Darker Than Desire (29 page)

And that light in her eyes …

“What's going on?” he asked.

“I wear the badge. I get to ask the questions.” Something flitted across her face and then, like a curtain had dropped, her features smoothed and when she spoke her voice was controlled, once more polite and easy. “Any chance somebody drove by, walked by?”

David glanced up the street, then down before he looked back at her. “In case it's escaped your attention, Judge Max picked a fairly quiet street.” Other than this house and the burned-out hull that had once been the Frampton place, the street had no other homes. “If anybody had driven by, I would have seen.” He paused, then shrugged. “But … there was something.”

“Like?”

He looked away. “I didn't see anybody. But I've had the feeling somebody has been watching me.”

“Watching you.”

“Yeah.” He looked back at her. “Off and on, for a few weeks. People are usually staring at me and I've gotten used to that, but this was … different.”

“But you haven't
seen
anybody.”

Lifting a brow, he calmly said, “If I had
seen
anything, trust me, I'd know.”

*   *   *

Jensen studied him, adrenaline pumping in her. Yeah, he would have seen. And if he'd seen anybody walking around, he would have noticed that, too.

“Why haven't you mentioned this?” she asked softly.

He ran his tongue across his teeth and she could see him debating whether or not to answer. Then he just shrugged. “Honestly, because there's only one reason I can think of that somebody would watch me—one of those fuckers—and I could only
hope
he'd be that stupid.”

“And you would just merrily wait.”

He just watched her. Crazy son of a bitch. Except he was wrong. She debated on whether or not to tell him, although if he'd bothered to read the paper, he'd already know.

What the hell,
Jensen decided.

“At this point, it appears Brumley was hit by a woman driving a black work truck. Descriptions are vague, but we know she's white, long brown hair. Age is harder, but probably over thirty, under fifty.”

His lids flickered and something might have sparked in his eyes. Maybe.

She angled her head and tossed out the one thing guaranteed to grab his interest. “Taneisha is alive because that attack was interrupted. Again, a black truck was at the scene. A woman was trying to shove Taneisha into the trunk of her own car. A witness arrived—described the woman as probably in her forties. Pale skinned. Very long hair. Round face. Looked right at Sybil—” His pupils flared. Widened.

Gotcha
.

“Sybil,” he rasped. His face went hard and his blue eyes were colder than ice.

“Yeah. She showed up to save Taneisha, just in time. Taneisha's spent eighteen hours unconscious.” She rocked on her heels and studied him. “You know, I didn't see it until now. We kept missing it. But that connection? It's there. It's got nothing to do with Cronus—that's a different mess entirely, and for some reason those attacks seemed to have stopped.…” She paused and narrowed her eyes on his. “I wonder if you could shed any light on that. But all these attacks lately? Yeah. There's a connection there, and you know what it is.”

A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Get on with it.”

“Right in front of me. Max. Louisa. Brumley—although if he hadn't accidentally caught
you
instead of Hank, he'd probably still be alive. And then Taneisha. All the people who've died were connected to you.”

“Am I under arrest?” he asked caustically.

“Oh, you're not the killer.” She shook her head. “Somebody is killing them …
for
you. Now. Why don't you help me figure out who it is?”

“No.” He shook his head as a dark, ugly knowledge bloomed inside his heart like a poisoned flower. “Not yet. First, you have to do something for me.”

*   *   *

The cop sitting outside her house had Sybil scowling.

Benjamin Thorpe smiled at her as she told Drew and Darnell to stay inside the car. She'd thought that after picking up the boys she could come home and put them in Drew's room in front of the TV with pizza and a movie and she could camp out in the living room with pizza and a stiff drink.

Later on, chocolate just might join the pity party. She figured she needed it. Was maybe even entitled, although she tried not to go that route too often.

But how often did a woman end up with her sister in rehab, get pulled in to the police station because her lover
might
have something to do with a woman's murder, get dumped by that same lover, have her best friend get attacked and then have a cop camp outside her door? All within the span of a few weeks.

And that was on top of the crazy shit happening in town that had nothing to do with her.

Brooding over the rim of her rum and Coke, she stared at the blank screen of the TV.

If anybody was entitled to enjoy a drink, she was.

Careful, careful
, a mocking voice in the back of her mind taunted.

Down that road lay trouble. Layla had ended up in trouble because she thought she was entitled to lots of shit.

Then again, Layla thought busting a nail was the equivalent of a worldwide catastrophe. Sybil had pretty much had the dreams she'd been quietly harboring over a period of ten years shattered, like someone had taken a hammer to them.

“Here's to me,” she whispered before taking a healthy swig.

Then she set the cup down with a decisive
thunk
. She wouldn't have more than the one and she needed to keep her head clear.

Of course, now that she had a long, lean cop out in the car outside she wasn't sure if anything was going to let her sleep.

Why the hell was he here anyway?

But the longer she thought, the more nervous she got. The more anxious.

She tried to ignore it for about the first little while, but after that she gave up and told the boys she'd be out front. She hadn't even cleared the front porch before Benjamin Thorpe was unfolding himself from the unmarked squad car.

“Why are you here?” she asked shortly.

“Ma'am?”

She jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “Don't you
ma'am
me. I changed your damn diapers, Benjamin Thorpe.” Granted, she'd been all of eight at the time, but she'd still changed him. And once he'd peed in her face.

His face reddened, but to his credit, his polite
everything is fine
smile stayed in place. “Sybil, we're just keeping an eye on things. I'll be around here tonight, that's all.” Ben nodded at her and then, as she heard the door creak open behind her, he lifted a hand to wave.

She didn't have to look to know that the boys had come outside.

“Tonight?” she asked calmly.

When he didn't answer, she folded her arms across her chest and lifted a brow. Waiting.

That look was the one that had Drew shifting on his feet, drove her sister insane. It was the look that had put more than a few Franken-brides in their places and had set the diva-prone teens Sybil dealt with down a peg or two during photo sessions.

Thorpe just hooked a thumb in his front pocket and smiled at her.

Damn. He used to be easier to rattle.
Jensen was really taking the shine off of him.

Pushing her hair back from her face, she asked, “Just
why
are you hanging around here tonight?”

“Standard precautions.”

“Yeah. Try that on somebody who was born yesterday, Ben.” She continued to wait.

He lifted his hands. “I can't tell you any more. If you want answers, you'd have to talk to Detective Bell or Chief Sorenson. Although they are both busy.” He gave her a slow smile. It still held a hint of that shyness she was used to from him, but it was more confident than normal. It probably would have had a lot of women feeling bad.
Wow. He's just a hardworking cop, doing his job.

Narrowing her eyes, she pointed out, “You should probably be busy, too. Too busy to be babysitting me. Yet … here you are.”

“Yes, ma'am. I've got coffee and some food. I'll be just fine out here in the car, don't you worry.” Then he nodded at her and headed for the car.

What … the … hell.

*   *   *

“How certain are you that it's her?”

David tried not to show any sign of what he felt inside. He'd kept his ass on the porch, even though what he wanted to do was lunge past Jensen and race to the truck, climb in and tear the town apart until he found Sybil and Drew.

He didn't do that, because first he had to do this. If it was her …

Fuck, why?

He thought back to years ago, remembered the way she used to smile at him, the shyness, then the humor.

That had all faded and now she just looked at him with grim purpose. Purpose. Like she had a set goal in life and nothing else mattered, save that goal. She'd accomplish it and there would be no deviations.

What's your goal?

But he had no idea. No clues. Just the sheer, insane workings of a madwoman.

“I'm not certain,” he said for the fifth time. “You wanted to know if I had an idea. That's the only woman I can think of that fits that description. Now, instead of pestering me, why aren't you out there talking to her?”

“We are. I've got men heading out there to question her.”

“And look for the truck?” If it was her, there would be evidence on the truck somewhere. He wanted to think it was wrong. A mistake. How could any of this be true? “If it was her, wouldn't there be … evidence or something?”

“We're working on it,” Jensen said, her voice patient.

It snapped what remained of his control and he surged upright. “Fine,” he growled, shooting her a dark look. “You do that.
You
go work on it. I can't sit here and wait and answer the same fucking questions over and
over
again while I wait to see if she is the one out there jerking people around. I'm not going to let her hurt anybody else.”

“Who else do you think could be a target?” Jensen tried to cut him off, and he just went around her.

When she tried it again, he crossed his arms over his chest and pinned her with a flat stare. “I'm leaving,” he said softly. “You've got exactly one way to stop me.” Then he dropped his eyes to stare at the gun she wore under her jacket. “That's your one way. Are you going to do it?”

“David, let me do my job,” she warned.

“I already told you, go do it. I'm doing mine.”

“How is running off half-cocked doing your job?” She whirled to glare at him as he went around her, keys already in hand.

“I've got very few people that I care about, Jensen. My job is making sure she can't hurt them, and she's already hurt too many.” He hauled open the door to the truck, letting some of his fury bleed out as he did his best to tear the door off its hinges. He slammed it and glared at her as she came storming over. “Your job is to find her, stop her.”

“Wrong.” She curled her hand over the lowered window, eyes flashing. “Your job is to help me to do
my
job.”

“Yeah, well. I guess I never learned that part. Better let go, Detective. You don't want me running over your toes.”

“David. Why are you so certain it's her? Why would she want to hurt
anybody
?”

He shoved the keys in the ignition, turning that thought over in his head. He thought of the dead, flat eyes he'd seen when he looked at her, thought of the odd way she'd spoken over the past few months. The anger in her voice.

Then he shook his head. “I'm not sure of that answer yet.”

Then he put the truck into drive. “But she was at the funeral the day we buried Max. She saw Louisa laying into me. I thought I'd just imagined it, but looking back, it was her, standing by the truck, just watching me. Why would she have been there? She didn't even like Max.”

Jensen continued to clutch at the car. “Who did she like?”

“Sarah Yoder never did really like anybody, Detective. She's the most unhappy woman I've ever met in my life. Probably as unhappy a person as I am,” he said softly. Then he nodded at Jensen's hand. “Let go or get ready to run.”

Then he pushed on the gas.

She let go.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I can't take your call right now. Please leave a message—

The sound of Jensen's voice mail—
again
—had Sybil ready to bite something. Instead, she waited for the beep and left a message. Again.

“It's Sybil. I want to know why I have your shiny new detective sitting out on my curb instead of either getting some sleep or out there figuring out who hurt Taneisha. Call me.”

She hung up and lifted up her wine.

She'd called and left three messages in the past ninety minutes.

Somehow, she didn't think she'd be getting an answer.

The bedroom had been quiet for almost forty-five minutes and now she was left alone to brood and wonder.

Black truck.

She'd spent the evening reading the paper, including a short article about how David had pushed Hank Redding out of the way when somebody pointed a gun at him. Clay Brumley. And nobody was going to know just
why
Clay had wanted to shoot Hank, either.

Somebody in a black truck had run Clay over, killing him.

Taneisha's attacker had driven a black truck.

Sighing, Sybil rose and moved to the window, staring outside. “And now I've got a cop outside my house. Just what does this have to do with me?”

She rubbed the back of her neck as she studied the car, the light reflecting on the windows. She could just barely make out the darker shadow, and when she saw Thorpe move some of the nerves crowding inside her settled a little.