Sins of the Angels (23 page)

 

HAVING DECIDED IT
would be wise to hold off on alcohol until after she'd finished her reports, Alex continued her quest for coffee, only to meet Christine Delaney in the coffee room doorway. The fraud detective's smile brightened at the sight of her.

“Alex, I'm so glad I ran into you.”

Alex?
Since when were they on first-name terms?

“Delaney,” she responded.

“Oh, please. Christine. We're working together now, after all.”

Alex remembered seeing Delaney in the briefing, one of the many recruited to the task force until they caught their killer. She skirted the other woman and headed for the coffeepot. “We're on the same case,” she allowed. “But I'd hardly call it working together.”

“Whatever,” Delaney said. “I just need you to go over things with me. Bring me up to speed.”

Alex paused, pot hovering over cup, and shot a look over her shoulder. “We covered everything in the briefing. I don't have anything more.”

A hint of pink washed over Delaney's cheeks and her gaze slid away from Alex's. “Yeah, well, I wasn't a hundred percent focused in there, I'm afraid.”

Alex remembered the uncharacteristic dishevelment she'd noted earlier. She turned to hide a smirk. “Your breakfast date?” she hazarded.

She gave a little start of surprise as Delaney suddenly hefted herself onto the counter beside her. Meeting the gleam in the fraud detective's brown eyes, she felt her heart sink. Oh, hell. Please don't let Delaney think that was an invitation—

“Actually, yes,” Delaney said, her voice conspiratorial.

Alex swallowed a groan. She didn't like girl talk at the best of times, but with Delaney, the idea took on a whole new level of
ick
. Now she really needed a drink.

She sought frantically for a change of subject as the other woman leaned in.

“I've never met anyone like him,” Delaney confided. “He's so . . . intense. So consuming. I never expected that from someone like him. I always thought priests were ultraconservative and uptight.”

“He's a
priest
?” Alex's hand jerked, and a black puddle spread across the counter toward Delaney's cream-linenclad backside.

The fraud detective gave a yelp and hopped down to retrieve a handful of paper towels.

“You're dating a
priest
?” Alex asked again, certain she had to have misheard.

Delaney nodded and spread the towels over the spilled coffee. “Shocking, isn't it?” She grinned, wiping Alex's cup dry and passing it back to her. “I tell you, if they all looked the way he does, church attendance would skyrocket. He is
so
totally hot.”

“A
Catholic
priest?”

“I've no idea. The subject hasn't had a chance to come up, if you know what I mean.” Delaney pitched the wad of paper towel into the trash can. “Does it matter? We can just call him a man of the cloth, if it makes you more comfortable.”

“Comfort has nothing to do with it.” Alex frowned. “What about the fraud complaint against him?”

“That? I told you it didn't pan out.” Delaney shrugged.

“You could give it a little more time,” Alex pointed out, an edge to her voice. “What happens if the complainant resurfaces and demands an investigation? Don't you think you're being a bit shortsighted?”

Delaney's brow creased with thought. The creases deepened to confusion. Then she scowled. “I didn't come to you for a lesson in how to do my job, Jarvis. All I want is a crash course on this case. I'm meeting William for dinner in an hour and I don't have time to read through all the crap.”

Alex stared. Had Delaney really just called their case files
crap
? In addition to blowing off an investigation and dating an alleged suspect? While she'd never held the fraud detective in particularly high esteem, Alex hadn't expected to discover the woman was a complete idiot.

She snapped her teeth shut and schooled herself to silence. She had enough to worry about without taking on the fraud detective's issues. Or covering for her. She added cream and sugar to her coffee, then stirred.

“Well?” Delaney asked as the spoon clattered into the sink.

“The files you need are in the conference room.” Alex picked up the cup. “In case you weren't paying attention to that part either, they stay there.”

“But I told you I have a date—”

“You also have a job. Your choice.”

Alex stalked from the coffee room, still shaking her head about the priest idea, only to jolt to a stop as a sudden presence loomed in front of her. She watched coffee drip down the mug and onto the floor. She sighed. What was it with her and coffee these days?

She lifted her chin and regarded Trent. A belligerent Trent. Her shoulders sagged. “Now what?”

“I need your help,” he announced.

More liquid sloshed over Alex's hand. She set the cup on a nearby desk.

“And I,” she said wearily, “need a drink.”

 

“WHAT'LL IT BE?”
Alex asked Trent over her shoulder as she led the way down the hall. “Iced tea, water?”

Scotch?
she added mentally, but kept the offer to herself. As much as she really did want a drink, she preferred not to mess with her inhibitions around her partner. There was no telling what she'd say or do under the influence.

Or see.

She dropped her keys on the kitchen counter and turned to Trent, who remained in the doorway, looking as if he very much regretted his suggestion to continue their conversation at her house. Almost as much as Alex regretted agreeing to it.

She reached into the cupboard for two glasses. The idea had seemed sensible enough at the time. Alex's arm and head had both begun throbbing again—especially her head, after that conversation with Delaney—and she'd given up any notion of completing Roberts's requested paperwork, so there had been nothing to keep her at the office. Now, however . . .

Alex's gaze drifted toward the corner where she'd seen the purple-robed woman the night before, and memories rushed back. Trent's gentle tending of her injury, the voices that drew her downstairs, the torment in her partner's eyes that very nearly made her reach out to him in spite of the wings.

Toes curling against the tiles, she forced her attention back to Trent. “Well?”

“Iced tea. Please.”

She pulled open the fridge and took out a pitcher. “You can come in and sit down, you know.”

Trent's mouth tightened, but he moved into the room and took a seat at the pine table. Alex poured the iced tea and carried the glasses to the table one at a time, and then settled into a chair opposite. She unclipped the cell phone and gun holster from her waist and set them beside her glass.

She'd keep the conversation short, she decided. Find out what he wanted, answer his questions, and make sure they stayed on topic and didn't wander off into the bizarre the way they usually did. How hard could it be?

“So. What is it you want help with?”

“I need to find the connections between the victims. Tell me what you look for. How you look.”

Alex raised an eyebrow at the
I
, but decided not to pursue it. She tapped a fingernail against the glass. “That's pretty basic stuff.”

“Humor me.”

“All right.” Alex settled back in her chair, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. “We look at friends, neighbors, workplaces, lifestyles—”

“Be more specific.”

“About lifestyles, you mean?” She shrugged. “We find out everything we can. Who their doctors are, where they service their cars, where they go to church, where their kids go to school, what schools
they
went to, what grocery stores they use, what route they take to work, what vet vaccinates their dog—”

“And you still have nothing to link any of them?”

“Apart from the fact they're all human?” she asked tartly. Trent inclined his head, acknowledging the jab. “Apart from that, yes.”

“Nothing.”

He frowned. “Then you must be missing something.”

Alex bristled. “We're still gathering information—look, why this sudden interest in police procedure, anyway? Yesterday you said it was a waste of time. Said you could catch him because you could—” She broke off, clamped her mouth shut, and looked away, remembering her intention to stay away from the bizarre.

“Feel him?” Trent finished softly. “I still do.”

Then what changed?
she wanted to ask.
If you felt him last night, why didn't you go after him?

Even as she framed the questions, however, she knew what his answer would be. Had heard him speak it last night in this very room. Still felt its echo in her belly.
If I'm to protect Alex . . .

Alex stood, carried her iced tea to the sink, and dumped it. She took out the bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch she kept in the lower cabinet by the fridge and poured a good three fingers into her glass, then tossed back the amber liquid in one swallow. The alcohol burned a path down her throat to her gut, trailing rawness in its wake. She tightened her grip on the glass, waited for her eyes to stop watering, and poured a second drink. Bracing her uninjured hand against the counter, she stared out the window over the sink. Felt, acutely, Trent's attention on her as the Scotch's warmth reached her toes and turned them fuzzy.

The clock in the living room chimed nine times.

So. Trent hadn't gone after the killer because he'd been tied to her, had been protecting her. The real question, then, was why? Except if she asked that, it meant acknowledging what she'd heard—and seen—the previous night. And if she acknowledged
that
, she'd also have to acknowledge, at least to herself, the rest of it.

The wings.

The raw connection between them.

The undeniable parallel to her mother.

Trent cleared his throat and Alex slugged back the second Scotch. She'd reached a crossroads. Ask or not? Continue to deny that the tidy little compartments in her mind weren't quite as defined as they used to be, or begin to accept? Where the hell did she draw the line?

The psychic thing, real. His connection to the killer, also real. The connection between him and her, undeniable. But the wings and other stuff? Ice trickled into her belly, dispelling the Scotch's lingering warmth. God, how she wanted to continue believing the wings were just her own special brand of reality. As much as the similarity to her mother terrified her, the alternative was a thousand times worse. A thousand times more frightening in its possibilities.

“Shit,” she muttered.

“Alex.”

Her name, spoken in Trent's low, rough voice, reverberated through her entire body. She tightened her grip on the counter. He'd never called her by name before. She could have done without him doing so now. And sure as shit could have done without the urge it triggered to turn, tear open her blouse, and offer herself to him right here, right now.

She swallowed hard. “You should go.”

“We need to talk.”

“No.”

“Alex.”

Again she felt the impact of her name all the way down to her alcohol-blurred toes. She scowled. “I can't,” she said. There. She'd admitted it. “I get that there's more going on here than I understand, but I don't want to know. I can't. There's too much—it's too close—” She broke off and swallowed. Finally let herself look at him. “Please. Just go.”

He shook his head.

“Because you have to protect me?” The question escaped before she could catch it back.

Trent's jaw went tight. “Yes.”

She lifted her chin. “Even if I don't want you to.” A statement this time.

“It's not your choice to make.”

Alex tensed. She focused on the streak of pain running up her arm. No. No way would she ask. She'd told the truth when she said she didn't want to know, didn't want to understand. Whatever he might tell her, she didn't trust herself to process it. Worse, feared she might process it, but her already stretched-thin sanity wouldn't survive.

She poured a third drink, watching the tremble in her hand. Nope. No more questions. No more anything. Not tonight. She lifted the glass and turned to tell Trent exactly that.

The doorbell rang.

Alex stared at the man standing on her front porch in a pool of light, his powerful back turned to her, hands shoved into the pockets of black jeans that had seen better days. A stranger. A very large, very imposing stranger.

Her first impulse was to close the door and walk away. Her second was to return to the kitchen, grab the Scotch, and get shit-faced enough to end any chance of more thinking tonight. She did neither. Instead, she reminded herself she was a cop, a professional, and made herself take stock of her visitor. From midnight black hair caught back in a haphazard ponytail, to the black T-shirt and jeans, right down to the cowboy-booted feet.

Weariness gave way to wariness. “Can I help you?”

The man swung around to face her and Alex had to force herself not to step back. Imposing from the back, he was nothing short of overwhelming from the front. This was one
very
big man, and not just physically. Presence-wise, he had an aura about him that made her feel the size of an insect. A particularly small one.

“Alex Jarvis?” His voice rivaled the throaty growl of a police dog on alert and had the same effect of inspiring extreme caution.

She settled into a more solid stance and wished for the reassuring presence of the sidearm she'd left in the kitchen. “Who's asking?”