Lust

by Lana Pecherczyk

  “What have you got?” Joe asked Liza.

  She flipped through her spiral notebook. “We’re estimating the body was dumped sometime between two and five this morning. No one heard a scream.”

  “Examiner thinks she was killed somewhere else. Lack of blood. She was either brought here after or killed quietly.”

  Liza looked away. Her bottom lip quivered.

  “You good?” he asked.

  She nodded. Then shook her head. “It was the teenage runaway. Mirabelle.”

  He let out a sigh. “I thought it might be. It’s not your fault. Don’t get attached.”

  Thunder clouds clapped at her dark look. “Not my fault? I could have stopped it. Wyatt should have let me finish him.”

  He’d seen the dried blood on the alley floor.

  “Are you talking about that man you used excessive force on? Liza, listen to yourself.”

  With a grinding of her teeth, she wrenched her gaze from his and scowled as Mirabelle’s body was zipped and bagged. Her fingers flexed, creaking her leather gloves.

  “Come on,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll get you a coffee with a straw, and we’ll start going over the old case files Geoff and Briggs have been rounding up.”

  But she wouldn’t leave. Her eyes had turned distant, as though she was still in that brutal world where Wyatt had interrupted her.

  “Liza?”

  Wide eyes locked on him and Joe felt her panic to his core. Something wasn’t right. A curl of yellow at her mouth revealed why.

  Joe searched their surroundings, looking for cover. His thoughts tumbled through different scenarios, thinking of ways of keeping her secret hidden. They couldn’t use the car, the two of them locked inside would be deadly, unless he locked her inside on her own.

  He curled his fingers around her neck, intending to guide her to the car, but she put her hand over his and stopped. He sent her a questioning look.

  Are you okay?

  Relief poured through her gaze. She gripped his hand tighter and nodded. “You relax me. Don’t let go.”

  He nodded. “Can I do anything else?”

  Her eyes fluttered closed. “Just this.” She squeezed his fingers. “No... say something. Distract me.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He blurted the first thing he could think of against her head. “Barry Bonds: 2986 games; 762 home runs.”

  He paused, waiting for her reaction.

  “More,” she said.

  “Hank Aaron: 3298 games; 755 home runs. Babe Ruth: 2573 games; 814 home runs—”

  Liza snorted. “As if.”

  “Just checking to see if you’re listening.”

  “You can’t make up stats, even for the Babe.”

  “Especially for the Babe,” he chuckled. A wisp of her hair floated from the push of his breath. He wanted to catch it and smooth it down, but refused to lift his hands from her.

  After a few more minutes of him reciting baseball statistics, she nodded again and let go of his hand. “I’m okay.”

  “Wait there.”

  He retrieved an unopened bottle of water from the car and gave it to Liza. She gratefully accepted, cleaned her hands, and then washed out her mouth before spitting.

  It wasn’t an odd scene. Many officers puked at a homicide like this. If anyone noticed, they’d probably put it down to a queasy stomach.

  “You sure you good?” he asked.

  “See? You have my back.”

  He returned her tight smile and ignored the twinge of guilt in his gut, but knew he couldn’t avoid it forever. He expected a call from his superior by the end of the day.

  19

  After returning from the crime scene, Liza spent the afternoon filling out copious paperwork regarding the Faithful attack. Joe went straight into his office and shut the door. The ride home with him had been interesting. She’d thought, perhaps, her poison-slip had ruffled his careful Italian feathers, but his hair remained tidy, his shirt tucked in, and his tie in a perfect Windsor knot. His eyes were schooled and stark. He wasn’t ruffled.

  But he cracked his knuckles continuously.

  It reminded her of the time he’d applied for Quantico and was waiting on the results.

  Joe sat reclined, long legs sprawled under his desk next to Liza’s. He cracked his knuckles and stared at the phone, foot tapping on the linoleum floor.

  Liza put down her phone receiver and glared at him. “Jeez. Enough already.”

  She reached across the expanse between their two desks, pressed her finger to a dark freckle on the back of his hand, and then made a buzzing sound.

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “That was me pressing the off button,” she replied, then raised her brows. “You’re cracking your knuckles again. Relax. They’ll call.”

  He was probably still flexing his hands behind his closed door. She glanced at the solid wood barrier, a spear of concern momentarily hitting her, but then scowled back at her paperwork. With it done, she switched her mind to the recent homicide and felt sick all over again. It was hard not to let it get to her. Mirabelle had been so innocent. She didn’t deserve the fate death had dealt her. Liza pulled out her notebook from her jacket pocket and flipped through what she’d found.

  Bubkis. Nada. Zilch.

  The homeless people saw nothing. No witnesses. No motive. But the nature of the crime matched the MO of the serial killer Joe’s team was hunting.

  With a heavy sigh, Liza leaned back in her chair. For the first time in her life, she felt inadequate as a detective. Joe had specifically requested Liza on his team for her expertise, yet a new crime had occurred on her watch. A lot was going on with Joe at the moment. The serial killer, the bombshell about her secret identity, their feelings for each other. He had her back at the crime scene. She used to always have his back, despite him never talking about his problems.

  She should do something nice for him.

  Roses? Chocolate? She grinned. Not really her style. But catching a killer would be the perfect gift.

  The man who’d accosted Mirabelle in the alley came to mind. Liza had beaten him pretty badly. Her knuckles still smarted with an echo of righteous pain. Would he have retaliated, tracked the teenager down and then lured her to her death because Liza had put him in his place? But the idea that this same man was also the serial killer Joe had been hunting was almost too coincidental.

  Liza continued her internal dialogue. She found a conversation always helped her make sense of things. Like this fate business. Take Evan’s psychic drawings, for example. Or Mary’s old visions that had pulled her away from the Hildegard Sisterhood. Mysticism was never something Liza put her faith in. Especially not after the way she and her siblings were created. Besides, Mary always used to say, magic is just science we don’t know yet… or some shit.

  Liza suspected the saying had originated with Gloria, their biological mother. It didn’t sound like a Mary thing to say. Mary was a bruja trained as an assassin pretending to be a nun, and a Catholic convert. And that religion came with an awful lot of mysticism and arcane devil and angel voodoo woo-woo. Who was to say what was a coincidence, or like Liza had said to Joe earlier, destiny?

  She wrote the word “destiny” and circled it.

  If it was real, then there was a reason Liza had been in that alley a few days ago, and it wasn’t to puke all over a potential one-night-stand. The reason had to be bigger than giving a runaway an extra day of life. She just needed to figure out what it was.

  Banging, shuffling, and the sounds of desks being packed away alerted her to the late hour. The working day was done, and she hadn’t discussed a plan of action with Joe yet. She collected her notepad and headed to his door. She lifted a fist to knock—the door opened.

  Joe walked out with his suit jacket on, his car keys jangling in one hand, and a stack of Manila case files in the other.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked.

  “Day’s over.�
��

  A pause.

  “You need something?” he asked.

  A flinch inside Liza’s chest. “Um. I just thought that we should head down to the shelter and interview anyone who might have spoken to Mirabelle.”

  “Already sent Geoff.”

  “What?” She blinked, affronted. “But I was the one who suggested the lead.”

  “I know. But we don’t have time. I have a thing, and you shouldn’t be out without me.” He glanced down at her wrist tattoo. “If I can’t join you, then you should go home, right?”

  “I’m not some woman who needs to be kept,” she growled. “I’m quite capable of handling my shit.”

  His brows lifted. “That’s not the impression I got today.”

  “That’s a jerk thing to say while I’m in this teething period. Once I’m used to... you-know-what, I’ll be fine.”

  “I thought you said if you’re not seeing me at regular intervals, you can black out.”

  “It’s… it’s easier if I see you. Much easier. But not impossible. A couple of days apart is fine. I just need to be wary of it or revert to my old process. Anyway, shouldn’t we be working on the case?”

  “There’s not much we can do until forensics are back.” Dark eyes contemplated. “Why don’t you go sit with a sketch artist and get a likeness of the alley attacker?” He reopened his office door. “Better yet, I’ll get you the old case files on the Ripper killer and you can get acquainted.”

  He shuffled through some files in his cabinet and cursed softly. “They’re at my place. I’ll bring them in tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get a start on the soft copies tonight.”

  “Hard copies are better.” He frowned. “But, fine. You do what you need to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Then he strode out, leaving her staring at his retreating broad-shouldered back.

  “He just gave me the brushoff,” she murmured.

  The following night, Liza stood outside Joe’s apartment with a box of freshly printed case files, some of Evan’s sketches, and Chinese takeout. This was it, the moment she laid it all on the line. She’d even brought a peace offering—a tiny wrapped gift.

  He had been suspiciously absent from work today. No call. Just a vague “I’ve got Bureau stuff to do” as an explanation. She’d considered giving him space, maybe going to the church for a sin-equilibrium reset, but she didn’t want to. He’d either react the way she’d hoped or... well, she didn’t want to think about what she’d be forced to do if he responded badly.

  With her hands occupied, she kicked the door instead of knocked, and hoped with all her heart that Joe would open wearing only his towel again.

  Sounds came from inside. Unlike last time, she was in full nervous mode and felt her underarms prickle with sweat. What if she was pushing too hard? Sure, there was work to do and, sure, she’d had a breakthrough when Evan had offered to draw a picture of her assailant, but maybe Joe needed more time before making a big leap of loyalty to her family.

  She could have tested the waters by calling him first, but there was also no reason for her to stay home. They already had a twenty-four-seven guard watching Daisy in case she made a wrong move. Liza couldn’t stand another minute in Parker’s orbit. During their training earlier, his judgment was too critical, despite her control of her poison getting better. The dude seriously needed to get laid.

  So did she.

  The door opened.

  “Liza?” Joe’s brow furrowed as he took her in. Still dressed in his suit, he must have recently arrived home. She probably should have checked that. He did say he had a thing yesterday. Maybe it ran longer.

  His eyes glided down from her face to the box. “I thought we said we’d do this tomorrow.”

  “It is tomorrow, and I have ideas,” she said. “And I brought food. Your favorite.”

  He looked confused for a moment, but then an inquisitive dark brow arched toward her package. “Beef and Black Bean?”

  She grinned, already feeling a win coming.

  “Come on,” she pressed. “I didn’t see you all day. You’re probably starving. Plus, Evan drew a likeness of the guy from the alley. There are coincidences we need to discuss.”

  Liza wasn’t aware of the breath she’d held captive until it escaped upon his release of the door. He collected the box from her hands.

  “I got it.” She tugged it back.

  His jaw clenched. Nostrils flared. For a moment, Liza thought he would instigate a tug-of-war, but he let go and stepped into his apartment.

  “I’ll get the wine,” he said.

  Another small win. When Joe shifted from beer to merlot, he relaxed. Unable to contain the grin on her face, she entered and kicked the door closed. An evil laugh cackled in her mind, and she gloated at his back. She was going to break through to him. He stood no chance against the Liza Lazarus maelstrom. No chance.

  “Did you say something?” he asked as he retrieved two glasses from the overhead cupboard in the kitchen.

  “Huh?”

  Had she said that out loud?

  “I’ll just put these over here.” She went to the couch by the window, but it reminded her too much of that… other woman who shall not be named. The small two-seater table between the couch and the kitchen was better.

  Liza set the box down and realized there was no room for food, so shifted the box to the floor and put the takeout on the table. The chopsticks had just been snapped when Joe handed her a glass of red wine. He sipped from his glass and sat down with a long, drawn-out sigh.

  “Long day, huh?” she joked, then winced because anyone making light of the past few days was stupid.

  Another sigh was her answer.

  Jitters rode her system. She feared she’d never be done with them, so took a big swig of merlot, and then dug into the food. Joe watched her with a small smile kicking up one side of his mouth.

  “What?” she snapped. “I’m hungry.”

  He made a noncommittal grunt, and then picked at his food. She used her chopsticks to trap his against the plate.

  “What was that look for?” she asked again, refusing to release his captive chopsticks.

  “You eat when you’re nervous,” he explained.

  She let go and slit her eyes. “You crack your knuckles.”

  “I’m not now.” He flexed the fingers of one hand.

  “But you were all yesterday afternoon.”

  His gaze leveled on her.

  Not so much fun when the spotlight’s on you, huh?

  She stole a piece of his beef and popped it into her mouth. “What’s got your panties in a twist, anyway?”

  “Nothing you can help with,” he murmured with a dark look at his food.

  Oh. This was serious.

  It suddenly occurred to her that maybe he’d never talked much about his problems, because she’d never offered to listen, and she never told him her problems. Not the real ones, anyway. If she wanted him to open up, she had to do the same. By the end of the night, she resolved to let him know more about her family.

  “Hey,” she said. “You’d be surprised at what I can help you with. You won’t know unless you tell me.”

  He shook his head, seemingly throwing off his tension, and then removed his suit jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. He sprawled long legs and loosened his tie. That’s all he did. But the paring of his decorous mask revealed rampant masculinity. A sliver of heat unfurled in Liza’s lower belly, and she allowed herself a moment to appreciate him in a way she’d neither the propensity nor courage to do in the past. Her gaze lingered on his long legs, moved up his trim torso, snug in a button-down shirt, and then shifted to his sleeves rolled to the forearms. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he ate. Rough scruff grew dark and thick along his square jaw, accentuating the angle. He would need a shave soon. She’d like to be the one who shaved it. And then she’d lick that neck. Maybe she’d lick it now.

  A blush hit her cheeks.

  Another spear of d
esire pooled low and insistent between her legs.

  She squirmed a little and kept eating. After a few more moments of companionable silence, she said, “This is nice.”

  When his obsidian gaze met hers, she couldn’t decipher his thoughts. His finger rimmed the wine glass while he watched her with unblinking contemplation that made her want to squirm.

  What was he thinking? Feeling?

  She knew she’d never sensed his lust, but it had always been there. Other moments like these popped into her mind—when he’d simply stared at her while toying with the rim of a soda can, glass, or something else.

  “What are you thinking?” she blurted.

  “I’m thinking you need a straw.” The gravel in his voice shuddered down her spine. “You usually use a straw.”

  Her breath hitched.

  A breathy sound came out of him. It reminded her of something an animal made when it warned another from its food. A short, sharp grumble of warning. His eyes weren’t on the food. They were on her lips.

  He cleared his throat and pointed at the box of case files. “What did you bring?”

  Whatever tension had been hanging in the air was gone. She frowned, shoved the last mouthful of food in, and then shifted over to the box on the floor. The surface area down there was the biggest, so she laid down the forensic crime scene shots and placed the sketches beside them.

  Over the past few months, Evan had been amassing quite the collection of dream sketches, or she should say nightmare sketches. Included among the subject matter were faceless women lined up, sleeping, often with strange faces looming over them. There were also pregnant women crying through shallow holes for eyes. And through it all, Evan’s hurried frenzied charcoal strokes and smudges cast an all together haunting aesthetic. One could almost believe they were simply art pieces in a horror show and not windows into the future.

  When Evan had drawn the likeness of Liza’s assailant, he’d been struck with familiarity. He’d recognized the same man from previous sketches and had retrieved a few for Liza.

  “Evan dreams the future,” she murmured, laying the last of the pictures out. “He’s seen the Syndicate taking women, and Daisy has confirmed it.”