by Karen Rose
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
The nurse glared at him as she backed toward the door. “I’m watching you.”
Daisy snorted another laugh when the woman was gone. “You’re a piece of work, Agent Reynolds.”
“But you like me,” he said smugly.
Her grin softened to the sweetest of smiles. “I do. Tell me what had you so angry.”
He swallowed hard. “What was the name of that out-of-work drama teacher who talked to you on Saturday? At the adoption clinic?”
She frowned. “Really, Gideon? You’re not still worried about—” She suddenly paled and set her coffee on the table, her hands trembling. “That was him?”
He nodded. “He left the store and got into the beige car. The shopping center’s surveillance camera got part of his plate. It matches the one you saw yesterday.”
She was nuzzling poor Brutus again, but the dog wasn’t complaining. “I don’t think he told me his name. His dog was George, that’s all I remember.” She was breathing fast and hard. “Gideon, he sat right next to me.”
“I know,” Gideon said grimly. “Cocky sonofabitch.”
She covered her hand with her mouth, rocking herself slightly. “Oh my God.”
He patted the bed. “C’mere.”
He didn’t have to ask her twice. She climbed on the bed, resting her head on his uninjured shoulder as she had in the wee hours of the morning, except this time she cuddled with Brutus as well. He kissed the top of her head, stroking her back as best he could reach with his other hand, mindful of the IV.
“He tried to hurt you,” she whispered. “He would have killed you.”
He blinked at that. “He wanted to get to you, honey.”
“I know. But he would have killed you to do it.”
For some reason that made him smile. “Lucky I had you to protect me.”
She lifted her head to glare at him. “I’m not joking.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Neither was I.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Well, all right then.” She resettled her head, placing Brutus on his chest and her own hand over his heart. She was quiet for so long he thought she’d gone to sleep. But then she whispered, “What are we going to do, Gideon?”
He sighed. “We’re going to track him down and put him away.”
“He had a dog. He seemed good to it. The dog didn’t seem afraid of him.”
“Maybe it’s a good lure. Gets his victims to let their guard down. A guy walking his dog can’t be bad, right?”
“Yes,” she said sadly, “you’re probably right. It’s just . . . when I think what he did to Trish and then I think about how he treated his dog . . .” She stiffened. “That night in the alley, he hesitated. He was going to shoot Brutus because she kept barking. But he hesitated. I used it to knee him and get away.”
“He didn’t dump the baby, either. He brought the kid with him. Changed cars at least twice along the way. Then left her at the hospital.”
“He has . . . standards? How do we reconcile a man who’s kind to dogs and babies with a monster who could do that to Trish? It’s so different. How can he be so different?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I only know he’s never getting his hands on you.”
She shuddered. “Or you.”
He kissed her head. “Or me.”
“You need to tell Agent Molina.”
“I know,” he said glumly. “She’s going to be pissed off.”
The clearing of a throat had Gideon glancing up at the door to see Rafe grinning at them. Daisy wriggled like she was going to slide off, but Gideon pressed his hand into her back, ignoring the sharp pull of the needle in his hand. “It’s just Rafe,” he murmured. “Stay. Please.”
She relaxed again, earning another kiss to the top of her head. He didn’t care if Rafe saw or not.
“Why is your boss pissed off at you?” Rafe asked, crossing the room in two strides. He took the chair Daisy had slept in and put his feet up. “What did you do now?”
Gideon told him about the man at the pet store and Rafe instantly straightened, lowering the recliner footrest and leaning forward in the chair. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” Gideon muttered. “Now I have to tell my boss.”
“He wasn’t supposed to be working on the case,” Daisy said. “He disobeyed a direct order.”
“Which I’d do again in a heartbeat,” Gideon inserted.
Daisy lifted her head, talking to Rafe even though her gaze remained locked to Gideon’s. “But now he’s worried about facing the consequences.”
“Yes,” Gideon had to admit. “I am.”
“Don’t tell her,” Rafe said. “I’ll tell Agent Schumacher when I meet her at the airport for our flight to Portland. She can tell your boss that she found it.”
“She’ll go for that?” Daisy asked.
“Why not?” Rafe said with a shrug. “I get the impression that she likes Gideon and that she’s ambitious enough to use the information for her own benefit.”
Daisy grew stiff in Gideon’s arms. “She likes him? Exactly how?”
Rafe laughed. “Withdraw your claws, DD. She’s married.”
“That doesn’t stop some people,” Daisy said darkly.
Gideon was working very hard to keep a stupid grin from his face. “It takes two to tango, Daisy. I’d have to want to be caught for her to have any chance of success. And I don’t. I’ve worked with her on a few cases. She’s good at her job and she does love her husband, so chill.” He met Rafe’s gaze straight on. “I heard about the nurse.”
That Daisy didn’t react at all made Gideon wonder exactly how long she had been awake when he and his boss had been talking.
Rafe sighed. “Yeah. Her body hasn’t turned up yet. We know now that he drove the truck he stole from the rest area near Macdoel to Chico and stole the minivan from a grocery store employee there. The woman had just gone on shift, so she didn’t even know the vehicle was gone.”
“He’s smart,” Gideon muttered. “He waited for her for just that reason.”
“I agree.”
“Talk to area vets,” Daisy said suddenly. “Veterinarians, I mean.” She sat up, shifting to sit cross-legged near Gideon’s knee. “He had a dog with him on Saturday. The dog had tags. I didn’t examine them, but I remember that they clinked when I petted him. Maybe someone will recognize the dog from whenever he got his shots.”
“And his owner,” Gideon said. “Nice.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
Something was nagging at the corner of his memory. Had been, he realized, since Daisy had mentioned the dog a few minutes before Rafe arrived. He frowned, thinking hard. Then tried to snap his finger, wincing when the IV needle reminded him of its continued presence. “The dog. Have Schumacher check out one of the victims. She was walking her dog in the park. Maybe he was, too.”
Daisy’s eyes widened. “Or maybe that’s her dog. He takes souvenirs, Gideon.”
“Shit.” That, Gideon thought, was cold. And very much in line with this killer. “Maybe he did.”
“Will do,” Rafe promised, then checked his watch. “Gotta go. Have to be at the airport soon. If you think of anything else while you’re not working, give me a shout. You guys stay safe today, y’hear?”
“Will do,” Daisy promised, scrambling off the bed to give Rafe a hard hug. “You too.”
When Rafe closed the door behind him, she returned to the chair next to the bed. “What now?”
He pointed to Brutus, who lay on his chest, quietly snoring. “Now I want you to take your dog and give me back my laptop.”
She complied, glancing at the door. “If I get into trouble from the nurse, I’m going to say you coerced me.”
“If she comes back in, I’ll be playing sol
itaire,” he promised. He clicked on his e-mail, nodding when he saw the one he’d been waiting for. “Dabney answered. My colleague in San Diego,” he added when she looked confused.
“Oh, yeah. Did he find the swimmer with the almost-Eden tattoo?”
He scanned the e-mail and let out a relieved breath. “He did.”
“What will you do?”
“Schedule a meet.” He started a reply, hunting and pecking at the keys with one finger.
Daisy lifted his laptop from his lap with a sigh. “Let me type it. You’ll take all day with one finger.”
The brush of her hand against his stomach as she took his computer made his body wake up. He inhaled, the scent of her shampoo nearly gone, but enough remained to remind him of the shower they’d taken Saturday night after the best sex he’d ever had.
“I can do a lot with one finger,” he whispered.
She froze, color flooding her face, and he knew she was remembering, too. “Oh,” she breathed. “Yes. Yes, you can.”
“When I get out of here,” he promised. “As soon as you take me home with you.”
She drew a deep breath. “You are a dangerous man, Gideon Reynolds.”
He grinned up at her. “That’s not a no.”
She laughed breathlessly. “Definitely not a no. But we’re not going to talk about that now, because it’s almost visiting hours and Irina promised she’d be back.” She glanced at his lap where the sheet was definitely tented. “So think unsexy thoughts.” She sat in the chair, his computer on her lap. “Like how you want me to answer your friend about meeting the swimmer.”
That did the trick. His erection abruptly gone, he settled back into the pillows and closed his eyes. “‘Dabney, thanks for the quick reply.’” He paused to give Daisy a chance to keep up. “‘I was shot yesterday and am still in the hospital, but should be out later today. I could fly down to meet you tomorrow or the next day. Let me know.’ Sign it: G. Reynolds.”
She read it back to him and he noted she’d eliminated “tomorrow,” amending the message to read “Wednesday or later in the week.” That was probably best. He nodded, sudden fatigue smacking him like a ton of bricks. “Send it, please,” he said, then let himself drift off.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 7:40 A.M.
“Good morning.”
He nodded to the woman walking a corgi, forcing his lips to curve. “Morning.”
It was a nice enough morning, although a bit chilly for his tastes. Seemed that folks in the neighborhood didn’t agree because he’d passed at least a dozen people walking their dogs. At least there was no danger of sweating through his facial prosthetics. And the chill gave him an excuse to wear a form-hiding bulky coat.
He approached Daisy’s house, slowing his step so that he could see if she was home. He stopped a house away, letting Mutt sniff around on the grass. Surreptitiously he studied the windows of her apartment. All dark.
She could still be asleep.
Or she might have gone elsewhere. Like the house in Granite Bay, where she’d gone Saturday after finding her friend’s body. He’d take a drive out there later.
He frowned. But he needed another car. At this point he wasn’t driving his own car anywhere. He didn’t want any activities traced back to him. The Chevy was a burned-out, bullet-riddled mess, probably in some evidence garage somewhere getting picked over by forensics experts.
He snapped to attention when the garage door opened, then sighed with disappointment when he saw it was the tall blonde who’d come home so late Friday night, drunkenly singing Queen at the top of her lungs.
He nudged Mutt a little closer to the driveway as the blonde dragged the trash cans down from the garage to the street. She was muttering something about lazy brothers and lazier landlords.
The home was owned by Raphael Sokolov, the same detective that was on the case, so this was probably his sister, Sasha. A simple Google search had yielded information about all of the Sokolovs. If this was Sasha, she was a social worker. She wore her hair up in a loose twist, her slacks were tailored, and her shoes were comfortable-looking flats. Comfortable enough to allow her to jog back to the garage with athletic grace.
She’d look nice on the bed in my guest room.
“Woof,” he muttered to Mutt, who took the hint and barked happily.
The woman turned toward the noise and he made a show of hushing Mutt. “Chill out, boy. She doesn’t have time to play.”
“Aw.” The woman stopped, dropping to one knee to pet Mutt’s head. Mutt lifted a paw to shake and she laughed, clearly charmed. “You’re a flirt, aren’t you? A cutie, for sure. What’s your name?”
“Rolfe,” he lied.
She looked up, eyes dancing. “Like on the Muppets?” She scratched Mutt behind his ears. “The piano-playing dog was Rolfe.”
Actually, the piano-playing dog was Rowlf. Rolfe was the Austrian boy who betrayed the Von Trapp family at the end of The Sound of Music. He’d always liked Rolfe.
But Sasha’s mistake was forgivable, so he smiled at her. “Exactly.”
She gave Mutt a final pat on the head. “Bye, sweet boy. I’d rather play with you all day, but I’ve got to go to work.”
No! he wanted to shout. He needed information, so he kept himself calm and casual. “Rolfe was hoping to see his little friend. Little powder-puff dog.”
She smiled. “Brutus. She’s not home right now. But maybe later today she’ll be out.” Waving good-bye, she jogged to her car, got in, and backed out of the garage. She hit a button on her car to lower the garage door, gave Mutt another wave, and drove away.
She was nice. So as good as she’d look tied to his bed, he’d leave her alone.
Daisy was another story altogether. “Okay, Mutt. Looks like you’ll get walked again later today.” Tugging on the leash, he headed home.
And when Daisy was home? What are you going to do with her? A fast kill would be the smartest thing. Hopefully, he’d wounded the Fed badly enough that he hadn’t survived. And if he did, he’d be in the hospital for a while. Leaving Daisy all alone.
He’d thought about this on his walk over. The best of all scenarios was to catch Daisy walking her dog. He could pretend to be surprised that they were neighbors and he’d remind her that he was the out-of-work teacher at the pet store. Her powder-puff dog could play with Mutt a little bit. Get her to let her guard down. It was preferable to bring her home, where he could keep her for a while—but not because she was nice. She’d be very sorry she’d shot him, for sure. If he had to, he’d just shoot her on the spot, but if there was any chance of bringing her home, he’d do it.
If he could just get her alone . . . I can handle the rest. Either way.
He spent the walk home planning all the things he’d do to her if he was able to bring her home. He’d definitely keep her for a while. Which meant he needed to be finished with Zandra Jones sooner versus later. He needed the space for Daisy.
He’d made it home and was in his kitchen, feeding Mutt, when his phone buzzed with a text. Immediately his good humor disappeared like mist in the sunlight.
Sydney. Fucking Sydney.
I called into the office to find out when you would be home from NYC. They said you’d called in sick. What’s wrong?
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He put the bowl of food on the floor, whistling for Mutt, then sat at the kitchen table. Texting with his nondominant hand was taxing but possible. He picked the excuse that was most likely to keep her far, far away.
I have the flu. Probably contagious. Fever and chills.
Poor thing. I can have chicken soup delivered.
He huffed a sarcastic laugh. “Because you’d never be caught dead being a caretaker,” he said aloud, but like always, no one heard. He clearly remembered the time he was ten and she’d made him clean up his own sick after vomiting
. He’d cried out for help, but he hadn’t been heard then, either.
He was certain that piranhas were more maternal than Sydney.
Then again, she was exactly what she’d purported herself to be—a trophy wife. Her job was to keep her figure trim, her makeup flawless, and the house party-ready.
Oh, and to fuck her rich husband.
And his young son.
His phone buzzed again. Sonny? Do I need to pay you a visit?
He hated when she called him Sonny. Hated when she threatened to “visit.” This was his space, goddammit. His. She was not welcome here. It was bad enough what they did in her bed. In the old man’s bed.
But not in my bed.
Breathe in, hold, breathe out. His pulse began to slow so that his head no longer felt like it was going to explode.
I was throwing up.
The text shut her up for a few minutes while he did more yoga breathing.
Sorry. A green sick-face emoji. Go rest. I’ll check on you later. Maybe I’ll stop by and take care of you.
His stomach did an actual slow roll and he suddenly did feel sick. “Taking care of him” had an entirely different meaning to Sydney than it did to the rest of the world. Rage bubbled up through him, mixing with the dread.
No. She was not coming here. She was not humiliating him in his own home. His hands shook with fury as he typed his reply.
Not a good idea. I don’t want to give this to you. It’s miserable. He sent it, but he was still damn angry. He pocketed his phone before he threw it across the room.
He pushed away from the table. If he was going to prepare space for Daisy, he’d better start now. Zandra was waiting. He’d break her today, then end her.
TWENTY-THREE
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 9:30 A.M.
“Thanks, Rosemary,” Daisy said into the phone as she paced around the waiting room down the hall from Gideon. “Trish didn’t have a church and she spent so much time at the community center.”
She was alone for the moment and wishing she had Brutus in her hands. But one of the nurses was walking her. For which she was very grateful, but . . . agitated. Beyond agitated. She was poised on the edge of a panic attack.