“I have a professional relationship with the man. Even if I was attracted to him—” she couldn’t quite bring herself to say she wasn’t attracted to him “—I can’t go around seducing people I work with, now can I? How would that reflect on the hospital? On my reputation? What if someone claims I slept with him to gain his support for the MHIT program? It could ruin what little legitimacy we have in the police’s eyes.” For just a second, she wondered if that was exactly what Stevens and Simon were hoping for. But no, while she might have believed that at one time, she knew Simon now. She’d witnessed him in action. He was a good cop. A good man. One she wanted desperately.
Karen gulped the rest of her mojito and waved at the barman for another. “You’re worrying too much. You’re allowed to sleep with this man if you want. The question is, do you?”
Of course she did. Her body responded to Simon’s simply by being in the same room with him. Just thinking about his mouth on hers was enough to bring back the needy ache between her legs.
“No,” she insisted. “The question is how are my patients doing? Fill me in on that, would you?”
She did, and Nina laughed at some of the shenanigans her patients had been up to. It reminded her that she really did love working with them. And that once again reminded her of her conversation with Simon. He’d shared his fears. His desire for safety, for breathing room, and his concerns that it made him a coward. She, however, hadn’t shared the details of her own life and fears. Hadn’t confessed that Beth’s death had broken something inside her. That it had literally sent her running, away from work she’d always loved, because she’d needed to feel safe. She’d wanted to work with patients who were already close to dying so that death wouldn’t be a surprise. So that no one could blame her. Her failure to share all that with him didn’t seem fair, especially because part of her knew why she’d held back.
They’d made such progress since the first day they’d met. She hadn’t wanted to give him any reason to dislike or disrespect her again.
Frustrated, she took a bigger swallow of her drink than she’d intended to, draining it. “I’m looking forward to getting back to them,” Nina said.
The bartender placed their third round of mojitos down on the table and then Karen said, “Sure. As soon as you have enough info, you can come back to the hospital.” She waved at the mojitos. “We’ll do this again when you’re done, and one more time when the MHIT training launches. Sound good?”
Nina grinned. “Sure. So long as you remember I’m not making any promises...”
“Like I said, you worry too much.”
Yeah, well, having your life threatened and your cat murdered tended to do that to a person. But the truth was, she’d been a worrier even before those things had happened. It was easy to worry when you spent so much time alone or concerned about others. Being with Simon made her worry less because he was always surprising her—with his depth, his vulnerability, his humor. Sometimes he infuriated her and baffled her, but most of the time he simply made her feel...alive. Imagine if she could feel that way every day.
And every night.
As soon as she had that thought, she pictured it. Bare skin pressed to bare skin. Lips and tongues and fingers moving. Brushing. Caressing.
Savoring.
“Whoa. Exactly what are you thinking of? Or should I say, who are you thinking of?”
She jolted at Karen’s words. Swallowed hard. “Sorry. I guess I’ve had one too many drinks.”
“Uh-huh,” Karen said knowingly.
As Karen paid the check, Nina struggled with what she was feeling. Once again, she tried to get a handle on her feelings for Simon.
At the park, she’d been scared off by the power of her feelings for him. But she hadn’t spent a whole lot of time thinking about what he wanted from her, besides the physical. Was there a chance he wanted more than that from her? That he might want the emotional intimacy that she did? That he’d want a real relationship with her, even after this week was over?
The fact he’d opened up to her earlier in the day was a point in her favor. Despite what he’d said before, he’d obviously grown to like her. He also wanted her. And wanted to protect her. She could almost convince herself that those things meant something significant.
But he still had major issues with what she did for a living. And that meant he had major issues with who she was at her core. He was also still grieving the loss of Lana Hudson. And every time he thought of what Nina did for a living, he’d inevitably think of Lana.
For that reason alone, things could never work out between them.
She couldn’t forget that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, Simon snapped his cell phone shut and searched for Nina. He’d picked her up at her house that morning and they’d already gone on a couple of calls before stopping to have lunch back at SIG headquarters. Afterward, a victim on one of his cases had called wanting an update.
Nina had been across the room a few moments earlier, laughing with Carrie, but now she was nowhere in sight. He was about to check the break room for her when DeMarco came around the corner, his nose buried in a file, and almost slammed into Simon.
At seeing his friend, Simon immediately switched gears. “Hey. I was just looking for Nina but I wanted to get back to you about—”
“I haven’t seen her,” DeMarco snapped. “Besides, what do I look like? Your personal assistant?”
Simon frowned at DeMarco’s tone. Frowned even deeper at seeing his ramrod-straight spine and the quiver in his tightly clenched jaw. DeMarco’s swarthy good looks were pinched with tension. He looked about ready to blow. “What’s wrong? Did something happen on your date last night?”
“My date—? Oh, right. No. My date was fine.”
Given the way DeMarco averted his gaze, Simon didn’t buy that for a second. “You got something on your chest? Let’s get that drink you were talking about. Or a cup of coffee right now.”
Indecision flashed across DeMarco’s face before he shook his head. “You’re looking for Nina, remember? Besides, I’m fine,” DeMarco said. “I’ll catch you later.” He strode out of the office, leaving Simon to wonder what the hell was going on.
Sure, the stress of the job got to everyone at some point, but was that what this was about? He’d never seen DeMarco quite so on edge. Maybe Nina was right. Maybe DeMarco needed to talk to someone. Not just a friend but a professional...
Just as he had the first time he’d had the thought, Simon backtracked. Unlike before, he wasn’t so sure it was the right thing to do.
What? Now that he had a shrink at his side day in and day out, was he really starting to buy into the whole touchy-feely therapy thing? He wasn’t an idiot. He knew mental health professionals could really help people. Medicine, in particular, could do wonders for those who needed it.
But for someone like him? For someone like DeMarco?
No. They were stronger than that.
DeMarco didn’t need Simon to be all up in his business. He’d make sure they had that drink, but as for the counseling thing? DeMarco was a grown man and could make his own decisions.
He’d just started to look for Nina again when she rounded the corner, a cup of coffee in each hand, and proceeded to hand him one. “Cream, no sugar, right?”
“Uh, right. Thanks.” He gulped down the coffee, ignoring the burn in his throat, and said, “You ready to head out again?”
“Sure. I’m ready whenever—”
His cell phone rang again. “Sorry,” he said. “Let me just get this.”
“Sure. I’ll go say goodbye to Carrie.”
As she walked away, he answered his phone. “This is Simon Granger.”
“Simon, it’s Stevens. I’m out of the building but I just got word there’s been another murder in Golden Gate Park. I need you and DeMarco to check it out. SFPD is there right now holding the scene for you in case it’s connected to Louis Cann.”
Adrenaline immediatel
y started pumping through Simon’s veins. Despite doing everything he was supposed to and then some, he’d hit a dead end in the Cann case. His gut clenched at the notion he might be getting another shot at solving that murder case but only at the expense of another victim. “Have they ID’d the victim?”
“Not yet. He didn’t have a wallet on him.”
“Was the victim stabbed?”
“Yes.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Not that we know of so far.”
“Any reason we should think this victim isn’t related to Cann?”
When Stevens responded in the affirmative and explained the details, the world around Simon seemed to still. A roar louder than the surf sounded in his ears. Horror and disbelief immediately crashed through him, and his gaze automatically sought out Nina.
She was walking toward him, a smile on her face, and he quickly averted his gaze so she wouldn’t see how freaked out how he was. He didn’t want to make her panic. Not until he had more facts. But he was acutely aware of his own feelings of panic. Of his immediate instinct to grab her and hustle her away someplace safe. Safer than SIG headquarters, even.
Coincidence.
It has to be coincidence, he thought.
“Simon, did you hear everything I just said?” Stevens asked on the other line, snapping Simon back to the situation at hand.
“I’m on it, sir.”
He hung up but immediately started dialing his phone again. “DeMarco?” he barked when the other man answered his cell. “There’s been another murder in Golden Gate Park.” Nina stepped up to stand beside him. He held up a finger to indicate he’d be another minute. He thought about walking away and hiding the truth from her, but then dismissed the idea.
She’d just been smiling, but now she was staring at him, a slight furrow between her brows, her expression one of concern. She’d obviously caught on that something was seriously wrong.
And she was right. Something was very wrong and unfortunately she was going to have to hear about it eventually. It was best she hear about it now, when he had his team close by, able to help him protect her. It was best she hear it from him.
Much like he’d done with Stevens, DeMarco peppered Simon with questions. Keeping his gaze level with Nina’s, he answered, “Yes. No. Yeah, same M.O. as Louis Cann. But this time, there was something else. The victim had initials carved into his back.”
Nina’s eyes flared and she sucked in a breath.
Simon placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to lend her his support. His strength. “The initials are BD,” he said quietly.
Nina turned ghostly white and swayed on her feet.
He tightened his grip on her shoulder. Coincidence, he thought again. It had to be.
BD.
The initials that had been carved into Nina’s cat.
The initials that matched those of Lester Davenport’s daughter, Beth.
* * *
SIMON HADN’T WANTED to leave Nina. All he’d wanted to do was hold her and do his best to wipe the fear and horror off her face, but, of course, there’d been no time for that. Knowing he had a job to do, he explained that Carrie would drive her home and stay with her until Simon got there.
She’d nodded. Said she’d understood. Tried to look brave.
And even as he’d gotten into his car and driven off, Simon had wanted to put his fist through the damn windshield.
He met DeMarco at Golden Gate Park. There, they met with the patrol officer holding the murder scene as several others kept the milling crowd at bay.
“A family of four was heading to their car after visiting the Natural History Museum,” the patrol officer, who introduced himself as Ken Richards, said. “They took a detour through the Aids Memorial Grove and found the victim lying behind a massive boulder. They haven’t touched him and neither has anyone else.”
“Show us,” Simon ordered.
Officer Richards led them onto a wooded trail and to a boulder that was approximately five feet tall and eight feet wide. Behind it, a man lay on his stomach. He was naked from the waist up, his back bloodied, the initials carved into his back jagged and grotesque.
BD.
He’d known they were there, but Simon still felt a jolt of shock. He could barely believe the same initials that had been carved into Nina’s dead cat had been carved into a dead man.
What did it mean? What possible reason would Davenport have for doing this? It didn’t make sense.
Unless...
His mind scrambled for any logical explanation.
Unless Davenport had been so determined to torture Nina that he’d studied up before coming to California. He could have easily seen the news coverage on Rebecca Hyatt and learned that Nina was working with the police. If he’d also read about Cann’s murder, he could have decided to commit a copycat, believing the addition of the initials on this victim might get back to Nina. It was a long shot, but still a possibility.
Assuming that’s what had happened, had Davenport singled out this man at random? Or was this man somehow connected to Davenport’s daughter? Or to Nina herself?
Before he could even begin to answer those questions, he needed to find out this man’s identity. Take photos of his face and show them to Nina. See if she could identify him or connect him to Lester Davenport or his daughter.
Since he couldn’t touch the body before the evidence techs processed the scene, he scanned the area immediately beside the man’s body for any clues in plain sight. The dirt around him was disturbed, indicating a struggle. The man’s face was turned in profile, but he had a beard and his hair was partially obscuring his face. Despite his naked torso, he still wore boots two sizes too large, and green-and-white-checkered golf pants—
A memory tickled at the corners of Simon’s mind and realization made him jerk. Black-and-white tiles, he thought. Fifty of them. “Aw, hell,” Simon muttered as he took a closer look at the guy’s face.
“What is it? You know something about the vic, Granger? Know who he is?” DeMarco prodded. He’d been unusually quiet. His face blank. Now his voice was stiff.
Simon blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and straightened. “Yeah. Or, to be precise, I know what he is.”
“And?” DeMarco prodded. “What is he?”
Simon faced DeMarco. “Homeless. And mentally ill. I saw him at the Welcome Home shelter the first day I went there to talk to Elaina Scott. He was a resident there. Same as Louis Cann.”
“Shit,” DeMarco said.
“Right. Shit,” Simon repeated. “Between that, the similar crime scene and means of death—stabbing—the murders are connected. Except for one thing. Why the deviation with the initials?”
“Who the hell knows? And who the hell knows what BD even stands for?”
Simon just grunted. He hadn’t told DeMarco or Stevens about the initials that had been carved into Nina’s cat or his suspicion that the initials stood for Beth Davenport. Until Stevens had called, he’d had no reason to tell them. He’d promised Nina he’d look into Lester Davenport’s involvement in those two things “unofficially,” and he’d been doing so. After Stevens’s call? He’d held back, not because he’d been hiding the ball, but because he’d wanted to know what all the facts were and put together some theories first. Now he needed to get Stevens up to speed. Then he needed to talk to Nina. Once Simon had a better handle on things, he’d tell DeMarco.
Thinking about dragging Nina even more into this disturbing nightmare made him wince. She’d already been through so much and he didn’t want to scar her with this additional ugliness. Unfortunately, he had no choice. Given the initials on this man, Simon needed to find out what Nina knew, if anything, that might help them.
Once again, he wondered how it was possible the initials on this man’s back could be connected to her. She was a doctor, a psychiatrist, but he’d never asked her about her patients. And he’d never talked to her about the Cann case. There hadn’t been a need to. Was
it possible that she worked with homeless patients? That she’d done pro bono work for the Welcome Home residents or at a nearby clinic, just like the family practitioner who’d introduced herself to Scott on the day Simon had been there?
A hundred questions continued to flash through Simon’s mind even as the evidence techs showed up and swept the scene. Within an hour, they were done.
“It’ll take a while before the techs get us the results of their sweep,” DeMarco said, looking beat. “What’s next?”
“Go home. We’ll wait for a hit on who this guy is. In the meantime, I’m gonna meet with Stevens. Give him an update. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”
DeMarco nodded. “Right. I’ll see you bright and early.” DeMarco left and Simon was about to do the same when Officer Richards called out, “Detective Granger. There’s a woman here who wants to talk to you.”
“Here?” he repeated. Lord, he hoped it wasn’t Nina. He looked around but didn’t see her or Carrie. “What’s her name? Where is she?”
“She said her name is Rita Taylor.”
Rita Taylor. The prostitute who’d originally claimed she’d seen a cop running from the scene of the Cann murder. The same woman who, when Simon reinterviewed her, had changed her story, saying she couldn’t be sure she’d seen what she thought she had. And she was here now? At the scene of another murder victim?
“Where is she?”
* * *
RITA TAYLOR SAT IN OFFICER Richards’s patrol vehicle while Simon stood next to the open door looking down at her. The exotic and curvy brunette was dressed much the same way she’d been when Simon had last seen her—in her working clothes: a skimpy tank top, miniskirt and thigh-high lace-up boots. Her makeup had been applied with a heavy hand, which simply emphasized how pale she really was beneath it. Not fair, as in light-skinned. But pale, as in upset. In shock. Scared.
“So you didn’t witness this murder?” he confirmed. “Didn’t see anyone fleeing the crime scene?”
“No. I told you...I was working a few blocks down. I heard the sirens. Heard what people were saying. That another homeless man had been killed, stabbed in Golden Gate Park. Just like that first one.”
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