In the Air Tonight (18 page)

I turned back to the computer just as someone tried to open the door.

*   *   *

Bobby finally got a chance to return Sullivan’s call several hours later. By then his partner had called a few more times.

“Asshole,” Sullivan said by way of greeting.

“I almost got incinerated today. Be nice.”

Silence followed. “You what?”

“I went to interview a witness, and her house exploded.”

“Really?”

“Do I often make things up?”

“That’s usually me.”

Conner Sullivan was the least likely person to make things up that Bobby had ever met. Which was why he’d always wondered about the whole loup-garou thing. Of course anyone could snap. He had. And while Bobby hadn’t seen werewolves, he had felt, seen, heard, smelled … something. Usually when he was tired, sad, alone.

And drunk.

He shook off those memories. He didn’t need to dwell on that time in his life. He had too many other things to dwell on.

“You and the witness get out okay?”

“I did. She was already dead when I got there.” Or close enough.

“How many bodies does that make?”

“Two. Well, three if you count the perp. The first perp. Not the second. Who’s still at large.”

“And here I thought you were getting the sweet deal.”

“I’d trade you but—” Bobby paused. He wouldn’t trade. He was staying until he solved this case and made sure Raye was safe.

“No, thanks,” Sullivan said. “I don’t like big trees.”

Which only made two of them.

“You’d really have hated the wolf that came out of them last night.”

“Wolf?” His partner cleared his throat. “What did it look like?”

“Like a big dog with spindly legs. What was it supposed to look like?”

“Was there something weird about its eyes?”

Bobby’d been too far away to see much beyond the fact that it had eyes. “Weird how?”

“Never mind. Just…” Sullivan took a breath, let it out. “You got any silver bullets?”

“Funny guy.”

“I’ve never been funny in my life.”

“Except for your ties.”

“What’s wrong with my ties?”

“Besides that you’re always wearing them?” Bobby had tossed his ties after one summer as a New Orleans detective.

“Bobby,” Conner said, so softly Bobby leaned forward, even though he wouldn’t be able to hear any better across the thousand-plus miles separating them if he leaned over so far he fell on his face. “Silver kills same as lead.”

“Then why do I need it?”

“Because lead doesn’t kill the same as silver.”

“You’re starting to worry me.”

“Only starting?”

“I doubt there’s a silver bullet shop here anyway.” Although Bobby could easily see there being one in New Orleans.

“You’d be surprised.”

Bobby let the subject drop. “Why did you call me…”—he glanced at his phone log—“four times?”

“First because the boss wanted to know when you were coming back.”

He should have known that question was coming. He’d only been authorized to stay for a day. “Not until things are settled here.”

“He ain’t gonna like that.”

“He doesn’t like much. I’ll take some of my vacation time if I need to, but I’m staying.”

“All right,” Sullivan said. “Just … be careful.”

“It’s a lot less dangerous here than it is there, pal.”

Bobby wasn’t really so sure about that, and from the way Sullivan snorted, he wasn’t either, but his partner moved on. “I finally got a chance to go to the Hotel St. Germain.”

It took a second for Bobby to place the name. Cold case. “What did you find?”

“Like most hotels, every room on every floor has the same floor plan. Which means that if someone on the floor below goes into their closet and cuts a hole in the ceiling…”

“They come out in the locker upstairs. How could no one see a hole in the floor?”

“It was under the carpet.”

“Then how could anyone get shot? Carpet would not only prevent the shooter from seeing, but leave a bullet hole.”

“Not if the stuff lies loose and isn’t tacked or glued down. The rest of the room was, but not the closet, which is probably why no one thought of it. The shooter cut a hole—very well I might add, only cut through the ceiling and not the floor covering. He tosses it back, waits for victim to open the closet, bang, pulls the carpet in place and glues in the ceiling hole.”

“Pretty smart.”

“And he might have gotten away with it too—”

“If not for those pesky kids,” Bobby finished.

“Scooby-Doo,”
Sullivan said. “Love that show. Bought the tie.”

“Of course you did. Did you catch the guy?”

“Yep. Typical perp. Smart about some things, not so much about most of them. He registered for the room under his own name.”

Bobby was constantly amazed, and by now he really shouldn’t be, at how dumb some people were.

“You wanna tell me why you had a hunch about a case that is so cold I got shivers just thinking about it?”

Bobby had a shiver right now. He’d had a lot of them since coming to New Bergin. He blamed the autumn chill, which had settled over the crime scene like an icy fog as the sun fell toward the trees.

“We solved the case. Does it matter why?”

“Suppose not.”

“Out of curiosity, why did he do it?”

“A woman.”

“Figures.” When a murder wasn’t about the opposite sex, it was about money. And a lot of times it was about both.

Which made him wonder about his current murder. Sex or money? Both or neither? Bobby no longer thought these murders were random, but if not, then what were they about?

His head ached again. Probably time for more aspirin. Or a new job.

“I’ll be in touch.”

“I can’t wait,” his partner replied.

“Asshole,” Bobby said, which rounded the conversation nicely.

The local police were still working the scene, because the scene was all over the place.

“You need help?” he asked Johnson.

“Not from you.” The chief rolled his eyes. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You look horrible. Go home.”

“Happy to.” Bobby headed for his car.

“Not home, home,” Johnson shouted. “Don’t leave town.”

“Hadn’t planned to.” Bobby drove toward his current home away from home, which led him on the same path he’d taken the first night he’d come. And like that night, he stopped in front of Raye’s apartment. Not because she ran in front of his car, but because he happened to notice that the crime scene tape was gone. Raye hadn’t mentioned that her apartment had been cleared and neither had Johnson.

Then he saw a flicker of yellow over the edge of the landing. As if someone had yanked off the tape and gone inside.

The window was open. Flickers of light played on the ceiling. Not gold, like a lamp. Not blue, like a television. If Raye were there, wouldn’t she have turned on both?

He got out of the car and climbed the stairs, hoping none of them creaked. To avoid an overworked area, he crept along the guardrail, careful not to jiggle it too. He made it to the landing without a sound—you’d think he’d done this before. Once there, he listened, thought he heard a voice inside, but he couldn’t be sure.

Was Raye on the phone? Talking to herself? She seemed to make a habit of that, but really, who didn’t? He listened again, but he couldn’t tell if the voice was hers.

He was tempted to call her name, but what if it wasn’t her? What if it was another maniac? Right now surprise was on his side.

He drew his gun with one hand and turned the doorknob with the other.

Chapter 14

As I’d obsessively checked the lock on the door, it didn’t open. Still, I was stuck in here, with someone out there trying to get in. I could call a cop, but by the time any arrived I’d be dead. In that moment, I really wished I had my father’s gun.

The door rattled. My breath caught, and the butcher knife from the block on the counter flew toward me. I snatched it out of the air. Startling, a little frightening, but also very handy. I might be bringing a knife to a gunfight, but better than bringing nothing at all.

My heart pounded so loudly I was afraid whoever was out there would hear it. If not that, then definitely my rasping attempts not to hyperventilate. I considered calling out,
Who’s there?
Or perhaps,
I’m armed!
But maybe, just maybe, if they thought I was gone they’d go away too. So I bit my lip and remained silent.

The door rattled again, harder this time. I needed to know who was out there. What if he or she
did
go away? I’d never know who’d been there, and that was probably something I needed to.

I crept closer, fingers grasping the hilt of the knife so tightly they hurt. I’d never had a curtain on the window next to the door. Unless my guest was a Wallenda, it was too far over for anyone to peer into from the landing. Now I had to hope that whoever was out there was peering the other way, or that I could take a peek quickly enough for them not to notice. Why had I never had a new door installed? One that possessed one of those fancy, newfangled peepholes?

Because in New Bergin we didn’t have strangers. Until recently—yesterday—I’d probably been one of the few who locked the door that I had. And that was only because mine was inclined to blow open.

“Raye?” Bobby said from the other side.

Could a person have a heart attack from relief? I yanked open the door, and then I just stood there trying to breathe. He looked like I felt—overworked, underpaid, and desperate for an adult beverage.

“Expecting someone?” He cast a pointed glance at my right hand.

I still held the knife. I set it on the coffee table. “It’s been kind of a rough day.”

“Kind of,” he agreed.

“And you?” I cast an equally pointed glance at his gun.

He shrugged and put it back in the holster. “Everyone’s jumpy.”

He was still covered in soot, the dirt on his face making his eyes shine bright blue. He had shadows beneath them—he had shadows
in
them—but shadows called to me.
He
called to me. Reaching out, I pulled him inside. He kicked shut the door and kissed me. I fisted my hands in his filthy shirt and held on.

His heart beat hard and fast like mine. I suppose he’d been as concerned about what was on the other side of the door as I had. Hence the gun.

I let my fingers stroke, along with my tongue. He grasped my hips, pulled me close, tilted his head and delved. His teeth grazed my lips, his thumbs grazed the heavy fullness of my loose breasts, and I shuddered, opening, swelling, groaning.

When he lowered his head and took both my nipple and my shirt into his mouth, my body bowed. My hands went from his chest to his head, my fingers clenching in his hair. I both didn’t want him to stop and I wanted him to move on, to take that clever mouth and show me all that I’d missed.

Then he used his teeth, and I thought I would explode like Mrs. Noita’s house. The sound I made was none I’d ever made before. When he lifted his head, I lifted mine. He frowned at my chest, then let me go so abruptly he had to catch me again before I fell. He cursed.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Had he been able to tell just by touching me that I hadn’t been touched in so long it barely counted?

“What do you have to be sorry about? I grabbed you. I put my filthy hands all over you. I’m sorry.”

Filthy hands? He had more issues than I did. Then I glanced down and saw what he meant. Black, finger-shaped marks marred my shirt; a gray circlet haloed my nipple. I twisted and sure enough, handprints clutched my ass. It was too ridiculous; I giggled.

His lips twitched. “You think it’s funny?”

“Right now,” I managed between gasping, half-hysterical breaths. “Everything is.”

“Maybe I should take you to the doctor.”

“I’d rather we played doctor.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. Had I said that?

Now he laughed. “You’re crazy.”

About you,
I thought. I managed, barely, not to say it.

“I…” He lifted a hand to his hair, grimaced, and lowered it, rubbing his palm on equally soiled jeans. “I need a shower.”

I indicated the bathroom. “Be my guest.”

“I don’t have any clean clothes.”

With what I had planned, he wouldn’t need them.

“I’ll put yours in the wash.”

For a minute I thought he’d refuse, then what would I do? Beg? I wanted him. But I also didn’t want to be alone. The idea of him walking out, of me staying here …

No, thanks.

Nevertheless, I’d have to remain. Being near me was dangerous.

“I can’t go back to my father’s,” I said.

Instead of asking why, he merely nodded. Another thing I liked about him. He connected the dots often and without help. Or at least those dots that ran in a fairly straight line.

Bobby unbuckled his belt, removed it and his gun, laid them on the end table near the couch. Then he reached for the hem of his shirt. He drew it upward, revealing bronzed, rippling flesh. I ran a fingertip along his stomach, just above the waistband of his jeans. Muscles danced.

“Keep that up,” he said, “and you’ll get a lot dirtier.”

“I don’t mind.”

He cocked his head. His fingers toyed with the top button of his jeans. I licked my lips, and he stilled. “I should probably take that shower.”

“Like hell,” I said, and opened the button myself.

He sprang free, hard and hot. I took him in my hand and squeezed. French curses erupted, perhaps a few in Spanish. I didn’t know, didn’t care. He felt more than good, better than great. He felt right. And that was such a strange thought, I pushed it aside along with the rest of his clothes.

The sun fell, providing just enough light to cast him in shades of gold and gray. I traced the shadows across his chest with my fingers, let my gaze trace others along his thighs. His penis twitched. I ran my thumb over the tip, liked the feel of it so much I did it again. I wondered how he would feel against my lips—both soft and hard, yet so alive. I went to my knees.

“Raye,” he began, but when my lips closed over him, he stopped talking, started moving. In and out, slowly, deeply.

I wanted to try everything I’d ever read about, heard about, dreamed about, and I wanted to try it with him. He wasn’t from here; he wouldn’t stay. While that might make most women cautious, it made me throw every caution I’d ever had into the suddenly whistling wind.