by Irene Hannon
For a moment, Mac thought Finn was going to object. Instead, he jingled the keys and circled the car. “Order me my usual drink. Your treat.”
As he slid into the SUV and pulled away from the curb, Mac led the way toward the restaurant. “Does Finn seem on edge to you?”
“He’s always been hyper.” Lance fell in beside him.
“No, he’s always been energized. This is different.”
Lance slipped his sunglasses back on. “Yeah . . . I hear you. I noticed it when we met up for the flight here. I tried to ask a few subtle questions, but he’s not talking.”
Lance, subtle?
An oxymoron if ever there was one.
“How subtle?”
“Hey . . . I know how to be discreet. So tell me about Chief Grant. Man, she is one hot number.”
So much for discretion.
The Don’t Walk light flashed, and Mac stopped on the edge of the curb. He needed to neutralize this topic or they’d pester him all evening.
“She’s a colleague. End of story.”
“Sorry. Not buying.”
The late spring sun bearing down on them wasn’t responsible for the bead of sweat that broke out on his forehead. “What do you mean, not buying? For your information, I just met her a week ago. At a crime scene, not socially.”
“Doesn’t matter. When electricity flies, it flies—and it was zipping at warp speed back there. As for that proprietary move you pulled after we joined you, edging in between her and us to protect your turf—very smooth. See, I get subtle.”
Had he done that?
Maybe.
“Come on, the light’s changed.” He strode ahead, leaving Lance to catch up.
Weaving through the rush hour crowd on the sidewalks, and maneuvering through the crush of people in the small foyer of the popular restaurant, made conversation impossible. Maybe by the time they were seated, the subject of Lisa Grant would be forgotten.
His luck held until Finn slipped in beside him.
“So let’s talk about the babe.”
He picked up his drink. “Let’s not.”
“Why not?” Finn winked at the waitress as she delivered his drink—but his momentary distraction didn’t last. “You have something to hide?”
Mac took a gulp of his iced tea. He was going to have to give them a few crumbs or they’d never let this alone.
“No, I have nothing to hide. In fact, I’ll share all the pertinent data.” He linked his fingers on the polished wood table and gave them a topline of their interactions, throwing in Lisa’s marital status for good measure. If he left that out, they’d be sure to get suspicious. Any single guy—let alone a detective—would find a way to confirm that piece of data with someone who looked like Lisa. “So now you know everything.” He picked up his drink again.
“Not quite.” Lance helped himself to a tortilla chip from the basket the waitress had left.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The lady’s gotten under your skin.” Lance grinned at him and crunched the chip.
Mac lifted the iced tea and took a long, slow swallow as he debated strategy. Deny or admit? The first would earn him snickers; the second, ribbing.
Better to take the ambiguous middle road.
He set the glass back on the table and picked up the menu. “Maybe. Time will tell, I guess. What looks good to you guys?”
“Besides the lady?” Finn grabbed a second handful of chips.
At least they’d moved from chick and babe to lady.
It was a start.
“I have to admit, she’s easy on the eyes.” He kept his tone light and casual, playing it cool.
“More than.” Lance skimmed the menu and set it aside. “I want the loaded burger. With extra fries.”
“Me too.” Finn finished off his chips and reached for more.
Mac set his menu down. “Doesn’t the military feed you guys anymore?”
“Not this kind of grub.”
“Keep this up, you’ll ruin your girlish figures.”
“Hey—we’re on vacation. As for girlish figures . . . you worry about yours”—Lance waggled his eyebrows—“and we’ll worry about ours.”
Oh, brother.
Make that brothers.
He loved these guys—he really did.
But it was going to be a long evening.
8
Lisa stared at the NamUs screen on her computer.
Could it possibly be this easy?
She homed in on the photo of a black-haired young woman with blunt-cut bangs, a round face, and wide-set brown eyes.
A woman she’d found after culling through the Missouri and Illinois NamUs reports, eliminating those that didn’t fit her time frame.
A woman who matched all her basic criteria.
Alena Komisky.
Lisa skimmed the missing person case information again. Age twenty-one. Caucasian. Five-four. No distinctive body features. She’d disappeared from Columbia, Missouri—but she was a Czech Republic national. Alena had last been seen twenty-four years ago in May, eating dinner alone in a Missouri U dorm cafeteria, wearing jeans, an MU sweatshirt—and a ring with red stones.
The ring was the clincher.
A spurt of adrenaline zipped through her.
While it was possible the red stone Barbara had found was coincidental, every investigative instinct she’d fine-tuned over almost a dozen years told her it wasn’t.
And a DNA sample from a relative would confirm that.
She was reaching for her phone to touch base with the local FBI office when Florence appeared at her door.
“Your detective is here.”
Lisa checked her watch. One-thirty—half an hour sooner than she’d expected, based on Mac’s lunchtime call.
And he couldn’t have arrived at a more opportune moment.
“His timing is perfect.”
“I’d say more than that is perfect, if you get my drift.” The older woman arched her eyebrows and fanned herself.
Lisa did a double take.
“What? You think I’m too old to notice a good-looking man?” The woman sniffed and patted her hair.
“No. Of course not. I just didn’t expect . . . I mean, you’ve never . . . I didn’t think you’d . . .” Stop. No sense digging herself in any deeper.
“Hmph. Maybe because I haven’t seen a specimen like this in quite some time. That is one handsome man. And in case you haven’t noticed, he isn’t wearing a ring.”
“Are you interested?” She tried to keep a straight face.
“Only in appreciating from afar. I had one good man, God rest his soul. I’ll leave this one for a woman who hasn’t yet experienced that blessing.” Florence sent her a pointed look.
Their office manager was now becoming a matchmaker?
Wonderful.
Maybe Florence and her mother should meet up.
A shudder rippled through her at that scary thought.
“Send him in, okay?” She swung back to her computer screen.
“With pleasure. But you might want to touch up your lipstick. I’ll stall him for thirty seconds.”
Lisa rolled her eyes—but groped for her shoulder bag as their office manager disappeared. She had an image to uphold as chief of police, after all. This was more about presenting a professional appearance than primping.
Right.
Not even Tally would buy that excuse.
She’d no sooner capped the lipstick, run a comb through her hair, and stashed the bag again than Mac appeared in her doorway. When Florence had said thirty seconds, she hadn’t been kidding.
“I’m a little early. Is this convenient?” He stopped on the threshold and turned on that killer smile.
Her heart stuttered.
“Perfect.” The word came out in a croak. She took a swig of water and tried again. “I have news.”
“And I’ve been through the reports.” He held up a file folder. “May I?” He entered and tapped the ch
air on the other side of her desk.
“Of course.” She should have offered that at once. What was wrong with her, anyway?
Her mother would offer the obvious answer . . . but she wasn’t going to consider it at the moment. She needed to focus on this case, not on the tall detective whose subtly patterned sport coat emphasized his broad shoulders.
As Mac took a seat, her canine friend rose and padded over to inspect the new arrival.
“Ah. This must be Tally.” Mac scratched the dog behind the ear. “Hey, boy. Nice to meet you.”
She opened her drawer and withdrew a dog biscuit. “If you want to make a friend for life, give him this.”
As she started to hand it over, he held up a small bag she hadn’t noticed before.
Some detective she was.
“I’m ahead of you.” He pulled out a box of gourmet dog biscuits. “I stopped and picked these up on my way here. I was hoping to make a better first impression on your friend than I did on you.”
The man had taken time out of his busy day to buy a treat for her dog?
Definitely a good guy.
Tally nosed closer, tongue hanging out.
“May I?” Mac held up the treats.
“I guess so—but those are much more posh than the ones I buy. You’re showing me up.”
“I can put them back in the bag.”
“Want to bet on that?” She motioned toward Tally. “Take a look at those eyes.”
He glanced down at the dog. “Hmm. I see what you mean. Amazing, the power of eyes, isn’t it?”
Though he kept his focus on Tally, she had a feeling he wasn’t talking about her dog anymore.
She busied herself arranging papers on her desk while he fed the eager dog two biscuits.
“Sorry, boy. That’s it for now. But I’ll leave these with your friend and she can dole out the rest as she sees fit.” He closed the box and set it on her desk.
After snuffling out a sigh, Tally curled up at Mac’s feet instead of returning to his rug.
Huh.
He’d never done that with anyone else.
Of course, none of her previous visitors had come bearing dog gifts—nor over-indexing on the charisma scale.
“Do you want to start, or shall I?” After giving Tally one more pat, Mac leaned back in his chair and lifted the file he’d brought.
“I’ll go first so you can factor in the new information.”
It didn’t take her long to bring him up to speed on her morning’s work—and her discovery. He listened in silence until she finished.
“I was just about to contact the local FBI office when you arrived.” She folded her hands on the desk. “I think they’re my best bet in terms of arranging for a DNA sample from a relative.”
“I agree. Their legal attaché in Prague could coordinate with the local police. County could process it for you—and by then you may have a DNA profile from Texas. My gut tells me you’re right, that we’ll get a match. The whole scurvy thing makes more sense now too. In a country like that, and depending on her background, it’s possible she might have grown up on a less-than-ideal diet.”
“That occurred to me too.”
“Let’s see . . . doing the math, she came here not long after the fall of communism in Czechoslovakia.”
“Right. I’m thinking it was some sort of student program, maybe opening up learning centers in the West to former Eastern-bloc countries. I’m going to follow up with the Columbia Police Department for details and the original report.”
“Was there a photo of Alena in NamUs?”
“Yes.” She swiveled back to her computer and pulled up the page, angling the laptop toward Mac.
Instead of leaning forward, however, he rose and circled her desk, stopping behind her to study the screen over her shoulder.
He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body—and his warm breath on her temple.
Had the air-conditioning suddenly shut down in here?
“Seeing the photo makes it feel a lot more real, doesn’t it?”
At his soft question, she refocused on the girl with the poignant Mona-Lisa smile, who’d died far away from the country of her birth and the people she loved. A girl who’d met an untimely end and lain in an unmarked grave for more than two decades. A girl who deserved justice—and internment in a place where she could rest in peace.
Perspective restored, Lisa eased closer to the screen . . . and away from Mac. “Yes, it does.”
Perhaps taking the hint, he moved back and returned to his chair. “I guess I didn’t need to review this.” He held up the file.
“Sorry about that. I only found this a few minutes before you arrived.”
“Not a problem. I’m glad the search ended up being easier than expected.”
A discreet knock sounded on the open door, and Florence stuck her head in. “I hate to interrupt, Chief, but the mayor just dropped by. He says he needs to speak with you. I told him you were in a meeting, but he promised this would take less than five minutes.”
Of all times for the man to show up.
“Tell him I’ll join him in the conference room.”
As the woman exited, Mac started to rise. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
“No!”
He halted and sent her a quizzical look.
Real smooth, Lisa. Could you sound any more desperate to buy yourself a few more minutes in his company?
“I mean . . . this won’t take long, and there were a couple of other things I wanted to ask you.” Or there would be, as soon as she thought up a few. “If you have another fifteen minutes, that is.”
He settled back into the chair. “I might even have twenty.” He flashed her a grin and patted the dog at his feet. “Don’t rush. Tally and I will keep each other company. Right, boy?”
Tally gave him a lopsided doggie grin and eyed the box of treats.
“Why do I have a feeling you’re going to succumb to his charms again?” She circled the desk toward the door.
“Because I’m a pushover for expressive eyes?”
Her step faltered.
Was the man flirting with her?
Hard to tell without looking directly at him—and she wasn’t about to take that risk. She needed to keep her wits about her for her tête-à-tête with the mayor.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. No more than one or two treats, okay?”
“I promise I’ll be good.”
I have no doubt of that.
She curbed the temptation to voice that flirty comeback. Talk about inappropriate and unprofessional.
Picking up her pace, she strode toward the door.
It was time to put some distance between herself and the handsome man who’d won over her dog . . . and was fast making inroads with his owner as well.
Once Lisa disappeared through the door, Mac leaned back in his chair and exhaled.
What in creation had possessed him to make all those suggestive comments? That wasn’t his style—at least not on the job. In a social setting . . . different story, assuming an attractive female caught his attention. But in those cases, his glib remarks were nothing more than idle flattery. The dialogue of the dating game.
With Lisa, though, flirting felt different. More serious, somehow. Perhaps because what he’d said had been true. Her eyes were expressive. They did have amazing power.
As for that move he’d pulled by circling around behind her . . . not smart. Invading people’s space wasn’t wise unless the invasion was welcome—and it was too soon to be sure of that with her. Yes, there was electricity, as his brothers hadn’t failed to notice. Yet he got the feeling she wasn’t a woman who made rash moves . . . or welcomed them. Her discreet attempt to put a little distance between them confirmed that.
He raked his fingers through his hair, loosened his tie a notch—and put the blame for his reckless behavior squarely where it belonged.
On his brothers.
After their teasing bant
er about Lisa at dinner pushed his libido into overdrive, he’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, far too aware of the lack of female companionship in his life.
No wonder he’d let impulsiveness override prudence.
Heaving a sigh, he leaned down and patted the dog again.
“What do you think, Tally? Did I come on too strong? Did I scare her off?”
His new buddy rose, sank back on his haunches, and scrutinized the dog biscuits again, his tongue hanging out.
“Not talking, huh?” He fished another treat out of the box. The biscuit disappeared from his fingers almost before he extracted it from the box.
“Whoa. Let’s not take the hand too. And don’t turn those baby browns on me again. That’s all you’re getting for now. I don’t want to do anything else to hurt my chances with your office mate.”
Giving in to a yawn, Mac closed the box and rose. Hopefully, his brothers had exhausted the subject of Lisa yesterday and would leave him in peace when they all went out for pizza later. He needed a decent night’s sleep. Twenty-four-hour stretches of high-intensity action as a SEAL had been fine, but after two years in the civilian world, he was getting used to six or seven hours of shut-eye a night.
Or maybe he was just getting old.
Pushing that possibility aside, he wandered over to the window overlooking the back parking lot and inspected the sky. Blue and cloudless. Perfect for a long run. Could he convince Lance and Finn to accompany him? If he wore them out, they might be less inclined to bring up the subject of Lisa again.
It was worth a try, anyway.
He dropped his gaze to the credenza. Stacks of files were lined up in military precision at one end, with the remnants of what must have been a working lunch closer to Lisa’s computer. A cup with a half inch of . . . milk? . . . in the bottom. A small disposable bowl with a few grains of rice and carrots clinging to the sides. Cellophane from a pack of saltines. An untouched apple.
No wonder her eyes had widened when he’d produced all that food from Panera last week. She must be one of those women who had to count every calorie in order to keep her figure.
If so, her regimen was batting a thousand—not that he’d give voice to that.