Evil to the Max (23 page)

“Fuck.”

“I don’t think it warrants that kind of language.” Of course, it did, but she wouldn’t admit it. That would give him too much power.

“What did you do, Max? Tell me quick, or I might break those promises and beat you all at the same time.”

“I searched his house, stole the disk, he came in, he threatened me, sexually harassed me, admitted he might have coerced someone into killing Tiffany, then I ran out, and drove home.” She gasped, trying to catch her breath after the tumultuous barrage of words.

Witt wheeled on his boot heel and presented her his back. He raked a hand through his thick hair in short, stabbing motions. Finally, he turned back to her with fire flashing in his eyes.

“You ought to be locked up for your own safety. What the hell did you think you were doing?” Lips tense and white, eyes narrowed, hands fisted, Witt’s anger was impressive.

Max quaked in her tennies. “You promised you wouldn’t get mad.”

“I lied,” he snapped, all trace of humor gone. “You could have gotten arrested. You could have been raped. He might have killed you.”

She latched onto the last thing he’d said. “So you agree he’s a killer?”

“He could have shot you because he thought you were a burglar, which you damn well were. And he’d have gotten away with it, too. You need a watchdog, Max. I can’t believe you actually broke into his house. How the hell did you get past the alarm?”

Uh-oh, too many full sentences all at once. Witt was perturbed. “All this from a man who breaks into my apartment with sex on his mind?”

His features remained rigid, and he didn’t say a word.

All right, so maybe interjecting a little sexual jest wasn’t the appropriate thing. She hated being on the defensive, but at this point, Witt wasn’t giving her much of a chance.

She answered his charges. “He didn’t have an alarm. And I didn’t get caught or raped or murdered. And if you hadn’t done a little B&E on
my
house, you never would have known about it. Besides, I did get this.” She waved the disk in his face. “I know it’s important.”

“You’re obsessed, Max. Bud Traynor is not your nemesis.
You
are your own worst enemy.”

“Cameron told me to take it.”

He stopped, stared down at her. “And you’re crazy on top of it.” He threw his hands in the air. “How the hell am I going to explain about you to my mother?”

“What?”

“My mother. How am I supposed to introduce you? Mom, this is Max, the woman of my dreams. But she talks to her dead husband and has psychic visions.”

“I am
not
meeting your mother.” She felt the blood seep right out of her brain. The thought horrified her. If she’d quaked before at the sight of Witt’s ire, she was downright close to peeing in her pants just contemplating a visit with his mother.

“You don’t have a choice. She wants to meet you, and what my mother wants, she gets.”

She stared at him aghast. “Are you a momma’s boy?”

“Do I look like a momma’s boy?”

She eyed him up and down. Nope, he did not, in any way, shape, or form.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the top of the stairs. “Come on.”

“I am certainly not going to meet her now. It’s almost midnight.”

“She’s seventy-eight. She goes to bed at nine o’clock. I’m taking you to
my
house to watch this damn thing you stole. Then in the morning, I’m going out to buy you a decent deadbolt because the one you have sucks. It practically fell apart when I touched it. And when I lose my badge because of your antics, you’re going to have to support me. Are you prepared for that, Max?”

Wow, what a speech. She couldn’t tell if he was serious.

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream. She wanted to meet his mother.

Holy shit. Things were really getting scary. Without even bringing Bud Traynor into it.

Chapter Twenty-One

Max had wanted to drive her own car. Witt had refused. It was the price she’d have to pay to see what was on that video.

But she found ways to make
him
pay, first by nagging him the entire trip up Highway 101 to his house.

“Admit you tried to trick me.” She hadn’t seen his truck because he’d parked it around the corner.

He smiled, but didn’t look at her. “Couldn’t take the risk of tipping off your assailant if you were being held captive. You might have been lying prostrate on the floor or with a knife at your throat, so I let myself into your place.”

“You’re such a liar.” Way worse than she was. But damn, she loved arguing with him. It was sort of like the way she and Cameron argued ... no, she wasn’t going there.

Witt lived in Burlingame, the city next to his own police jurisdiction. She, on the other hand, lived in the South Bay, which meant almost a forty-five minute trek for him every time he came down her way, worse in heavy traffic. “How the hell are you getting your detective work done if you keep running down to my place every day?”

They pulled onto a tree-lined street she assumed was his. “I’m not. My captain’s threatening to fire me. It’s puppy love, Max. Put me out of my misery. Kiss me.”

She sighed. “You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

“Yeah. The old Dodge Ram does it every time.” He patted the dash.

She sputtered. “How did you know about—”

He winked at her, turned into a driveway, then shut the lights off. Darkness and quiet enveloped them. It was long after midnight. She thought of things she usually did with men after midnight. Her cheeks blazed in the gloom.

He leaned close, smelling of soap and horny thoughts. “How do I know? By that little
ooh
noise you make whenever you see one of these black and red babies. Especially when you see
my
truck.”

“I do not make a noise.”

“Yeah, you do. Under your breath. Don’t think you even know you’re doing it. Drives me nuts.”

She couldn’t think of a suitable set down. Which wasn’t like her.

“Wonder what other things you make that little
ooh
sound for.” He slid his arm along the seat behind her, his sleeve brushing the hair at the back of her neck.

“You’ll never know, buddy boy.” She opened the door and slid out before he could touch her. She was damn good at the running game.

Witt kept his good humor. She wondered how long he’d stay that way. Historically, men didn’t have long attention spans.

His house was small, with a slate blue and cream color scheme, a concrete front porch, and a neat lawn with flowering shrubs along the walk. Flower boxes adorned the porch railing, but the geraniums were at the end of their season and a bit leggy. He’d left the front light on.

He unlocked the door, ushered her in, then reached around her to flip on the living room light.

His beeper went off. Startled, Max jumped and bumped into him. He didn’t so much as waver. Damn, the guy was built like an ox, but he smelled like an angel. Damn his aftershave, too.

He reached to his belt and tilted the beeper readout. His mouth curved in a disgusted frown.

“Gotta go? I can watch the DVD while you’re out, give you a report,” she offered.

“Your eagerness overwhelms me. It’s only Scro—Scranton. One call will get him out of my hair.”

Scranton; that was Coffee Breath. She’d met him at Witt’s station house the day she’d first told him about Tiffany. “Your partner?”

Witt rolled his eyes. She couldn’t tell if that was a yes or no. She perused his house while he went into the kitchen, presumably to use the phone.

The living room was tidy, paint still fresh and white, but the furniture was vintage seventies, and the carpet was a sculptured shag of the same era. This was not the style of a woman who always wanted more, and certainly not the style of a woman who insisted her toilets lids be down at all times. Bookcases lined one wall, filled with an eclectic selection of titles. Everything from male-dominated mysteries and espionage tales to The Iliad and Plato. She wouldn’t have branded him as the philosophical type.

In the end, Witt took less than five minutes to get rid of Scranton.

Max pelted him with questions the minute he returned. “Was this the house you lived in with your wife?”

“No. My grandmother’s. She passed away three years ago and left it to me.”

Wow, the lady must have been ooooold. “How long have you been divorced?”

“Four years.” He plucked the disk still clutched to her breast, grabbed the remote, turned the machine on, then pushed the open button. When the tray slid out, he laid the DVD in it. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the beige sofa. “Want some popcorn for the show?”

She stared at him, her limbs suddenly turning to jelly. She felt rushed. “You’re kidding me?”

In the midst of pressing buttons, he looked at her. “No, I wasn’t.”

“But ... well ... the disk ... it’s not a joke.”

She hadn’t really thought about what was on it. First she’d been freaked by Traynor, and then run. Then she’d been pissed at Cameron, and finally, she’d been sucked into sexy banter with the detective. It was only now that she found the possible content utterly terrifying.

“Can I see the rest of the place first?”

He straightened, tipped his head, then asked, “What?” as if he couldn’t quite believe what she’d said.

“I want to see the house.” He was an idiot if he didn’t see right through that bogus excuse.

“You wanna see the bedroom?” An idiot or a sex maniac.

She wasn’t sure which boded better for her. She pursed her lips. “You have a one-track mind. I want to know where the bathroom is. I can’t sit still until I know where the nearest bathroom is. Call it a little quirk of mine.”

He laughed. His dimples came out. “You just wanna know if the toilet seat’s down.”

Damn. The man was a mind reader on par with Cameron. In
some
things.

He gave her the tour. The kitchen was white and black tile, white and black linoleum, and white appliances. No dirty dishes in the sink, not even a pot in the dish drainer. This was a definite point in his favor.

“You wanna check the refrigerator?”

“Huh?”

“Just to see if I’ve got any rotten food in there?” She raised her eyebrows at his words. “Yeah, Max, I see that little mind of yours working. You’re an open book.”

She wondered how obvious she was about other stuff.

Very obvious
.

Cameron! She didn’t give him the pleasure of a smart retort.

The bathroom had the same black and white tile over the tub and on the counter. She liked the scheme. When Witt started to enter the bedroom, she held back.

“Chicken?”

Yes. “Of course not. But I want to know what you meant when you said I was exactly the woman to understand you.”

“Said that over an hour ago,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, well, I’m just getting to it now.”

He shook his head in wonder. “An amazing mind. You don’t forget anything.”

“Not unless I want to. Now spill it.”

“You won’t like it.”

Hmmm. Scary stuff coming. She forged ahead. “I can handle it.”

He cleared his throat. She was glad that she’d made him at least a little bit nervous. “You ... seem to be capable of doing things ... most women would not be particularly proud of.” He
was
uncomfortable, a first for him.

A lesser woman would shrivel up and die right about now. Or melt into a mortified puddle of goo on the floor. Max squared her shoulders. “And your point is?”

“Figure someone like you could understand the things a man might not be proud of ... without hating him.”

“Such as?” She didn’t really want to know.

He was silent a moment, his jaw shifted as he considered her. “Not yet, Max. Not now. Don’t think you’re ready.”

She laughed. It came out like a bark. “Now who’s chicken?”

“Maybe both of us.”

“I really hate it when you get all serious.” She thanked God he was chicken, because he was also right on the mark. She was definitely not ready for him. She wasn’t sure she ever would be.

She turned without going into the bedroom, padded back down the hall, and stopped just inside the living room. She felt like a school kid who’d just been asked a question by the teacher. A question she didn’t know the answer to. Her knees were weak, her chest was tight, and her fingers were starting to tingle. Plus, she still had to face what was on that stolen disk.

“Uh, what about that popcorn you were going to make?”

“Sit. Stalling won’t make it any easier.” His voice was soft, right next to her ear, sending a shower of sparks down her spine. He
had
seen right through her, in more ways than one.

Somewhere near the ceiling over the fireplace, Cameron laughed at her.

She settled into the corner of the couch, kicked off her tennies, and pulled her knees to her chin. Witt grabbed the remote, then sat beside her.

She looked down her nose at him. “Do you have to take your half out of the middle?”

He grinned. “My TV, my DVD player, my couch. I’ll take my half anywhere I want.” And with that he sidled inches closer and draped his arm along the back of the sofa, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his skin. “Wouldn’t be so much fun poking at you, if you weren’t so prickly all the time.”

He pointed the remote.

“Wait.”

His hand thunked to his thigh. “What’s wrong now?”

She swallowed. She could have said she had to go the bathroom. Or that she needed a glass of water. Or wanted to blow her nose. All the tactics of a little kid who didn’t want to go to bed.

Or watch a scary movie on TV.

Be a big girl, Max
. It might have been Cameron. Then again, it might have been an echo of her own voice. “All right. Play it.”

He aimed. The TV came on with a soft blue glow, the machine whirred, and Tiffany Lloyd sat, bound and gagged, on a chair in a small blue room.

Max tasted the rag, oil, and gasoline, and nearly retched. She drew her heels up closer to her butt, as if that could somehow distance her from Tiffany’s sensations.