fodder for the gossips at the station, something for the guys to laugh at and tease her about. If she wasn’t lucky, her first six months as a detective would be her last. She’d have to crawl back home to Nashville, Tennessee, and admit to her over-achieving parents and siblings that she’d failed—just as they’d expected she would.

  “You should have waited for backup.” Tuck put his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. She fully expected those same words to come out of her boss’s mouth once he heard about this, but they’d be said in a shout. And he certainly wouldn’t squeeze her shoulder in solidarity when he said them.

  “No arguments here,” she said.

  “What exactly happened?”

  She shoved her hands into her pa
nts pockets to keep from twisting them together. “I told you, I heard screams and gunshots outside the basement and ran inside. Someone locked me in this cell.”

  “Someone. Not Buchanan?”

  “I couldn’t swear to it, since I didn’t see who shut the door. But I don’t think it was him. I never saw the suspect or Hawley once I went into the basement. Did you see any other exits when you got here?”

  “No. We circled the entire house before we entered. There’s only one way in and out of this basement. And all the windows and doors on the ground floor are boarded up.”

  “Then the gunshots and the screams were probably a diversion to get me inside. The suspect must have circled around the maze of walls and got away with the victim while I was in here thinking I was rescuing her.” She shook her head in disgust. “Thanks to my stupid decision to go in without backup, that poor woman is still being held against her will. And we don’t have a clue where she is.”

  Tuck didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The commiserating look on his face told her he’d already arrived at the same conclusion.

  Emily wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide from the reality of what she’d done. But that wouldn’t help the victim. She owed it to Virginia Hawley to use the skills she did have—her talent for solving puzzles—to help find out exactly what had happened and who was behind it. Once she had that information, she might be able to figure out where the suspect would have taken his victim. To do that, she first needed to decide once and for all if Buchanan was in any way involved. She couldn’t rely exclusively on her instincts about him—she needed facts.

  She looked around the cell again, searching for some kind of clue, anything that would help her piece things together. The doorway captured her attention. The door that had once secured the opening was now propped against the wall in the hallway. One of the officers must have picked it up off the ground to move it out of the way. The lock mechanism appeared to be fully intact. So was the door frame. The brass hinges were dull and mottled but unbroken.