Wanting You

by Leslie A. Kelly

  She’d been so stupid to react to the knowledge of his family’s identity by leaping onto what had to be a really difficult memory for them. Of course Harry Baker’s death would be a hard one to revisit. Hadn’t their agent been a close family friend when the boys were young? She’d found interviews in which they called him Uncle Harry. Whether he was involved with their mother romantically or not, there’d been a very close relationship.

  To make matters even more tangled, the man’s own son had apparently committed suicide right in front of Rowan’s brother a few months ago. Plus Steve Baker had been their long-lost sister’s teenage love.

  The Baker name must be an Achilles’ heel for the Winchester boys.

  And she’d poked that heel with a sharp stick.

  “I owe you an apology,” she said as they drove toward downtown. “You were wonderful to me last night, and I repaid you with intrusive questions.”

  He shrugged. God she hated the strong-and-silent stuff.

  “So, I apologize.”

  “You said that.”

  “No, I didn’t. I said I owed you an apology. Actually apologizing requires an additional step.”

  A tiny grin might have appeared on that strong, masculine mouth. “Most people don’t recognize that distinction or take that step.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  And neither was he. Good Lord, no.

  He was different from anyone else she’d ever met. How many child-actors-from-Hollywood-dynasties-turned-LA-detective could there be in the world? Especially ones who looked like the guy sitting right beside her in the car?

  None. Zero. Zip. And she’d run right into him, or, actually, he’d run into her, courtesy of a violent attack that could have gone really badly for her.

  “So you’re seriously gonna write a book about Harry Baker?” he asked, the words sounding like they’d been pulled out of him with a hook and chain. She suspected he’d pondered that question all night long.

  “No, not about him,” she quickly replied. “It’s a fresh look at several infamous murder cases in the Los Angeles area.”

  “Which is why you were at the Cecil last night? Ramirez, right?”

  “No book on Southern California murder would be complete without coverage of the Night Stalker.”

  “Obviously. Black Dahlia too?”

  “There’s no proof she actually stayed at the Cecil. I think that’s a myth.”

  He grunted. As a cop, he had to know just what rumors and whispers could do to an investigation. Even more than seventy years later, the murder of Elizabeth Short still fascinated, and her legend never seemed to die, so the questionable stories—like that she’d been staying at the Cecil—had grown into urban legends.

  “Manson?”

  “Rewind and listen to what I said about Ramirez.”

  “Pretty dark stuff.”

  “I know.”

  “Some would say twisted.”

  “Did you just call me twisted?”

  “No, but some might say your job is.”

  So much for casual conversation. He obviously still had a bug up his ass about what she did. She supposed that wasn’t too surprising coming from a detective to a journalist. Even though they did have a symbiotic relationship, with a lot of quid pro quo, the trust never went far either way between cops and reporters.

  “Maybe it is. Or maybe I’m just good at solving mysteries and at writing.”

  “You think there’s more to solve about Manson and the Night Stalker? Haven’t those cases been covered enough?”

  She kept her patience, though she had to grip it with her teeth.

  “That’s true. But in the solved cases, I can peel from the outside in, killer to victims. Unsolved ones mean going from the core—victim—out to the killer, which is much more difficult.”

  “You’re tellin’ me.”

  She almost slapped herself on the forehead, remembering who she was talking to. “Sorry, Detective. I imagine you’ve solved your fair share.”

  He merely grunted.

  “I just don’t seem to know what to say to you. Maybe my brains were rattled when I hit the ground last night.”

  “Forget it.” He went back to the subject. “So you’re only looking at cases that were solved? Then why…”

  She knew what he didn’t say. He was wondering about Baker again; he just didn’t want to bring it up. The memory must be very painful. Having lost someone she cared about to brutal murder she could certainly empathize.

  “Although I’ll spend more time on the really famous ones that were solved, I do intend to bring up some unresolved mysteries that never resulted in convictions,” she explained, not saying Baker’s name either, in an effort to keep the peace. “This town has seen a lot of them. George Reeves, Bob Crane…”

  “The Simpson and Blake cases?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like your stay in sunny California is gonna be pretty friggin’ dark.”

  “That’s not exactly unusual.”

  He hesitated, as if not wanting to get too personal, but then asked, “How do you deal with it on a day-to-day basis? With that darkness?”

  He’d opened a door into a real conversation, sounding more concerned than curious, and he was right in assuming she had a process to protect herself from her work. Her whole professional life had been dark for several years, but she had ways of dealing with it. After being immersed in the details of horrific crimes committed by the worst humanity had to offer, she found ways to pull herself out of that thought-dungeon.

  “When I’m not working on a book, I read upbeat books, I take cooking classes and fail miserably. See my family, spend time with friends, go shopping. Normal stuff.” She added, “Oh, and I spend a lot of time watching romantic comedies on Netflix. I don’t Netflix and chill; I Netflix and laugh.”

  He chuckled. Progress.

  “That reminds me, gotta finish the first season of Mindhunter,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  He eyed her. “Now? Thought you were hip deep in horror and looking to laugh.”

  “I said I want lightness and happy comedy when I’m not working on a book.”

  “Okay, remind me not to put on a Disney marathon when we hang out.”

  “Are you kidding?” she asked with a snort. “Have you seen Bambi, Dumbo, or any of the other dead-parents-brigade movies?”

  “Oh yeah. Raine used to cry and turn the TV off when the mama elephant got put in the clink.”

  Given what she knew about the youngest Winchester now, she found that amusing. She’d seen pictures of Raine standing protectively beside various child stars, looking fearsome and dangerous. She could hardly picture him being sad about a cartoon. Or, for that matter, smiling.

  Funny, she had the same impression of older twin Reece. He had a reputation as a cold, calculating jerk. Which made Rowan’s mostly easygoing nature surprising, especially given that he was a cop, that he was a protector, and that he was so damn sexy.

  Something he’d said suddenly flared up in her brain and started circling. “Wait, you think we’re going to hang out, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. I guess it depends on what, exactly, you’re working on.”

  She caught the hard tone and knew what he was referring to. The Harry Baker case. Yeesh, he really did not want her digging into that. Frankly, his persistence made her more curious to find out what he knew. Not that she was about to tell him that.

  “I’m quite busy working on the major chapters.”

  “Can’t imagine what’s going on in that brain of yours. LA has had more than its fair share of nightmare characters.”

  “Probably no more than any other major city. But the stories do tend to linger.”

  “So what do you do when you’re in the throes of it?” he asked. “Do you just suffer nightmares, bad thoughts, and darkness for a couple of months? Because that’s a hell of a shitty way to live.”

  “Yes, it is,” she admit
ted. “And it was like that with the first book.”

  He knew what she meant. “Was Angstrom’s book at least cathartic?”

  “In some ways. But yes, the others, the criminals who weren’t within one degree of separation of me, were easier to research and write about.” She had to clarify. “Though not easy. Believe me, there’s a lot of wine involved.”

  “No doubt.” He glanced out the window at the clear blue sky. “What kind of car did you rent? If it’s a convertible, you should add drives up the coast to your decompression techniques.”

  “Mind reader.”

  He nodded in approval. “What else? Any pets?”

  “No, though having met Cecil B and Jagger, I’d really like to change that.”

  “Well, Cecil B anyway.”

  “Don’t be mean.”

  Grunting, he explained, “I thought Jagger would be thrilled to be in his own home for a night. Instead he got pissed off and used my shower as a litter box.”

  She bit her lip to hold in a laugh.

  “What about relationships?” he asked, his voice lowering. “It’d probably take a certain kind of person to understand what you’re usually thinking about.”

  “Yes, it would, and no I haven’t found anyone who really gets it.”

  Not for lack of trying over the years. She’d been in a few long-term relationships. Not lately, though. As he’d suspected, few men really dug the idea of going out with a woman who saw serial killers around every corner and had examined autopsy and crime scene photos that would cause many people nightmares for months.

  The last guy she’d been involved with had started calling her Wednesday Adams. She’d ended up calling him Cheating Asshole.

  “You sure your work is worth it? Sounds like you live under a little black cloud most of the time.”

  Maybe. But the accusation stung. “Do you live under a box of Fruity McTooties cereal?”

  He stiffened before emitting a loud laugh. “Touché. I swear, to this day if I even see the stuff in the grocery store I wanna throw up.”

  Mention of the commercial he’d starred in as a child seemed to have finally lowered the brick wall he’d had in place since last night. God, she liked his smile, liked the way it made his eyes crinkle in the corners. He was looking ahead, at the road, not at her, so she couldn’t enjoy that amused twinkle she’d caught sight of a couple of times last night, but she knew it was there.

  Despite the book, despite her job, despite all the reasons she was here, and the way she’d questioned him last night, she would really like to go back to where they’d been before she’d found out who he was and put on her researcher bonnet. He’d been just a hot, sexy cop who’d saved her from a violent assault. He’d scooped her up into his strong arms when she’d finally collapsed in delayed reaction. He’d taken her home to keep her safe and out of the spotlight.

  He’d kissed her like they were meant to be lovers…but not yet. He had not taken advantage of that kiss, or the situation, recognizing that her nerves and emotions were a jangled mess.

  Honorable was this man’s middle name. She hated that she’d put him on guard by being so intrusive.

  “Look,” she said, broaching the subject that still hung between them, “I’m really sorry about being so nosy last night. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Please just forget about my request for help on the case.”

  He cast her a quick, surprised look. “So you’re not going to include Baker’s murder in your book after all?”

  She could say that, and perhaps it would end up being true if she couldn’t find anything unique or interesting to say about the cold case, but Evie was no liar, and she was no coward. “I’m not sure yet, but one thing I do know is that I don’t need to drag your family into my research.”

  His jaw, that rugged jaw, its masculinity highlighted by the short beard, hardened.

  “That’s as far as I’m willing to go,” she said.

  After a tense moment, he nodded once. “Okay, we understand each other.”

  She snorted, catching his eye again. “I am not about to claim I understand you, Detective.”

  But she’d like to. She’d very much like to get to know him better and was almost disappointed when they reached the downtown area, nearing the parking garage where she’d left her car.

  He didn’t turn into the entrance. “Listen, I have to go up to headquarters again this morning. Why don’t I take you straight there so you don’t have to deal with getting your car out, fighting traffic, finding a place to park, and then doing it all over again to go home?”

  “It’s no trouble?” she asked, not disappointed at the thought of having to spend a little more time with him, even if it was only the fifteen minutes it would take to crawl along the mile or so to their mutual destination. And she’d thought East Coast traffic was bad.

  She also didn’t mind putting off returning to that dank, dark garage.

  Then there was the idea of having to relive last night’s ordeal with the investigating officers, who had left her a voice mail first thing this morning asking her to come in for a lineup.

  Ugh. It sounded ridiculous, since the guy had been caught red-handed, but she would do it, even if it was just a formality.

  “No trouble,” he insisted.

  “Then thank you, that would be a big help,” she said.

  As they idled at a stoplight, she cast a quick glance at the alley in which she’d almost ended up last night. The gate stood open, revealing some tipped-over cans, strewn trash and leaves, and broken glass on the ground. She couldn’t see farther than a few feet into the narrow, shadowy space, and an involuntary shudder jerked through her entire body, from head to toe.

  A strong hand reached across and covered hers. “Don’t.”

  “I know.”

  Another shudder.

  “Really, don’t do this to yourself. It didn’t happen, Evie.”

  “So close…if not for you…”

  “I’m just happy my spidey-senses started pinging.”

  “Not as happy as I am, web-slinger.”

  They shared a quick smile, and then the light changed and they crawled through the intersection. The slow traffic enabled him to look over again. He cleared his throat. “Speaking of that, are you okay?”

  She knew what he meant. “I’m fine, thanks. That bath helped.”

  “You had everything you needed?”

  “Definitely. I borrowed your brother’s girlfriend’s bathrobe while I washed my clothes. There were even new and unwrapped toothbrushes in the guest bathroom. It seems as though she thinks of everything.”

  He chuckled. “I suspect that stuff was left there by the owner of the place. Jessica’s focused on her work right now.”

  She thought about it, remembering the last time she’d seen Reece’s image on the front pages of the tabloids. “Is she the stunning redhead pictured coming out of the limo with him a few months ago?”

  “Yeah. She’s fantastic. She’s definitely shaken up Reece’s life.”

  “I suspect he needed it.”

  She didn’t want to insult Rowan, but from what she’d read, it sounded as though his twin could be a real jerk.

  “Yes, he did. He’s a new man, happier than I’ve seen him in years.”

  The traffic eased a bit, and they reached the tall and glassy downtown headquarters building. Rowan parked the unmarked car and walked her inside. Evie was on a visitor’s list, since she had an appointment with Captain Avery, someone she’d met yesterday, and Rowan waited with her while she was cleared to go in.

  “The investigating officer you have to meet is on the second floor,” he said.

  Evie nodded. “Yes, but I have a meeting up on six first. I called from the house this morning. The lineup isn’t scheduled until ten a.m., so I shouldn’t have any problem getting there on time.”

  “You gonna be okay with the lineup? You know it’s just a formality, right? I mean, I did catch the guy literally in the act and he was
never out of my sight. We just believe in dotting all i’s and crossing all t’s here, so some slippery defense attorney doesn’t get the bastard off.”

  “Yes, I’ll be fine,” she said, though a tiny tremble did make her limbs quake. “As long as we’re separated by a glass wall, I’m surrounded by police officers, and we’re in the middle of one of the biggest police buildings in the country, I should be okay.”

  “Definitely,” he said. “I wish I could be in there with you, but I’ll have to stay outside since I’m not investigating it.”

  “I understand,” she murmured, wishing he could be right there beside her. She knew and trusted Rowan already. How could she not, considering all he had done for her last night?

  He stopped her, putting both hands on her shoulders and facing her. “It’s going to be fine, Evie. Once you’ve identified him, and his attorney tells him there’s no real defense since he was caught in the act, hopefully he will realize he’s got more to lose by going to trial and will agree to a plea, so you won’t have to testify.”

  “Let’s hope. I’ve testified enough to last me the rest of my life.”

  Having to tell her story in open court about her assault last night wouldn’t be pleasant, and she’d prefer to avoid it if possible. Worse, though—far worse—was the prospect of sitting on a witness stand in a packed courtroom and again repeating everything she knew about Joe Henry Angstrom. She still shivered at the memory of the monster watching her with those soulless eyes from the defendant’s table.

  Last night’s attack had been bad, and she wouldn’t soon forget it.

  Angstrom, though…he had slaughtered her best friend, in their own home, and had cast a shadow over Evie that had lasted for nearly a decade.

  Forcing a weak smile to her mouth, she nodded up at Rowan, looking into his dark eyes. She wondered if he could see the tiniest hint of fear in hers, and if he would think she was merely nervous about the lineup. She hoped so. Frankly, she preferred to shove all thoughts and conversations about Angstrom into the next millennium.

  “You were so brave last night,” he said.

  Obviously he had seen it and was offering reassurance. His tone wasn’t exactly intimate, more professional cop to victim, but it was kind.