His mouth thinned with displeasure. “You call those leads?”
“I’ve only been there three nights, sir,” she explained. “I’m lucky to have learned what I have so far.”
“I don’t want this guy striking again.” He made it sound like an order.
“Neither do we,” Dylan told him with grim determination.
Sam nodded and moved on.
“At least we still have our butts,” Dylan muttered, steering Celeste out of the building and down to the garage. “You haven’t said too much this morning. Rough night?”
She kept her eyes trained ahead. “Just the usual. Except my parents showed up yesterday during brunch.”
“Parents usually don’t show up when someone’s working undercover.” Dylan signed out for an unmarked unit, then tossed the keys up into the air and caught them behind his back.
“Stryker showed up, too. At least my dad leaves a tip.”
“The object of working undercover is that no one finds out your true identity. That isn’t too easy to accomplish when family members show up. But then, I never have that problem.”
“Of course you don’t,” she pointed out. “When you work undercover, you deal with porn producers. Along with that guy who was producing kiddie videos.”
“That was one bastard I was happy to arrest,” Dylan snarled.
“There was also Rosanna Doretsky,” she reminded him. “She thought you were hot stuff.”
“And I thought she was all woman until I found out otherwise when I frisked her for weapons. Damn, she made a good-looking woman, too.” Dylan punched in a code and waited for the gate to roll back before pulling out onto the street. “What’s the address of Thatcher’s place again?”
She glanced down at her notebook. “One-twelve Weeping Willow Lane. That’s out by the sports park.”
“Personally, I don’t know if it’s a good idea you go with me. We still need to preserve your cover,” Dylan said. “Maybe I should go in alone. I’ll find out if he has alibis for the nights in question. Then we both can take it from there.”
“Hopefully, an alibi given by someone other than his mother,” Celeste added.
“Exactly.”
“I still doubt we have anything to worry about. I don’t think we’ll ever run into each other,” Celeste protested. “He only goes in there early in the day, and I’m only there at night. I’ve heard he’s not much for socialization, so I don’t think he’ll show up at happy hour.”
“You still haven’t said too much about how it’s going over there,” Dylan commented. “Anyone confide their deep dark secrets to the bartender yet?”
The bartender’s boss kissed me as if it was the last thing he would be doing in this lifetime. He kissed me so deeply I’m still feeling it. It wasn’t something she cared to divulge to her partner, no matter how good a friend he was. Especially since she was still trying to come to terms with what had happened.
Celeste had felt the tug of attraction from the first second she’d seen Luc. But she knew any kind of action on her part could hurt the investigation. Even if Luc wasn’t a suspect, he was still involved in a peripheral way.
She hadn’t realized that the thread of attraction ran both ways.
She barely remembered driving back to her apartment last night. She could have run every red light and not been aware. Not while her mouth still felt the imprint of his, and her body felt tight with arousal. She’d indulged in a very cold shower before she went to bed and had lain awake for hours.
“Could we turn the heater down a little?” she asked, reaching for the thermostat bar and lowering the temperature.
“Driver controls the controls,” Dylan reminded, moving it back up. “It’s forty degrees outside, Bradshaw. I don’t intend to turn into an icicle just because you had a hot flash.”
“I did not have a hot flash.” She pushed it back down, then slapped his hand when he tried to adjust it. “Leave it alone!”
“Fine!” He threw his hands up, then dropped them back to the steering wheel. “What the hell is your problem? You’ve been acting as if you’re hopping one-footed on a tightrope all morning.”
“We have a rapist who doesn’t leave any kind of trace evidence. Not even a finger clipping. Our only lead is a flower named Deceptive Beauty,” she grumbled. “The lieutenant is on our butts.”
“Because the chief is on his butt and the mayor is on his butt,” Dylan said. “Yeah, it is enough to make anyone uptight. But you usually thrive on this kind of pressure. The more Lieu yells at you, the happier you are. It’s as if you want that challenge so you can knock it out of the ballpark. What about the O’Brien case? The pressure was so tough to make an arrest, even I was ready to give up. You just said, no way, we can’t let scum like that win. A week later, we locked the bastard up.”
“Who knows how long he would have gone on sexually harassing the other teachers if you hadn’t finally talked one of them into pressing charges. After we arrested him, the others also felt brave enough to press charges,” she reminded him.
“Now that we’ve given each other a gold star, shall we talk about how we’re going to handle good ole Carl Thatcher?” Dylan said.
“Fine by me.” Celeste stealthily inched the thermostat bar up a bit. Now that her thoughts had been diverted from Luc Dante, her internal temperature had cooled down. With luck, she could keep it that way until she came face-to-face with the man again.
She glanced at Dylan. They’d been partners for almost two years. They had become fast friends from that first day. Some of the other detectives and patrol officers thought they were having an affair. They didn’t bother telling their co-workers they were wrong. That would only create more speculation. It was better to leave it alone.
“Here it is.” Dylan parked in front of a cream-colored one-story building. A redwood sign with artfully etched lettering proclaimed it to be Thatcher’s Trees and Flowers. He climbed out.
The rich scent of loam and plants filled their nostrils as they entered the open-air nursery.
“What do you want?”
They turned to face a woman who had to be close to six feet tall and weighed at least three hundred pounds. A moss-green cotton smock covered a light blue flowered top and blue pants. The name Martha was stitched in dull yellow script over a chest pocket. Her eyes were the same color as the thread.
“Mrs. Thatcher?” Dylan flashed his patented smile, meant to reassure. “I’m Detective Parker and this is Detective Bradshaw.” He flipped out his ID to reveal his badge.
“I know what you are.” She crossed meaty arms in front of her chest. She included both of them in her menacing glare. “I can smell a cop miles away. I just want to know what the hell you want here. We’re peaceable people.”
“Mrs. Thatcher, is your son, Carl, here?”
She narrowed her eyes to slits as she regarded him. “He’s out making deliveries. We don’t make any money unless he’s doing his job, which he can’t do if you interrupt his day. What do you want with him?”
“Actually, ma’am, we just want to ask both of you some questions about a few of your clients.” Dylan kept smiling as if the woman wasn’t looking as if she could easily toss them out one-handed.
She was as immovable as a brick wall. “Our client list is confidential.”
Celeste deliberately remained in the background. She’d sensed Dylan would have a better chance with the woman if she stayed out of the conversation. She could see she was right.
“We understand that.” He pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket and opened it. “We’re just hoping you can help us clear up some things. Such as Bellmore Realty, Sierra Woods Antiques, Dante’s Cafe, Kay’s Fitness Center and Fieldcrest Consulting. We understand you provide plant care and fresh flowers for these businesses, correct?”
“What if we do? Is that illegal nowadays?”
“No, ma’am,” he said politely, keeping his charm at a low level. It was easy to tell that charming this woman would accomplish nothin
g but getting them tossed off the property. “We thought that since you and your son are in those businesses on a regular basis you may have seen something that might have appeared odd to you.”
Her attitude hadn’t changed, but she hadn’t walked away either. “Odd like what?”
“Someone not acting the way they normally would. Now, we understand you or your son delivers fresh flowers to Dante’s Cafe and Bellmore Reality on almost a daily basis.”
“Every morning,” Mrs. Thatcher admitted. “The restaurant gets roses and Carl takes care of the plants in there. The Realtor likes a new floral arrangement for the front desk every day and they order a basket of flowers anytime they sell a house. We don’t bother looking at anybody. We’re just there to do a job. Either delivering the flowers or going in and taking care of plants they get from us. We don’t mess in their business and they don’t mess in ours.”
“What about your son? Has he ever noticed anything out of the ordinary at any of the businesses he services? Maybe someone who’s acted strangely or shown an interest in ordering a particular rose?”
Mrs. Thatcher snorted. “My boy doesn’t gossip. It’s not our nature to poke our noses where they’re not wanted. He goes in, does his work like he’s supposed to and leaves.”
“Do you or your son go into these businesses when they’re closed? Perhaps late at night?” he asked.
“Our work is from six a.m. to six p.m.”
“And your evenings? No one could say you were at any of those businesses?” Dylan delicately probed.
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Are you deaf? I just said our workday is six a.m. to six p.m. Anyone who says we’ve gone in when we’re not supposed to is a damn liar. Tuesday and Thursday nights I’m down at the Elks Lodge playing bingo,” she told him. “Monday and Wednesday and Fridays I’m out at the casino playing bingo. And my boy is with me. So who’s lying about us?” she demanded.
“No one is saying anything,” Dylan continued in his soothing voice. “We’ve just heard some things and we were hoping we could get them cleared up.”
Her round face shifted as the gears in her brain worked away. “Would there be a reward if we found something out?” she asked.
“I have no word on that at this time.” Dylan appeared to scribble something down in his notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. “I thank you for your time, Mrs. Thatcher.” He paused as if something else came to mind. “Could I ask you a question about flowers?”
“Such as?” She still displayed suspicion.
“Roses,” he said easily, lying without a qualm. “I see you have a lot of varieties around. I’ve heard there’s a rose that’s a very dark red. That it looks like there’s black on the petal edges.”
Mrs. Thatcher nodded. “I know the one you’re talking about. In fact, you mentioned a place that gets it from us, Dante’s Cafe. They like using that particular rose because it matches their décor, which has a lot of red and black.”
Dylan snapped his fingers. “That’s where I saw it!”
“We call it an elegant rose. People like buying anything they think is elegant,” she told him, thawing a bit more. “Since it’s hothouse grown, there’s no fragrance, but you don’t want flowers with a fragrance on your dinner table. Same with scented candles. It interferes with the food.”
“So that would be a type of rose you’d give a woman?” he asked.
Mrs. Thatcher’s laughter boomed outward. “Depends on what you want to tell her. Would you want to give your girlfriend a rose called Deceptive Beauty?”
Dylan grinned. “Only if the name fits.”
Ten minutes later, they left the nursery with Dylan carrying several roses wrapped in green waxed paper.
“So, when’s the wedding?” Celeste teased once they were back in their vehicle. “For a while, I thought she was going to ask you to go to bingo with her. From there, who knows. The woman was hot for your bod.”
“Yeah, I noticed how you stood back and let me do all the talking,” he grumbled.
“As far as she was concerned, I didn’t exist.” She settled into her seat.
“Maybe she thought the lady in basic black was my Deceptive Beauty.”
Celeste smoothed the fabric of her black wool dress over her lap. “I was your basic accessory. I guess we’ll have to come back when least expected so we can visit with Mrs. Thatcher’s baby boy.”
“Guess so. What’s up, babe? You hardly ever wear a dress on duty. Yet today you show up wearing that smart outfit.” He raised his eyebrows.
“I thought if I looked less like a police officer and more like a woman, Mrs. Thatcher wouldn’t feel intimidated. A fat lot of good that did. She was too busy looking into those sexy gray eyes of yours. I’m hoping we don’t have to chase anyone down today. It’s not easy running in these boots.” She indicated her black leather high-heeled boots partially covered by the calf-length skirt of her dress. Her jacket was black leather with black wool sleeves. The dress’s simple lines, with a mock turtleneck and empire waistline, suited her.
If she wanted to be honest with herself, she’d also admit a part of her hoped Luc would see her more feminine side today. After all, Sierra Vista wasn’t that large a town. It was conceivable they could run into each other. She realized that Luc was taking up a good portion of her thoughts lately. Thoughts that had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the man.
Dylan glanced at the dashboard clock. “Lunch before we go back to the station?”
“Sounds good.”
“I heard about a diner off Glen Road. Real retro.”
“Diner?” Her mind clicked into gear.
“Yeah. They’re supposed to have great burgers.”
After the performance she and Luc had given in the diner parking lot the previous night, that was the last place she wanted to be.
“How about something spicy? We could try that new Thai place over by the mall,” she suggested. “Then we could check out some of the other florists and see if any of them carry Deceptive Beauty roses.”
Dylan looked down at the sheaf of roses he’d laid on the seat between them. In the center of the small bouquet was a deep velvety red rose with what appeared to be a hint of black feathered along the petal edges.
“She called it an elegant rose,” he said. “Said that’s why Dante’s Cafe ordered it.”
“And that it matches the décor, which it does,” Celeste agreed. “The restaurant goes for a certain look with the white tablecloth, a black square cloth arranged kitty-corner over that and then the red napkins for accent. This is a place where a diner will pay serious money for a meal. And they don’t serve a sliver of chicken flanked by two fancy-cut carrot curls and a swirl of sauce. The wines they serve are all award winners, many of them local. The restaurant’s even been written up in area magazines.”
“Exactly why no one would want to risk losing it by attacking women connected with the place.” Dylan muttered under his breath when a car cut in front of him without using its turn signal. “Hey, idiot, can’t you see this is an unmarked vehicle? I should hit the light and siren. Write you up,” he groused at the unsuspecting driver.
“When you were a patrol officer all you talked about was making detective,” she reminded him. “Now that you’re a detective, you act more like a patrol officer.”
“If we had the light bar and city insignia on the door, that woman would not have cut us off like that,” he retorted.
“Sure, she would have. She thinks she can get away with pretty much everything.”
“What makes you so sure about that?”
“She’s the mayor’s wife.”
“We need to call the rest of the victims,” Celeste said as she nibbled on pork simmered in a peanut sauce so spicy it burned all the way down her throat and brought tears to her eyes. “See if they can give us more than Janice did.”
The small restaurant was overheated and redolent of exotic scents. Its popularity showed: the place wa
s filled with hungry diners. With the tables so close together, Celeste and Dylan were forced to talk quietly so as not to be overheard. He sat to her right, their heads together as they ate their lunch and talked.
“You know what bugs me—” Dylan stabbed at his chicken and vegetables. “Two of these attacks happened on rainy nights, yet not even a speck of mud was found inside the dwellings and the rain washed away any footprints we could have found outside.”
“Maybe he’s your run-of-the-mill neat freak,” she said. “He took off his shoes before he went inside and probably even left them outside by the door for a quick getaway. That way he wasn’t heard when he got in. Look at Barbara Miller’s house. It’s all hardwood floors with throw rugs. No way you can be quiet when you’re walking around in there. I was wearing tennis shoes that night and I could still hear my footsteps.”
“And there was Marie Richardson’s white carpet,” Dylan added. “The only trace evidence that turned up was some fibers, but nothing we could use to pin down our guy.”
Celeste thought of the clothing boutique owner’s apartment that was luxurious enough to warrant a center spread in Architectural Digest.
“Truthfully, I couldn’t imagine her ever having a lover,” she said. “What man could feel comfortable in a place that looks like the inside of a freezer? The color scheme was light blue and white.”
“It wouldn’t be me. She’d probably shoot me the first time I put my feet on the furniture.” Dylan forked up some vegetables from Celeste’s plate.
“Eat your own food and leave mine alone,” she ordered, attempting to stab his hand with her fork, but he was too quick.
“You don’t like these peppers anyway.”
“Not one lousy fingerprint,” Celeste grumbled. “Not even a partial. And nothing in the database to indicate this has been done before.”
“None of the factors we input threw up any red flags. Not the lack of trace evidence, the victims bathed and shampooed, the rose left behind on their pillows, zip.” Dylan set down his fork.
She shook her head, frustration written on her face. “This town isn’t all that large,” she murmured. “It’s not as if we’re in San Francisco or L.A. Neighborhood Watch is a big thing around here. How many calls are received on a daily basis because someone was hanging around one of the playgrounds too much or a strange car was seen parked in a neighborhood? Yet we haven’t received one neighbor’s call in regard to any of these cases. I have trouble believing no one saw a thing.” She drew random patterns on the table with her fingertip.
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