by Cera Daniels
CHAPTER TEN
Amanda locked the deadbolt with one eye on Klepto through the narrow window pane that ran up the right side of the door. Flurries rushed to cover his tracks. Good packing snow. Traitorous weather. Traitorous body. His touch still simmered on her upper arms like twin brands, but as she watched all visible evidence of the masked criminal vanished.
Her hand massaged the shoulder that bore the scar of her first Klepto encounter. A true adrenaline junkie would be overjoyed with her evening's work. Amanda just wanted to live past Friday without adding "dirty cop" to Dale's list of screw-ups.
Sighing, she tugged off her boots and dropped them onto the rubber mat to keep the carpet dry. She headed straight for her laundry closet and tossed her scarf and coat over the washing machine. Atlas pages peeked out of the jacket and she pulled them free, then threw them in the small trash can she used for dryer lint. Her research had been useless—she'd found him without trying.
"No, he found me," she murmured.
Too tired to analyze further, Amanda forced her body into rote motion, checking the front door locks again, the windows. She peered at the digital display on her phone. No missed calls, no messages. Sleep beckoned like a neon sign from her bedroom doorway. Her muscles relaxed, ready for rest before she could hit the mattress.
Hair at the nape of her neck lifted and intuition froze her steps. She listened, caught the sound of scratching at the back door. Once. Twice. The lock? Her muscles did a 180 so fast it hurt. No one broke into a detective's house—even if she was suspended.
The scratching stopped, and then someone knocked.
She peered through the curtain. Charlie. Winter blew into her home as she cracked the sliding door. "Is your clock broken?"
"Email wasn't safe. I just got out and I thought I'd leave my notes for you, but I saw lights and I figured since you were up . . . wow." Charlie's gaze took in her damp clothes and bare feet and one bushy red eyebrow popped up. "You look like hell."
"Why are you here?" She planted her fists on the imitation-marble counter.
His look was strained. "I've got a friend in the morgue."
"Where don't you have friends?"
"This one was found with one bullet in the chest, and one to the back of the head."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "His M.O. is not news, Charlie."
"Ah, but the bullets?" He smiled and dropped a thick envelope on the island. His other hand extended a half sheet of paper. "Merry Christmas."
She snatched the evidence report and skimmed. Small cal, like her gun. A cop's gun. Syndicates went for automatic weapons, knives, and bigger showpiece bullets. Gold, silver tipped. The killer used red.
Metallic, bright red with an unmistakable polymer coating.
"Showstoppers." Police-issue bullets.
He nodded. "It gets better. None of the active firearms match."
"It's not an inside job?" She bit the inside of one cheek and rubbed her thumb over the report. Her missing service weapon had used showstopper bullets. Exhaustion flooded her body.
Charlie's forehead creased. "Don't, Amanda."
"He took my gun that night."
"It doesn't have to be your gun." He stepped to her side and leaned against the island.
She sucked in a ragged breath. "You think I'm wrong?"
"If anything, it looks more like you're right. And if you are, you'll prove it." Charlie cut her concerns off with a swipe of his hand. "You can't blame yourself for this. There've been far too many deaths for one clip anyway. He would have needed more ammo and nothing's gone from Supply. I checked. Not a word about Stoppers on the street, either. No one's selling or buying."
"You should have gone for detective," Amanda said.
"I like where I am. Everyone talks to me." He gestured toward the envelope at his back. "I brought you homework, too."
Amanda smiled, but her gut churned. Klepto could be out there even now, killing people with her gun. But where would he have gotten more bullets?
She started. Supply wasn't the only building with a stash of ammo. Weapons lockers tucked throughout each precinct would have had emergency boxes. "The third floor. The explosion, Charlie."
"The official report says the ammo is what blew."
"What if someone got in and took a box beforehand, or emptied the locker and then made it look that way?"
He straightened, then turned to stare at her. "Then the first body was a diversion. To get equipment for the rest."
She closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her stomach. The politician hadn't been left in the middle of a street like the others, but his placement wasn't a mistake. "What else was on that floor?"
"Documents, obviously. Small electronics, spare parts. Nothing worth stealing."
"He knew exactly what he was looking for." Amanda eyed the marbled pattern on the counter, trying to make sense of the precinct attack from a different angle. "Only officers are allowed on that floor."
"And escorted guests," Charlie added with a stiff nod that said he knew where Ryan had been the day before, and he wasn't any happier than she was about it. "Doesn't mean they didn't pay an unescorted visit."
"Whoever it was would have had to go in and get out with the ammo," Amanda said.
"A couple of boxes would have fit easily into a jacket. I'm due back in at eight. Bet I can convince someone to go over the security footage again." Charlie's lips jerked down. "An ID will prove he's a cop, but unless we see him with the goods, we won't have him on murder."
"You won't be that lucky. He knows how to avoid cameras." She canted her head to the side. "I'll have to find the bullets."
"Lab techs might settle for your gun, if that's what he's been using." Charlie rubbed a thumb over a water spot on the counter and leaned forward on his elbows. "You okay? The deaths are taking everyone hard, and I know you're still trying to get over Jackson."
She blinked at the change of subject and jerked her chin his way.
Charlie's brow dipped. He stared at her for an uncomfortable moment. "You don't know?"
"Obviously not." She turned to face him head-on.
"Cops turned up among the bodies tonight."
Amanda's heart crashed into her ribcage. Her knees seemed to liquefy.
Charlie gripped her arm hard. "Steady."
"Oh no, Charlie. When you said friend in the morgue, I thought you meant a source or . . . oh no." Her voice came out a squeak and she found herself in a tight hug. Someone inside had killed their own, and her gun could very well be the murder weapon. She looked at the grim set of his jaw. "Who?"
"Harper, Malone, Stewart." He stepped away and stuffed the evidence report into his coat. "Trust me when I say Dale's doing everything he can to catch this guy."
"Everything?" Her throat felt raw, as though her internalized denial had escaped in a scream. "He suspended me, cut me off, in a time when we need to mobilize every resource."
Charlie flushed. "He's trying to keep the department on its toes. You're an example."
Amanda slapped her hands on the counter as another horrible realization dug its barbs into her gut. "I'm as good as a patsy. The weapon, the ammo, the opportunity—The fire yesterday, Old Town today, they put me at time and place. I'd look good to any jury, Charlie."
"Then get an alibi," Charlie said. "The murders have all been placed in the late evening hours. Make a date tonight, go out on the town, close out a bar. Be seen. The more people who can say they saw you, the better."
"Get a date while this guy kills more people? That's your advice?" A half-laugh, half-sob escaped as Ryan McLelas's televised kiss emerged in her brain. Now there was a sure-fire way to be seen.
"Sleep, then. Dale . . . well, your work on the outside . . . we need you, Amanda. Rest, and draw your conclusions when the sun's up. I've got to catch some winks myself." Charlie paused with a hand on the glass of the sliding door. "Thought you had a thing about dogs."
Amanda peered around him and fought a shiver. Klepto's dog. "Just a stray."
He raised both eyebrows, but opened the door. The German shepherd charged past them into the house, turning circles in her living room. His tongue lolled out in a goofy dog grin. The epitome of harmless.
Charlie laughed. "Let me guess: you only fed him once. Softie."
A glimmer of panic grabbed Amanda when her friend slipped into the backyard. "Charlie, wait."
He turned, his eyes measuring. "Try to get some sleep."
When Charlie had gone, she turned to see the dog reclined on the carpet, head propped on his paws and dark eyes turned up imploringly. Ancient Werner history aside, too many dogs in the city were trained to attack on command. A definite avenue of caution, and yeah, maybe a little fear. Outside, she could find a way around him, or wait until he left.
But Klepto's pet was so not taking up residence in her home.
"Out." Under Amanda's glare he settled in with a contented sigh, lowering further onto his paws and closing his eyes. "You can't stay."
One eye popped open, then he rolled onto his side. All four paws sprawled across her living room floor. She wasn't fooled.
"Score one for the psychopath," Amanda muttered.
Shepherds were fast, and Klepto could return for his dog any moment. She wasn't in any condition to face off against either one. She locked the back door, hugged Charlie's envelope to her chest, then snuck past the dog toward the bedroom. Armed with a bat and locked inside in short order, she hoped the dog didn't go after her new furniture. Amanda crawled onto the bed and spotted Ryan's business card propped on her dresser. He'd slipped it to her while they'd waited for CSU that morning, along with yet another flirtatious request for lunch. Had it only been this morning she'd stumbled into his arms like some swooning schoolgirl?
Crazy to even consider Ryan's playful offer. Crazier still to think of Ryan when Charlie's suggestion meant a casual public appearance would do.
Her limbs seemed to sigh with pleasure as she stretched out over the velvet softness of her comforter, overcome by a full-body yawn. Charlie was right about one thing though—sleep was priority. When the sun rose, she could contemplate the rest. Funerals, data, traps for a killer, and maybe—maybe—stealing a kiss from one tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome alibi.
The sensual haze of dreams was pierced by sunlight, but need still thrummed in her blood. Falling asleep with Ryan McLelas on her mind had been a mistake. Flirtatious overtures had filled her thoughts, stayed with her on waking, and put calling him first on her agenda. Pre-shower. Pre-breakfast. Her dresser-length mirror presented a wide-eyed, unflattering study in too little sleep and too much temptation. Amanda rubbed the dark and pudgy half-moons under her eyes with a fist that clasped Ryan's business card. In her other hand and pressed to her ear, the handset rang through.
"McLelas Financial, Mr. McLelas's office. What can we do for you this morning?"
Amanda stifled a cringe at the perky undertone.
"Morning person," she grumbled. As the startled laugh from Ryan's assistant told her she'd spoken aloud, the wince this time flashed at her from the mirror. "I'm so sorry. Social etiquette doesn't show up until I've had a shower." She bit back a groan. Classy, Werner. "Please ignore that too . . . I'm so sorry. Is Ry—Mr. McLelas around?"
Another laugh, and then the woman asked for her name. Amanda gave it, turning away from the dresser mirror and its emphasis on a hideously mortified shade of pink.
"Of course. Let me see if he's free."
"That went well." She chewed on her bottom lip and within seconds she began to hope he was too busy to answer.
The hope turned a little feverish and cut her breaths to a tight staccato as she replayed her part of the conversation. Nerves of steel, taking down a suspect, nerves of pudding, asking a guy out on a date. Except this wasn't just any guy. This was Ryan McLelas. Her mouth had never worked right before a blasting, hot spray of water and her wit wasn't up to tangling with Ryan's diabolical sense of humor. This phone call would be the equivalent of interviewing a suspect in her underwear.
A freakin' nightmare.
She could hang up. Try again later. Or not at all. First, she'd pay Mrs. Byron a visit to get her brain on straight. The hold music clicked off.
"You know, this was a mistake. I'm just gonna—never mind," she said. How foolish was it to call him like this? "Thank you for your time."
"Amanda? Wait. Don't go." Ryan. A shuffling noise, then silence, as if he'd muted the line.
More logic poured into her disarray of brain cells. He'd sounded tired. Was he home, or at the office? Had his assistant forwarded the call? What if she'd gotten him out of bed with his rock star? How did one ask for an alibi? Did she dare tell him she wanted—had dreamed about, needed—a kiss? With all the worrying, a final thought drove home and collided with reason: His calendar for the evening was likely full.
Why couldn't she have waited for intelligence to kick in before dialing?
"Still there?"
"Yes," Amanda said. "I'm sorry for interrupting. I shouldn't have bothered you."
"No bother. I'm glad you called," he said. "I needed to cut negotiations short anyway. They wanted too much for too little."
"You were working?" Amanda bit the inside of her cheek and glanced at the card she'd begun to tap on the plastic set of drawers she used for a nightstand. Great. Insult the man. That's a good way to make plans for dinner.
He chuckled, an earthy sound that soothed her tense muscles. "Contrary to what little you've seen of me thus far, I do spend some time in the office."
She hugged her arm around her middle and scooted onto the mess of churned blankets on her bed. "Yet you're glad to hear from me . . . so you can skip out?"
"Nothing comes out right around you, Detective." He laughed again and she could almost see him shaking his head.
"I'm not a detective anymore, Ryan." Each verbal admission made it more real. Would the twisting knife in her gut ever stop?
"Lieutenant Dale respects you too much to carry out such a sentence. Not permanently."
He cared.
There was the difference she sensed, the lure in his voice which rang true. The file room, Old Town, and now here on the phone—Ryan, a man who had little qualm about breaking the law, had a streak of genuine compassion she hadn't expected behind all the flirting and carousing he fed the press. That flicker of promise intrigued her like nothing else could. What other surprises did he hide?
Amanda took in a slow breath and willed her embarrassment away as she soaked up the deep, rich timbre of his words. "Thank—"
"Is everything okay?"
"Yes. No." Amanda sighed. "To be honest, I wasn't thinking when I called. I thought I'd see if that offer for a meal was still on the table."
"Today?" Surprise colored a voice of warm molasses and comfort.
Had she sounded needy? Desperate? "Never mind. I should go."
"Let me check with my assistant. If I'm clear, I'm all yours."
Her fingers tightened on the handset. McLelas was not all hers. A man with rock stars and fashionistas clinging to his arm and kissing him on film belonged to Relek City, not Amanda Werner.
"Looks like I'll get a break from the media for lunch." He cleared his throat. "I'll send a car."
Her heart gave an inexplicable, hard thump. A blatant disregard for sense. Lunch wasn't an alibi. Still, to see him again . . .
"Amanda?"
She tossed the little business card on the nightstand and pushed herself off the bed. "I was hoping for something later."
"I've got screen time with News 9 later. More work," he added, and Amanda could hear the smile.
Charlie's bar-hopping suggestion would have to do. At least then she wouldn't have to wonder if she could handle stealing a kiss that would subsequently be televised across the state.
"Amanda, my evening appointment's on the other line. I'll see you around eleven for our date."
"What?" She almost dropped the handset. "Ryan, lunch won't—"
He hu
ng up.
"Lunch it is." She flung the unresponsive phone onto her sheets and shoved open her bedroom door. "'Evening appointment.' Right. With who? Another skinny little one-night stand with more gold on her fingers than Midas?"
The impulsive spurt of jealousy dissolved into tingles of delight. An opportunity to see Ryan again, another chance to figure him out. Her heart ping-ponged around her ribcage. There was hope for the day yet.
Basking in the glow of anticipation, it took Amanda's brain a moment to realize what was different about her kitchen.
Roses.
A perfect dozen in a ruby shade that defied winter, next to a pristine white box topped with a pair of blood red, spiky high heels.
Klepto's dog slept, out cold on the tile floor between the counter and the island, but he wasn't what curdled the warmth from her phone call in the bottom of her stomach.
She'd danced in those heels.
Klepto had returned in the early morning hours and he'd gone through the shoe rack in her closet. He'd been in her bedroom. While she'd slept.
Amanda shuddered. What had she gotten herself into? She'd locked everything before bed, but her bedroom doorknob hadn't been locked a moment ago. Forcing herself to slide the shoes off the box, she lifted the lid.
A folded piece of beige paper topped a mass of sheer, slinky black fabric—more lingerie than dress. The note was handwritten.
"Don't forget to wear the heels," she read aloud, then flipped the note onto the counter. "What kind of sick bastard . . . "
She looked at the sleek dress again and swallowed hard. He expected her to wear it Friday.
Rejection and shock boiled up like a kettle. She shoved the box from the counter and blew out a soundless scream. Fury bled through the shock. Amanda whirled into action, grabbing the shoes and flinging them into the furthest corner of her closet. Determination and more than a little violence bristled through her veins, a pounding drive to hunt him down creeping like red film over her vision as she threw on jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of hardy sneakers. She tied her hair back with a scarf and half-ran to Mrs. Byron's with anger for a coat.
Amanda hadn't felt this much draw to vengeance since she'd woken in the hospital, needles jabbing her limbs and her shoulder feeling as though it'd been shredded. She'd been arrogant to believe she could defend herself against a home invasion. How could she have slept through Klepto's break-in? She ducked into the comforting arms of the neighborhood kitchen nook, needing the sanity. Normal people, normal lives. Life. Not death.