Don't Play With Odin (Trouble For Hire Book 2)

by Cynthia Eden

  She was one hundred percent safe with him. Odin dropped the blankets and pillow onto the floor. “I’m gonna want to hear about all the information you had on your neighbor.”

  “Hearing isn’t the same as seeing the material with your own eyes. You might just think I’m making it up as I go along.”

  Maybe. Maybe not. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

  “A History of Bloody Murder and Madness.”

  “Uh, okay.” Where was he supposed to go with that?

  “It’s the name of my podcast. I research famous unsolved crimes and talk about who I think the actual killers were. You know, like say…Jack the Ripper. No one ever actually uncovered his real identity, but in my podcast, I spent four episodes talking about who I thought he was. And, of course, there is the Lizzie Borden case. Most people just take for granted that Lizzie picked up an ax and killed her parents back in the late 1800s, but what if she didn’t do it? What if someone else was behind the attack and Lizzie took the fall?”

  He tried to follow along. Failed. “What do Jack the Ripper and Lizzie Borden have to do with your neighbor?”

  “Nothing.” Her hands twisted in front of her. “Everything.”

  Super clear answer. He frowned at her.

  “Research. That’s how I got the details about Jack and Lizzie. How I found new pieces in the puzzles. When something doesn’t feel right, I can’t stop. I have to keep digging and digging. Clay—he didn’t feel right. Not from day one.”

  So she thought her next door neighbor was a killer because of a feeling?

  “He got the job he has after my friend Whitney Augustine vanished. She was the head of the psych department, and one day, she just didn’t show up for work. Her car was found in her driveway. Her personal belongings were still in the house, and Whitney was just…gone.”

  Now he held up a hand. “Back up.”

  She stared at him expectantly.

  “You didn’t mention that you work with Clay Prescott.”

  “Technically, I don’t. He’s psychology. I’m history. Our paths hardly ever cross but…” She shrugged. “Yes, we are at the same college.”

  “And you became suspicious of him after Whitney Augustine vanished.”

  “I was looking for her. Like I told you, she was my friend.” Her lips pressed together. Then… “She wouldn’t have just vanished without telling me. I mean, it’s like she just fell off the face of the earth. That doesn’t happen.”

  Sometimes it did. When you were running from someone. Or something.

  “There was a packed bag found in her den. A suitcase that she used for travel. Because of that bag, the cops just assumed she’d left on her own, so they didn’t spend a lot of resources looking for her.” Frustration boiled in her voice. “That made zero sense! If she was leaving, she would have taken the bag. Not left it. But they said there were no signs of foul play. The trail got cold. And everyone else seemed to move on and forget about her.”

  Obviously, Maisey hadn’t forgotten. Pain was in her voice as she spoke of her friend.

  “I couldn’t let it go. I started looking at her life. Trying to see if I could help her. If Whitney was in trouble, I needed to help her. And that’s when I found him.”

  “Prescott?”

  A quick nod. “He’d started at Dunson a few months before Whitney’s disappearance. She was the one who brought him here. They had worked together at another college before Whitney moved to this area. Only…when I looked at that other school—Plymouth South, it’s also located here in Florida—do you know what I found?”

  He had no idea.

  “The professor that Clay replaced there—Jenny Lynch—she also vanished.”

  His shoulders stiffened. “You have my attention.”

  “Right?” she exclaimed. “Because that is too big of a coincidence. This guy gets two desirable jobs because the women who’d been in those spots just vanished? Like that just randomly happens?”

  Statistically, yes, that shit didn’t just happen. Not twice.

  “Then I looked deeper.”

  Of course, she had.

  “When Clay was eighteen, he was dating a girl named Hannah Martinez. They’d been high school sweethearts. Until…a few days before graduation, Hannah disappeared.”

  Fuck.

  “She was never found. Just as Jenny Lynch was never found. And my friend Whitney? It’s been two months, and there has been no sign of her. I filed a missing person’s report, but I swear, I don’t think it’s gone anywhere since the first week.” Her hands had fisted. “Then Clay was promoted to Whitney’s position at the college, and he moved into the neighborhood. Right next to me. And I had the first break-in. And everything just feels…off.”

  Because everything damn well was off. Three women missing, and the common denominator was Clay? Suspicious as hell.

  “I know it’s circumstantial. But he has ties to the missing women. He is the only link I’ve found between them all. The cops said it wasn’t enough. I get that I need more. But you—” She inched closer. “I have you now. You can help me to find more.” Her shoulders rolled back. “Or, if I’m totally wrong, you can help me to figure that out, too. But Whitney was good to me. I can’t just forget about her. I have to try. And if he is hurting women, k-killing them,” she stammered a bit on that word, “then we have to stop him.”

  Odin stared into her eyes. What was a man supposed to do when a woman looked at him with eyes like hers? All soulful, deep? Hopeful? She was staring at him like he was some kind of damn hero, when he’d been feeling like the walking dead for months.

  “I’m so glad I have you.” She gave him a quick smile, one that packed the double wallop of her dimples.

  Uh, yeah, when exactly was the last time someone had told him that?

  “We’ll get the truth,” Odin promised. The words sounded like a vow because they were. She had faith in him. She was staring at him like he was the good guy. Asking him to save the freaking day and shit.

  He’d do his best. For her.

  For the friend that was missing. He’d figure out what was happening with Clay Prescott. Sure, Odin’s tactics might not be the best—he might have to twist and break more rules in order to get to the truth. But, no matter what, he would get the job done.

  Maisey rocked forward onto the balls of her feet. Judging by her expression and body language, he really, really felt like another hug was coming on. That hug would be wrong for a thousand different reasons. The main reason? If she touched him again, he’d hold on—too tightly—to her.

  So Odin stepped back. Tried to remove himself from temptation.

  Her long eyelashes flickered at his movement.

  “Get some sleep,” he ordered gruffly. “Tomorrow, we start this case.”

  She swallowed. “Right. Ah…thanks, again.” She turned away. Hurried in those cute canvas sneakers toward her bedroom. When the door shut behind her with a soft click, Odin realized he’d been holding his breath.

  He released it in a slow rush.

  What in the hell am I doing?

  ***

  She wasn’t sure what woke her. One minute, Maisey had been in a deep sleep. Maybe having a slightly sexual dream about a big, blond Viking type who stared at her with smoldering blue eyes as he pulled her close—

  But then she was jerking awake and her heart was about to burst from her chest and Maisey opened her mouth to scream because something was wrong and her instincts were going crazy and—

  “Don’t make a sound.”

  Her head whipped to the right.

  A big, menacing shadow loomed beside her bed.

  Screw not making a sound. She sucked in a breath and prepared to give the biggest scream of her life.

  Chapter Three

  “Maisey. It’s me.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

  Odin.

  The big, menacing shadow was Odin. Of course, it was. And those were Odin’s slightly callused fingertips closing around her wrist.

 
But why was Odin in her bedroom? On her bed?

  “We’ve got a situation.”

  They did? She focused on breathing. Big, heaving breaths as her heart galloped in her chest.

  “Our perp is on the move.”

  Her gaze cut to the bedside table. The glowing numbers on her clock told her it was 1:47 a.m. An odd time for her neighbor to be taking a drive.

  “He just loaded up the back of his car with one big-ass duffel bag.”

  “OhmyGod.” Now her hand twisted so that she was the one holding onto him. “The kind of bag that you use to hide a body?” she whispered.

  “Okay, so, when I said don’t make a sound, I really just meant don’t scream. You don’t have to whisper. It’s just us.”

  Maisey cleared her throat and repeated, “The kind of bag that you use to hide a body?”

  “Or the kind of bag you use when you’ve just packed up all of your shit because you know that you’re suspected of a serious crime and you want to make a run for it.”

  Yes, fine, that, too.

  “I’m going over there,” Odin announced. He stood. Pulled his hand from hers. “I just didn’t want you to wake up and find me gone. Didn’t want you, ah, worrying or something.”

  She jumped out of bed, too. “You mean we’re going over there.” Her t-shirt brushed over her thighs. “Just let me get some pants.” Pants. Shoes. Maybe a weapon. No, definitely a weapon. She tried to spring past him and rush toward her closet. She kept a baseball bat at the ready in there.

  His arm curled around her and pulled her back against him. “Oh, fuck.” He let her go as if he’d been burned. “You’re not wearing a bra.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m wearing a t-shirt and panties because I was sleeping and I like to be comfortable while I sleep and—”

  “Fuck,” he said again.

  “Give me two minutes, and I’ll be dressed.” Once more, she sprang for the closet.

  “You’re staying here. If he’s a killer, then I don’t want you in his line of sight. I just wanted you to know where I was going.”

  He was benching her? She’d just flipped on the light in her closet.

  “Turn the light off,” Odin ordered. “We don’t want him knowing we’re awake over here.”

  She flipped the light right back off.

  “Lock the front door behind me. I have to go, now. He went back into his house, probably to grab more belongings, and I need to get over there before our guy races away.”

  Odin’s shadowy form was moving for her bedroom door. Maisey bounded after him. She bounded so fast that she bumped into his back.

  “Panties,” he growled.

  “Um, what about them?” She was wearing them. She’d assured him of that already.

  He didn’t speak. Just stalked through her house in the darkness and didn’t even stumble. Meanwhile, she was clinging tightly to the back of his t-shirt and trying not to trip with every step.

  “Bet they are sexy as fuck,” Odin finally muttered.

  Her cheeks flushed. Her panties were so not. They were white and plain, but she made a mental note to purchase some sexy underwear. Especially if Odin was going to be all curious about them.

  She heard the faint sound of an engine. “He’s trying to get away!”

  “The hell he is.” Odin yanked open the front door and rushed into the night.

  ***

  The car had just whipped into the road. A sporty red Mustang. Odin realized the headlights were off. Just another mark against old Clay Prescott. Because who the hell drove away in the middle of the night with the headlights off?

  The bad guy, that was who.

  Odin thought he’d have to give chase, and he was already preparing to hop in his Jeep—a recent purchase that he’d gotten for a steal after the big case with War’s lady—but then Clay braked his car. He jumped out. Ran back to the house.

  Seriously? He’d forgotten something else?

  And the dick had just left his car idling in the street.

  Fine. If he wanted to make things easy on Odin, that was cool.

  Odin hurried toward the vehicle. The dumbass had left the keys in the ignition. Odin glanced toward the front of Clay’s house, then helped himself to those keys. The car’s engine fell silent, and the quiet on the street felt deafening.

  Odin took the keys around to the trunk. Pushed the trunk release lever and had the back swinging up. He stared at the giant duffel bag and remembered Maisey’s words.

  The kind of bag that you use to hide a body?

  The bag was certainly lumpy in the way that could indicate a body was inside. The left side even appeared to be round like…like maybe with the shape of a head. Hell, he really did not want to find a dead body in that bag.

  But he had to look and see.

  He leaned forward and tugged down the zipper. The round object rolled right out—

  “What in the hell are you doing?” Clay Prescott called.

  More round objects rolled out and slid around the trunk. Basketballs. The duffel bag had been full of freaking basketballs.

  “You left your car running in the middle of the night.” Odin’s fingers curled around the keys he held. “I was worried. Especially when I saw the trunk was open and you were nowhere to be seen.”

  “The trunk was open?” Clay ducked his head to peer inside. “Dammit, the balls fell out again.” He scrambled to push them back into the bag.

  Odin slid to the right. He saw that Clay had what looked like whistles hanging out of the right pocket of his jogging pants. “Going to coach a game?” he asked, voice mild. At almost two a.m.?

  “I volunteer at the community center. The kids have a practice at seven in the morning, but I have a flight I have to catch at four. The assistant coach is going to cover for me.” He zipped up the bag. “I realized I had all the equipment, so I was going to drop it off.” Clay shoved back from the vehicle. “Are those my keys you’re holding?”

  “Took them out when I realized the car was on, but no one was inside.” Odin tossed the key fob back to Clay. “Going out of town, huh? Where are you heading?”

  Clay slammed the trunk. “Why the hell are you out here at this time of night?”

  “Because my girlfriend had a break-in at her place hours ago.” And you’re my fucking chief suspect. Instead of saying that, Odin added, “I woke up to the sound of an engine running only there were no headlights turned on for the vehicle. Seemed like someone was trying to be sneaky outside. So I investigated.”

  “Ah…girlfriend, huh? No more ‘special friend’ BS?” Clay blew out a hard breath. “Figured she’d be with someone.” He cast a fast glance toward Maisey’s place. “And look, I wasn’t trying to be sneaky. Okay, I mean…I kinda was. I didn’t want to wake her or anything so I was keeping the lights off so they wouldn’t shine through her window.”

  Clay still hadn’t told Odin where he was heading. Odin had seen a small, overnight bag in the rear seat, so it obviously wasn’t a big trip.

  “It’s a memorial service,” Clay muttered. “An old friend of mine…it’s been ten years since Hannah…um, since her death. I’m flying up to Tennessee to pay my respects, then coming back late Sunday night.”

  Ten years? Exactly? Maisey hadn’t mentioned that. Anniversaries were often very significant for perps.

  “Now, if you don’t mind…” Clay moved toward the driver’s side. “I need to get going. Lots to do before my flight.”

  “Sure thing.” He took up a position on the sidewalk. “Have a good trip. Oh, and Clay?”

  Clay had just started to slide into the vehicle. At Odin’s words, he paused.

  “My condolences on your friend. Even after ten years, I’m sure it still hurts.”

  “Not as much as you might think.” Clay slid inside. Slammed the door.

  Drove away.

  Not as much as you might think. That was one cold-ass thing to say. But then, Odin was starting to think that Clay Prescott was one cold-ass man. Odin stood there un
til the vehicle left the street. He saw Clay turn on his lights just as he turned right.

  When he was sure the other man was gone, Odin slowly pulled his hand from his pocket. Before he’d tossed the keys back to Clay, he’d taken the liberty of keeping one key for himself.

  The key to Clay’s house.

  He heard footsteps rustling behind him. At least Maisey had waited until Clay left before making an appearance. And, please, be wearing pants. Because the mental image of Maisey just in her t-shirt and panties was more than enough to have his over-eager dick springing to attention.

  “Since you let him go, I’m guessing there wasn’t a body in the trunk?” Her low voice teased his ears.

  He turned toward her. “Basketballs. Your serial killer next door volunteers at the community center and coaches basketball.”

  “I knew that. He also works in a soup kitchen once a month and has a free tutoring program at the college.” She inched closer. “So either the man is a saint or he is really good at hiding his true self. Ted Bundy was good at fooling people, too, you know.” She put her hands on her hips. Jean-clad hips, thank Christ. She was dressed.

  And he was…mostly glad.

  A horny-as-hell part of him was sad.

  “Why was he taking basketballs out in the middle of the night?”

  “Because your killer has a four a.m. flight. He’s dropping them off at the community center on his way to the airport.” A pause. “Turns out, it’s the tenth anniversary of his…friend’s death. He’s heading back to Tennessee to pay his respects.”

  “Hannah,” she breathed the name. “It has been ten years.”

  “He won’t be back until Sunday night, so that gives us plenty of time…” He lifted his hand. The moonlight and starlight overhead would provide just enough light for her to see what he held. “To search his house.”

  “How did you get the key?” Maisey definitely sounded impressed.

  Good. “I’m a professional.” Though, stealing from suspects was probably not what most professional PIs did. Oh, well. He was still new to the biz. “You want to take a look inside?”

  “Yes. Absolutely one hundred percent, yes.”