Devil in the Deadline (2 page)

“I'm not.” His gaze stayed focused over my shoulder, interest playing around the corners of his mouth. “What do you want? How'd you even get in here?” He scrubbed at his nose with the dingy cuff of his faded Yankees windbreaker.

“A cop who owed me a favor got me in,” I said. “I just want to talk to you about what happened tonight.”

My words contorted his face into a mask of terror and he sank back to the floor, hugging his knees again. Same response Landers got.

New tactic.

“Or not,” I said hurriedly, scooting toward a drab gray armchair and perching on it. “We can talk about whatever you want. What's your favorite food? Place to hang out? Time of year?” Questions popped through my lips on auto-fire, my words tripping over themselves trying to get him back.

His head rose slowly. He blinked and looked around the room, finally settling his hazy blue eyes on my cheekbone. “I like pizza.”

“Me, too,” I said, pulling out a notebook and pen. “You ever been to Bottoms Up?”

“Best pies in town.” He nodded. “One of the cooks there gives us leftovers on Friday nights. Nice guy. He says they even make the cheese fresh. Like, make it.”

I scribbled as he talked. My brain sped forward, hunting a way to bring up the dead girl without sending him back into his hidey-hole.

“That explains why it's so amazing,” I said. “You have friends, huh? I imagine sticking together is safer than being alone.”

“Sure. There's me and Fl—” he stopped. “No names.”

I raised both hands, doubting any of them went by their real names, anyway. “Sure. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

He toyed with the laces on one of his worn green combat boots. “There's four of us. Or, there were. Three now, I guess.”

I caught a deep breath. Hot damn. Were they so flipped out because they knew the victim? That could be a huge lead for Landers. And a giant exclusive for the
Telegraph
. I gripped my pen tighter. He had to say it.

Baby steps. Easy questions.

“Where's the guy who isn't here?”

He pulled at the shoelace again. “Shelter. Wanted a shower.”

“Why didn't you go with him?”

“I was working,” he said.

I jotted that down. Worth coming back to, but I didn't want to shut him up by asking what he meant. Clearly, he didn't have a nine-to-five.

“They said you sleep down on Belle Isle sometimes?”

He nodded. “It used to be a switch house for the power plant. No one's ever there at night. Cops patrol the park pretty good after dark, watching for drug dealers. But if you know the way through the woods, you can get in there without crossing the rocks, and they don't see you. It's a safe place to sleep. Cool in the summer, with the breeze from the river and all the concrete.”

My hand flew across the page. I was afraid to even breathe too loud, not wanting him to stop talking now that he'd started.

“How did you get up into the loft?”

“Rope ladder. I made it. It was like our own private clubhouse. Safe. No one could get up there unless we let them up. She liked that.”

I underlined those words. I didn't remember noticing any rope, which made it worth mentioning to Aaron.

“But there was so much blood. Not a safe place anymore.” His head dropped to his knees, his hunched back rising and falling with hitching breaths. “She was all cut up. And her eyes were still open. Still so pretty. Greener than the oak leaves.”

He sobbed, resuming his rocking.

I reached for his shoulder, my hand stalling in midair. I wanted to comfort him, but folks who live on the streets aren't generally too touchy-feely. I also wanted the girl's name. He knew her as well as I knew my favorite Jimmy Choos. Flat-out asking wouldn't get me anywhere, though.

I watched him for a long minute. He'd forgotten he wasn't alone in the room.

“Don't you think her family might want to know?” I kept my tone soft. Chances were, the fingerprints would ID her within twenty-four hours. But I wanted it first.

He stopped rocking, raising his head slowly. “They know. Of course they know. They killed her.”

2
.

  

Kisses and questions

  

I
tried to get him to elaborate for a half-hour. More rocking and several muttered refrains of “stupid, stupid, stupid, big mouth, stupid” were all he offered before I thanked him and let myself out, crossing the hallway to the girl's room.

I stopped short when the door opened to reveal a harried-looking doctor.

“Are you a relative of this patient?” he asked, his eyes widening when he saw me.

I smoothed my skirt and hoped my hair had fallen at least a little. “Not exactly,” I said. Damn. Having permission from Aaron to talk to the patient worked on nurses, but I was pretty sure a doctor wouldn't let me in there if the President himself said it was okay.

He put an arm across the doorway. “Family only,” he said.

Double damn.

“I really need to talk to her.”

“She's not going to be talking to anyone for about six hours,” he said. “Shock. She's been sedated. Maybe sleep will put her in a good enough frame of mind to avoid getting herself killed when we have to kick her out in the morning.”

My eyebrows went up.

He sighed. “As much as I wish I had enough beds to keep every derelict in the city who could use some therapy,” he began, and I raised one hand.

“Preaching to the choir, doc.”

Well, shit.

If they'd drugged her, I wouldn't get anything else at the hospital tonight. Since the call came in so close to the eleven o'clock broadcasts, I knew without looking the TV stations didn't have anything but a breaking report about a body discovery and a short live feed from the river. So I had until morning to put something more together and get it to my editor for the website.

Journalism in the age of the Internet 101: deadline is five minutes before someone else might have it.

The doctor rushed past me when a sharp shrieking echoed down the hall. I threw a last glance at the closed doors and checked my watch, hoping Kyle hadn't bored with the party and bailed early.

Maybe Captain SuperCop could help me figure another angle to work.

“On my way back,” I tapped in a text to him as I stepped into the elevator. “Wait for me?”

He didn't reply before I got to my car. I turned toward the suburbs, laying on the accelerator. My thoughts raced faster than my little red SUV through what I knew, and what Charlie could possibly come up with before morning. If the prints came back before dawn, she could have the victim's identity before the early show.

Considering that, I shot past who the woman was to how she ended up on the street. The guy I left muttering in the psych ward knew her, and more than in passing. But why did he think her family was responsible for the horror scene in the old switch house? I was pretty far from assuming he meant they took a knife to her, because—well, mostly because I wasn't ready to think someone could do that to their own kin. The first step to that kind of murder is dehumanizing the victim, which would be harder for relatives. I hoped.

I turned into Jenna's driveway still pondering and spotted Kyle's black Stetson in the far corner of the wraparound porch. He claimed Wyatt Earp from Tombstone—loosely eighties attire at best—was the only thing he'd had time to come up with on short notice. Since he knew good and well I had a serious Texas-girl weakness for sexy cowboys, I didn't buy it for half a second.

He did look good, though. Hanging back in the shadows, I admired the way his lightweight duster hugged his broad shoulders, falling into folds at his narrow waist and hitting his starched jeans just above the heels of his Justin ostrich dress boots. My relationship with my ex, who also happened to be my favorite hotshot ATF agent, was nothing if not complicated. More so lately, thanks to my friendship with a certain Mafia boss.

Fortunately, I thought fast enough on my feet to avoid giving up that Joey was anything more than a source. Unfortunately, Kyle didn't care for the idea of me knowing Joey at all. But he was getting over it. I hadn't decided if that was a good thing.

Our friendship was easy. But Kyle wanted more than friendship. I wasn't sure I did.

Sure, my knees still went to Jell-O at the sight of his profile under the Stetson when he turned his head, and my pulse sped at the memory of knocking said hat to my porch during a pretty amazing kiss. The sticking point: in the two months since, I'd been unable to replicate the chemistry.

Possibly because Joey was a damned fine kisser, too. When he was around, anyway.

I sighed, putting one hand on the porch rail and raising the other as Kyle turned toward me. My greeting faltered when Tanya Murphy, an angst-ridden poet who helped out at the bookshop Jenna ran, stepped forward with him, one goth-manicured hand clamped around his bicep.

Complicated. Everything had to be so complicated.

“Nicey!” He grinned when he spotted me, then followed my gaze to Tanya. His ice blue eyes skipped between us for a moment and the grin settled into a confident smile. “Anything interesting? Or did you run off and leave me here all by myself for nothing?”

“Wait 'til you hear,” I said, my eyes stuck on the fingers wrapped around his arm. I raised my gaze to Tanya's face and found a tight smile pasted there, her hazel eyes pitching daggers my way.

I grabbed Kyle's other hand, lacing my fingers with his and offering him my warmest smile. “I could use your expertise, if you're interested in cutting out of here early.” The memory of the murder scene shook off the guilt following the territorial feeling. I did need to talk to him. And if it kept him out of Tanya's bed—well, that was her problem.

He tipped the corners of his lips up in a sexy smile, his eyes skimming my form-fitting costume before they returned to my face. “Which expertise are you in need of? I have many.”

Tanya's hand fell away from his other arm, and she spun on the heel of one black stiletto biker boot and stalked into the house.

Kyle didn't look sorry to see her go. “I know better than to get my hopes up,” he said, pulling me to him and wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “But one of these days, we have to get the timing right.”

“One of these days,” I echoed, breathing in the light, summery scent of his favorite cologne and fighting through memories of some lovely, long-ago evenings when the timing was more than right.

“Just let me tell Jenna goodnight,” I said, turning for the front door. “And don't pick up another ingénue while I'm gone.”

“I can't make any promises.” He chuckled. “How about I come with you and thank her for the hospitality? It was nice of them to invite me. I haven't been to a non-business function since I moved here.”

Jenna's eyes popped wide when I hugged her and whispered I was leaving with Kyle. From the overly loud “have fun, doll,” and sloppy chortle that followed, she'd had several more margaritas after I left for the river.

I squeezed her hand and promised to call her the next day. Not that she'd remember.

Settled in my passenger seat with the Stetson across his knees and a six pack under his belt, Kyle leaned back and turned to me. “What's up?”

I took a deep breath, my hands trembling again at the memory of the bloodbath down by the James.

“Murder. And not your garden variety.” I started the car and backed into the cul-de-sac. “I've never seen anything like this, Kyle. Not even on paper. It was...God.” I shook my head as I pointed the car downtown, searching for words. “Evil. How could a human being do such a thing?”

The tension in my voice made quick work of his Dos Equis. He sat up straighter, running one hand over his close-cropped hair as he tried to clear the beer fog from his brain.

“What did you see?”

I stopped at a light and put the blinker on to signal a turn toward the freeway.

“A woman.” I closed my eyes. “She was...it was—there was so much blood, Kyle.” I sniffled, blinking over the tears pricking at the backs of my eyes. “Horror-movie-type stuff. They made an altar. There were candles. She was laid out. Carefully. Like a museum piece.”

He reached over and squeezed my hand. “I'm so sorry, honey.” Annoyance crept over the sincerity in his tone. “What the hell possessed White to let you into a scene like that?”

“Me.” I shook my head. “He owed me a favor. I think I need to re-examine my reward structure.” I kept quiet about Aaron asking for my help, because I wasn't altogether sure he was supposed to. Kyle might get pissed enough to call and yell at someone if he thought Aaron was putting me in harm's way.

Driving on autopilot, I answered his tight questions as fast as he could ask them. He was particularly interested in the scene and the method of entry. “If they had a rope ladder they pulled up behind them, then she let someone up, or they brought their own ladder.” He tapped his index finger on his knee.

I nodded. Something else to ask Aaron about. Continuing my story, I paused when I got to the bit about the victim's family. I didn't want anyone else to have a shot at that angle before I could dig deeper. But I had to tell Aaron, so I might as well pick Kyle's ATF-agent brain about it while I could.

I slowed to a stop in front of his apartment building, turning in the seat to face him.

“When I was at the hospital, the guy who found the body said something. But I'm not sure what to make of it.”

“I'm listening.”

“He knew the vic, Kyle. That's part of the reason they're so freaked.”

“You think he did it?”

I shook my head hard enough to budge my shellacked halo of frizz. “Nope. Tom Hanks couldn't have pulled off the performance that dude put up tonight. But when I asked about her family—I was trying to get a name. You know how street people are about names.”

He nodded.

“So I asked him if someone should let her family know. And he said, ‘They know. They killed her.'”

Kyle sat back. “Huh.”

“That's what I said.”

“Literally, killed her? Because they'd have to be pretty sick.”

“Exactly.” I felt the corners of my lips turn up in a smile, which seemed all kinds of wrong, given our subject matter. “I had the same thought. That makes me oddly proud of myself, Captain Bigshot.”

He winked. “You're learning.” His eyes flicked toward the building's front door and his voice dropped half an octave. “You want to come in? I could teach you some other stuff, too.”

I swallowed hard. That sounded way more tempting than I wanted to admit, especially with him looking like he'd walked off the cover of a western romance novel.

It also sounded complicated.

I twisted my mouth to one side. “I don't know.”

He dropped his eyelids half-shut and leaned toward me. “Need convincing?”

What I needed was to find the stomach-cartwheels his kisses used to give me. I traced one finger along his jawline, the slight stubble rough under my touch.

“You do look good in the hat.”

I closed my eyes and tipped my head to one side, my hand sliding behind his neck. His lips closed over mine and I sighed as he pushed me back into the seat and deepened the kiss.

Ten years apart had done a lot for Kyle's technique—but his improved skill didn't trigger any fireworks. Maybe I wasn't trying hard enough. I pushed the duster back over his shoulders and attempted to get lost in the moment. Making out with Kyle was way more fun than thinking about the butcher scene Aaron had to analyze.

“Come inside,” Kyle whispered, moving his lips to my neck. He paused, taking a deep breath. “Jesus, how do you smell so good?”

“Christian Dior.” The words came out in short huffs, like I'd been for a run. My fingers found the top button of his shirt as his mouth explored my collarbone. It could be so easy. I could follow him upstairs and we could be us again.

Joey's sparkling dark eyes and low, sexy voice flashed right on the heels of that thought. But Joey had made himself awfully scarce the past couple of months.

I sighed.

Could I do this? Yep.

Was I sure I wanted to? That was the hundred-thousand-dollar question. And the answer was no, whether I wanted it to be or not.

I pushed gently at Kyle's shoulders as his hands moved to unclasp my bra. “Whoa, there, cowboy.”

He pulled back half an inch and studied my face, slumping into his own seat after a long second.

“That's a ‘go home' whoa, not a ‘slow down' whoa,” he said. “You know, you're making me work harder for this than you did when we were kids, Nicey. I don't get it. Is there someone else?”

Oh, boy.

I pulled in a deep breath. How to explain without hurting his feelings?

No freaking clue.

“Kyle, you know I love you. I always will,” I began gently.

He retrieved the hat from the dashboard and fiddled with the crease in the front. “That sounds suspiciously like an opener for letting me down easy.”

“Nothing about this is easy. I'm trying, but I can't seem to find the old fire, you know?” I laid one hand over his and he nodded. “I'm sorry. I wish it was different. But I think we should try the friend thing. For now, anyway. I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world, but it's not fair of me to let you keep hoping for something I'm not sure will ever be, either.”

He tapped a finger on the hat brim, raising his eyes to mine after twelve hours (or possibly a good three minutes that felt like forever) of contemplation.

“I don't suppose I have much of a choice.” His voice was soft, and the catch in it told me he was hiding hurt feelings behind his grin. “I can appreciate your honesty. But I won't say I'm not sorry.”

I held his gaze for a long second before I pulled his hand to my lips, brushing them over his knuckles. “I am, too.”

He squeezed my hand. “I wish I was the kind of guy who could be mad at you. It'd make my life easier. But I'm not.”