by R. T. Wolfe
Her long, folded fingers didn't move for miles. The short nails were trimmed carefully. He noticed calluses on the ends of the fingertips on her left hand and assumed they were from her guitar. Glancing over, he saw the slow rise and fall of her chest and realized she was sound asleep.
As he drove, he allowed himself glances at her face now. Small nose, soft cheekbones. The eyes that were slightly farther apart than they should be he knew opened to a natural, seductive slant. The bottom lip was slightly fuller than the top. He thought she might be considered pretty, in a cop sort of way. Resting his head on the back of his seat, he turned his mind to the task at hand.
* * *
The change in speed at the Liberty exit woke Nickie, although she didn't open her eyes. She needed the rest. She had spent a good chunk of her evening convincing Judge Suffolk to sign off on the warrant. He'd owed her one. She also spent a considerable amount of time digging deeper into Duncan.
Now, she needed a moment to gather her thoughts.
It appeared Duncan's artistic talent was beyond his years, dating back to grade school. She found an earlier attack on his aunt involving a sucker hit with a bat from behind. Duncan was the only witness there, too. Although she understood all too well what a traumatized childhood could do a person, she still had her ideas about him and needed some answers. She needed to get them that day, along with interrogating Brusco, who took up the other half of her night. Robert Brusco, alias Tom Johnson. Ex-fireman with the Northridge Fire Department.
Pulling her seat to an upright position, she looked out the side window. Duncan was turning out to be one of those silent types. Good. She was, too. Empty conversation was tiresome.
Brusco disappeared the day MollyAnne Melbourne pointed a twenty-two at Duncan's head and tried to blow up his aunt's home with the three of them in it.
The file said backdraft—a fire made to nearly burn itself out in a closed room or inside a wall, giving the arsonist time to get away or, in this case, go on a psychopathic rant about how her childhood nemesis was playing in the sheets with the man Melbourne had the hots for.
How does a kid get over something like that, she wondered? She read about the therapy that lasted through grade school, the trouble he got into after that. Mostly school fights that turned into bar fights and traffic offenses, but also some trouble with accessing secure computer data of some of the folks on Wall Street.
Stretching, she pulled out the two sticky notes and slapped them on Duncan's dash. One held the entry code to the apartment complex and the other to Brusco's apartment. "I guess I needed the sleep. The landlord changes the entrance code monthly. Smart. This is the new one for March. Here's how this is going to work."
She pulled her briefcase onto her lap, pulling out the warrant. "If he's home, we look around then persuade him to come in for questioning. If he's not, we just do the look around, then swing by his place of employment." She rolled down the window, letting the chilly air fill the compact area. "You're here to observe. You've been watching this Brusco for twenty-some odd years. Don't get me started on that. Watch for what he does that doesn't fit what you've learned about him."
The sticky notes whipped around in the wind. She reached and grabbed as they flew out the window and disappeared. "Shit, shit, shit," she said, running both hands through her hair.
Duncan spoke over the wind. "Do you need me to go back?"
There was a definite snicker in his tone.
"No." She took a deep, dramatic breath before rolling up the window. "Okay. Landlord is plan B. This sucks."
They found a spot down the street from the six-story apartment building and parked. She wished she had her unmarked. She could have used her lights and double parked. "A pair of locals will be here in an hour. Let's see what we can find out before they get here."
As they stood in the cold at the locked entrance door, she noticed how much taller Duncan seemed since she wore her lower-heeled boots that day. He oozed male sexuality in his black leather casual shoes and a gray button-down shirt under a waist-length black leather jacket. She wanted to roll her eyes. Did he ever wear regular clothes? His eyes looked black in the cloudy light.
She buzzed the landlord's apartment, knowing well he was out of town. Tapping her fingers on her thigh, she buzzed once more before cussing and pacing. Avoiding eye contact with Duncan, she waited him out.
It didn't take long before he punched in the code.
"It was hard not to notice with it sticking on my dash," he said.
The building seemed deserted. An occasional painting dotted the walls like a postage stamp on a large envelope. Even she could tell they were generic. The trim was painted white, short and scuffed, but the elevator was clean and that was a plus for a place like this.
Exiting, they turned the only way the exit took them, to the right. Approaching Brusco's front door, she found herself anxious. Not so much for what they would find. She already knew Brusco wasn't there. But the idea of discovering if her hunch about Duncan was correct left her fidgety.
She knocked. Waited. Knocked again, then turned to him. "Got any bright ideas, now?" Although she burned with curiosity, she kept her face expressionless. It felt like a game of chicken, and she was determined he was going to be the first to give.
He looked at her through half-closed lids. The chocolate brown showed in the lit hallway. His rugged features were accented in their proximity. Sharp lines, just enough dark stubble to look dangerous. Closing his eyes in an exaggerated blink, he took the bait, turned to the key pad on the door and punched in the sixteen-digit code. Sixteen damned digits. From less than a minute glance at a sticky note on a dash. She heard the click and watched him turn the knob.
"Wait." She took hold of his arm. Through his jacket, she could feel the flex of hard muscles react to her touch. "How'd you do that?"
"I have a good memory." He looked down at her hand on his arm, then pushed against the door.
She held strong and didn't budge. "No, you have a frigging photographic memory."
Chapter 6
Nickie analyzed Duncan as he shook his head and turned away. "I don't know what you're talking about. Now, can we get inside?"
"I suspected, but this is over the top. Holy frigging shit. You've always had it." She grabbed hold of his other arm and faced him. Looking up at him, her insides buzzed with electricity. As her gaze moved from one eye to the other, she found herself in a rare moment. One where she couldn't stop talking. "That's why your interviews sound like rehearsed speeches, even when you were eight. The description of Melbourne's gun from over twenty years ago, the wallpaper in the house she tried to blow—"
"Did blow up and the guy who set the damn fires lives right here. Unless I'm still a suspect, I'd like to get to the end of your imagination and get in there."
"The morning your aunt was hit from behind by the baseball bat. As the only witness, you'd been in shock and yet you were able to describe the four-wheeler Melbourne drove right down to the model."
She could see his chest start to rise and fall rapidly, but she couldn't stop herself. "You remember details. You saw the ashes in the planter, discriminated the larger dog prints under your uncle's deck just last week."
He took her hands and pulled them firmly from his arms.
She looked down at his hands as they held hers down, then back up to his face. "Why is this such a secret?"
He looked at her through those complicated, half-open lids. For what seemed like eternity, he didn't blink, just stared into her, through her. It was hypnotic. Deep, dark, dangerous. And yet, she felt no fear. She felt... pity.
"Because of what you're doing right now. Freak doesn't look good on a resume in my line of work." He jerked away from her and walked in on his own.
* * *
Duncan willed his hands not to shake, his breathing not to give away his reaction. Thirty years. Thirty fucking long years he'd kept his curse a secret. And this woman figured it out in two damned weeks? Who the hell was she?
He'd enjoyed creating a picture in his mind of the moment Brusco would walk through his door. Now, all he could focus on was what the hell he was going to do. The detective had stopped him before he made it halfway into the front room. She'd handed him some gloves and told him not to touch anything. Twice. Even with the gloves.
They spent over an hour combing rooms before the Liberty officers arrived. She was thorough; he had to admit, although he didn't want to admit anything to or about her at that moment. They leafed through each book from the bookcase, and removed each desk, dresser and kitchen drawer for anything stored in the back space. They worked for another three with the locals before calling it a wrap.
Not once did she mention their discussion. He wasn't sure what to think or to do about it, and it made him all the more aware of what he'd dug up on her. His aunt was the only person alive who knew about his... issue; not even his uncle or his brother had any idea. One day, out of the blue, Brie had asked him why he didn't just tell people. Just as the detective had done.
He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. What was she going to do with it? She had no proof, of course. The way she avoided eye contact with him was disconcerting. Disconcerting, yet frigging intriguing.
This woman with long, honey-wheat hair, black, worn-leather boots, snug slacks, and a badge. Her movements looked rehearsed. Write in her notebook, place item in evidence bag, write on the bag with a magic marker, write more in her notebook. Rinse and repeat.
The locals were actually careful and rather neat, Savage even more so. Not at all like the movies where dresser drawers are overturned and mattresses cut. Still, Brusco's tower and monitor were confiscated, along with some files and papers Duncan wasn't privy to know about... yet. He couldn't say the place had been ransacked, but it was definitely disheveled, and it gave him a sort of satisfaction.
He noticed she waited for the locals to take a trip out with boxes before she turned to face him. "So, what do you see?"
Yep, freak. Taking a deep breath, he looked at her. Contemplating. Deciding.
"Two photos are missing. One from the mantel of the artificial fireplace, one from the oval table near the entrance." Why did it feel so good to get this out? "A wine glass in the kitchen cabinet to the left of the sink with lipstick residue. Tobacco pieces from cigarettes that must have, at one time, been kept in Brusco's top, right desk drawer and this." He pulled out one of the evidence bags he'd taken for himself. In it were exactly four long, blond hairs he'd gathered from around the apartment. Melbourne's, he was sure of it.
Shaking her head as if she just uncovered missing treasure, she took the bag from him. "Does the memory help you when you hack into secured sites and databases?"
She said it in a matter-of-fact manner. No sarcasm. Still, he wasn't about to answer that one.
Instead, she shook her head. "Must." Resting a thigh on the corner of Brusco's desk, she cocked her head at him. "You never hacked into my past."
"Yes I did... do a search on your past. You know that. As you did on mine." Curious, he lifted a single brow to her, waiting for what she was getting at.
"No. No, you didn't. Not the missing year."
Well, shit. Now he wanted to, but he and Andy had rules. No stealing. No cheating. No hacking into someone's life without permission, or at least due reason. His sudden curious-as-hell status probably didn't count as due reason.
"No. I didn't," he said flatly.
She stepped to him, grabbed the collar of his shirt with both hands and lifted until their lips met. The bottom lip that was slightly too full brushed, then took. Her scent was so close, he could nearly taste it. Lavender. He was used to women occasionally throwing themselves at him, but this was profoundly different. She was different. This was more of a challenge than a kiss. Like a threat. After a much too short meshing of her soft, full lips, she pushed away.
"Oh no you don't." He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her back. Going from zero to sixty in seconds, he parted her lips with his tongue and dove in. She tasted as smart and sophisticated as her scent. He sensed her chaos and his confusion. What he didn't feel was what he was accustomed to: bony hips, pencil thin arms and breasts that were four sizes too big for a body. She was fit, toned, soft, and all woman, from the blonde hair to her worn leather boots. Their arms circled each other in a dance of reason. Heat built. Their knees tucked between each other's. He ran a hand up her arm.
As their mouths tangled, he slithered the hand into the locks of honey, lacing his fingers through the smooth waves. This shock to his system was something he never allowed.
She pulled away and this time locked her elbows, arms outstretched. She took two deep, sexy breaths and licked her lips. "Show me what you found, Duncan. Then, let's grab a bite to eat before we bag us an ex-fireman."
* * *
To keep from drawing attention, the locals held back in their black and white, allowing Duncan and the detective a head start with time to ask around at Northeast Security Systems for Rob Brusco, alias Tom Johnson.
Duncan thought as he drove. He and Andy were certain Brusco had helped Melbourne set the fires that killed, first their aunt's parents, then nearly him and Brie.
It was when they were in high school he'd come to Andy with the idea of searching for Brusco. After several painstaking months, they'd found the social security number of a small boy who had died of leukemia that was used on the W-2 for a forty-year-old New York resident shortly after the day of the explosion that nearly took their lives. Except Brusco kept that alias for twenty-two years, and he stayed put in this small city. No arsons anywhere near Liberty. Ever. No suspicious fires or explosions, and certainly no cleverly set backdrafts.
Nonetheless, Melbourne tried to kill him and his aunt. And she was no fire expert. There was no coincidence in Brusco's disappearance the day of that attack. As they pulled up to Brusco's place of employment, the black and white was nowhere to be seen. He pulled his Aston Martin into a nearby spot and set the alarm.
When he reached to remove the keys, Nickie set her hand on top of his. He lifted his brows and glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, then looked at her hand as it rested on his.
As if she'd been burned, she pulled away. "Before we go in." She lifted the hand and held it toward him, palm facing out. "We need to agree that I do the talking." She waited, looked at her outstretched hand, then retracted it. Sighing, she added, "The judge granted the warrant for the search, not an arrest. We're here to gather chips. We're not ready to cash in."
"You forgot to tell me not to touch anything."
"That's not funny."
He opened his car door and mumbled, "Yes, it is actually."
They walked into the mom-and-pop security systems shop. A long, glass counter that spread across the lobby was separated by an opening for employee's access to the back. One side of the counter contained digital equipment and packages for television and on-demand movies. The other, longer side, carried shelves of surveillance cameras of all sizes, detection equipment, monitors, and alarm systems.
A middle-aged, bleach-blonde woman with leathery skin and a pink zebra top barely spared Nickie a glance as she spoke first. "What can I do for you?"
He stood behind, interested at the way the detective turned into what he deemed as a Maryland Monticello, sweet as pie and lethal as a desperate housewife.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm looking for Tom." Nickie cocked her head, and from behind, he could see her cheeks grow in a wide smile.
Apparently, the detective was even less interesting as a woman who clearly wasn't here to buy anything. "He's not here."
Nickie dropped her focus to the equipment in the glass case. "I recognize this one." She gently placed her badge over the point of her focus. "We've got the same brand in the parking garage at the Northridge Police Department. Tom is a nice guy. We sure would like to keep this low key. Where's he off to?"
Blondie bit on the inside of her cheek and finally bothered to look up. But he
r eyes didn't go to the detective. She leaned around Nickie and looked straight at him. The wrinkles around her dark pink lipstick relaxed as she opened her mouth in a small 'O'. He took the moment and went with it.
"That's a TDD remote," he said, sauntering forward. "I use it personally. I had no idea such a comfortable, local shop could carry such state-of-the-art equipment. You must have connections. Impressive." He winked at the woman who still hadn't managed to shut her mouth. "As is the owner." He watched her blush. "If you could let the detective here have Tommy's schedule for this afternoon, we could let you get back to your work."
"Well, I suppose if you know our Tom, Mr....?"
"Reed, miss. Duncan Reed."
"I knew it. I thought you were him, and you really are him." She dug under the counter and with shaking hands pulled out a small newspaper. "Will you sign this?"
Without taking her eyes off him, she fumbled with a cheap, business pen and a copy of one of the more upstanding tabloids that had a picture of him and actress Coral Francesca on the front page coming out of her favorite Ruth's Chris steakhouse.
Blondie stared as he obliged, then she scribbled down the information they asked for on the back of a business card, along with an extra phone number. "Please call me at any time if there is anything else at all you can think of that I can possibly do for you, Mr. Reed." She held out the card and dipped her wrist. "I just love your work."
He kissed the back of her hand, then slipped the card from her fingers.
As he turned for the exit, he spotted the detective with one brow lifted to the sky.
* * *
Riding in the tiny space of Duncan's car, Nickie punched in the address for Self-Serve Storage into his GPS. The car smelled of new leather and didn't have a crumb anywhere. He kept his surroundings as tidy as his image. It was interesting watching his reaction to his fan. Clearly, he'd dealt with that kind of response more than a few times in his life. He acted smooth, polite and not at all annoyed. Then why did she feel so annoyed?