by Неизвестный
Yep, keep the facts firmly planted in mind. Don’t think about her long legs or big eyes or silky hair or the way her head fell against his shoulder when she drifted off to sleep in the truck. Don’t think about those lips and how much he wanted to kiss them. Don’t think about Julia naked and underneath his body asking him to make love to her.
Damn, he needed a shower. Cold.
Remember that she forced you to give up everything you believed in, everything you ever wanted to be.
How could he forget? She’d manipulated him into an internal affairs investigation he wanted no part of. He wasn’t going to turn on his own. He’d wanted to handle it his own way.
Two dead girls sealed his fate.
In the heat of the summer, Connor Kincaid had gone out on a call. He’d just taken his detective exam and was awaiting results, hoping to land in the gang resistance detail. He had hope for some of these kids. Not all of them, not most of them, but a few of them. That was all he needed. They were the consummate underdogs, kids whose fathers were dead or in prison and whose mothers worked two jobs or did drugs or plain didn’t care. Many of these kids were in foster care, a system so broke that it would have to be destroyed completely before it could be rebuilt. Connor learned early on that he had a knack for working with these kids. But for now he was a street cop, one of the best.
The call came from the San Diego Mission de Alcalá, the first mission in the California chain and an active Catholic parish and tourist attraction. But it was now five in the morning and he was coming off graveyard shift, first responder to the tragedy.
The dead girls were huddled together in a pew in a small chapel off the main church. They’d broken into the church instead of going to the hospital or to the resident pastor who lived in a small bungalow on the far side of the Mission. One look and Connor knew why they hadn’t sought medical care for their extensive injuries. They were illegals. They didn’t want to be sent home.
The young priest had a long face, made more homely and sad when looking at the girls. “This isn’t the first time.”
“Excuse me, Padre?”
“The young girls—they bring them over the border every day to sell their bodies for a chance at freedom. When they don’t perform, they are killed. Disposed of like garbage.” He looked at Connor, imploring him with eyes so blue they seemed heavenly even surrounded by death. “But you know of this, don’t you?”
“Me? I have nothing to do with this. I agree it’s—”
The priest shook his head. “Your kind. The police. If you look where you don’t want to look, you’ll see the truth.” Again, the priest stared at him and Connor, not a particularly religious man, felt for the first time that maybe someone with more authority than the priest was speaking to him.
“People believe what they want to believe. They see no evil because they don’t want to. But evil is out there, and this is the result.” The holy man gestured to the dead girls. “You might not see the evil, Officer Kincaid, but you can see its handiwork right here.”
Quietly, Connor kept tabs on the investigation of the girls’ deaths. Almost immediately they were put in the cold case file. Two illegal Jane Does. No one cared.
Connor couldn’t stop thinking that but for his birth in the land of opportunity, he and his brothers and sisters would be fighting to come to America. Or dying under Castro’s brutal regime like nearly everyone on his maternal family tree.
The dead girls were only fourteen. Beaten to death on the grounds of a sacred place, crawling inside to die in front of Jesus, the only sanctuary they had.
Then he learned that his mentor, Detective Wayne Crutcher, who had helped him with his exam and smoothed Connor’s path into his move from street cop to detective, had been taking bribes to look away.
Connor didn’t want to believe it.
“Who was that guy?” he asked Wayne. He’d been quietly following him for weeks, compiling evidence he didn’t know yet how he was going to use. But he saw the exchange. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore.
Wayne had been surprised to see Connor, though he hid it well. “A snitch.”
“We pay snitches. They don’t pay us.”
As he said it, Connor realized he’d signed his death warrant. But he didn’t budge.
He pictured his little sister Lucy’s face superimposed on the dead girls. The dead girls deserved justice as much as anyone.
Wayne’s face hardened. “Walk away, Kincaid.”
Connor still didn’t know exactly what it was that set him off. If it was the hard smirk on Wayne’s face or the indifference in his bleak eyes. Connor struck him across the face. Once, twice, three times before the detective punched back.
The fight brought down Internal Affairs. Both Connor and Wayne clammed up and called in their union representatives. Connor’s direct supervisor, Lieutenant Todd, came to Connor at his house. “Crutcher has been transferred to the Northeast substation. He won’t be a problem anymore.”
“Transferred? That doesn’t solve the problem.”
“What do you suggest I do? Go to Internal Affairs and have them up my ass and yours? I’ve fixed the problem.”
In the end, Connor couldn’t walk away, even if he wanted to. Internal Affairs came to him. He turned over the documentation he’d compiled, thinking it would end there.
It didn’t.
Connor was no longer a cop because of Julia. And yet the sexy counselor slept on the other side of his door, and he stood here with a semi-hard-on and thoughts of taking her into his bed playing with his mind.
For the second time in as many days he took a cold shower.
The stainless-steel blade had been sharpened to its maximum, the long straight edge curving slightly toward the deadly point. The shiny blade reflected the moonlight that filtered through the long, narrow windows of the Spanish-style mansion she’d lived in since her mother deserted her ten years ago.
Faye’s father wasn’t home, not that it would matter if he were—Blaine Kessler had virtually ignored her since her birth. He had come to her six times without a thought to being caught. Meanwhile, her father was usually in his own room with his own woman.
The one who came to see her was an angel. It wouldn’t surprise Faye if no one could see him but her, because she was the one he’d chosen.
“Why aren’t you with Cami?” she’d asked the second time he came to her house and made love to her under her father’s roof. The night Skip had shot the teacher in the eyes and she had watched.
“Why would you ask that?” His fingers skimmed her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.
“She’s beautiful.” Her words came out a croak. The truth was ugly, like she was. Men wanted Cami because she was beautiful and sexy.
“Cami is selfish,” he said. “Her own pleasure is more important than mine.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“You think I’m lying?”
Faye shook her head.
He kissed her. That night, like tonight, had a near full moon. “You are precious to me. Cami is important, but you are my rock. I trust you. You would never betray me.”
“Never.”
“That’s why no one can know about this.”
“I understand.”
“Even Cami.”
“I didn’t tell her last time.”
“I know.” He kissed her, touched her gently. “Do you trust me?”
Her lip trembled. “Yes.”
He picked up her knife. “I trust you.” He handed her the blade. She stared at it, blinded by the power of the steel. One slice and he’d be gone, she’d be gone. “Cut me,” he whispered, his hot breath against her face.
He rolled over to his back, his arms outstretched. She straddled his naked body, slid onto him, gasping at the invasion within her. She lowered her hand, the hand wrapped tight around the blade’s pearl handle. Showed him the knife, just as he told her the first time. He licked his lips, closed his eyes.
“Now.”
She sliced his skin, a mere sliver, but the pain of the sudden piercing made him gasp, tremble, and grow harder within her. The sight of the blood, dark in the moonlight, excited her and she rubbed her chest against his, his blood on her, the thrill that he trusted her with his life, that one slice too deep and he would be gone, his blood on her hands, in her body, staining her soul.
They rose together, peaked, and as he toppled over the edge she cut him once more and tasted his coppery heat.
Every time it was deeper, harder, rougher. The pain of the first night was nothing compared to today. When would it stop? Faye didn’t want it to. But tonight he’d lost blood and slept in her bed, something he’d never done before. She had him all to herself and she lay awake and stared at him through the night. She touched his hair. He was real. When he woke, she apologized, she hadn’t meant to go too far, they’d gotten carried away.
“It was heaven, my darling,” he said. “I’m fine. Better than fine. You make me alive.”
Faye had never felt alive. She stared at the blade. Just once. One more time…
Gently, carefully, she sliced her arm and watched, enchanted, as blood seeped out and dripped onto her sheets.
THIRTEEN
JULIA SAT UP abruptly, disoriented. She wasn’t in her own room. She wasn’t in her house. Her head was thick with sleep and a dull fog. How many beers had she had last night?
She looked around, fearful she’d done something really stupid. Like sleep with Connor Kincaid. Alcohol stripped away inhibitions, and he’d been kind to her. She’d confided in him things she hadn’t been able to share with anyone else.
And he was really, really nice to look at.
“Dumb,” she mumbled. She’d handed Connor Kincaid ammunition to use against her down the road. Why did she feel she could trust him? He’d made no secret what he thought of her.
But he’d actually been nice last night.
She glanced around the living room. It didn’t look like she’d done anything stupid. And she remembered the night before, talking with Dillon about Emily’s case, eating Mexican food with Connor, him driving her home—but she wasn’t home.
She’d fallen asleep in his truck. When he woke her up, she’d looked at his porch and said, “This isn’t my house.”
“I know. I asked, but you fell asleep. Where do you live?”
“La Jolla.”
“That’s thirty minutes from here. And I’m beat.”
“Take me to my car,” she said.
“You’re too tired to drive.”
“I have my second wind.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Come inside, I won’t bite.”
He’d unfolded the couch and it became a bed. He tossed her a blanket and said, “Sleep tight.” Then he went to his own room and shut the door.
She thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep, but she was wrong. She’d slept surprisingly well, dreams of Connor infiltrating her thoughts. Betrayed by her subconscious.
“He’s too sexy for his own good and you haven’t had a man in—” How long? Years? “—a long time.”
“Are you talking to me, Counselor?”
She jumped when Connor came out of the kitchen. His collar-length black hair was wet and slicked back, his face clean-shaven, and the smell of soap and a mild cologne wafted out to her. Had she spoken aloud? No. Maybe.
“Just thinking,” she mumbled.
“You think loudly. Coffee’s ready, then I’ll take you to your car.”
“Um, thanks,” she mumbled, but didn’t move.
“I don’t do breakfast in bed,” he said. “Unless I’m the one being served.” He winked and crossed his arms.
She glared at him. All niceties from the night before went right out the window. Fine, if that’s how he wanted it. She slid out from between the sheets and stood, hand on her bare hip. Her panties barely covered her, and she’d been told her legs were her best feature. She crossed the room to where she’d tossed her skirt the night before, Connor’s eyes heating her back and everything below her waist. She blushed, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing his perusal had gotten to her. She stepped into her skirt, pulled it over her rear, zipped up the side.
She whirled around and was about to give him a lecture on manners when she closed her mouth. The raw sexuality and desire on Connor’s face startled her. This predicament was certainly unplanned. She swallowed as his gaze moved up her body to her face.
Then he turned around and went back into the kitchen.
He was attracted to her, no doubt about it. But physical and emotional attraction were two completely different animals. They’d had a past, a brief past, but too much had happened since. He would never truly forgive what she’d done, and she couldn’t be sorry for it. She was sorry he’d lost his career, but not that a bad cop had been stopped and the death of two girls avenged. Connor’s career was collateral damage.
Ten minutes and a cup of coffee later, Connor took her to her car. “What are your plans today?” he asked, his first words since seeing her half-naked.
“First to my office to see if I can sweet-talk Frisco into getting me a copy of Victor’s autopsy report. I gave him a huge case when Stanton put me on leave; he owes me one.”
“Frisco?” Connor asked.
“He’s a DDA, like me.” Did Connor sound jealous? No. Her imagination. “Then to the courthouse. I’m going to pull all of Victor’s recent cases and Garrett Bowen’s court filings. It’ll take all day, but it needs to be done. Especially if I can make any other connections to Billy Thompson or Emily.” It sounded like a long shot.
“Dillon wants to see the files as well. Meet me at his house tonight.”
It sounded like an order and Julia cringed. “And you?”
“I’m going to talk to Emily about her friends, then head over to her school.”
“Maybe I should do that,” she said.
“You know the court system better than I do,” Connor countered. “It would take me weeks to pull those files. And Emily and I have a rapport. I promise I’ll go easy on her.”
Connor met Dillon at the hospital. “How did Emily do last night?” he asked.
“Very well. Aside from being underweight, she’s healthy. Dr. Browne wants to discharge her, and I stalled. I don’t know how long I can keep her here—Browne wants to move her to the criminal psychiatric wing downtown.”
“You can’t—”
Dillon interrupted Connor’s admonition. “Of course not. She’s here for at least thirty-six more hours. Hooper was here thirty minutes ago wanting to interview her, but I said she wasn’t mentally ready. I can’t put him off indefinitely.”
Connor looked through the window. Emily was sitting up in bed, looking out the lone, barred window. She looked so much like Julia they could be mother and daughter.
“Let’s get some answers about Wishlist,” Connor said.
They walked into her room and Emily gave them a half smile.
“Good morning, Emily,” Dillon said. “I brought an old friend with me.”
Emily’s pale face lit up when she saw Connor, then her eyes clouded. “Hi,” she said sheepishly.
“How’re you doing, kid?” He sat at the end of the bed. “Holding up okay?”
She sat up and touched his hand. Tears welled in her eyes and Connor hoped she wouldn’t cry. He didn’t handle female tears well at all. “Do you know… everything?”
He nodded, squeezed her hand. “Why didn’t you come to me? I would have done anything to help you. So would your aunt.”
Emily’s bottom lip trembled. “I know. I just…” She didn’t look at him or Dillon. “I just couldn’t.”
“She loves you, Em,” Connor said softly, not wanting to push the kid too hard.
“I just wanted to be strong with her. She’s so smart and beautiful and perfect. I felt, oh, I don’t know. Tainted.”
Dillon sat on the chair next to the bed. “I told you yesterday that nothing Victor did to you was your faul
t. You were attacked. No one blames you, except yourself. You need to stop thinking this was your fault.”
“I know, but—” She stopped, took a deep breath. “Anyway,” she changed the subject, “you’re here for something. What?”
Connor said, “We found an e-mail you wrote a couple months ago to a group called Wishlist. In it you described how you wanted to kill the person who hurt you the most. Your stepfather was killed in the same manner. Is that what you meant yesterday when you said you planned it?”
She nodded. “I never meant for it to happen. It was supposed to be just an exercise to get rid of the anger. And then… I saw.” She closed her eyes and lay back on the bed. “I saw it all. I touched his blood. I was so drunk I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“You didn’t kill him,” Dillon said.
“No!”
“And you didn’t plan it.”
“No, but—”
“You didn’t really mean for it to happen. Someone asked how you would get back at the person who hurt you the most.”
She nodded. “Right, but isn’t it my fault anyway?”
“No, it’s not.” Dillon made her look at him. “Emily, we need to know everything about Wishlist.”
She frowned. “Like what?”
“How did you join the group?”
“Dr. Bowen recommended it. It’s an anonymous listserv where we can talk about things that happened to us and what makes us angry and how we feel about it. At first, it sort of helped.”
“But?”
“I don’t know. It started getting weird. I don’t know why I wrote that about Victor. I might have been wasted. I remember that day, though. Victor made me, you know, do that to him, and I felt sick and disgusted with him and me and my mother. But I couldn’t tell Dr. Bowen—he tries to be all understanding, but it’s an act. I’m a specimen to him, you know, like a bug under a microscope.” She looked at Dillon, gave him a half-smile. “I know you’re a shrink, but you don’t make me feel like that.”