Snapped

by Laura Griffin

  “It’s my career, Sophie. That’s the big deal. I’m a homicide detective. You’re a witness. I can’t just have you shacked up at my house.”

  “Why are you being so uptight? All I’m asking for is a place to stay. For one night!” She felt her cheeks flush as his rejection sank in. “God, just … forget it. I’ll stay somewhere else.” She stalked out of the kitchen, and he grabbed her arm. “Let go of me!”

  “No.”

  “No?” She tried to shake off his grip, but it was like an iron cuff.

  “Not until you give me an honest answer.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You think I’m buying this little act?” he demanded. “‘Oh, hey, Jonah, didn’t expect you home so early’? You’re wearing a red lace bra, Sophie. And you didn’t expect me?”

  Fury bubbled up. “Screw you.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  She hauled back to hit him, but he caught her hand. She tried with the other one, and he caught that, too. He scowled down at her, both of her hands clamped in his huge mitts, and frustration burned in her throat.

  “Cut the bullshit, Sophie, and tell me what happened.”

  “Let go of me!” She jerked away from him, and this time he released her. She retreated to the corner between the stove and the sink, and tried to incinerate him with a look.

  He just watched her.

  “I got mugged, okay? And I’m terrified of my apartment. And I’m terrified of everything. And so I came here. Are you happy now?” Her shrill words hung in the air, and she felt like a child.

  Jonah stepped closer, his brow furrowed. “When did this happen?”

  She looked down at her feet and tried to compose herself. “Yesterday.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  He reached a hand to her face, but she backed away. She didn’t want to be touched, and he seemed to get the message.

  She took a deep breath. “I was doing laundry. I went down the street to get detergent—”

  “At night?”

  Her gaze snapped up. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

  He tucked his hands in his pockets. “I want to hear it. All of it. Don’t leave anything out.”

  And so she told him, glossing over the part where she was still talking on her cell phone when she walked out of the store. But he caught it, anyway—she could tell from the way his jaw tightened. When she reached the end, he was watching her, his face hard and unhappy.

  He stayed like that for a long moment, and then he stepped forward. “Can I touch you now?”

  She shrugged.

  Gently, he took her face in his hands and seemed to be examining her for bruises. She stared at his chest as he checked her head. Her pulse picked up. She wanted to lean into him and wrap her arms around his waist and feel safe.

  His thumb grazed over the goose egg just behind her hairline.

  “Ouch.” She pulled away.

  “You could have a concussion. You should have let Allison take you to the ER.”

  “I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “But it freaked me out. Combined with everything else, I just—” She turned away. She looked at his clean, spare kitchen. At the fridge he kept stocked with beer and salsa. At the back door where he left his muddy work boots. Then she faced him again and looked at his hazel eyes, which were gazing down at her now with so much intensity, so much intelligence. “It seems connected somehow. Don’t ask me why I think that, but I do. I can’t explain it—it’s just a hunch. And I feel safer here than I do anywhere else. Even when you’re not here, I feel safer. Last night I got a better night’s sleep than I have in months.”

  “Why the ambush, Sophie? You should have just called me.”

  “And you would have said, ‘Sure thing, babe, come on over’?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I figured there might be some rules,” she said, “or, I don’t know, at least guidelines about us having a personal relationship because I’m involved in your case.” She paused, trying to read his face. “I’m not reading this wrong, am I? I’m guessing there was some kind of break while you were in Georgia because you’ve been gone two full days. And you just said I’m a witness, so—”

  “I can’t discuss the investigation.”

  Which answered her question.

  “Anyway, I figure your letting me stay here is kind of a favor,” she continued, “and I’ve always had better luck asking for favors in person than over the phone.”

  He just looked at her. She noticed the bra strap peeking out and tugged at the neck of her T-shirt.

  He didn’t miss that, either. And then she felt ashamed of herself for assuming he was like every other man she’d ever known, for assuming if he helped her, he’d want something in return.

  But then again, maybe he did. There was no mistaking the heat in his eyes, underneath all that genuine concern. She’d seen it before, and she knew exactly what it meant.

  She crossed her arms and gazed up at him defiantly. “So that’s it. That’s why I’m here. Are you going to let me stay or not?”

  Jonah looked at Sophie standing just inches away from him in his kitchen and knew that he was well and truly fucked. There was no way he could turn her out after what she’d told him. It simply wasn’t happening. He didn’t like her getting mugged, period, and he sure as hell didn’t like it occurring at the same time as all this other stuff. Jonah didn’t know what exactly was going on, but until he figured it out, he wanted her here with him, even though there was no way he could let himself touch her—especially not after calling bullshit on her little seduction scheme.

  Did she think he was like that? did she really think he’d expect sex just for giving her a place to stay for a few nights?

  Evidently, she did. And while part of him knew he had way more self-discipline, way more decency than that, a whole other part of him was at this very moment picturing her on her back on his kitchen table, wearing nothing but that damn red bra.

  Maybe he was the head case.

  “You can stay here tonight,” he said. “Then we’ll figure something out.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled, clearly relieved. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

  That blatant falsehood was still hovering over them as Jonah’s phone buzzed. He took it out and checked the number.

  “This is work,” he told her. “I probably have to go in.”

  “No biggie. I’ll lock up after you.”

  The phone buzzed again.

  “Macon.” He listened for a few moments, while Sophie stood there, pretending not to eavesdrop. She’d painted her toenails, he noticed—cherry red.

  “All right. I’m on my way.” He hung up and looked at her. “does anyone know you’re here?”

  “Beside you? Not a soul.”

  “Will you be okay here alone? I might be late, depending.”

  She nodded at the gun on the counter beside the cookie jar. “I’ve got LadySmith here to keep me company.”

  “Yeah, I saw that.” He looked at the revolver, which usually resided in her purse. She didn’t have a permit for it, but far be it from him to try to enforce the law with this girl. Anyway, lately he was glad she had it.

  He scooped his keys off the bar and grabbed his leather jacket off the chair. “Lock up behind me,” he said sternly. “And do me a favor when I get home and try not to shoot me.”

  Sean noticed the tail the second he pulled out of the police station parking lot. It was interesting for two reasons: One, it was so easy to spot, and two, the person behind the wheel of the blue Ford Focus was a woman.

  Sean kept an eye on his rearview mirror as he culled through the list of women he’d met recently for anyone slightly stalkerish. He came up empty. Whoever she was, he didn’t particularly want to lead her home, though, so he reshuffled his plans for the night and pulled into the parking lot of El Patio.

  Ten minutes later he was seated on a stool nursing a Budweiser when he spotted her
in another mirror—this one behind the bar. She stepped through the door and glanced around apprehensively. Short dark hair, average height. She wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and sneakers. She definitely wasn’t an ex. She wasn’t even his type, but that didn’t keep him from watching as she made her way across the room and tentatively approached the empty stool to his right.

  He shifted his gaze to the baseball game and waited to see if she’d have a clever opening line.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  He turned to look at her. Pale skin, full lips, and a very nice rack that for some reason she’d decided not to show off. She looked at him expectantly.

  “It’s all yours. Do I know you from someplace?”

  This seemed to catch her off guard, and she froze for a second before sliding onto the stool.

  “Um, I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Could have sworn I saw you in my rearview mirror a few minutes back.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and the bartender picked that moment to wander over and ask for her drink order. She glanced at Sean’s bottle and ordered the same. He took a sip and waited.

  “Sorry about that. I thought about calling you at work, but …” She let that puzzling admission trail off as she glanced around the bar. “Is it okay to talk here? I mean, you know, about something important?”

  Sean turned to face her now, getting impatient with the games. “Who are you, exactly?”

  “Marianne Parker.” She held out her hand, and Sean waited a beat before shaking it. It felt cool and small, and his grip enveloped hers. She pulled away and tucked the hand in her lap just as her beer arrived.

  “Sean Byrne,” he said. “But I guess you already know that.”

  She didn’t answer, and he watched her sip her beer.

  “You from around here, Marianne?”

  “Not really.”

  “And you’re in town because …?”

  She shifted on her stool and seemed to decide something. She looked straight at him for the first time. “You’re one of the homicide detectives working the Himmel case.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I saw your picture in the paper,” she explained. “You were there at the crime scene?”

  She was talking about a photo of him and a CSI crouched beside a pool of blood where the pregnant woman had gone down. He hadn’t given the reporter his name that day, but the guy was local and he’d known it, anyway.

  “What is it you wanted to tell me?” Sean watched her with interest. Obviously, she was nervous about something, and she sat there, turning her bottle on the bar as she decided how to answer his question.

  “My sister is Gretchen Parker.” She waited a beat. “Jim Himmel’s ex-wife.”

  “Okay.” He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. Maybe it was mean, but he was enjoying watching her squirm. Payback for pulling this cloak-and-dagger crap when what she should have done was walk into the station and simply ask for a detective.

  She cleared her throat. “I have some information—from my sister—that I think is important to the investigation.”

  “Why isn’t your sister here, then?”

  Last he’d heard, Gretchen Himmel was missing. She’d disappeared after the last round of interviews with Columbus PD.

  “My sister has two young daughters.” She fidgeted with her bottle. “She thought it would be better if she and the twins lay low for a while.”

  “All right.” Sean watched her skeptically. Something about her story didn’t ring true, but he wasn’t sure what it was yet. “Tell me about your sister’s information.”

  She cleared her throat. “Gretchen came into a large amount of money recently.”

  “How large?”

  “A lot. It was given to her children. Put in two separate bank accounts under their names.”

  Sean watched her pick at the label on her bottle. He didn’t like her evasiveness, and he really didn’t like where this conversation was heading.

  “Where’d the money come from?”

  “Jim.” She glanced up. “I’m almost sure of it.”

  “Last we checked, Jim was broke.”

  “He was.” She paused. Bit her lip. “But I think he might have taken a job recently. As a hired assassin.”

  The alley behind Mario’s Bar smelled like piss and vomit, and it didn’t take Jonah long to identify the source.

  “That the kid?” he asked the patrol officer who’d been called to the scene by the bar owner.

  “Yep. Said he just stopped off to take a leak when he saw the leg sticking out.”

  Jonah glanced back at the green-faced kid sitting on the curb near the patrol unit, then sidestepped a puddle of fresh puke and made his way down the alley. Behind a pile of cardboard beer boxes, he saw a sneaker peeking out of a doorway.

  He looked at the kid again. “He underage?”

  “Nineteen. Fake ID. Probably accounts for at least some of why he’s scared shitless right now.”

  Jonah glanced up and down the narrow passageway, which had already been roped off with yellow tape. The side of the alley belonging to the bar was red brick that had been tagged with layers of graffiti. The other side belonged to a music store that had been out of business for months.

  “Barkeep know the victim?”

  “Says he wasn’t in tonight,” the patrol officer reported. “Least he doesn’t recognize him.”

  Jonah stepped closer to the victim, who was facedown on the pavement. He wore a cheap leather jacket and jeans, and his pockets had been turned inside out, indicating a possible robbery. No wallet in sight, no bulge in the back pocket. He’d been shot in the back, near the right kidney, and the pool of blood beneath the body had already coagulated.

  Jonah looked at the jacket again. Only one reason to wear one in this heat. Whatever he’d been packing tonight was probably gone now, along with his wallet.

  “What time did the kid call it in?” Jonah asked.

  “Ten fifty-two. Called 911 first, then went inside and told the bartender.”

  Jonah checked his watch. It was 11:25. He kneeled beside the body and pulled a mini-Maglite from his back pocket so he could look at the face. Young Hispanic male. Gang tats. The kid looked familiar for some reason, but it was hard to tell for sure because of all the flies buzzing around the eyes, mouth, and nose. Maybe he’d been through the system before. Jonah aimed his flashlight at the second bullet wound—this one on the side of the neck. An army of ants, marching single file, had already gone to work.

  Two or more gunshot wounds, at least one that was up close and personal, judging by the stippling. He probably knew his attacker if he let him get this close without pulling his gun.

  Jonah glanced up at patrol officer. “No one heard the shots?”

  “If they did, we haven’t found ’em yet.”

  “We need to interview everyone in the bar, also the gas station on the corner. Everything else around here looks closed.”

  The cop sighed. He’d been about to come off a shift when the call came in, and he obviously wasn’t looking forward to spending the better part of his night interviewing a bunch of barflies.

  “Where’s the manager?” Jonah looked at the ever-increasing crowd of spectators on the bright end of the alley, where it opened out to the street.

  “Inside. None too happy about having a DOA behind his bar, believe me.”

  “Yeah, this guy doesn’t look too happy about it, either.”

  “Hey, I’m just sayin’.”

  Jonah gazed down the alley. It led to a parking lot, but he doubted they’d find the victim’s vehicle there, which would speed up an ID. That would be too easy, and nothing about tonight had been easy.

  He rubbed his eyes tiredly. His argument with Sophie had woken him up some, but now he felt the weight of the past few days bearing down on him again.

  “Shit, I recognize this guy.”

  Jonah glanced over. The patrol officer was crouched beside the body now, frowning.


  “Who?”

  “Roberto Consuelo. Saw his mug just today at roll call. We been looking to bring him in for questioning. Store clerk picked him out of a photo lineup.”

  Jonah got a bad feeling in his stomach. “What photo lineup?”

  “Mugging yesterday night, other side of town. He pulled a knife on some girl, took off with her purse.”

  Sophie opened her eyes and saw Jonah staring down at her.

  “Morning,” he said brusquely.

  She sat up and glanced around the living room. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, making a pattern on the blanket she’d dragged from his closet. She stretched her arms over her head and looked at him. “Your hair’s wet.”

  “Comes from showering.” He rested a cup of coffee on the end table. “You could have had the bed, you know. I would have taken the couch.”

  He sounded peevish—as though maybe she’d offended his Southern manners—but she ignored him and reached for the coffee. It smelled like the super-robust blend she’d made yesterday. Jonah took his coffee seriously. Not a vegetable in the house, but he kept about a year’s supply of java in the freezer.

  “So.” She brushed her hair out of her face. “Homicide case last night, I take it?”

  “Yep.”

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You were too busy snoring.”

  “I do not snore.”

  “How would you know?”

  She sipped some more coffee as she noted his cleanshaven face, the sidearm and badge snug against his hip. He looked so cop, and her heart gave a little squeeze.

  “How much sleep did you get?” she asked.

  “Enough. You going to be around later? I might drop by.” He went into the kitchen and snagged his keys off the counter.

  “You mean at work?”

  “Yeah. I may need to talk to you.”

  She kicked the quilt away and swung her legs off the sofa. “Talk to me now. What’s up?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ll let you know. Stay alert today.”

  And with that, he walked out the door. She heard the key in the lock and then the grumble of his truck backing down the drive.

  Sophie took her coffee into the house’s only bathroom, which was still steamy from his shower. She turned on the water and tried to ignore the shaving cream scent lingering in the air. She conjured up a vision of him bare-chested, leaning over the sink shaving, and tried to ignore that, too.