by Karin Story
"Of this man?"
"I don't know." He turned back toward the body and forced himself to get control.
Rigor had set in, and the body was bloated as well. As he'd told Maris just a few minutes before, not a pretty sight. As best he could tell from the distorted face through the plastic, the man had Hispanic features. Definitely dark brown hair. Was maybe five ten, and he'd guess around two hundred pounds.
"Why haven't they done anything with him yet? It's odd that after forty-eight hours he's still untouched," Maris said.
"Maybe the storm delayed them. It's possible the pathologist wasn't able to get to work for a couple of days."
"They said on TV that he was strangled and bludgeoned." She turned away and a moment later was back with a box of latex gloves. She pulled on a pair, then offered the box to him.
When he gave her a questioning look, her nose wrinkled. "Hey, you want information, but I'm not touching this guy without gloves. Are you?" Then she proceeded to unzip the plastic bag around the body and probe at its neck.
Damn, she was a cool piece of work. He had a whole lot of questions about how she got so smooth at pickpocketing people's belongings, and how she could so calmly snap on a pair of gloves and start poking around at dead bodies. That was not normal. Definitely not goddamned normal.
He pulled a glove onto his right hand. "You seem mighty comfortable doing this. I thought you turned down the scholarship to med school?"
Startled green eyes met his. "How do you know about that?"
"I read the article. The paper was in your dining room this morning."
"Oh."
"Don't want to talk about it? Touchy subject?"
"No, it's just none of your business. It happened a long time ago. And besides, I already told you, I used to be a paramedic." Her fingers continued to prod. "See the bruises on his neck? That's where he was strangled. He's also got bruises here," she pointed to his temple, "and here," she pointed to his jaw and one of his eyes. "He probably put up a pretty good fight with his killer before the other guy did him in." She looked up at him briefly, then her gaze skittered away. He got the distinct impression she was wondering if he might have been the other guy.
Anger bubbled in his stomach.
He scanned the body, but didn't see anything that Maris hadn't already pointed out. The man was shirtless, but still wore dark-colored dress slacks that were stained and torn. Small bits of seaweed clung to the cuffs of his pants and his bare toes. Maris said the news report indicated the body had been found in the water.
Nothing gave him any clues as to who this man was…or who he was. Personal effects might have helped, jewelry for example, but the police would have taken that and sealed it up as evidence.
He glanced at the man's hands and saw a definite lighter-colored ring line on the forefinger of the left hand. Then he caught sight of dried blood on the inside of the man's forearm. He turned it over for a better view. "Check this out."
Maris stepped closer to him, her leg brushing against his, and leaned in to see. "It looks like—" Her latex covered finger traced the outline of the cut.
Their eyes met, and he knew she was thinking the same thing he was.
"Why…" she swallowed hard, "would the killer have carved a letter onto this guy?"
Yeah, especially this letter. He'd told Maris the name "Tom" felt familiar to him. For that matter, what about the El Tigre thing? Not a good coincidence since this dead body had the initial T etched into its arm. "It could just be a fluke. Could be just random cuts that happen to be shaped like a letter."
"Wait a second," she said, tracing her finger along the mark again. "These aren't really cuts…they're scratches."
A thought occurred to him. He picked up the body's other hand. Flipping it over he looked closely at the well-manicured fingers. "What do you see?" He motioned her to look.
She took the hand from him and studied it "Skin under his fingernails. My God, he did this to himself. Why?"
"Maybe to let someone know who'd killed him." An invisible hand grabbed his throat and squeezed.
No. He did not, could not have done this. He felt no sense of recognition at all toward this man. Nothing. Just a vast black void where his memory should have been.
"Instead of finding answers, we're just asking more questions. We may as well get out of here." He dropped the hand back into place and started to zip the bag.
"Wait." She was concentrating on the man's shoulder. "Help me turn him over onto his side."
"Why?"
"Just help me."
Tom grunted as they shifted the bloated body.
"Look. He's got the same kind of cuts on his back that you do. His are a little more jagged, a little less surgically precise, but they're similar." She stared up at him and her expression was filled with sympathy and that damned tenderness that scared the hell out of him. "This man was tortured the same way you were."
Torture? For a split second he thought he was going to puke.
And then he heard voices.
"Move it!"
They zipped the body back into the bag. Maris pulled off her gloves while he pushed the drawer back into place.
The voices were coming closer, from the main hallway.
They had to find a place to hide. His eyes scanned the room, and came back to rest on the refrigeration units lined up against the wall. There were several body drawers, some of which, presumably, were empty.
"Don't even think about it," Maris shot out, a horrified expression on her face. "That's totally sick. Here, this way." She ran to the end of the room toward what looked to be an office.
Tom switched off the overhead light and followed her. Damn, they were going to be trapped back here. He didn't like having only one way out.
He heard the metal doors into the morgue open.
"In here." He dragged her with him toward a miniscule closet in the office. It couldn't possibly be any bigger than two or three feet wide.
"No, I can't," she gasped. She grabbed the doorframe and wouldn't go through.
"Get—in—here." He pried her fingers off the frame, and held her firmly against him while he shut the door.
Total darkness surrounded them.
"Damn, damn, damn," she panted against his chest.
"Shhh. They'll hear you."
He heard her moan in the darkness.
"Maris?" he whispered, suddenly worried at her odd reaction and the even odder sounds coming from her. He groped blindly to get his arms more comfortably situated around her, and touched skin. It was her hand, and it was trembling.
He pulled her closer. "It's okay. It's probably just the janitors again. They're not going to find us here."
"N—no. It's not that," she whispered in a strangely hoarse voice. "It's the d—dark." Her hand shook harder and he could feel a vibration coming from her whole body now.
Understanding dawned. She had no qualms about lying to the police, or stealing the janitor's employee badge, or walking into the morgue and prodding around on a dead body. But of all things, Wonder Woman was afraid of the dark. He smiled.
"I can feel you smiling. It's not funny," she groaned softly.
He leaned against the wall, and as best he could in the tight space, he maneuvered her until she was snuggled against him, straddling his uninjured leg, with her face buried in his chest. The idea was to comfort her and muffle her moans. But almost instantly he realized he'd just set himself up for a world of hurt.
Every inch of her body was in contact with him in some way or another. Her hair teased against his chin, and the clean scent of her shampoo caused a raw ache of longing in his chest. Her coat was unfastened, so her breasts pressed against his abdomen. The juncture between her legs nestled directly on top of his thigh, and when she shifted slightly…he was in hell.
His only saving grace was that she seemed oblivious. Soft, hyperventilating noises still emanated from her throat.
A rattle clang of a metal table being moved came from the
main room where they'd just been.
"You just jealous, John Leroy," a voice said.
"Yeah, some nitwit white girl knocks your ass over in the hallway, steps on your toes, gives you a fuckin' bruise on your jaw, and you think I'm jealous? You're desperate. You need to get yourself some pussy, man."
"I not say I want that woman upstairs. I just say you jealous because she not touch you the way she touch me."
"Oh, yeah? And just how'd she touch you?"
"She touch me here. Like this." He made crude noises and both men laughed.
Tom had a pretty clear idea of what was going on out there and a streak of fury shot through him. His fist tightened and he had the urge to slam something.
But when he heard the ragged pants still coming from the woman in question, the only thing he could concentrate on was smoothing his hand over her hair, and rubbing his knuckles against her icy cheek. "Shh, it's okay," he breathed against her hair.
"Go get the trash in the office, pervert," the voice that went by the name of John Leroy said.
"Yeah, I get it, I get it."
The office door opened. Suddenly Maris's little noises seemed amplified. He knew they really weren't, but having someone on the other side of the door made him paranoid.
An off-key whistle sounded in the room, then a laugh.
The movement came closer and a warbling voice sang, "Duh northen girs wi' duh way dey talk, dey keep a boyfrens worm a' nigh'." He heard the sound of a desk chair being pulled out, then another laugh.
Maris's moans seemed to be coming from a loud speaker.
"Shh…" he breathed against her lips. Reacting on instinct to keep her quiet, his mouth closed over hers.
She gave a short gasp, and he held his breath to see if the janitor had heard it. But the off-key whistle started again, and Maris relaxed against him.
Tom closed his eyes and gave in to the sensation of soft, wet heaven. He teased his tongue over her lower lip until she parted and let him in. God, she tasted sweet, and minty. And she was so damned hot. He wrapped his hand through her curls and pulled her closer. She responded like a hungry cat, her fingers moving up to claw at the front of his shirt, her tongue lapping at his like she was starved.
He felt the same way. He couldn't get enough of her taste, of the feel of her, so warm and willing in his arms. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness between them, as if they had done this a hundred times. A thousand times. Her smell aroused him in a way that made him think of soft beds and bare skin and unruly chestnut hair spread over a pillow.
Her hands moved under his shirt. Her fingertips teased at the skin on his stomach. He held back a groan as his jeans tightened in response.
He slid his good hand up under her shirt as well—she wore a long-sleeved peach T-shirt today, and he'd thought all day how the color brought out the red highlights in her hair and gave her skin a healthy glow. Even in the dark, he could picture exactly the way she looked.
When his fingers brushed against one of her breasts through her skimpy lace bra, she arched against him and deepened the kiss. Slowly, he pulled the cup of her bra down and palmed her breast. It was a perfect handful. Her nipple hardened in response and he worked it between two fingers until she bucked gently against him, grinding her hips down against his thigh. He gave her what she wanted and pressed his leg upward for her, encouraging her to ride it…
…and nearly lost control of himself in the process.
He was so hard he hurt. Everywhere they touched skin to skin was alive with electric current. His fingers moved to the snap of her jeans—
"Hey, John Leroy! You ever look at any of 'dem dead ladies out there? Are they naked?"
Tom froze. So did Maris.
Their lips stayed locked together, but neither of them moved. Their hearts pounded, nearly in sync with one another.
How could he have been so damned stupid to forget where they were?
"Come on, git out of there, you pervert," John Leroy said. "Our access will be shut down soon and I'm ready to go home. Besides, I always hate bein' down here with these dead bodies. Gives me fuckin' nightmares."
"Yeah, yeah. I coming."
Tom heard the soft click of a door shutting and the voices fading away.
Maris let out a long, slow breath and started to pull away from him. But he wasn't ready to let go yet. Instead, his tongue made one more slow, thorough campaign of her mouth. She melted against him and let him.
But finally, he knew he couldn't drag it out any longer. He leaned back, pulled her bra up, her shirt down, and wished like hell he was a different man in a different place and could finish what he'd started.
He opened the closet door and eased his tightly strung body out of the small space, immediately missing the intimate female contact.
"Let's get out of here." He motioned to her that all was clear, then limped across the cold, sterile main room and peered out into the hallway.
He knew he should say more—something about what had just happened in the closet. But he was afraid she'd give him that look again like she had this morning, or say something they'd both regret. From here on out, he'd better damn well control himself or she was going to get hurt. And after everything she'd done for him, that was the last thing he wanted.
So, he ignored her. It was a chicken-ass thing to do, but self-preservation had its moments.
Maris walked in silence next to him, but he could feel the little pulses of hurt confusion radiating out from her, then, with each step and his continued silence, her growing anger. He muttered a curse under his breath. Why did women always feel like they had to talk about everything?
When they reached the door, he saw there was a card access entry box on this side as well.
He slid the badge through the reader.
The light stayed red.
He ran it through again.
Still nothing. "Damn it. Why can't we use it to get out if we used it to get in?"
"Let me try."
He handed it to her. Their fingers barely touched, but the contact sent a hot spark of desire through him.
She swiped the card. Nothing.
"There must be another entrance to get down here. Let's try the end of the hall."
The door at the back entrance was smaller, but had a card reader identical to the other one.
Maris swiped the card.
No answering green light.
She turned to look at him, and this time he met her gaze. Her face was a study in control, but he saw the glimmer of hurt in her eyes, along with a little dose of fear.
"Remember when John Leroy said their access was going to be turned off soon?" she said softly. "Well…I think it's a done deal. We're locked in."
Chapter 7
* * *
"Son of a bitch! The purpose of security in a place like this is to keep people out, not lock them in!" He paced a few steps away and slapped his good hand against the cinderblock wall, then shoved it through his hair.
Maris watched him and felt the toxic stew of emotions inside her churn with a new fury. "Well, obviously here you have to do security both ways," she snapped. "And the guy was only a janitor, so he probably only has access during certain hours of the day. They're long gone by now."
Tom's back was turned to her and she saw him take a long, deep breath. His broad shoulders stretched the midnight blue fabric of his jacket tight when he inhaled, and in spite of the fact that she was so pissed at him she could probably spit venom, she couldn't stop the rush of heady thrill that coursed through her at the sight of him. The soft, faded denim of his jeans clung to his long legs, emphasizing the muscles and defining his rear-end in a picture worthy of a Levis ad. His blond hair brushed his collar.
Oh man, the way he'd kissed her in the closet, the way his hand had taken possession of her breast, all hot and… God, her knees grew rubbery just thinking about it. And he'd tasted so damn good. Like black magic. And oddly enough, a little dose of comfort.
An ache filled her ch
est so that she could barely breathe.
Oh, no, no. She wasn't doing what she thought she was. You didn't fall in love with someone you just met a couple of days ago. Especially not when you didn't know anything about the person. It was lust, that was all. Old-fashioned, sweaty, mind-boggling lust.
And lust wasn't all it was cracked up to be. She couldn't get involved with anyone else who just wanted to have some good sex, then be on his way. She'd been there, done that. And Tom fit the profile. For all his passion in the closet, once they'd emerged back into the real world, he'd shut her out so fast it made her head spin.
Slowly, he turned and sighed. "I'm sorry, Maris. It's not your fault we're stuck down here."
"No, it's not," she said matter-of-factly. "If you hadn't kept us tangled up in the closet for so long after the janitors left, we would have been able to get out of here. And for the record, I'm not exactly thrilled to spend my night with a bunch of dead bodies either, thank you very much."
She began trying knobs on the few doors that lined the hallway. All locked. Probably offices. But even if they could get into the offices, they were in the basement. There were no windows or doors to the outside down here, or else they would have seen them when they walked around the building.
"Damn." She kicked the closest door. They were stuck down here like a couple of rats in a cellar.
Disgusted, she threw her pack onto the floor and rummaged through it. She found a couple of smashed granola bars, a box of raisins, a small bag of trail mix, and…ah…one room temperature, but always coveted Diet Coke. Sinking onto the cold tile floor, she leaned back against the wall and popped the top on a caffeine fix she desperately needed.
Tom leaned against the wall across the hall from her and watched her in silence. She grimaced at him, then tossed him one of the granola bars.
He caught it deftly in his right hand. "What's this?"
"Dinner."
He stared at it for a moment, then at her, his expression giving away nothing. "I thought maybe it was a peace offering."
She paused with the soda can halfway to her mouth. "Excuse me? Last I checked I didn't have any reason to make a peace offering."