The Baby Mission

by Marie Ferrarella

Damn if he could explain why the sight of her alone in the room they had commandeered for their task force made him feel as if he needed to fortify himself somehow.

  But it did.

  She watched him pick up the mug that had once been white and start pouring. “You know, you really should wash that out once in a while. Bacteria breeds in cleaner places than that. Your mug must seem like Disneyland to them.”

  “Adds to the taste of the coffee,” he muttered. Warrick took his coffee without compromise: black and hot.

  She picked up her own half-empty coffee mug, now cooled to the point that it practically looked solid, and stared into it, thinking. The fluorescent lights overhead danced along the surface, adding to the trance.

  She blew out a long breath. They could skirt around this, pretend it wasn’t there and it would continue to gain depth and breadth, like some white elephant in the living room no one wanted to acknowledge. Or they could address this while it was still in its infancy, clear the air and move on.

  She’d always been one to grab the bull by the horns instead of leap over the fence, out of harm’s way.

  C.J. set her mug down with a small thud, catching his attention. “We’ve got to talk about it.”

  Warrick raised one eyebrow. “The case?” He broke off a piece of the doughnut and popped it into his mouth. A small shower of white powder rained down to the floor. “That’s why we’re here.”

  He was playing games. “You know what I mean. What happened last night.”

  Warrick looked at her pointedly. “Nothing happened last night. I was feeling a little protective, like a big brother I guess, and you turned your head at the wrong moment. We established that fact, remember?” He shrugged, washing the doughnut down with a sip of coffee. “If you’d turned it the other way, I would have gotten a mouthful of hair instead of a mouthful of lip.”

  She scowled. “If I turned it the ‘other’ way, it would have probably been part of an exorcism because that would have meant my head was turned at a 180-degree angle.”

  He knew better than that, she thought, exasperated. Why was he pretending that they hadn’t really kissed, not like partners, certainly not like a brother and sister, but like a man and a woman who wanted each other? They both knew they had.

  He gave a short laugh and put a little distance between them, just for good measure. “There you go again, being contradictory. Arguing.” His eyes held hers, his voice lowering, underscoring his words, his feelings. He wanted this buried. “Well, I don’t feel like arguing, okay? Let’s just do what we’re being paid to do.”

  Warrick gestured at the main bulletin board, the one that displayed photographs of the victims, both before death had found them and after. Below each young woman was a list of statistics: name, age, height, weight, what the victim did for a living and where the body was found. So far none of that or any of the other endless pages of data they’d collected was giving them any clues that went anywhere.

  The next moment, before she could answer him, they were no longer alone. Whatever was to have been said had to be set aside for now.

  Culpepper poked his head into the room. “Was that the sound of raised voices I heard?” He walked into the room. “Back one day and you two are at it already, C.J.?” And then he looked at the conference table. His eyes lit up. “Ah, doughnuts.”

  He reached for one, but C.J. pulled the box away from him. He looked at her accusingly.

  “Uh-uh, if you’re going to insult me, you can’t have any. I brought them.”

  Culpepper folded his hands together, palms touching and held them up before her. “A thousand pardons, oh wisest of the wise. That was just my sugar-deprived brain, running off with my mouth. If you were arguing, it was only because Warrick was provoking you.”

  C.J. laughed and pushed the box toward the heavyset man again. “Better.”

  “No one was doing anything to anyone,” Warrick told the other agent firmly. He slanted a look at C.J. to get his point across. “Now feed your habit, Culpepper, and let’s get to work on this.”

  C.J. tossed her hair over her shoulder, ready to do battle. “Fine with me. Let’s nail this son of a bitch once and for all before he finds another victim.”

  C.J. glanced at Warrick’s profile, then lowered her eyes to her keyboard as he turned in her direction. Her fingers flew over the keys, drawing up screens she had already looked at a hundred times if not more.

  She didn’t know which was driving her crazier: the fact that after a few days the murder investigation seemed to have ground to a halt again—this despite phone calls coming in all hours of the day and night from helpful and not-so-helpful citizens who gave information that only led to dead ends, if they led anywhere at all—or that there was this restless tension intermittently buzzing through her. A restless tension that seemed to rear its head every time she and Warrick were near one another.

  C.J. flipped to another screen, scrolling down. She knew this was stupid. Warrick was right, she argued with herself, absolutely right. Nothing had happened. After all, it wasn’t as if he had actually tried to kiss her. It was a brotherly peck gone awry, that’s all.

  She hit the keys harder. She saw Warrick giving her a curious look. Damn it all, no brother she knew had ever kissed his sister like that.

  Quietly C.J. took a deep breath. She had to get a grip on herself and let this die a natural death. After all, what was the big deal? Okay, so they had reacted to each other like a man and a woman. She hadn’t been kissed by a man in almost nine months and he reacted like—well, like a man. All men took advantage of a situation if given the opportunity, some just less than others.

  The kiss and her reaction had been an aberration, a freak of nature, like a thunderstorm in the wrong season, that’s all.

  Why was she letting it creep into each night and snare a toehold on each day?

  C.J. looked over to the main bulletin board. Her eyes swept over the faces of the women there, women whose likeness were imprinted on her heart. Rising, she crossed to it.

  She had no business even thinking about something so petty as a kiss at a time like this. Warrick was her partner, her backup, her friend, and she was his. That’s all.

  And that was enough.

  Warrick looked at her over his computer. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she was studying the board intently.

  “You’re being quiet again,” he observed. “It’s not like you. You make me nervous when you’re quiet.”

  “Why, because you’re afraid I’ll pounce?” Not waiting for an answer, she turned from the board. “Just trying to get into the killer’s head.”

  She looked over her shoulder, back at the board. Missing were the photographs of gruesome deaths, of savage beatings or stabbings. That wasn’t the Sleeping Beauty Killer’s style. Each victim was tenderly, perhaps even lovingly arranged. The latest victims even wore makeup that appeared to have been applied postmortem. They looked just like princesses waiting for their princes to come and wake them up. She chewed on her lips and looked at Warrick.

  “You think he’s a mousy man? You know, someone who yearns after the unattainable?”

  He had never been able to crawl into a murderer’s mind, maybe because he couldn’t begin to identify with the kind of person who would willingly, sometimes even joyously take another human being’s life. He marveled that C.J. could do it.

  “Profiling’s your department, not mine.” Warrick moved over to the bulletin board with the map of Orange County on it. Each small pin designated a site where the victim was found. He wondered if there were going to be more pins before they caught the killer. “I just think he’s one sick bastard.” He looked at the blown-up photograph of the latest victim’s nails. “Someone who obviously has a nail polish fetish.”

  Standing next to him, she studied the photograph herself. “Maybe not a fetish. Maybe he’s just trying to do something nice for them.”

  He caught a whiff of her perfume. Light, stirring. He wished she wouldn�
�t wear it. Abruptly he directed his thoughts back to the conversation. “Not strangling them would have been nice.”

  Half aware of what she was doing, C.J. waved her hand at him, asking for silence. She was piecing this together as she went. “I mean like the kind of thing a guy would do for his girlfriend.”

  Culpepper came over to join them. “No guy I know paints women’s fingernails.”

  C.J. frowned at the other man. “That’s because every guy you know has just learned how to walk upright without scraping their knuckles on the ground.”

  “Hey,” Rodriguez protested, walking into the room in time to catch the tail end of C.J.’s comment, “I take exception to that.”

  C.J. inclined her head toward the youngest member of their team. “Present company excepted, of course.” She became serious again. “But what I’m talking about is when a guy tries to pamper a woman.”

  She looked from one man’s face to the other and knew that as far as they were concerned, she was speaking a foreign language. She turned her focus on Rodriguez. After all, he was the one who was getting married and should be informed about this kind of thing. Her guess was that he was generally ignorant of the little niceties that women craved.

  “You know, draw her bath, wash her hair for her in the sink, do her nails.” Nothing. Rodriguez’s face was still blank, and Culpepper was laughing. She threw up her hands. “What am I, speaking in tongues here? Haven’t any of you guys ever heard of pampering a woman?”

  Culpepper stopped laughing. “That kind of thing really turns women on?”

  She patted his chest. “Try it tonight on Adele and see.”

  He snorted, waving away the suggestion. “If I try washing her hair, she’ll probably think I was trying to drown her.”

  “You’re not supposed to drag her by her hair to the sink,” C.J. pointed out, then shook her head as she looked at Warrick. “See what I mean? Neanderthal. I rest my case.”

  Warrick had the impression she was saying more to him than the actual words conveyed. But then he told himself to knock it off, he was starting to babble in his head.

  Wanting to kiss a woman did that to a man.

  He shut his mind down.

  Culpepper regarded her with blatant curiosity in his eyes. C.J. thought for a second that perhaps she had a convert. “How about you, Jones? Does that kind of thing turn you on?”

  She might have known better. This was getting a bit too personal. “Solving murders turns me on.”

  “Oh, tough lady,” Culpepper deadpanned.

  “Yes, and don’t you forget it,” she cracked, returning to her desk. She wondered if another canvass of the area where the last victim was found would yield anything. Maybe someone remembered something they hadn’t mentioned the first time around.

  She felt as if they were going in circles.

  “Hey, Jones,” Rodriguez called. “I almost forgot. It’s your turn to field the crank calls.”

  She groaned, rising again. The more time that passed since the murder, the higher the ratio of crank calls to actual informative ones. “What are they down to? A hundred a day?”

  Rodriguez sat down at his own desk. “Give or take.”

  She groaned louder as she walked into the adjacent room.

  Chapter 7

  “How about Hannah? Are you a Hannah?”

  C.J. looked down at her daughter, trying out yet another name on her. The christening had been postponed because Father Gannon had suddenly been called away on personal business. His aged mother in Ireland was ill and not expected to recover. She could, of course, go with another priest, but she had her heart set on Father Gannon. She could wait. And while she waited, she continued searching for that elusive middle name.

  Wide blue eyes looked back at her. Picking the baby up, C.J. patted the small, dry bottom.

  “No, huh? How about Annie? Annie do anything for you?” She held the baby away from her, peering at the almost perfect face, trying to envision her daughter responding to the name. “Nothing.” C.J. tucked her against her left hip. “Okay, Desiree, how about that one? No, you’re right, it’s all wrong. Napoleon’s mistress after Josephine, what are we trying to say here, right?” She sighed. “Let’s forget about this name game for now and get you some breakfast, Joy.”

  C.J. hummed softly to herself as she walked back into the kitchen, the baby nestled against her hip. Outside, the world was dressed in dreary shades of gray, a rainstorm threatening to become a reality at any moment. But it was Saturday and she wasn’t going into work today. She intended to make the most of it and spend the day bonding with her daughter.

  It amazed her how quickly this little person had become such an integral part of her life. She couldn’t begin to imagine life without her now.

  The baby seemed to be growing a little each day right in front of her eyes. Each stage filled C.J. with wonder, but made her feel nostalgic, as well, something she would never have thought she’d experience. Nostalgic for the precious, small person she’d held against her breast, even though it had only been two short months since she was born.

  Looking at her daughter, C.J. laughed softly to herself. “I don’t know, Baby, I’ve turned into a real marshmallow when it comes to you.” She opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of milk, then placed it on the counter. Maybe she’d just name her Babe and be done with it. Naw. “If I feel this way now, what am I going to do when you want to start dating? Hanging out to the wee hours of the morning with who knows what kind of characters. And all they’ll want is—”

  C.J. stopped abruptly. Something akin to a revelation came to her. What she was feeling had been felt by mothers since the beginning of time. What her own mother must have gone through with her. She’d been more than a handful, determined to stay out as late as her brothers had, eschewing curfews.

  Wow. Her poor mother. “Omigod, honey, I think I owe your grandmother a great big apology.”

  With the baby still tucked against her hip, C.J. picked up the telephone and dialed her parents’ phone number with the same hand. She’d discovered she had an aptitude for doing a great many things with just one hand if she needed to, the other being recruited for far more precious work. Necessity was truly the mother of invention.

  She heard her mother’s voice on the other end of the line. “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  There was a slight pause on the other end. “Chris, is that you?” Concern filled her mother’s voice. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” She hadn’t meant to scare her mother. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I just wanted to call you to say I’m sorry.”

  A note of confusion entered Diane’s voice, even as the concern lingered.

  “Why, what did you do? Chris, are you sure you’re all right?” Her voice began to escalate as countless scenarios occurred to her. “You’re not in any hostage situation are you? God, I wanted you to go into your father’s firm instead of this cloak-and-dagger business. Why wouldn’t you listen to me for just once in your life? You were always too independent—”

  C.J. found her opening as her mother took a breath. “Mom, slow down. I’m not in any hostage situation. I’m standing right here in my kitchen with the baby on my hip and—”

  “She’s not a rag doll, C.J.” her mother admonished. “Use both hands.”

  C.J. rolled her eyes. “Mom, can I just get this out, please?” She said the words in a rush before the next interruption could occur. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through while I was growing up.”

  “You’re forgiven.” Her mother’s concern took another direction. “You’re not ill or anything, are you, Chris? Should I come over?” Not waiting for a response, she obviously made up her mind. “Give me a minute, I’ll just turn off your father’s breakfast and—”

  “Mom,” C.J. raised her voice. “Mom, stop letting your imagination run away with you. I’m fine, the baby’s fine, I just suddenly had momlike feelings, and I realized what you must have gon
e through all these years with all of us. With me,” she added after a beat. “And I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for the grief I gave you.”

  “Well.” She heard her mother sighing a sigh she’d obviously kept in for years. “I’m glad I lived to see the day.” There was no pause whatsoever as she asked, “Now, does she have a middle name yet?”

  Time to retreat, C.J. thought. “I’ve got to go, Mom, there’s a call coming in on the other line. Talk to you later, bye.”

  She heard her mother sigh, murmur goodbye and then hang up.

  “Okay, young lady, we were about to get you some breakfast before I had that unprecedented qualm of conscience.” She cocked her head, looking at her daughter again. “Are you a Joy Michelle? No, that’s not right, either.”

  With a sigh she opened the microwave door and reached for the bottle. The phone rang. Now what?

  “This’ll just take a minute,” she promised her daughter. Picking up the receiver, she wedged it against her head and shoulder as she returned to the microwave. “Hello?”

  Warrick was on the other end. His voice was grim. “There’s been another murder, C.J.”

  She didn’t have to ask if this concerned their killer. Her stomach instantly tightened.

  Letting out a breath, she punched in one minute, three seconds and pushed the start button. “Where?”

  “In Santa Barbara.”

  She frowned. That didn’t sound right. “Santa Barbara? Is our boy spreading out?” God, she hoped not. C.J. shivered.

  “That’s what I’m going up there to find out.”

  Where was this coming from? “Not without me you’re not.”

  “This is just a courtesy call, C.J. I figured you’d want to know. Stay home and take care of your baby.”

  C.J. frowned. This was getting old. Ever since she’d returned to work, Warrick had been treating her differently. Not as an equal, but like someone who needed protecting. She didn’t know if it was because of the kiss that shimmered between them like a silent entity, or because of the baby, but either way, she didn’t like it and she wasn’t about to stand for it.