Legal Heat (4 page)

Heart pounding, she closed the distance between them and leaned up to brush her lips over his. Warm. Firm. He tasted of the richest wine and the darkest coffee. Lush and sensual. She had never known it until now, but sex had a taste. And he was it.

He stiffened and then groaned—a low, guttural, entirely thrilling sound. His mouth moved over hers, softly, gently, sweetly, but only for heartbeat, and then his lips slid away. Cool air rushed into the heated space between them.

Case closed.

She spun away, quickly buttoning her shirt before she grabbed her briefcase. “Time to rejoin the party.”

“Katy.”

She steeled herself to keep her face impassive as she turned around to face him, feigning calm, even as her bottom lip trembled and her body shook at the sudden drop in her arousal.

“Don’t think I don’t want you. I do. More than you could possibly imagine. But maybe…we should have that drink.”

She shrugged and then nodded. For the first time in her life, she had nothing to say.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He couldn’t believe he had stopped himself. Everything had been perfect: the intimate space, the dim lighting, the rich, heady scents of cedar and wine, and the lush beauty in his arms.

But a part of him knew if he took their encounter even a step further, he would never see her again. He sensed she truly was, as she had said, not that kind of girl, and he didn’t want to be the one to make her think otherwise.

He grabbed the Meursault and motioned for her to go up the stairs, enjoying the sway of her hips beneath the thin wool of her pencil skirt. He couldn’t let her just walk away. He wanted to unravel her secrets, bare her soul and discover the real reason behind his intense attraction.

They emerged from the quiet intimacy of the cellar into a maelstrom of light and sound, dancers and drinkers. Catching Katy’s desperate glance at the door, Mark grasped her arm. “Stay for a glass of the Meursault. You won’t find a better vintage in Vancouver, I promise you.”

He held up the bottle and smiled at her careful appraisal of the label. He didn’t often meet a woman who shared his appreciation of wine.

She bit her lip and studied him for a long moment. He steeled his mouth into a neutral expression while his heart thundered in his chest, ripe with anxiety.

Finally she gave him a non-committal shrug and rounded the bar.

Mark nodded toward a vacant seat while he fished around for a corkscrew. He pulled two glasses from the rack and turned to place them on the counter. Only then did he realize he was alone.

He made a quick visual sweep of the club, but it was once again a sea of PVC and leather. A trip to reception told him what his gut already knew.

Katy was gone.

And he was damn sure she wouldn’t be back.

“The body is this way, Detective Hunter.”

James shuffled through the living room of the run-down apartment, his crime suit rustling as he walked. The thrill of attending a new crime scene never faded, even after twelve years with Homicide, six in the drug unit and a couple of years on patrol. His colleagues called him a lifer. He called it love.

Mike, the newest member of his investigation team, shifted his weight from foot to foot as he waited on the other side of the room. New rules meant Mike had made it through to the homicide team with only three years under his belt instead of the usual seven. His youth and inexperience were evident in his lack of patience. As primary investigator, James had responsibility for the overall investigation and he needed time to take a good look around.

He nodded to the forensics squad scattered around the small space. With the blaze of floodlights setting their white suits aglow, the scene had a surreal, alien feel. He had never been interested in the painstaking and detailed procedures involved in forensic science. He enjoyed putting the pieces together. A big-picture kinda guy.

He skirted the empty pizza boxes and beer cans strewn across the threadbare carpet in the main living space. Peeling wallpaper hung in strands off the water-stained walls, and the scent of stale cigarette smoke filtered through his mask. Typical East Side apartment. Cheap. Run down. Rented by the week, sometimes by the day.

His feet thumped on the scratched linoleum tiles and he followed Mike down a narrow hallway to the bedroom. Mike pulled away the police tape and stood to the side to let James through. The coroner, always the first person allowed in the crime scene, had already come and gone, as had James’s supervisor, Sergeant Donaldson. Something in the room had rattled the two most imperturbable men he knew, and he steeled himself as he stepped across the threshold.

“We’ve unofficially identified him as Manuel Garcia, but the forensics department and the coroner’s service will have to confirm the identity because of the state of the body.” Mike swallowed hard and stiffened his spine. “No passport or immigration papers and nothing showing up on the database except a fake driver’s license. We believe he’s illegal. Wallet shows he works as a taxi driver for Speedaway Taxi Service. His girlfriend found him and called it in. She talked to him just a few hours ago.”

They skirted past a wooden dresser, broken armchair and small table. Garcia’s personal effects had already been tagged and bagged. No obvious signs of a struggle or break-in, but then people in this neighborhood didn’t have anything worth stealing.

Mike sucked in a sharp breath when they reached the bed. Garcia lay curled in a fetal position, covers drawn up to his shoulder and clutched between his hands. A silver bowl lay on the floor beside him. The pungent, acrid smell of bile permeated James’s protective mask and he gagged as he crouched down beside the victim to get a closer look.

“What the fuck?”

For a split second he thought his first assessment of aliens might be true. Barely recognizable as human, Garcia’s swollen, misshapen head dwarfed the small pillow on which it lay. He had seen pictures of John Merrick, the Elephant Man. The similarities were remarkable.

“Forensics has only just started processing the bed, and I’m not planning to be around when they lift the sheet,” Mike said.

James stood and took a step back. He thought he had seen everything after his years in the homicide unit, but there had been nothing like this. “Is it congenital?”

Mike shook his head. “We interviewed the landlord. He described Garcia as a regular guy. Nothing out of the ordinary. Hard-working. Honest.”

“Looks like some kind of allergic reaction. I have a friend who’s allergic to bees. He swells up whenever he gets stung, although I’ve never seen him as bad as that.”

“Maybe…we should tell Sergeant Donaldson it might not be homicide-related. He breezed in and out of here pretty fast.”

James snorted a laugh. “You don’t tell Donaldson anything. He tells you. He’s decided we should be involved, so we’re involved. You’ll benefit from the experience. Sometimes years go by with nothing more than gang murders and domestic violence to keep us busy.”

His cell buzzed against his hip. “I’ve seen all I need to see. I’m going to head back to the office. Let me know which pathologist the coroner’s office puts on the autopsy. We’ll definitely need a toxicology report on this one.”

James left the apartment and quickly shed his crime suit. Flipping open the phone he checked the caller ID.
Mark
. He hit Call Back and walked down the street, dodging pop bottles and condom wrappers as he headed toward his standard-issue dull gray Crown Victoria.

Mark didn’t mince words. “There was a woman at the bar on Friday. A lawyer. I want you to find out who she is.”

“I remember her.” James tried to suppress a smile. Mark must have it bad. In the twenty-three years they’d been friends, he had only rarely asked for a favor.

“I’ve searched the Law Society website but there are dozens of female lawyers named Katy. I can’t call them all. Valerie knows where she works but I can’t get in touch with her.”

“You could wait.” James stifled a laugh. “Valerie will be at the club next weekend.”

“I can’t wait,” Mark snapped. “Trixie walked her to her car. A black GM Acadia. First two letters of the plate are TX.”

“Trust Trixie to remember a detail like that.” James stopped to pick up a shard of broken glass and deposit it in a nearby garbage can.

“Trixie said the license plate reminded her of her name.”

James couldn’t help pushing his agitated friend. “Has she committed a crime? Because I’m finishing up at a crime scene and wasn’t really looking to waste an afternoon breaking into the police database because you’re desperate and can’t control your dick.”

Mark was immediately contrite. “Sorry. Bad time?”

“Same old, same old. So, did your mystery woman commit a crime or not?”

“She was probably illegally parked.” Mark huffed into the phone. “We arrived at the same time and I couldn’t find a parking space within five blocks.”

James chuckled. “Maybe I’ll go with theft. She seems to have stolen your sanity. Has it occurred to you, if she wanted to see you again, she would have given you her number?”

“I knew you weren’t going to make this easy for me,” Mark sighed. “Maybe I’ll have to start a civil suit for negligence and intentional infliction of mental distress.”

James turned the corner and looked for his vehicle. “I have a friend who’s a private investigator. I’ll give him a call. Not worth losing my career over a girl. What are you going to do when you find her? You can’t just show up at her door.”

Mark’s long silence told James everything he didn’t want to know.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” James warned. “They don’t pay me enough to bail your ass out of jail.”

“I won’t have to,” Mark said quickly. “She’s a lawyer. I can think of a dozen places I might accidentally bump into her.”

James exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Don’t bump too hard.”

Lana Parker, private investigator, hung her shiny new license on her wall. The frame had been an extravagance, considering she barely had enough money to fuel her beloved Jetta, much less eat, but she couldn’t resist. She had completed the private investigator course and realized her dream. She wanted everyone to know that a badass, high school dropout could turn her life around. Not that anyone would ever visit her cheap East Side apartment, but when they did, they would see the evidence of her tremendous accomplishment.

Now, she just needed some clients.

She picked up the stack of brochures she had printed with the last of her savings. She hated windshield flyers, but she couldn’t think of a better, or cheaper, way to advertise her services. She had already scouted out the parking lots she planned to hit in her first advertising blitz. Then, she could sit back and wait for the calls to roll in.

She stuffed the flyers in her worn backpack and headed out the door, taking care to lock the three deadbolts. Security was essential if she intended to run her business from home. She would be dealing with highly confidential information and she had to ensure her clients’ privacy would be well protected.

After jogging down the stairs to burn off a few extra calories, she slowed to a walk and headed up the street. Emergency vehicles lined the sidewalk and police tape cordoned off a nearby apartment building. She didn’t stop to look. Typical day in East Van. She turned the corner and spotted a gray Crown Victoria parked just ahead of her. Ghost car. So mundane it stood out like a sore thumb. She walked over and pressed her face against the window. A siren glinted on the dashboard.

No.
But her hand had already reached into her bag. “Self-destructive impulsiveness” her high school principal had called it. Her mum just thought she was cheeky.

She pulled out a brochure and slid it under the windshield wipers. Her instructor had hinted at friction between private investigators and the police in Vancouver. She couldn’t resist letting the cops know there was a new PI in town.

“Hey. Get away from the vehicle.”

Lana spun around.
Damn
. She should have checked the street. The cop stalking toward her was no one she wanted to meet. Hard, angular face, lean tight body, severe buzz cut. She hauled ass around the corner and raced down the road. Her breath came out in short pants as she pushed her usually sedentary body into action. At least she’d had a warm up.

After a block of torture, she glanced over her shoulder and collapsed against a wall. The cop wasn’t coming after her. She wheezed out a giggle until she realized with horror he didn’t need to.

If he wanted to find her, all he had to do was call.

Chapter Three

“Mom, where’s my lunch?” Melissa’s voice echoed down the hallway.

“It’s on the counter, darling.” Katy flipped through the file on her desk and sighed. Her five minutes of peace were over. She had been lucky to get even that on a Monday morning.

“Mom, where’s my soccer uniform?”

“It’s on your bed, Justin. I washed it on the weekend.”

“Mom, Justin pulled my hair.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

Katy closed her file. She shouldn’t have tried to prep at home for the examination for discovery this morning, but nervous anticipation about her first high-profile, solo case had awakened her early. Ted, her managing partner, had given her the file last night and a promise of partnership if she rose to the challenge.