Exposed (13 page)

“Keep me informed. I don’t like being kept out of the loop.”

He gave her a rueful look and stood up. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Maddie pulled into her driveway, and for the first time since she’d purchased her quaint two-bedroom bungalow, she wished for an attached garage. As it was, the 1930s-era home had only a small detached shed, which
was technically large enough to house a Prius but was instead filled with rusted patio furniture, chipped flower pots, and the red Toro lawn mower she’d learned to use when she first moved in.

Maddie checked her mirrors and scanned the empty street before getting out of the car and hiking up her front steps. Years of visiting crime scenes had forever robbed her of the urge to decorate her porch with wreaths or flower boxes or any other items that would proclaim to the world that the person who owned the lone car in the driveway was a single woman.

So instead of a wreath and a welcome mat, she was greeted by a coupon for Chinese takeout and a failed-delivery notice. The package she’d missed was the secondhand Nikon she’d ordered from an online auction site. Maddie stepped into the house and added the camera’s present whereabouts to her list of worries, along with the hefty credit-card bill that was coming her way.

She locked the front door and leaned back against it, closing her eyes. At last she was home. She needed a chance to unwind, and she fervently hoped she wouldn’t get a call-out tonight. But it was Friday. The odds were against her.

Maddie kicked off her shoes and indulged her inner slob by stripping off her clothes and leaving them where they fell as she walked to the bathroom. She turned the water to molten hot and climbed under the spray to rinse away the day’s stress. After a few blissful minutes of simply standing, she washed her hair and scrubbed her face.

Better. She took a deep breath and faced herself in the mirror. Her bruise had turned an ugly shade of
brown, but the swelling had gone down. She twisted her hair into a knot and examined the injury. Her emotions had been on a roller coaster since the attack, but the one coursing through her veins at this particular moment was anger.

Maddie slipped into a tank top and her softest pair of yoga pants, an outfit bought with good intentions but which lately had served as loungewear. Continuing the nonhealth kick, she poured herself a vodka cranberry, scooped up her laptop, and settled herself on the sofa.

A pile of client e-mails awaited her, and she quickly clicked through them. The most recent was from Hannah, whom Maddie had squeezed in for another portrait sitting yesterday afternoon. Evidently, Hannah and Devon
loved, loved, loved!!! the new engagement pics!!

Maddie sipped her drink. She let the compliment sink in. Then she left the world of weddings and smiley faces and typed the words
Gillian Dawson
into the search engine.

USC Student Found Slain in Apartment
.

Maddie skimmed through the
Los Angeles Times
article, scrolling down to a color photograph of a striking blonde. She clicked on the picture, enlarging it. Photographs spoke their own language, and Maddie tried to interpret this one. It was a studio shot, probably taken in her senior year of high school. Gillian, a sophomore, had been in a sorority, and Maddie visualized this picture being displayed on a screen in some sorority-house living room, where a bunch of girls in pajamas were munching popcorn.
Ladies, this is Gillian Kendall Dawson of Pacific Palisades. Her mother’s a legacy. What do we think?

Maddie studied the girl’s face. According to the article, she’d been bludgeoned to death. She looked at Gillian’s sparkling eyes and perfect teeth. A downside of Maddie’s profession was that with very little imagination—none at all, really—she could conjure up a vivid image of what this pretty young woman had looked like in death. Over the past four years, Maddie had stepped into houses and trailers and apartments and calmly photographed scenes that would reduce grown men to tears—even longtime cops. She had photographed scores of victims, methodically recording their suffering for others to see. It was what she did. It was her job.

She was the eyes of the jury.

Maddie’s current job was unimaginable to the woman she had once been. Not too many years ago, she’d been a portrait photographer, a part-time one, at that. It was a vocation she’d enjoyed, one perfectly acceptable for a doctor’s wife who had a child at home and played tennis two mornings a week. When her friends from that era had heard about her career change, they’d been appalled.

“Crime-scene photography? But isn’t that . . .”
Revolting? Voyeuristic?
“. . . difficult for you?” was the phrase they usually landed on.

Considering Emma, they meant.

And maybe it should have been difficult. But for Maddie, it wasn’t. All she’d known when she’d made the change was that she couldn’t go on snapping Christmas-card pictures and children with puppies and babies posed in pumpkins. So she’d packed her camera and gone to South America, a place filled with people
and customs so alien to her she may as well have been on another planet.

Which suited her fine.

When she returned to the States after eleven months, she knew only two things for certain. One, that walking out on her marriage was
not
, as her mother had warned her, a catastrophic mistake. And two, her camera had saved her life.

And it continued to save it now, every day, every time she looped the strap around her neck and trekked off to a crime scene with a strong sense of purpose.

Maddie pictured the last crime scene she’d photographed—the black SUV with the door hanging open. She pictured Brian towering over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the street lights, his face slick with sweat because he’d just narrowly missed becoming a crime scene himself.

She pictured the intense look in his eyes. He had that fire inside him. She recognized it, the absolute certainty that he could do anything. Part of her even believed it.

She pictured the look in his eyes later, when he’d bent his head down to kiss her. He’d felt so warm and vital and alive, and she’d wanted to drink him in, even though she knew it would have been a mistake. She knew better than to cave in to temptation like that, and she was proud of herself for resisting it.

Maddie sipped her drink. The cool tartness washed over her tongue, and she congratulated herself on being a grown-up.

A sharp rap at the door, and she jumped. She set down her glass. She looked at the window, and her heart began to thud. Temptation was knocking again.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” She put her hand on her hip and gazed up at him.

“Can I come in?” Brian asked, as casually as possible, because her expression told him she wasn’t happy to see him.

She pulled the door open without comment, and he did his dead-level best not to look down her shirt as he stepped inside. He caught the scent of shampoo and knew she’d just gotten out of the shower.

Yeah, he was an ace detective. The smell of her hair was a big clue, along with the fact that it was damp and pulled back in a messy knot. Instead of the sweater-jeans-boots combo she’d had on earlier, she now wore some sort of stretchy black top and matching pants, and he was
not
going to stare at her, but holy Christ, she was stacked.

“I thought you had to work?” she said.

Work
. That was why he was here. He forced himself to focus on those big brown eyes that were gazing up at him with wary curiosity again.

He cleared his throat. “Everyone was breaking for dinner, so I decided to swing by with that info.”

She just looked at him.

“I probably won’t have time tomorrow,” he added, because she still looked as if she needed convincing. She didn’t want him here. That much was clear. Maybe she thought he was going to hit on her again, and although the thought had definitely crossed his mind, he’d come here for work.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked grudgingly.

“Sure. What do you have?”

“I’m having a Cape Cod.” She turned and walked into her kitchen, and he followed, making a heroic effort not to stare. It was tough. Women with curves really did it for him, and Maddie had the hourglass thing happening in a major way.

“So you want one?”

“Sure. Just the juice, though.”

She put some ice cubes in a glass and filled it two-thirds with cranberry juice. “You sure you don’t want it with a kick?”

“Yeah.”

She added a slice of lime and handed it to him, and he watched her over the brim as he took a sip. He set the glass on the counter, and for a moment, they stared at each other.

“Are you really working tonight?” she asked.

“I really am. Why?”

She shrugged. “It’s Friday. It’s after eight. I figured maybe you had stuff to do.”

“You mean, like a girlfriend? Nope.” The look on
her face made him smile. “Just in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Sure you were.”

That got a faint smile out of her as she walked past him, shaking her head. She probably thought he was being cocky. He thought of it as being persistent. He liked her, and he planned to keep on putting it out there until she loosened up and let her guard down around him.

She sank into an armchair, looking a little flustered as she sipped her drink, and he took a seat on the couch.

“I haven’t had time for much besides work lately,” he told her. “I’m guessing you know what that’s like.”

She nodded.

“I’m surprised you have time for the moonlighting gig. Don’t they keep you pretty busy at the Delphi Center?”

“They do. It comes in waves, though. Don’t ask me why.” She set her drink on the table and seemed a little more relaxed to be talking about her job. “Sometimes I get called out two, three nights a week. Other times, things are quiet. And when I’m not on the call-out schedule, I’m free to book whatever events I want.”

“Make a little extra money?”

“Never hurts.”

He wondered if that was the real reason she did it, or if she liked keeping her free time booked so she wouldn’t have to fill it with a social life.

“Do you like it?”

“The moonlighting?” She paused. “It’s okay. My
forensic work is much more challenging. It’s what I care about.” She glanced at her computer. “I’ve been reading about Gillian Dawson.”

“So have I.”

“Do you think she’s connected to Jolene Murphy somehow?” She had that worry line between her brows again.

Brian rested his drink on the table. “Here’s what we know,” he said, making eye contact. He wanted her full attention, because up to now, he got the feeling she hadn’t been taking him all that seriously as an agent, as if he was too green to really know anything. That was going to stop.

“Last year, we were called in on a kidnapping,” he said.

“ ‘We’ being the FBI?”

“The San Antonio field office. The victim’s name was Heidi Beckles.”

Her expression darkened. “I remember the case. She was a student at UT, right?”

“A senior,” he confirmed. “She went out with some girlfriends one night. They dropped her off at her apartment building. She was supposed to meet her boyfriend at his house later, but she never showed up. He reported her missing, and when police got involved, they found a neighbor who’d seen her getting into a white SUV.”

“Was she struggling?”

“Evidently, she was, but the neighbor didn’t think much about it at the time. Said he thought she was just horsing around with friends. It quickly became clear that this was a kidnapping.”

Maddie sighed. Like him, she’d probably seen plenty
of cases in which someone witnessed something suspicious but failed to get involved until it was too late.

“Turned out this girl’s father headed up a tech company that had recently gone public,” he said. “He’d just made a boatload of money, and there were stories about it in the news. So right away, everyone was expecting a ransom demand. Her parents waited by the phone, but nothing ever came.”