by Karen Rose
Because he cared. Which made his brain stupid.
“Well,” she started when he said nothing. “We could say you’re my cousin, but I’d get called on that, because I’d forget to not look at you like you’re not my cousin.”
He scrunched his brow as he considered the construction of that sentence. “Meaning you’d look at me as something other than your cousin.”
“Yes,” she said, sounding relieved.
He smiled at that and relaxed. And when he did, she did.
“I could say you’re an old friend, but . . . same issue,” she added.
“So . . .” He kissed across her collarbone. “You’re left with bodyguard or boyfriend.”
“I don’t want to admit I have a bodyguard.” Her voice was amused as she continued the game. “The reporters will keep following me.”
“All right, then. Boyfriend it is.”
FOURTEEN
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1:35 P.M.
“Back again this month?” Daisy smiled up at the couple with the four-year-old boy. She’d been sitting at the table where she was processing adoption applications since ten A.M.—after Gideon had moved it so that her back was against an interior wall of the pet store. It left one less area he needed to protect.
“We keep looking for the right fit,” the man said and his wife rolled her eyes.
“He keeps looking for the dog that won’t shed on the rug,” she corrected tartly.
“That’s an important consideration,” Daisy said. “If shedding is a deal breaker, you need to make sure it’s a dog that is less likely to do so, otherwise you’ll end up getting mad at him for something he can’t help. You might check out the shih tzu–poodle mix. He’s a real sweet dog. Already housebroken.”
The family went off to meet the dog in question and Gideon perched on the table’s edge. The clinic was nearly finished and so far, so good. No one had shown any animosity toward Daisy. There’d been some attention that Gideon had considered unwanted, but that was because one man couldn’t keep his eyes off her breasts and another kept wanting to engage her in conversation.
“Will those people adopt the shit-poo?” Gideon asked in a whisper.
Daisy laughed. “It’s shih-poo. Although your way is funnier.”
He scanned the people in the store, watching the crowd of both potential adopters and Saturday shoppers. “Where’s that guy?”
“Which guy?” she asked, although she was pretty sure she knew.
“The one who was trying to pick you up.” He lifted a hand when she started to protest. “He asked you out for coffee. Twice. He is trying to pick you up.”
She shrugged. “He’s an out-of-work drama teacher trying to get a job in radio, but whatever. Besides, he has a really nice dog. He can’t be that bad.”
Gideon snorted. “Do you really mean that?”
“What, that killers can’t love dogs? No, of course not. But I do think you’re overreacting. However—” It was her turn to raise her hand. “You are here to keep me safe. I will not meet with him alone, if at all, if that makes you feel better.”
“It does,” he said grumpily, scowling until she smiled at him again.
“I’m not stupid, Gideon. I promise. I’ll take your advice. At least for now.”
“That’s honestly more than I thought I’d get.” He leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’m going outside for a few minutes. I’ll be back.”
He’d been going outside periodically to check for anyone suspiciously loitering outside. So far, the coast had been clear. Daisy didn’t think her attacker would bother them here. There were too many people milling around. No deserted alleys to yank her into. But she appreciated Gideon’s vigilance, all the same.
“We love him,” a man said, and Daisy jerked her gaze away from Gideon’s retreating back—and backside, because it was very nice—to see that the young couple and their son had returned. The husband held the white curly shih-poo in his arms, the wife beaming as she tried to keep the little boy from grabbing at the dog.
“He’s perfect,” the wife added.
Daisy leaned over the table to smile at the little boy. “What’s his name?”
“Spike,” the boy announced with no irony whatsoever.
Daisy chuckled, because the dog looked no more like a Spike than her pup looked like a Brutus. “That is a very good name.” She handed a clipboard with paperwork to the mother and a list of necessities to the father. “A few things you’ll need. You can sit down to fill that out, if you like,” she said to the wife as the husband and the boy went off to shop.
“Thank you.” She sank into the chair and rubbed her back. “I’m glad we picked a little one. I’m not going to be able to see my toes soon, much less handle a big dog.”
Daisy smiled at her. “Congratulations!”
The wife smiled back. “I could say the same to you.” She looked over at where Gideon stood, just inside the doorway, arms casually crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall, scanning the crowd in a way that made it look like he was idly observing.
He was . . . wow.
“Um, Poppy?”
Daisy looked at the woman sitting next to her, who had pursed her lips to keep from laughing. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said that your boyfriend is very handsome. But I think you already know that.”
Daisy’s cheeks heated, but she couldn’t stop the smile that spread over her face. “He is, isn’t he?”
“He is. And he looks at you the way a man should.” She gave a decisive nod, finished filling out the paperwork, then went to the register to pay the adoption fee.
Another satisfied customer, Daisy hoped, waving as the family took their new pet home.
“Oh, good.”
Daisy spun in her chair to see that the man wanting to get a job in radio had slid onto the chair beside her. Gideon was not going to like this.
“Good what?” Daisy asked cautiously.
He smiled at her flirtatiously as his Airedale curled up at his feet without being told. “I wanted to talk to you without your pit bull hovering.”
And Gideon had been right. The guy was trying to pick her up. She pasted a kind smile on her face. “How can I help you, sir?”
His expression fell. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be offensive, but I clearly have been. He seems like a nice pit bull,” he added lightly, as if trying to mollify her. “I was just hoping I could ask you some questions about your job. To see how I can get into the business. I know this isn’t the time because you’re busy with the adoptions, but I was hoping you’d call me to set something up. We can meet anywhere you’d like, wherever you’re most comfortable.” He frowned suddenly, all lightness disappearing from his eyes. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m getting desperate. I’m about to lose my home. I’d have to give George away.” He looked at his dog, devastated. “If I have to move, I won’t be able to find a place that’ll take a dog as big as he is.”
Daisy’s heart squeezed in sympathy. “Why don’t I give you my e-mail address at the station?” She wrote it down on one of the flyers for the adoption event and handed it to him. “I’m happy to answer all your questions that way. I can even forward you a job application.” They were going to have a hole in the lineup due to Tad being fired for his diatribe the day before, so maybe, once the existing employees were moved around to fill the gaps, there would be a place for this guy. “I’ll put in a good word for you with the station manager. He’s over there by the cats. I’ll introduce you when the event is over and you can demonstrate your radio voice.”
His gaze softened. “That’s really nice of you.”
“I hate to think of you and George losing your home. George is such a nice boy, aren’t you?” She leaned down to scratch the dog’s ears and he gave her
hand a lick. “You are nice.”
“I can’t stay any longer, but I’ll be sure to e-mail you. I’d still love to meet you for coffee or tea sometime. George has taken a liking to you.”
“Send me an e-mail, and I’ll be sure to answer back right away. If you don’t want to wait, you can download a job app from the station’s Web site, but it’s not very user-friendly.” She dug into the big jar of Milk-Bones and pulled out a large one for George. “Is it okay if I give him a treat?”
He nodded, a faint smile on his lips, but worry in his eyes. Poor guy.
Daisy leaned over to give the dog treat to George, who took it gingerly from her fingers. “What a polite boy you are.” She looked up and smiled at the man. “You’ve trained him so well.”
“Thank you.” He rose and offered his hand. “I appreciate your time.”
She shook his hand firmly. “I only hope we can find you a job. I have a few friends who are teachers. I’ll ask them about openings in their schools’ drama departments, too.”
“That’s . . . nice of you.” He tugged on the dog’s leash. “Come along, George. We have to go.”
When he was gone, Gideon sat in the chair he’d vacated. “I don’t like him.”
She kissed his cheek, next to the clean line of his goatee. He’d showered and shaved at her place and his skin was soft and smooth. “I know. I didn’t offer to meet him. I just gave him my work e-mail address, which is available on the station’s Web site anyway. But I wasn’t going to be rude. That’s just not nice.”
“All right.” Gideon checked his watch. “It feels like things are winding down.”
“We can start cleaning up now.” She frowned. “Trish was supposed to have come today. She was talking about adopting a cat.”
“Maybe she got busy. Or she knows you’re peeved that she told that reporter about you yesterday.”
“I never talked to her. I don’t call or text her when she’s working. Her boss gets annoyed. And then we fell asleep.”
His lips curved into a wicked smile. “And then we woke up.”
She had to smile back. “That we did.” She took out her phone. “Let me call her now. I was hoping you could meet her.” She dialed and frowned when her call went straight to voice mail. “That’s not like her. I hope she’s not sick.” Then a more horrible thought struck her. “Oh God. I hope she’s not drinking. We were upset on Thursday night even before the attack. One of the men in our AA group died. He was special. One of our leaders. Trish had known him for years.”
“We can check on her when we’re done here, if you want to.”
She nodded, trying to put her panic aside. “Okay. Have you gotten back the sketch from your friend in Philly?”
“Not yet. So we’re not on a clock.”
“And the swim team kid in SoCal?” she asked. “The one with the almost-tattoo? Should we head down to San Diego first?”
“No, I think finding Eileen is more critical at this stage, both to your case and mine. I need to know if she’s all right and if she was also attacked by the man who hurt you or if she parted with her locket willingly. If we find her, I’m also hoping she knows where the community is now. I told my boss about the photos of the other Eden tattoos. She called the San Diego field office and they’re going to the university today to make sure he’s still there so that I can arrange to interview him. I haven’t heard back from them yet, either.”
“And the tattoo artist who did the dragon on your friend, Judah?” she asked, thinking of the other Eden tattoo she’d found.
“The tattoo shop is in San Francisco. I called them to set up an appointment with the artist, but they said he’d moved away. They claimed he left no forwarding address. I’ll track him down once I’ve found Eileen. Or at least once we’ve traced her locket’s chain of ownership if she sold it.”
“All right, then.” Things were at least progressing. “We can check on Trish, go to your house for that map, then head up to Redding. Sound good?”
He gripped her chin and kissed her mouth soundly. “Sounds perfect.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2:00 P.M.
He sat unmoving in his car for several minutes after buckling Mutt into his safety harness. Mutt, who’d taken to the Dawson woman like a kid to Santa, who’d eaten from her hand and licked her fingers. Like she was the best thing since sliced bread.
“Traitor,” he muttered to the dog, who sat there panting happily.
And yet . . . spot on, he had to admit. Mutt had been right. Daisy Dawson was nice.
Dammit.
“Why’d she have to be so nice?” he growled. There had been no trace of the tigress who’d fought him on Thursday night. No sign of a bitch.
Just a nice woman who helped dogs in her spare time.
And talked to supposed out-of-work high school drama teachers, trying to help them back on their feet.
He’d watched her for a long time, under the pretense of shopping for Mutt’s needs. She’d been genuine with each person who’d come to the table, going out of her way to make them feel welcome and at ease with choosing a pet. Several of them had called her Daisy, because she’d apparently volunteered there before.
She’d been so damn nice.
Frankly, he wasn’t sure what to do and he hated the feeling. Hated indecision. Hated insecurity. It made him weak. He hated being weak.
He’d hoped to draw her out, to get her talking about radio, and then he’d ask her about the experience she’d had on Thursday, about what she’d seen. About any leads the police had. He’d seen it on the news, he’d say. Just like half of Sacramento, because the videos of both of her interviews had gone viral. The radio station had chimed in, declaring their support for “Poppy Frederick” and their commitment to stop violence against women in the city.
So he’d had a lot of stuff he could have said to start the conversation. But not in the pet store. Not with her bodyguard hovering.
It was clear that the guy was a cop. It was like a blinking neon light over his head. He was the same guy who’d been with her the night before, when the reporter had caught her going into her house. Definitely a cop.
Bastard. He had that tall, dark, and mysterious thing going. And it totally worked for him. Women all over the store were purposely shopping the same aisle over and over just to get another look at him. Some of the men, too.
I just wanted him gone. Because he hovered over Daisy or Eleanor or Poppy—or whatever the hell her name was—like he owned her.
What he’d really wanted to know was how much she knew about the man who’d attacked her Thursday night. And about the dead hooker. Kaley Martell.
The woman in my fucking freezer.
Daisy had been so confident with that woman reporter yesterday. Confident enough that he was still rattled.
He glared at Mutt. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”
He couldn’t strap Daisy to the bed in his basement and kill her. Not now. Number one, he already had a woman there. But mostly because Daisy didn’t deserve it. It was a fine line, he knew, but he’d never killed anyone who hadn’t deserved it.
And now there’s no need. She hadn’t recognized him from Thursday. He now knew that for sure. If she had, he’d have been in cuffs before he could say a word.
“At least the nose worked,” he muttered, glancing up in the visor mirror at the prosthesis on his face. The only part of his face she might have recognized were his eyes and he hadn’t altered them. He wasn’t going to worry about Daisy Dawson right now.
His higher priority was to find out what was known about Kaley the hooker. He thought he’d been careful that night, but he had been distracted, edgy, the static in his head too loud. It was possible that someone had seen him talking to the hooker, guiding her to his car.
It’s possible that Daisy was talking a
bout someone entirely different during that interview.
That’s very possible. He needed to know.
Bringing up a browser window in his phone, he typed: hooker baker disappeared from South Sac. Then pressed ENTER.
And . . . Fuck. There she was. He let out a breath as Kaley Martell’s face stared up from his phone’s screen. She’d gone missing Thursday night from Stockton Boulevard, the article stated. Her parents were insisting she was not a runaway, that she had a four-year-old daughter with a terminal illness.
God. He stared at that sentence until the words seemed seared into his retinas. Four-year-old daughter with a terminal illness. Terminal illness.
Way to go, asshole. Leaving some sick kid motherless.
This was why he never looked back. This was why he didn’t get to know his victims. This, right here.
He drew a breath and forced himself to keep reading. Police were “exploring all leads.” And there was a number for anyone who’d witnessed anything to report it to SacPD.
There were comments attached to the article. All sympathetic for the motherless child and her mother, who’d been trying to earn money for her daughter’s medical expenses.
God. What have I done?
A few commenters said that Kaley had gotten what had been coming to her, that she knew the risks when she took to walking the streets, but they were in the minority. There was, instead, a swell of public insistence that the police find the monster who had done this vile action, no matter what.
I have to do something. But what? He couldn’t un-kill Kaley Martell.
And what leads were the cops following? I need to know.
He needed to plan. He needed a clear head. What he needed was some time with Zandra, a.k.a. Miss Rude, who was, fortunately, still in his basement, and who, even more fortunately, he could kill.
And if she’s a single mother, too?
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to look to find out.
He glanced over at Mutt as he started the engine. “Let’s go home, boy. I’ve got things to do.” He was about to pull out of his parking place when Daisy Dawson walked out of the store with the cop.