Chapter Two

Detective Harper Rose was tired as fuck.

Eighteen hours straight on a case would do that, but when he'd slapped the cuffs on the latest bad guy—a rapist who'd broken into his ex-wife's apartment—it had driven away the brain fog. Nothing beat that adrenaline rush. Not even sex, although it had been so long, Harper could barely remember that kind of high.

Even sleeping for nine blessed hours hadn't helped—he'd need a week to play catch-up with his bed for all the OT he'd put in. So worth it, to tell Alma Rodriguez her slimeball of an ex was behind bars. Still, he'd had to wake up. He and his partner had to be fresh to report to their captain about the details of the arrest.

His brother, David, had woken up earlier than usual, and they'd shared breakfast at seven. Luis—David's live-in aide—came into the kitchen at eight, and Harper had decided to head in early and get started on paperwork, but coffee was a sly seductor and called to him as he passed by Perk Me Up, the neighborhood coffee shop.

Predictably, a line snaked through the store, but he sighed and waited, checking his messages. What he didn't anticipate was the sightseeing. As in the fucking hot guy in the corner. Tats up and down nicely muscled arms, a scruffy jaw, bedhead hair, and the glitter of a diamond earring.

Mmm-mmm. Damn.

Their eyes met briefly, and a sizzle of attraction crackled straight to his balls. The man swallowed his coffee the wrong way and choked. Harper thought about offering to give him the Heimlich maneuver and grinned, imagining all the filthy things he'd like to do to the hottie once he got his arms around him.

Ah well, nothing like some dirty thoughts about someone he'd never see again to make the morning more palatable. He ordered a quad espresso and wedged himself into a seat across the shop from his pervy fantasy, who was on the phone, talking and waving a hand about, his lips curved in wicked smile that did strange things to Harper's dick.

Jesus, he needed to get laid. Maybe this weekend, he'd head to one of the nearby bars and blow off some steam. He sipped his coffee, feeling it do its work as his eyes opened a bit more and he was able to read his messages.

Great. More red tape, meetings with the DA's office, and not to forget, Pride month was almost over, and the NYPD was holding special events. Whoopie. Let's trot out the gays. Leaving his phone on the table, he got up and ordered another coffee—a cold brew this time. He still had a few extra minutes before heading to the precinct.

One PP could say whatever the hell they wanted about acceptance; there were a bunch of detectives in his squad who had no use for him once they knew he was gay. On patrol, Harper never hid his sexuality, and it was a sad truth that when he'd made detective two years earlier, the first thing his assigned partner—an old-timer named Vic Lombardi—had said to him was, "I heard you're into guys. Or are they into you?"

Lombardi had thought his joke was hysterically funny, but Harper had not. He'd reported him, which hadn't won him many friends, and Lombardi had then used his years and connections to request a new partner. Harper was put with Nolan Martinez. They'd clicked immediately, and Harper knew Nolan had his back and had no issues with him being gay. In fact, Harper had to tell Nolan's wife, Gina, whom he loved, that no, he wasn't interested in dating her hairdresser or the guy at Sephora who'd helped her pick out a new lipstick and was so cute.

Who had time for a relationship?

Between the demands of his job and taking care of his brother, Harper was stretched as tight and thin as a wire. After his father's death and his mother's suicide several years after, Harper became the sole caretaker for David, who'd been severely injured in a school bus accident as a child, leaving him a quadriplegic with profound brain injury. He had extremely limited ability to move his arms—therapy twenty years ago was different than today, and David had only learned to hold a fork or spoon in the past year.

Determined to keep his little brother at home with him, Harper had hired a full-time live-in aide, but he made sure almost all his free time was spent with his brother. No one else and nothing mattered to him more. The smile on David's face when he came home was enough happiness in his life.

Tears pricked his eyes, but he ignored them and gulped the rest of his coffee. Better get his ass moving. He slipped the phone into his pocket.

"Ex-excuse me?"

He glanced up to see a group of women in front of him, all with the same worried expressions. Uh-oh. His gut instinct, which rarely proved him wrong, buzzed.

"Can I help you?"

One of them, obviously the appointed spokesperson, looked to the woman next to her, who nodded.

"Go ahead, Marianne. We have to say something."

"You're a police officer? We saw your shield on your belt."

"Detective, ma'am. Is there a problem?" Harper had zero clue what they could be concerned about. He'd been sitting there for over twenty minutes and had noticed nothing awry.

"Oh, even better. See, we were sitting across from you over there." She pointed to the now empty table with four chairs. "A man was sitting behind us. He was very…different-looking. And acting very strangely."

Different-looking? For fuck's sake, what the hell did that mean? He tamped down his anger, hoping he wasn't listening to a bunch of nosy bigots. "Different how?" he asked, attempting to keep a neutral voice.

"He was covered in tattoos and…messy. But that wasn't the problem. It was what he said." She lowered her voice. "He was talking about murdering someone."

Harper blinked. "I'm sorry? What?" The hot guy he'd noticed when he walked in? Discussing murder?

Like bobbleheads, they nodded in unison. "It's true, Detective. He was talking about stabbing this old lady who lives on the same block as him." Her voice lowered. "He was even talking about dismembering her."

"It was horrible," one of the other ladies cried out. "And he was so blasé about it. He even threatened us as he left."

"Threatened you? What did he say?" Harper fixed her with a stare, but she didn't retreat.

"I think he knew we were listening—I mean, we couldn't help it—and as he walked by, he gave us a horrible grin and almost whispered to us, ‘Make sure you get home safely. In one piece.' Or something like that. And then he laughed. Like it was a joke." She shuddered. "I still have goose bumps."

"He was definitely planning something. He talked about her house and how he knew what it looked like and what her routine was. But the worst was how he spoke about killing her. He joked that it was like squashing a bug." Marianne wrapped her arms around her waist. "When we saw you were a policeman—detective—we figured we'd report it."

Of all the gin joints…

Harper huffed out a sigh and asked them to repeat everything so he could take notes on his phone. They each gave the same story.

"You all said he mentioned an elderly lady…Mildred?"

"Millie," a woman name Jackie stated with assurance. "Millie Johnson. She lives in a big brownstone with wooden doors on Willow Street. That's only a few blocks from here." She pointed, and he gave her a thin smile.

"Yes, I know the area." He'd grown up near the Heights, across Atlantic Avenue, in the close-knit, mostly Italian neighborhood of Carroll Gardens. After David's accident and insurance settlement, his parents had moved from the two-bedroom apartment they'd rented for years and bought a small house in the same area. It was immediate and necessary, as they'd lived on the second floor of a huge brownstone, and with David confined to a wheelchair, it had been impossible to get him up and down the steep stairs. Their new home had a walk-in front door and a backyard with a deck, where David could sit in the sunshine during good weather.

"Are you going to make sure everything's okay?"

"Can you arrest him?"

"He was so scary-looking."

Harper set his phone on the small round table. He had eight open cases and a stack of paperwork waiting to be filed. He should call it in and let the patrol officers swing by and check, but instead found himself saying, "Sure. I'll go by and see if, first of all, there is actually a house like that."

"Oh, there is," Marianne attested with a sharp nod. "I lived on that block. Millie's a fixture in the neighborhood. Everyone knows her."

"All right. Thank you very much." He put the phone into his pocket, indicating the conversation was over.

Unfortunately, they didn't seem to understand and didn't move. "Aren't you going to go now? What if he's there now, trying to kill her?"

"Yes, of course. I appreciate all of you being so diligent."

He stood. He'd been sitting there for almost forty-five minutes before the women came over to talk to him and needed to get moving anyway. He'd swing by Millie Johnson's and check on her, then head over to the precinct. When he'd made detective and requested a precinct closer to home because of David, he wasn't made any promises, but the department had come through for him in a big way and assigned him to a squad only a mile and a half from his house. On his walk over, he did an online search for a Millie Johnson on Willow Street and found her listed at number 728.

The earlier rain had subsided, and an anemic sun peeked through the clouds. Willow Street was one of the prettiest in the Heights with its grand brownstones and overarching tree canopies. He approached the house and whistled. It was huge—five stories and at least twenty feet wide—and boasted a well-tended garden and colorful flowerpots at the windows.

His senses started tingling a moment before he realized the large wooden door stood ajar. Harper drew his gun as he ascended the stairs. With his foot, he pushed the door open and crept inside.

"Ms. Millie Johnson, are you all right? This is NYPD Detective Harper Rose."

Gun at the ready, he soft-footed it along the long hallway, peering into the front parlor and dining room, all immaculately kept and filled with gorgeous antiques. Several drawers were pulled out, and the glass doors of the china cabinets were wide open. A slight noise—more like a groan—sounded from the rear of the house, and with gun still drawn, he approached.

"Shit," he swore at the sight of an elderly lady lying on the floor. Blood soaked through her dress, and an apple pie lay smashed on the floor around her. A knife, the blade streaked with blood, lay by her side. Harper holstered his gun and checked for a pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found one—weak and thready but there nonetheless. He took a dish towel and put pressure on the wound, then pulled out his phone and called for backup, an ambulance, and CSU. Nolan was his next call.

"Listen, I caught one on my way to work. Meet me at 728 Willow Street. An old lady stabbed in her home. Still alive, but I don't know the extent of her injury." Harper gave him a quick rundown. "I'm waiting for the ambulance and CSU. See you soon." He ended the call. "Ms. Johnson, can you hear me? It's Detective Rose. You're going to be all right." No answer, only a whimper. His hand looked so large against her small, pale face.

"Millie. Millie, where are you?" Harper heard footsteps quickly approaching and stood, gun raised.

"Freeze, police! Hands where I can see them!"

A man stood frozen at the arched entrance to the kitchen. A canvas bag dangled at his side. "Wha-what's going on?" His bugged-out eyes found Millie Johnson on the floor. "Millie! Oh, my God." He took several steps toward her.

"Don't move," Harper ordered. Well, damn. It was the hottie from the coffee shop. Exactly like the women had said. He holstered his gun. "What're you doing here? What's your name?"

The man licked his lips. "I'm, uh, Millie's neighbor. I helped her make a pie, and she invited me to come back with some ice cream."

Harper's gaze swept over him. The man had cleaned up some from when Harper had first seen him, which only enhanced his heart-stopping good looks. "Name and address, please."

"Colson Delacourt. I…I live across the street. 733 Willow."

Sirens sounded, and footsteps pounded. Two uniforms appeared. "Detective?" one of them asked, his brows rising as he observed the crime scene.

"Yeah. Secure the scene and begin canvassing for anyone who saw or heard anything."

Two EMTs ran inside, and Harper pointed a finger at Colson. "Don't go anywhere. I'm not finished with you." He directed his next words to the medics. "She's been stabbed in the side. I put pressure on it, but I have no idea how long she could've been lying here."

"Less than an hour and a half," Delacourt called out. "I left her here then. Unharmed," he added hastily at Harper's scowl.

They loaded the woman onto the stretcher and took her out. CSU had arrived, and he called over Bruce Stoger, whom he'd worked with often.

"Elderly lady. Dust the whole place for fingerprints—I haven't even made it upstairs. And get the knife to forensics." With his toe, he pointed to the bloody piece of evidence.

"You got it, Harper. Man…" Stoger grimaced in disgust. "What kind of fuckin' sicko hurts a little old lady? What the hell's the matter with people?" Still shaking his head, Stoger pulled out an evidence bag and secured the knife.

"When you find out, let me know," he responded and returned to Delacourt. "So, Mr. Delacourt, let's start over. You just happened to be making apple pies with Ms. Johnson. A very domestic scene. You don't work?"

A flush rose over his face. "I work from home. And yes, I help Millie out with groceries, things that need fixing at the house. It was raining earlier, and her arthritis was bothering her, so I offered to cut the apples and measure the ingredients."

"A regular Boy Scout." He smirked, and Delacourt turned a brighter red.

"Millie was a nice lady."

"Was?" Harper frowned. "She's still alive."

"Oh, yeah, I know. I mean is." Flustered, he ran his hands through his hair.

"You're very nervous, Mr. Delacourt. Are you all right?"

"No," he snapped at Harper. "I just saw someone I care about lying bloody on the floor. How am I supposed to feel?"

That gave Harper a nice segue to ask his questions. "I don't know. Let's talk about that. You were at Perk Me Up this morning, weren't you?"

Surprise widened Delacourt's big blue eyes. "Y-yes." He blushed, and Harper knew Delacourt remembered seeing him.

Harper checked the notes he took from the coffee klatch. "You were overheard describing in extremely graphic detail the murder of a Millie Johnson by either striking her over the head or stabbing and dismembering her." He leveled a stare at Delacourt. Bile rose in Harper's throat at the thought of someone doing that to someone as helpless as the frail eighty-year-old he found on the floor. It reminded him why he was so wildly protective of his brother, who was as powerless as Ms. Johnson.

"Wait, no. I can explain that," Delacourt insisted.

"I'm all ears. It's got to be a good one, seeing how everything you predicted a couple of hours earlier came gruesomely true." He pushed his face close to Delacourt, who flinched. "There's nothing I like better than putting away scumbags like you."

"I didn't do it. I swear." Sweat poured down his face, and he blinked rapidly.

"They all say that. But I'm going to bet your fingerprints are the only ones on the knife. What's the matter, Delacourt? You run out of money for your drug habit? Owe the bookies? What would make a big, tough guy like you push a knife into a sweet little old lady?"

"I didn't. I swear," Delacourt cried out. "It wasn't me."

"Harper?" Nolan called out.

"In the kitchen. The back of the house." He waited until his partner arrived. "The vic is on route to the hospital. Meet Mr. Colson Delacourt. Neighbor, apple-pie maker, and potential murderer."

"I didn't do it," Delacourt yelled, desperate and pleading.

Nolan's brows drew together. "Colson Delacourt, the author?"

"Yes, yes that's me," he nodded, relief evident in his voice.

"Harper, this is Colson—"

"Yeah, I heard. An author. So?"

Nolan frowned. "You've never read his crime thrillers? The Killer Behind the Stairs or One Step to Death ?" He tilted his head, and Harper sighed and pointed to Delacourt.

"Sit and don't go anywhere." He followed Nolan to the hallway. "What?"

"Are you seriously thinking that guy stabbed an old lady? He writes murders; he doesn't commit them."

"I'm not talking out of my ass. There's a reason I was here to begin with." As he relayed what he was told earlier, Nolan cut his glance to where Delacourt waited.

"It's got to be a mistake. I can't believe it. The guy has two New York Times bestsellers."

"So? That doesn't mean he can't kill someone. Let's talk to him again, and you can judge."

They reentered the kitchen and approached Delacourt, who sat scrolling through his phone. Nolan nudged his arm. "Hold up."

"What?"

"His hands. Look."

Harper squinted at the hand holding the phone. The knuckles were bruised and swollen.

"Maybe you weren't wrong after all."