“There’s a happy image,” Jackson commented. “Speaking of happy images,” he told the chief. “The look on Winston’s face when he found out that his grandfather’s diary hadn’t been destroyed the way he thought was priceless.”
“Almost as priceless as the look on his face when we told him that Damien boasted to us that he’d rescued the diary from the fireplace where Winston had thrown it after setting it on fire. Apparently Aurora the younger used said diary as a primer, a how-to book for homicidal maniacs, if you will.”
Brian shook his head as he listened. “And here I thought I’d heard everything. Unbelievable.”
As Brianna, Jackson and their team dug through the archives of the family’s history, they discovered that George Aurora had been a bricklayer by trade when he had come out to California, the land of promise, all those years ago. At the time, all indications were that he was desperate to shed his roots and reinvent himself, but those same roots had turned out to be handy when he’d started killing women.
The Old Aurora Hotel had been his first step toward building his empire. He took part in building it, working alongside the men he’d hired. And when his lust had finally got the better of him and he began murdering the women he’d used to satisfy his growing appetites, he went back to his old trade. He expanded the hotel, adding not just rooms but bodies in those walls in the process.
“Cement, it turns out,” Brianna told the chief of Ds, “is a great way to eliminate the stench of a rotting corpse.”
Brian shook his head. “Amazing what you can pick up solving crimes,” he commented. Rocking back in his chair as he considered everything that had come to light, he said, “It’s going to take the good citizens of Aurora a long time to come back from this.”
“Not as long as it’ll take the Auroras,” Jackson said. “I heard that Winston’s wife, Gloria, is moving to England.”
“Well, with her husband and son up on charges of aiding and abetting the murders of those five girls either during or after the fact, and her daughter remanded to a psychiatric institution for the criminally insane, apparently all Mrs. Winston Aurora can think of is running away. From everything but the money—what there is of it,” Brianna qualified.
Families of the last five girls were coming forward, suing the family for the losses they had suffered. By all indications, the Aurora family’s holdings were shrinking daily.
“You did a good job, you two,” Brian told them, rising to shake their hands.
“It was a team effort, sir,” Brianna responded.
Brian smiled. “You make a good team.”
“I have a feeling that he wasn’t talking about the homicide investigation just then,” Jackson said to Brianna as they left the chief’s office.
“Sure he was.” And then, after a beat, she looked at Jackson and said, “Why? What do you think he was talking about?”
Jackson’s smile enveloped her. “You and me.”
“You mean major crimes detective Muldare and homicide detective Brianna O’Bannon?” she asked, wanting to be very clear as to exactly what the man she’d worked beside and slept with for the last month was saying. Jumping to conclusions could lead to a lot of grief and heartache—she knew that for a fact.
“No,” Jackson contradicted. “You and me. Bri and Jack.” They’d worked their way to that, from stiffly formal to short and personal. And he didn’t want to stop there.
“The chief likes to keep things professional,” Brianna reminded him.
“He does,” Jackson granted as he pressed the button for the elevator. “But as you took great pains to show me, he, like the rest of the Cavanaughs, is first and foremost all about family. I think the chief’s onto something.”
“About family coming first?” she asked.
She knew damn well what he meant, Jackson thought. “About us being a good team.”
“So you’re finally willing to admit we work well together.”
“Not just work together. We fit together, too,” he told her in a low, quiet voice.
The elevator arrived. Getting in, Jackson pressed for their floor, but once the door had closed, he hit the emergency-stop button.
They jolted to a halt.
“What are you doing?” Brianna cried.
“I’ve got to get this out before I run out of nerve,” he told her. Pausing a moment as he collected his courage, Jackson said, “Since we started working together this last time, you’ve been a hell of a pain in the butt.”
“Well, that didn’t take much effort,” she told him curtly, reaching around Jackson to press the start button. “Glad you could get that out.”
He caught her hand, keeping her from doing it. “But you’ve also brought light into my world and made me feel that I wasn’t alone. I’ve been alone for so long, I didn’t realize there was another feeling.”
“You’ve got your father and your brother,” she reminded him gently.
“They’re part of the reason I feel alone,” Jackson answered. “Being responsible for people doesn’t diminish the feeling of being alone.” He took a deep breath. “Look, I know you can do better, but I’m asking you to marry me.”
Her eyes meeting his, Brianna answered, “No.”
“Oh.”
Crushed and struggling not to show it, Jackson pressed the start button and the elevator came back to life for a split second before Brianna hit the stop button again.
“No. I can’t do better,” she said when he looked at her quizzically. “It’s not possible. And, yes, I’ll marry you. Right here in this elevator if you want.”
Jackson didn’t answer her. Instead, he pulled Brianna into his arms and kissed her with all the feeling that had been steadily, powerfully building up within him for all these years.
And he went on kissing her even as an omniscient voice came over the sound system asking, “Elevator No. 7, is everything
