Cold Hearted (Cold Justice Book 6) (22 page)

She hadn’t checked the forecast since Monday. All she’d cared about was this murder investigation.

The quietness told her the news vans were gone. Barring a disaster, they’d be back in the morning ready to peck at the details of Peter Zimmerman’s life and try the guy on live TV. She didn’t want him to go through that if he was innocent. He’d never be safe on the streets if people thought he’d had anything to do with a rape and double homicide.

She trudged down the steps, watching her footing on the slippery pavement. Her attitude toward the press probably wasn’t fair, but they’d impinged on her privacy at a time when she’d desperately needed to be left alone, and often hindered rather than helped investigations. Sure the public had a right to know what was going on, but only if it didn’t get in the way of catching a perp. Free speech could be a bit of a bitch.

Her truck was parked a row over behind two patrol vehicles. As she got closer, she noticed the hood listed slightly to one side. Crap. She had a flat. Front left. The slash in the tire wall said it was about as accidental as the egg that still coated her windshield. Weariness tugged at her shoulders. The last thing she felt like doing was hauling out her jack and replacing the tire. Footsteps sounded behind her. She whirled and there was Darsh bundled up in his winter gear. The fact he looked sexy whatever he was wearing wasn’t lost on her.

She kicked her hubcap. “Looks like we’re taking your car.”

His breath came out in an icy cloud as he rubbed his hands together. “Want me to change it for you?”

She shook her head. “I could do it myself, but one of the guys on patrol owes me a favor. He’s on the graveyard shift tonight. I’ll text him later.”

“You don’t like being on the other side of that equation, do you?” He dug out his keys and tossed them in the air before catching them with a flourish.

“What d’you mean?” She tried not to sound defensive.

“Owing people favors.”

“I like being independent.” That’s what happened when your husband turned out to be an abusive, controlling prick. “I don’t like being the weak simpering female asking for the big strong men for help—unless it’s my dad and brothers.” She thought about all the jobs she had lined up for their next visit. “I work them as hard as they’ll let me.”

“So you feel like you can rely on family?”

She stopped herself from saying
duh
. Not everyone had the kind of backup or support she did. She tilted her head at him. “Yeah. I do.”

They headed a few cars over to where his black SUV was parked. He used the fob to unlock it and she got in. Within seconds the seat started heating beneath her, and she was fast becoming a convert to all the mod-cons.

He pulled out of the parking lot, and she gave him directions to the mission about a mile away.

“What was it like growing up in such a big family?” he asked.

She huddled into her parka. Talking about them made her homesick. “I loved it. They’re nosey and loud. We’re a typical Irish Catholic family full of NYPD cops.”

“All of them?”

“Pretty much, except my mom and my baby sister, Siobhan. She’s an actress off off Broadway.”

He stiffened, which was an odd reaction.

“It was her dream even when she was in diapers.” Erin shrugged. “I never understood the pull of the limelight, but it’s all she ever wanted.”

“My mother always wanted the limelight, too. I never understood it either.”

“Yeah?” He’d said his mother had been murdered, and she wanted to know more, but didn’t want to push.

He nodded. “Yeah. We moved from the UK in the eighties with Dad’s work. She was thrilled, because she thought she had a better chance of becoming famous.”

“You’re
British
?” She grinned at him.

“Born in Nottingham, not Delhi.”

“Why didn’t you keep the sexy English accent?”

He sent her a sideways glance. “There’s only so much sexy people can handle.”

His expression sobered, and one side of his mouth drew back in a wry smile. “People think my identity is somehow rooted in my family being Indian, but it’s not. I’ve never been to India. I speak the language, but I also speak Farsi and French. I grew up in Britain and moved to the US. My cultural identity is wrapped up in soccer and Coronation Street, baseball and in necking with a hot blonde in the backseat of my daddy’s car. The only time I ever realize I’m different is when other people point it out.”

“Bias can be subtle,” Erin agreed carefully. “I was lucky. My mother was a teacher and intolerance and inequality are her hot button topics. She wouldn’t put up with it from anyone. I guess it rubbed off on us kids which made us all much better cops.” She watched his hands on the steering wheel. Strong and capable. Thought of them on her body and had to look away.

“The only thing my mother cared about was making it as an actress in Hollywood.”

“What did your dad think of that?”

“He encouraged her to act with local theater companies and audition for TV parts. He even paid for acting lessons, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He was just trying to make her happy.”

“It sounds like he loved her a lot.”

He shrugged. “He did. She didn’t love him back.”

That statement made Erin flinch, but he didn’t notice.

“Right here?” He checked directions.

She nodded.

“They had an arranged marriage, knew each other for about a month before the ceremony. Her parents thought he’d settle her down. She was looking for a way to escape the stranglehold they had on her. I’ve visited them a few times in England—they’re pretty traditional in their values.”

She rubbed her hands together and adjusted the heater. Damn, but she really needed to move to Hawaii. “Arranged marriages always seem barbaric to me.”

“And yet, statistically, the divorce rates are about the same as non-arranged marriages.”

Erin pressed her lips together at the gentle rebuke. She wasn’t about to give lectures on the subject of matrimony. “I didn’t know that.”

“Obviously there are cultural differences, and I’m not endorsing it, but I’m not condemning it either. Most people judge it without knowing anything about it.”

“Is that how you plan to find a wife?” she teased, but the idea caused something painful to contract inside her, even though she had no hold on the guy.

“Hell, no. I’m too much of a control freak. My dad would probably choose a real witch to spite me.”

“You two don’t get along?”

Darsh smiled and was so frickin’ gorgeous her toes curled. “We got along just fine, right up until I quit school and joined the Marines.” Her brows rose in surprise. “Indian parents—even those from Britain—seem to believe that if their kids aren’t doctors, they’re failures. ‘I thought you were going to learn to
save
people, not
kill
them.’” He gave an imitation of an older man, presumably his father. “Now he spends his days telling me I’m the token minority in the BAU. And I spend my time trying to prove him wrong. As for marriage…” He shrugged. “The job has me on the road almost every week and after what happened between my mom and dad, I’m not a big believer in compromise. A woman would have to be crazy to want a relationship with me.” His eyes raked over her, and her skin burned. “Long-term, anyway.”

But short-term might be a lot of fun—that’s what the gleam in his eyes was telling her.

Dangerous territory, so she kept it light.

“I think it depends on the compromise. I mean, a 34-inch TV rather than a 55-inch? I could live with that.”

He gave a mock shudder. “Sacrilege.”

Then her mood shifted, and she said seriously, “But when it’s a choice between suffocating your own dreams and freedoms versus staying home and putting a nice dinner on the table every night…” Her mouth went dry.

Her husband had tried to get her to give up the job she loved, even though he’d known she was a career cop when they got married. It had been the first step in him trying to take over her life, and she’d had to fight for freedom every step of the way. The cost had been his life, and it could easily have been hers. She should have seen it before they got married. She should have figured out some way for him to move on and get help.

Jesus
.

She was never going to get over the guilt of his death, and that was probably the suckiest thing about surviving an abusive relationship. Somewhere deep inside you always took a portion of the blame, even when it wasn’t your fault.

She didn’t want to think about it. “What happened to your mom’s acting dreams?” she asked gently. She knew the story had a sad ending.

His fingers tightened on the wheel, and she noticed they were pulling to a stop outside the mission. He switched off the engine and lights, and they sat in silence. “She left us without a word in May 1987. I was seven. My sisters were four. In September we were notified by a detective in Hollywood that she’d been found dead in an alley. She’d been turning tricks for money.”

“I’m sorry.”

His face was in the shadows. His voice hard. “She chose that life over having a home and family. The fact she ended up dead was almost irrelevant.”

Shock hit her. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. My dad was a good man. He treated her well, bought her nice things, and respected her. If she’d asked for a divorce he would have given it to her, but he’d have tried to make it work first. Bottom line is she didn’t love us. She dumped us.” His eyes glittered in the darkness. “They’re always telling kids that there’re consequences to their actions and sometimes those consequences aren’t very nice. She left us, not because she was abducted or needed to work, but because she didn’t want us anymore. It’s a hard thing for a kid to accept and once I did, I wasn’t wasting any more emotion on her. Consequences.”

“Maybe she was suffocating on the inside,” Erin said carefully. What would he think of her walking out on her marriage and then using him to reclaim her body?

“She should have found some other way.” His voice cracked. He wasn’t as dispassionate as he wanted her to believe. But if his mother’s ghost haunted him the same way her husband’s did, then he was a long way from not caring.

Erin couldn’t imagine how she’d have felt if her mother had walked out when she was seven years old. Would she have walked away from Graham if they’d had a child?

In a heartbeat, she realized. But she’d have taken the child, too. “You loved her.”

“Of course I loved her. I also hated her.” That statement made her bite her lip. “And I’m damned if I know how to forgive her.”

The words put a vise on Erin’s heart and squeezed tight. She reached out and laid her hand on his warm wrist. “I’m sorry she left you. I’m sorry she died.”

He placed his hand over hers, and they held each other’s gaze with all of the pain from their past naked in their eyes. Someone opened the door of the shelter and made her jerk her hand away and push open the car door. Jeez. They were working, not out on a date.

“Get a grip, Erin,” she muttered, although not quietly enough. She caught Darsh hiding a grin.

Inside the shelter was a small reception desk leading into a cafeteria with a dozen round tables. No one was on the desk, so they headed through toward the dining area. Half the tables were occupied despite the lateness of the hour, or maybe because of it. People looked toward them and seemed to shift almost imperceptibly when they realized they were cops. Only one or two looked homeless, but she knew a lot of people slept in their cars, and on a night like this that would be as cozy as snuggling down in the deep freeze. She sniffed. The place smelled of boiled rice and some sort of fragrant curry.

“Can I help you?” The man who approached them was tall, but stooped, with sunken eyes and a wisp of gray hair on his head.

Erin couldn’t help the shudder that ran through her. If she was casting a film and needed someone to play a serial killer, she’d pick him. “Yeah. We’re looking for the person who runs the center.”

“That’s me. Randolph Cane.” He smiled, but for some reason the guy made her skin crawl.

“I’m Detective Donovan from FPPD.” She held up her badge so she didn’t have to shake hands. “This is Agent Singh with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Monday night.”

He blinked, slowly. “Well, come on through to the kitchen. I’m finishing off the dishes. We can talk there.”

Before she could ask for somewhere more private, he’d turned and was walking away. She looked at Darsh, and his expression was amused as he waved her ahead of him. Fine.

She marched into the kitchen where Mr. Cane was pulling on bright yellow rubber gloves. “Were you working on Monday night?”

He paused in the act of scrubbing a big stainless steel pot. Frowned. “No. I don’t work Sundays or Mondays.” He looked up and smiled at her. “Sunday is my day for the church, and Monday I catch up on my household chores and then usually go to the movies.”

Something about those sunken eyes freaked her out. She usually liked old people, but this guy made her want to back away with her hand on her weapon. She pushed the irrational feeling away and asked her questions. “Do you recognize this man?” She held up the photo of Peter Zimmerman.

“Of course. That’s Peter. He wasn’t in today. Is he okay?” Mr. Cane’s brow furrowed. Soapy water splashed on the drainer as he turned the huge pan upside down and placed it on the drying rack.

“He comes here regularly?” Erin persisted.

Cane nodded. “Yes. To eat and shower occasionally.”

Very occasionally, judging by the odor when they’d booked him.

“He ever sleep here?” asked Darsh.

Mr. Cane shook his head. “He could, we have twenty beds, and we are rarely full, which is a blessing, but he usually refuses unless it’s dangerously cold outside. Says he doesn’t want people stealing his patch.” Cane hunched up bony shoulders. “Like many people who’ve fallen on hard times, he isn’t very trusting as to other people’s motives for wanting to help him.”

“Know where he came from?” Erin asked.

Mr. Cane shook his head, and his eyes grew sad. “I don’t ask for more than people want to volunteer.”

“If you weren’t here on Monday, can you tell us who was working?” she asked impatiently. The guy was giving them nothing.