She huddled into her parka. Talking about them made her homesick. “I loved it. They’re nosey and loud. We’re a typical Irish Catholic family full of NYPD cops.”
“All of them?”
“Pretty much, except my mom and my baby sister, Siobhan. She’s an actress off off Broadway.”
He stiffened, which was an odd reaction.
“It was her dream even when she was in diapers.” Erin shrugged. “I never understood the pull of the limelight, but it’s all she ever wanted.”
“My mother always wanted the limelight, too. I never understood it either.”
“Yeah?” He’d said his mother had been murdered, and she wanted to know more, but didn’t want to push.
He nodded. “Yeah. We moved from the UK in the eighties with Dad’s work. She was thrilled, because she thought she had a better chance of becoming famous.”
“You’re British?” She grinned at him.
“Born in Nottingham, not Delhi.”
“Why didn’t you keep the sexy English accent?”
He sent her a sideways glance. “There’s only so much sexy people can handle.”
His expression sobered, and one side of his mouth drew back in a wry smile. “People think my identity is somehow rooted in my family being Indian, but it’s not. I’ve never been to India. I speak the language, but I also speak Farsi and French. I grew up in Britain and moved to the US. My cultural identity is wrapped up in soccer and Coronation Street, baseball and in necking with a hot blonde in the backseat of my daddy’s car. The only time I ever realize I’m different is when other people point it out.”
“Bias can be subtle,” Erin agreed carefully. “I was lucky. My mother was a teacher and intolerance and inequality are her hot button topics. She wouldn’t put up with it from anyone. I guess it rubbed off on us kids which made us all much better cops.” She watched his hands on the steering wheel. Strong and capable. Thought of them on her body and had to look away.
“The only thing my mother cared about was making it as an actress in Hollywood.”
“What did your dad think of that?”
“He encouraged her to act with local theater companies and audition for TV parts. He even paid for acting lessons, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He was just trying to make her happy.”
“It sounds like he loved her a lot.”
He shrugged. “He did. She didn’t love him back.”
That statement made Erin flinch, but he didn’t notice.
“Right here?” He checked directions.
She nodded.
“They had an arranged marriage, knew each other for about a month before the ceremony. Her parents thought he’d settle her down. She was looking for a way to escape the stranglehold they had on her. I’ve visited them a few times in England—they’re pretty traditional in their values.”
She rubbed her hands together and adjusted the heater. Damn, but she really needed to move to Hawaii. “Arranged marriages always seem barbaric to me.”
“And yet, statistically, the divorce rates are about the same as non-arranged marriages.”
Erin pressed her lips together at the gentle rebuke. She wasn’t about to give lectures on the subject of matrimony. “I didn’t know that.”
“Obviously there are cultural differences, and I’m not endorsing it, but I’m not condemning it either. Most people judge it without knowing anything about it.”
“Is that how you plan to find a wife?” she teased, but the idea caused something painful to contract inside her, even though she had no hold on the guy.
“Hell, no. I’m too much of a control freak. My dad would probably choose a real witch to spite me.”
“You two don’t get along?”
Darsh smiled and was so frickin’ gorgeous her toes curled. “We got along just fine, right up until I quit school and joined the Marines.” Her brows rose in surprise. “Indian parents—even those from Britain—seem to believe that if their kids aren’t doctors, they’re failures. ‘I thought you were going to learn to save people, not kill them.’” He gave an imitation of an older man, presumably his father. “Now he spends his days telling me I’m the token minority in the BAU. And I spend my time trying to prove him wrong. As for marriage…” He shrugged. “The job has me on the road almost every week and after what happened between my mom and dad, I’m not a big believer in compromise. A woman would have to be crazy to want a relationship with me.” His eyes raked over her, and her skin burned. “Long-term, anyway.”
But short-term might be a lot of fun—that’s what the gleam in his eyes was telling her.
Dangerous territory, so she kept it light.
“I think it depends on the compromise. I mean, a 34-inch TV rather than a 55-inch? I could live with that.”
He gave a mock shudder. “Sacrilege.”
Then her mood shifted, and she said seriously, “But when it’s a choice between suffocating your own dreams and freedoms versus staying home and putting a nice dinner on the table every night…” Her mouth went dry.
Her husband had tried to get her to give up the job she loved, even though he’d known she was a career cop when they got married. It had been the first step in him trying to take over her life, and she’d had to fight for freedom every step of the way. The cost had been his life, and it could easily have been hers. She should have seen it before they got married. She should have figured out some way for him to move on and get help.
Jesus.
She was never going to get over the guilt of his death, and that was probably the suckiest thing about surviving an abusive relationship. Somewhere deep inside you always took a portion of the blame, even when it wasn’t your fault.
She didn’t want to think about it. “What happened to your mom’s acting dreams?” she asked gently. She knew the story had a sad ending.
His fingers tightened on the wheel, and she noticed they were pulling to a stop outside the mission. He switched off the engine and lights, and they sat in silence. “She left us without a word in May 1987. I was seven. My sisters were four. In September we were notified by a detective in Hollywood that she’d been found dead in an alley. She’d been turning tricks for money.”
“I’m sorry.”
His face was in the shadows. His voice hard. “She chose that life over having a home and family. The fact she ended up dead was almost irrelevant.”
Shock hit her. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do. My dad was a good man. He treated her well, bought her nice things, and respected her. If she’d asked for a divorce he would have given it to her, but he’d have tried to make it work first. Bottom line is she didn’t love us. She dumped us.” His eyes glittered in the darkness. “They’re always telling kids that there’re consequences to their actions and sometimes those consequences aren’t very nice. She left us, not because she was abducted or needed to work, but because she didn’t want us anymore. It’s a hard thing for a kid to accept and once I did, I wasn’t wasting any more emotion on her. Consequences.”
“Maybe she was suffocating on the inside,” Erin said carefully. What would he think of her walking out on her marriage and then using him to reclaim her body?
“She should have found some other way.” His voice cracked. He wasn’t as dispassionate as he wanted her to believe. But if his mother’s ghost haunted him the same way her husband’s did, then he was a long way from not caring.
Erin couldn’t imagine how she’d have felt if her mother had walked out when she was seven years old. Would she have walked away from Graham if they’d had a child?
In a heartbeat, she realized. But she’d have taken the child, too. “You loved her.”
“Of course I loved her. I also hated her.” That statement made her bite her lip. “And I’m damned if I know how to forgive her.”
The words put a vise on Erin’s heart and squeezed tight. She reached out and laid her hand on his warm wrist. “I’m sorry she left you. I’m sorry she died.”
“Get a grip, Erin,” she muttered, although not quietly enough. She caught Darsh hiding a grin.
Inside the shelter was a small reception desk leading into a cafeteria with a dozen round tables. No one was on the desk, so they headed through toward the dining area. Half the tables were occupied despite the lateness of the hour, or maybe because of it. People looked toward them and seemed to shift almost imperceptibly when they realized they were cops. Only one or two looked homeless, but she knew a lot of people slept in their cars, and on a night like this that would be as cozy as snuggling down in the deep freeze. She sniffed. The place smelled of boiled rice and some sort of fragrant curry.
“Can I help you?” The man who approached them was tall, but stooped, with sunken eyes and a wisp of gray hair on his head.
Erin couldn’t help the shudder that ran through her. If she was casting a film and needed someone to play a serial killer, she’d pick him. “Yeah. We’re looking for the person who runs the center.”
“That’s me. Randolph Cane.” He smiled, but for some reason the guy made her skin crawl.
“I’m Detective Donovan from FPPD.” She held up her badge so she didn’t have to shake hands. “This is Agent Singh with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Monday night.”
He blinked, slowly. “Well, come on through to the kitchen. I’m finishing off the dishes. We can talk there.”
Before she could ask for somewhere more private, he’d turned and was walking away. She looked at Darsh, and his expression was amused as he waved her ahead of him. Fine.
She marched into the kitchen where Mr. Cane was pulling on bright yellow rubber gloves. “Were you working on Monday night?”
He paused in the act of scrubbing a big stainless steel pot. Frowned. “No. I don’t work Sundays or Mondays.” He looked up and smiled at her. “Sunday is my day for the church, and Monday I catch up on my household chores and then usually go to the movies.”
Something about those sunken eyes freaked her out. She usually liked old people, but this guy made her want to back away with her hand on her weapon. She pushed the irrational feeling away and asked her questions. “Do you recognize this man?” She held up the photo of Peter Zimmerman.
“Of course. That’s Peter. He wasn’t in today. Is he okay?” Mr. Cane’s brow furrowed. Soapy water splashed on the drainer as he turned the huge pan upside down and placed it on the drying rack.
“He comes here regularly?” Erin persisted.
Cane nodded. “Yes. To eat and shower occasionally.”
Very occasionally, judging by the odor when they’d booked him.
“He ever sleep here?” asked Darsh.
Mr. Cane shook his head. “He could, we have twenty beds, and we are rarely full, which is a blessing, but he usually refuses unless it’s dangerously cold outside. Says he doesn’t want people stealing his patch.” Cane hunched up bony shoulders. “Like many people who’ve fallen on hard times, he isn’t very trusting as to other people’s motives for wanting to help him.”
“Know where he came from?” Erin asked.
Mr. Cane shook his head, and his eyes grew sad. “I don’t ask for more than people want to volunteer.”
“If you weren’t here on Monday, can you tell us who was working?” she asked impatiently. The guy was giving them nothing.
He moved his lips to form an “o” as he thought about her question. “It varies a little. I can check the schedule, but I think Roman was in charge of dinner duty that night. Roman Huxley.”
“Professor Huxley?”
“You know him? Wonderful man. He and his students help out regularly. We always need volunteers,” Mr. Cane said, not so subtly.
Erin and her family had often helped out in local shelters and food banks when she was growing up. It was part of the community spirit in Queens, and also a big part of the church they’d attended. She hadn’t done that here, and she rarely went to church anymore. She hadn’t tried to integrate into the community at all, which might explain why she felt like she didn’t fit in. All she’d wanted was to be left alone and, eventually, that’s what happened.
Erin checked her watch. It was too late to call the professor now. She’d check in with him tomorrow. Soothe the ego Darsh had ruffled at lunch.
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Cane.” Erin handed him her card. “If you think of anything else…”
“Peter’s not in any trouble is he? He’s a gentle, if tortured, soul. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Thanks again,” Erin said. “We’ll be in touch.”
“There’s a donation box on the wall on the way out. Feel free to contribute,” Cane called after them.
Erin dug out a twenty and stuffed it in the box. Darsh did the same.
They headed back to the car and as they climbed inside, Erin leaned her head back against the headrest.
“So we’ve still got nothing.”
“I’ve got some people digging into Zimmerman’s background,” Darsh told her. “We should know something by morning. Where’s the bridge from here?”
“Keep heading east.” Even though she was tired, she needed to figure out if Peter Zimmerman could actually be their killer. The idea of another person becoming a victim because she was too tired to do her job pushed the sleepiness away.
Darsh drove through the gathering snow, flicking the wipers on slow.
They stayed silent except for Erin’s directions. After a couple of minutes, she saw the single span suspension bridge. “Pull up over there.” She pointed in the direction of a turnout just up ahead on the right-hand side of the road. There were tracks in the snow but no vehicles.
He turned off the engine and they got out. The snow was growing steadily thicker now. Dark woods edged the highway.
Darsh walked around to the back of the SUV and pulled something out of his bag. He flicked a light on and off. Flashlight. She didn’t think they’d need it, the snow was so bright.
“How long would it take him to walk from the mission to here?” Darsh asked.
“It’s about a mile. Ten minutes, assuming he was sober.”
“Was he?”
She shook her head. “He said he had a date with a bottle of vodka, but it isn’t clear where he got it from or when he started drinking.” They needed to trace his movements. Fast. But no one had reported seeing him. Maybe Huxley could help.
“There’s a path over there.” Darsh led the way, keeping the flashlight off as they followed the footsteps of cops and crime scene techs who’d visited earlier.
It was deathly quiet in the forest, the only noise the creak of branches and the groan of ice on the river. The occasional whoosh of a car along the highway reminded her they weren’t that far from civilization, even though it felt like a million miles away.
She slipped down a small incline, and Darsh turned in time to catch her against his body. “Steady.”
The connection sent shockwaves through her. She backed away and struggled to find her footing.
The path curved away from the bridge, and she thought they must have gone the wrong way when Darsh suddenly stopped in front of her, and she came up beside him. The path forked, and when they looked left, the riverbank was cordoned off with yellow tape. He flicked on the flashlight, and they both ducked under the flimsy barrier. The crunch of snow beneath their feet marked their progress. A few moments later, they got to the bridge. The void beneath it looked black as hell and just as welcoming. The bank was slippery, and she almost went down again, but Darsh grabbed her under the arm and hauled her up the slope in front of him. “Careful.”
Her heart pounded, and she wished her body didn’t enjoy the touch of his hands quite so much. They stood under the bridge, and it was like entering a di
fferent world. Out of the wind, the air was dank, damp, stale, and the smell of urine so strong she grimaced. She looked around as Darsh shone the flashlight into every corner.
“Looks like the crime scene people removed everything they thought might be related to Peter Zimmerman’s camp.” Darsh’s expression was disbelieving. “I have a hard time knowing veterans live this way.”
“He was running from a DUI charge down in Texas.”
Darsh shook his head. “He might have been running, but it wasn’t from the DUI charge.”
Her eyes shot to his.
“Demons.”
“From his time as a Marine?”
“Who knows.” He looked up from his perusal of the dirt and snow and concrete. “We all have demons, Erin. Sometimes we chase them, sometimes they chase us.”
“What about you?” she asked.
He smiled. “I’m here aren’t I?”
She huffed out a laugh, wishing she wasn’t so interested in what made this guy tick.
“Did they find a handgun?” he asked.
“No. Just a pocket knife.” She was sure the crime scene techs would have alerted her if they’d found another weapon.
He frowned. “So where’d he hide it?”
“Why do you think he had one?”
“Because he was a former Marine, and he was vulnerable. He’d have a gun unless it was stolen or he pawned it for booze. Why’d the cops check him out anyway?”
“I have no idea. I guess they were searching the area for Cassie Bressinger’s missing sheet.”
“We still within the town limits?”
She nodded. “Bridge is the line.”
Darsh studied the ground and frowned. He walked all the way under the bridge and came out in the forest on the other side. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she followed him anyway. She hated to admit it, but being alone out here in the woods gave her the creeps.
They followed a natural path between the trees. During spring this part of the bank flooded, and it was littered with fallen logs. Darsh shook his head and then headed towards the frozen river. Erin grabbed his arm. “Careful,” she warned.
Cold Hearted (Cold Justice Book 6) Page 17