She laughed without humor. “Please.”
He longed to hear her say that in a more intimate context. “Whatever you wish to believe,” he said simply, because the conversation had gone way beyond inappropriate. What the hell was the matter with him? Not trusting himself to be alone with her another minute, he walked outside to wait for Detective Lacy, trying to refocus his energy on work.
Stokes was going to rake him over the coals for involving a civilian in a dangerous foot pursuit. He could hear her now, reminding him of protocol, common sense and the inadvisability of taking down an assailant by force with no cuffs or backup. He had no self-control when it came to violence against women, and blah, blah, blah.
Sighing, Marc climbed into Lacy’s Jeep, not looking forward to the remainder of the day.
“Check it out,” she said, handing him a computer printout.
It was an Internet archive from the
San Diego Explorer,
dated fifteen years in the past. “Local Girl Saves the Day,” the article read.
“Sidney Anne Morrow, age twelve, daughter of Bonsall residents Aurelia and Frank Morrow, helped local police officers find a missing girl who’d fallen into a well. The girl, Lisa Jane Pettigrew, also twelve, disappeared several days ago and was feared dead. Miss Morrow approached two officers claiming she had a ‘hunch’ that the missing girl was in a long-forgotten well on the outskirts of a rural property.
“She wasn’t able to lead rescuers to the exact location, so a public records survey from 1902 was consulted. Sure enough, Lisa Pettigrew was found at the bottom of the well, malnourished and dehydrated, but in fair condition.
“Lisa’s parents offered a monetary reward to the Morrow family to show their heartfelt appreciation for the safe return of their only child…”
“So what’s this supposed to prove?” he asked, unwilling to give up his initial position. He didn’t believe in supernatural nonsense and he was never going to. “That she’s been working people since puberty?”
“I’m just keeping an open mind,” she said, implying he wasn’t.
In curt response, he crumpled up the printout and tossed it into the back seat.
On the way to the station, he muddled through the details of the case. Anika Groene and Candace Hegel had been slim, petite blondes, easy for a good-size man to overpower. Both had been taken in the morning. Both had been raped, beaten, tied up and tortured. Both had been dumped in water while still alive.
And both had large, intimidating watchdogs.
Marc felt as though this clue was key. The killer was targeting single women who walked their dogs in the early morning. Why not grab a woman alone, or one with a smaller, less dangerous dog? Either the assailant knew the women, and their dogs, or Marc was missing something important.
Of course, there were ways to immobilize even the most vigilant canine companion.
Sidney said Blue had been groggy when she found him. She’d been right about him breaking out of a vehicle; lab results on the safety glass indicated nothing more specific than a newer model car or truck. She’d been right about the river; the dog’s paws tested positive for elements unique to the San Luis Rey.
And yet, the dog’s toxicology report had been clear. No poisons, barbiturates, tranquilizers, or chemical depressants were present in his bloodstream.
“You know what you could do,” Lacy ventured after a pause.
“What?”
“Take her to the sites.”
Marc scowled, remembering what Sidney had gone through after coming in contact with Candace Hegel’s dead hand. How would she react to a crime scene? “The department has regulations against consulting psychics.”
“Like you’ve never strayed from protocol,” she chided.
He said nothing. Although he knew of other cops who had gone that route, he would never do so. In his opinion, so-called psychics victimized the weak and vulnerable, lost souls desperate to communicate with dearly departed loved ones. Taking advantage of-and taking money from-grieving lonely-hearts was despicable.
The intense dislike he carried for otherworldly con artists went as deep as his hatred for men who abused women.
After all, his mother had fallen prey to both.
S
idney was dozing off on her futon couch, dreaming about playing doctor with Marc Cruz, when her sister barged through her front door, Dakota and Taylor in tow.
Sidney rubbed her tired eyes, wondering what tragedy had befallen Samantha this time.
“There’s ice cream in the freezer,” she said to the girls when she saw the frantic expression on her sister’s face. “Go on and serve yourselves some.”
“I left Greg,” Samantha said when her daughters were out of earshot.
“When?”
“This morning. Do you have any money?”
Sidney gaped at her incredulously.
“He knows about Richard, Sid. He’s frozen all the accounts and he says he’s going to get custody.” Her eyes darted around the room. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.
“He won’t get full custody,” Sidney assured her sister with more certainty than she felt. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“It could be months before the divorce goes through. What am I going to do until then? How am I going to live?”
“You can stay with me.”
Samantha’s smooth brow crumpled at the indignity of being brought so low. “Can you watch the girls for a few hours? I really need to, um, decompress.”
With a sigh, Sidney nodded her assent. Maybe it was better that Dakota and Taylor not see their mother looking so…crazed.
“You’re a doll,” Samantha gushed, scuttling out the door on high-heeled sandals before Sidney could change her mind.
By the time the girls were fed, bathed, brushed, and in bed, it was almost ten o’clock. Sidney had been on her feet almost eighteen hours and she was completely drained. Samantha was right. Taking care of two energetic children was exhausting.
Because Dakota and Taylor were sleeping upstairs, in the only bedroom, Sidney took a quick shower outside so as not to disturb their slumber. She grabbed a tank top and underwear straight out of the dryer, pulled them on and collapsed in a boneless heap on the couch next to Marley. She was asleep as soon as her head hit the moon-shaped pillow, only to be rudely awakened less than five minutes later.
Cursing all sisters, she stumbled to the door and wrenched it open. Samantha’s husband, Greg, was there, his handsome face flushed, dark eyes unfocused. “Where is she?” he asked, slurring the words together.
“Not here,” she said, crinkling her nose at his odor and appearance. His clothes were expensively tailored, his watch diamond encrusted, and his shoes Italian leather, but he reeked of bourgeoisie. And booze.
Sidney let him in, mentally calculating the time it would take a cab to arrive.
“That bitch took my kids,” he muttered. “Can you believe that? I’m calling the cops.”
As he fumbled in his pocket for a cell phone, his bloodshot eyes perused the length of her body, making her uncomfortably aware of her own dishabille.
“Greg, don’t,” she said, wrapping the sheet around her. “The girls are here.”
“Where?” He glanced toward the stairs. “I’m taking them home.”
“No,” she said, standing in front of him. “You’re not.”
“The hell I’m not,” he replied, stumbling around her.
Sidney reached out to put her hand on his shoulder, then thought better of it and dropped her arm. She didn’t want to know where he’d been. “Please,” she whispered. “They’re asleep. Let them rest.”
“I’m their father,” he asserted. “They belong with me.”
“Fine,” she said, pointing at the couch. “Hang out here and sober up for a few hours. Then you can take them.”
His mouth twisted bitterly, but he sat. “She’s going to pay for this,” he said in a grumble. “She drives them around, high as a kite-”
“You were about to do the same,” she felt compelled to point out.
He blinked up at her. “Oh God,” he moaned, covering his face with his hands. “How did everything get so messed up?” To Sidney’s acute discomfort, he began to cry in loud, wrenching sobs, his broad shoulders shaking with emotion.
The display was so pitiful she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “There, there,” she murmured, patting the top of his head. Instantly she was aware of her mistake. Although his thoughts were muddled by drink, they were easy enough to read.
“You’re so nice,” he breathed, throwing his heavy arms around her waist.
“Um,” she replied, trying to pry his hands away.
Groaning, he brought her down to the couch beside him and rolled on top of her, pinning her beneath the weight of his body.
“Greg, stop-”
With an impressive show of strength and determination, considering his blood alcohol level, he locked his hands around her wrists, trapping her arms above her head and trying to force his mouth over hers.
Gagging, she turned her face away, only to have him land a wet, sloppy kiss on her neck. When his teeth closed around the strap of her tank top, she saw red. “Get off me,” she grated, yanking her wrists free from his grip.
The spaghetti strap snapped, baring her left breast. His liquor-glazed eyes widened with inspiration as he lowered his mouth.
Sidney’s knee connected with his groin before he got there. His face contorted into a comical grimace and he fell away from her, onto the floor. She had an almost irrepressible urge to kick him while he was down.
As she stood over him, seriously contemplating it, another knock sounded at the front door. Samantha, she thought with relief. Holding her top up with one hand, she answered it.
Marc Cruz was standing there, looking more rumpled than he had this morning, wearing the same clothes. His eyes flicked over her, pausing only briefly on her bikini panties before coming to rest at the torn strap hanging off her shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he claimed, trying to see around her. “Can I come in?”
She hesitated. Greg was a schmuck, but he was her nieces’ father, and from what she’d seen this morning, Marc didn’t play nice with guys like him.
He didn’t wait for her permission. Walking past her, he asked, “Who the hell is this?” gesturing to the miserable heap curled up in the fetal position on the floor.
“None of your business,” she replied, wondering when he’d gone crazy.
“You’re entertaining some guy in your underwear, and it’s none of my business?”
“Who’re you?” Greg wheezed.
“I’m her boyfriend.”
“He’s a cop,” she said at the same time.
“I’m her boyfriend, the cop,” he clarified. “Want to explain why her shirt is ripped and you’re holding your balls?”
“No,” Greg decided, lumbering to his feet. “I’m leaving.”
“He’s too drunk to drive,” Sidney protested. “I’ll call a cab.”
“Don’t bother,” Greg snarled.
Marc crossed his arms over his chest, his legs braced wide. “I haven’t handled a DUI in a while. This should be fun.”
“I can drive him,” Sidney said in a rush. “I’ll find someone to watch the kids.” The last thing she wanted was a fistfight on her front doorstep. Especially between a deranged cop and a drunk brother-in-law.
“You look tired,” Marc said, studying her face. “I’ll take him.”
“You and what army?” Greg slurred, having trouble standing in place.
Ignoring him, Marc reached out to take her hand. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’m picking you up early again tomorrow.” In a casual, boyfriendlike manner, he leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. The kiss could have been called perfunctory if he hadn’t used his tongue.
It was the barest touch, so light she might have thought she’d imagined it if not for the rush of cool night air coming in through the open doorway, caressing the moist spot his mouth had made on her trembling lips.
“Are you okay?” he asked, very close to her ear.
Too confused to speak, she merely nodded. Rather than taking her word for it, he ran his fingertips up the side of her neck and along the line of her jaw, checking for injuries. Finding none, he smiled, rubbing his thumb across her cheekbone.
“Tomorrow,” he promised, following Greg out the door.
She stared after them, raising a hand to her mouth and tracing the outline of her lips. Why had he done that? If the kiss had been for Greg’s benefit, to convince him they were involved, it needed only look real, not feel real.
Sidney shook her head, chiding herself for getting weak-kneed over an empty gesture. It hadn’t meant anything to him. He probably tongue-kissed grandmothers.
But why had he charged down her door and posed as her boyfriend in the first place?
Ignoring the tingling warmth spreading over her skin, she changed shirts and curled up on the couch with Marley. “Men,” she muttered. “Who needs them?”
Marley mewed her agreement.
“What do you know?” Sidney grumbled, feeling contrary. “You’re spayed.”
Marc drove Greg’s silver Porsche instead of his own Audi under the pretext of generosity. Once inside, he scanned the floors for dog hair, the windows for recent repairs and the gray leather interior for damage.
Any male acquaintance of Sidney’s was a suspect of his. Especially one who couldn’t control himself around women.
He’d slammed out of the hotel room as soon as he’d heard distress in Sidney’s voice. At the sight of her anxious face and torn clothing, he felt an incredible fury rise up inside him, so powerful he wasn’t sure he could hold it in check. True, he was sensitive where abused women were concerned, but he’d never been sent over the edge by a hanging tank top strap.
Even now, his muscles were tense and his pulse pounding. He clenched his hands around the steering wheel, still tempted to drive his fists into Greg’s liquor-slackened mouth.
“Listen, I’m really sorry about Sidney,” Greg said. “I didn’t know she was with someone.”
“If she were single, you’d have a right to force yourself on her?”
“No.” Greg frowned. “I wouldn’t do that. My wife and I are going through a hard time, and Sidney was…comforting me. I guess I got the wrong idea.”
Marc grunted his agreement.
“I’m really pissed off at Samantha, so maybe I took it out on Sidney. But I would never hurt her. She’s like a little sister to me.”
“A little sister you want to screw?”
Greg’s expression grew belligerent, but he remained silent.
“Your wife,” Marc mused, remembering the photo he’d seen in Sidney’s drawer, “is blond and slim. Do you ever pick up women that look like her? Take out your frustrations on them, instead?”
His brow crumpled. “What kind of cop are you?”
“Homicide.”
“Oh. Oh, no. You don’t think that I-”
“Let me tell you what I think, pal,” he interrupted. “I think you’re a drunk asshole who just attacked my girlfriend, your wife’s sister, in her own home, with your kids sleeping upstairs.”
He paled. “No, it wasn’t like that. I only tried to kiss her.”
“She felt compelled to defend herself physically from a kiss?”
He clamped his mouth shut, mutinous and petulant.
“Where were you Sunday night, between midnight and 4:00 a.m.?”
“Asleep in bed.”
“At home, with your wife?”
He wet his lips. “No.”
“We can discuss this at the station, if you’d rather.”
“I have a girlfriend, okay? My wife and I haven’t been getting along.”
“What’s her name?”
“Elisabeth. She’s my secretary.”
Marc glanced across the cab at him. “How trite,” he murmured.
He turned on Carlsbad Village Drive, following the sports car’s handy navigational system while Greg dozed. After they arrived at Greg’s posh estate, he roused and invited Marc in for a drink. Either Greg had completely forgotten what he’d done to Sidney just an hour before, or he was trying to smooth things over with liquid bribery.
Marc had a few minutes before patrol picked him up, so he accepted Greg’s offer. Getting a look inside his house and extending the interview couldn’t hurt.
“Cheers,” Greg said, handing Marc a glass of Tennessee’s finest.
He took a sip, not surprised to find the liquor smooth and of excellent quality. Greg couldn’t buy class, or taste, but he’d apparently spent a lot of money trying. The interior of the house was spacious, modern and stark, with gray marble flooring, cubist art pieces and chic, sharp-edged furniture. From his position at the granite-topped wet bar, Marc couldn’t see a hint of warmth. Or a single family photo.
“How long have you and Sidney been going out?” Greg asked.
“A few weeks.”
“Has she given up the goods?”
Marc felt a flash of renewed anger. “No.”
“Don’t hold your breath for it,” Greg predicted slyly, sounding pleased. “Her legs are tied together at the knees.”
“Because she won’t have you?”
“She won’t have anyone. Doesn’t date. Doesn’t like to be touched.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
Greg shrugged. “I always figured she was a dyke, and too uptight to admit it.”
Marc smiled at his arrogance. “How long have you been in love with her?”
Greg downed his drink in one quick, angry gulp. “Get out,” he spat. The violent overreaction was almost as good as an admission.
Marc drained his glass also. Standing, he met Greg’s dark, glittering eyes, only inches from his own. “I’m going to let you off real easy this time,” he said, “but if you ever touch Sidney again, you won’t be holding on to your balls, whimpering like a baby.” He shoved the empty tumbler at his chest. “You’ll be choking on them.”
He left Greg’s house still wanting to put his fist through something. His concern for Sidney’s safety hadn’t been unfounded, but rushing to her defense could have tipped her off about the surveillance. He was treating her more like a witness than a suspect.
Maybe he was losing his objectivity, but he just couldn’t see any artifice in her. Reluctantly he entertained the idea that her visions had some credence, and that she might be able to help him with the case.
When he got back to the hotel, Lacy was asleep. So was Sidney, judging from the sound of her soft, rhythmic breathing as he slipped on the headphones. He was supposed to let Lacy take second shift, but he didn’t. Staring at Sidney’s dark, curtain-shrouded windows, he stayed awake, listening to her breathe, finding that sound somehow more comforting than sleep.