Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (37 page)

“
Any evidence of insect activity on her wounds
?
”
 
Even though my eyes are watering from the sharp rancid smell, I still want to know how long sh
e’
s been dead.  The activity of flies and ants, or beetles and other insects, might provide an answer. 

Maybe.

Doc sits back on his heels beside the body.
 “
I ca
n’
t say with any accuracy, not until we get her back to the morgue, but at this point I can tell you for certain I see no evidence of insect activity
.
”

“
So sh
e’
s been stored
?
” 

Doc nods.
 “
Yep.  No visible insect activity, so it looks like sh
e’
s been stored inside
,”
he says.
 “
From her pasty skin and mottled purplish-blue lips,
I’
m guessing sh
e’
s been kept on ice in a freezer.
 
When she came out and started to thaw, the cells broke down, giving her the bluish tint
.
” 

I suck in several breaths of night air. 
What in the hell do I have? 

Not much.  Two victims, Meera and Angie Miller, with Megal
o’
s signature bite wounds on their shoulders.  And now this one, vic number three. 
I’
ve also got case linkage, which Bite Doc helped establish with his HVO and TIDBIT technology, and
I’
ve got a signature and MO. 

But I have no why.  I have no where.  And I have no when. 

Captain Meyer
s
’ words return to haunt me? 
Get this mess cleaned up pronto, Detective, or
I’
ll have your badge. 
Hell,
I’
ll be lucky if I get this mess cleaned up before the second coming.  I stand and run my fingers through my hair. 

“
Why is he doing this?  Why, why, why
?
” 

Do
c’
s sour look reminds me that figuring that out is my job.
 “
Son
,”
he says, waving me back down beside him
,“
what do you make of this
?
”

Kneeling beside Doc, I note him staring at the vic with a puzzled look.
 “
Wha
t’
ve you got, Doc
?
”
 
Suppressing my gag reflex, I look again and then I groan.
 “
This cannot be
.
”

“
But it is
,”
Doc says.
 “
It damn well is
.
” 

How?

I walk myself back through each vi
c’
s condition, trying to answer my own question.  Meer
a’
s and Angie Mille
r’
s right shoulders are covered in the distinctive bite wounds that look like feet. 
I’
d showed up tonight expecting to see identical bite marks on this vic.  This on
e’
s right shoulder is unmarred, completely free of bite wounds, but the left shoulder is missing. 

How can this be? 

I motion toward the tech.
 “
Pull the black garbage bag back a little farther, would you?  I need a closer look
.
”

The area where the left shoulder has been removed looks like the stomach of a gutted animal, a fleshy bowl of mangled guts.  Areas of flesh have been masticate
d—
chewed awa
y—
or so I assume, gazing questioningly at Doc. 

He nods agreement.
 “
Look
,”
he says, and then points.
 “
The fatty tissue has ruptured, and i
t’
s retracted like curly yellow rubber bands, back into the upper torso
.
” 

“
Where in hell is her left shoulder
?”
I ask, unable to stop my panic.

              He shakes his head and pulls his lips into a puzzled grimace.
 “
Wherever that shoulder is, i
t’
s not prett
y
—”

Pretty or not, i
t’
s got to have those bite wounds shaped like feet on it.  It has to.  I ca
n’
t entertain any other idea.  I
wo
n’
t
.  This has to be Megal
o’
s MO.  It has to be.
 “
Why is he switching shoulders on us
?
”

Scratching his ear, Doc stares at the crumpled garbage bag with its pitiful contents.
 “
Tha
t’
s the fifty-four dollar question, son
.
”

I do
n’
t want to think about the only possible answer.  Either this is not Megal
o’
s vic, and everything
I’
ve conjectured all along is wrong, in which case I better start filing for unemployment, or . . . i
t’
s Megal
o’
s vic, but for some reason h
e’
s decided to change his signature and put the bite wounds on the left instead of the right shoulder, in order to toy with us. 

But why would he do that?  And where in hell is that left shoulder?

Like the location of the vi
c’
s missing shoulder, the answer is known only to Megalo Don.  What was that Bite Doc said? 
H
e’
s complicated, both sane and insane.
 
A mixed offender.  Like Bundy.  Yo
u’
ll have a hard time catching him.

And whaddya know?  Bite Do
c’
s right again.  He knows his serial killers. 

I do, too, but unlike Bite Doc wh
o’
s studied their mouths,
I’
m handicapped. 
I’
ve merely studied them from a distance, and usually from textbooks at Kin
g’
s Point, where I got my psychology degree. 
I’
ve also worked Homicide for the last six years and solved several cases and sent several perps to prison, but this is my first homicide case with an actual serial killer. 

I resist the urge to pull a few Rolaids from my pocket.
 “
Doc,
I’
m at a loss here
.
”
 
For a second, I want him to act like my father and wave some magic wand tha
t’
ll make this mess go away.

“
I
t’
s okay, son.  Trust me.  We all have to learn as we go at some point.  Tha
t’
s how we get experience
.
”

“
I guess so
,”
I say.  Tonight,
I’
m thinking like SAC Smith: Megalo is growing progressively unstable.  His cooling intervals, during which he goes home and stops murdering, the periods of time in which he behaves like any normal person, are shortening.  His next kill might happen any time.  Or it might already have happened.

I gaze around.  Everyon
e’
s where the
y’
re supposed to be, doing all they can.  And NP
D’
s got the best team on the planet, including that jealous sonofabitch, Captain Meyers.
 “
Doc,
I’
m done here, but I need a rain check on breakfast. 
I’
ll see you instead at the morgue
.
”
 
I check the time.
 “
Soon as I can get there
.
”
 
I do
n’
t tell him I need a couple hour
s
’ sleep.  After screwing up and not looking inside Angie Mille
r’
s mouth, I damned well intend to look inside this vi
c’
s.
 “
I want to see her
.
” 

He nods.
 “
Sure
.
”

“
Any ID on her
?”
I ask, recalling DeeDee told me the vic was a new hire at Oma
r’
s.

“
The CSU techs have it
,”
Doc answers.
 “
Found her purse stuffed inside the garbage bag with her. 
I’
ll make a positive identification tomorrow
.
”

“
Thanks, Doc
.
”
 
I want to help him to his feet, but I do
n’
t.  H
e’
s pushing fifty-five and in pretty good shape, but the booze is destroying his liver.  Sometimes the idea that h
e’
s my biological father swells me with sudden anger at my mother, or with pride.  I never know which emotion
I’
ll have to deal with.
 “I’
ll tell mom to call you about the Arabian
,”
I say, and then walk off to the end of the alley near the Brass Ass.

“
See you soon
,”
I say.
 “
I want a look inside Jane Do
e’
s mouth
.
”

“
Sure, son
.
”

Before arriving, my only thought was to process this scene and then get home and get some sleep, but Megal
o’
s changed the game.  H
e’
s hoarding his latest vi
c’
s shoulder, and h
e’
s either targetin
g—
or h
e’
s already targete
d—
his next victim.

My thoughts fly to Alaina. 

“
Dammit
!
”
 
The neon star on the front of the Brass Ass no longer glows when I stride back past it.  I
t’
s turned off.  The rowdy partiers have all gone home, their selfies and Facebook photos stowed in their cell phones.  The stree
t’
s deserted.  Like everything on Monmouth, like everyone in the world at this hour, even the Ass is officially asleep.  Not me, I think with a yawn. 
I’
m the only ass in the world still awake.

Stewart and his cameraman are standing by the buildin
g’
s corner.  They glance my way, startled, but I giv
e‘
em credit: they stand their ground. 

“
Good nigh
t—
er, morning
,”
I say and leave them in peace. 
I’
ve got to meet Captain Meyers in four hours.  On top of that,
I’
ve invited DeeDee to my place for dinner tonight.  But before I rush off home and then to the morgue for a look-see inside our third vi
c’
s mouth,
I’
ve got to make one more stop.  Even more than sleep, I need to make sure Alaina Colby is alive and that sh
e’
s going to stay that way.

I want her.  Dammit, I want her.

Chapter 33

When I hear the knock on my door, I yell
,“
Go away, Stoke
.
” 

Thinking maybe h
e’
s come back to talk, or getting ready to offer some excuse for staying all night, I yell again
,“
Go home, will you!  Jesus
!
”

I open my door, ready to bust Stoke in the face, but then when I see Aidan, I think:
I’
m dreaming
. 

But adjusting my eyes to the now darkened hallway, I know. 
No,
I’
m not.  Ther
e’
s a man standing in front of my door.
 

“
Hey
,”
I say, yawning.
 “
Wha
t’
re you doing here
?
”

“
Alaina
,”
he says
,“
You and I need to talk
.
” 

Recalling my embarrassment last time I was with him, the way I threw myself at him in his Buick, I swallow my cadaver breath and fight my feelings.  After all,
I’
ve convinced myself ther
e’
s no such thing as love at first sight.  Is there?

He pushes past me and inside my apartment.  His hands brushing my bare shoulders, he spins me gently around like a sleep-dazed zombie, guiding me back inside my apartmen
t’
s entry hallway with him, where we stand staring at each other.
 “
Le
t’
s get some coffee
,”
he says.
 “
Looks like you could use it.  I know I can
.
”

“
Uh, okay
,”
I say, wondering what time it is.  My first class is a nine
o’
clock.  Before leaving for class, I like to spend an hour getting ready, giving myself plenty of time, since I have to hitch a ride to campus.  My bod
y’
s telling me I should still be asleep, but thinking they can sneak past my sleeping brain, my traitorous eyes begin exploring Aidan. 

My little chorus line goes to work, kicking up tingly sensations in my tummy.  The moment enfolds me.  It feels sexy, sleepy, made for sex.  Inhaling his masculine scent, the mixture of sweat and leather and rumpled clothing, I fight my urge to climb his frame and, once again, make a fool of myself. 
Not this time: I wo
n’
t throw myself at him again. 

I lean against the wall and stare, one eye shut, the other half open.  I can only imagine what kind of spectacle I present.
 “
What tim
e’
s it
?
”
 
Better yet, why are you here?
  I yawn, his touch warming my sleepy brain.  After my big screw-up in the Buick, I should feel embarrassed by what
I’
m thinking, but sadly,
I’
m enjoying it.  Hiding another yawn, I watch him close the door, step in, and take charge.  I
t’
s way too early, but while my brain needs more time, my body catches up, coming fully awake.  Like it did in the Buick, my world shrinks to a hot, intimate space.  This is the only man in the world
I’
d swap my Graete
r’
s for dessert.  I want to eat him.  H
e’
s becoming a craving of mine, I realize.

“
Wha
t’
s up
?”
I say, trying for relaxed, cool, but instead sounding anxious.

              “Do you have coffee
?”
he asks.
 “I’
ve got something we need to discuss
.
”

              “There
.
”
 
I point to my Wal-Mart coffee maker sitting on the kitchen counter, and then toward the overhead cabinet, where I keep coffee and filters.
 “
You make. 
I’
ll drink
.
”

“
Yo
u’
re a coffee fiend, too
?
”

“
Yep
.
”
 
Just one more thing you and I have in common.

I do
n’
t tell him what kind of fiend I am over tight glutes. 
I’
ve watched Misha dance since I was a teen, often salivating over Baryshniko
v’
s tight beautiful butt, but Aida
n’
s?  Sweet hells!  It makes my tongue hard.  I watch the muscles in his lean torso strain against his slacks when he reaches up into the cabinet, and then pulls a thin filter out and slaps it inside Mister Coffe
e’
s deep plastic gullet.

“
Yo
u’
re efficient
,”
I say.   

“
Experience
,”
he says, filling the coffee pot.
 “
Cop
,”
he adds, and then offers me one of those snarly-lipped smiles.
 “
We detectives love our donuts and coffee
.
”

I smile.

Despite my efforts not to, despite my recollection of my Buick debacle, I feel it.  South of my navel, my butterfly chorus line is practicing chemical anarch
y—
lust. 
I’
m starting to get used to feeling this way around Aidan, but the intensity surprises me.  This is like no rehearsal
I’
ve ever felt.
 “
Experience counts
,”
I say, giddy.

When he does
n’
t answer, I bite my lip. 
Is he upset?  Is it because I have only Styrofoam cups? 
My freaky little Hyde Park classmates refuse to use Styrofoam: they say i
t’
s not green.  Robin and I agreed w
e’
d use them because we do
n’
t have time to do dishes. 

My first lucid thought when the coffee smell grabs me and shakes the sleep from my brain i
s—
Robin!
 
H
e’
s here about Robin.  Why else?

“
Is my brother in trouble
?
” 

I resist the urge to stomp a cockroach running for cover on the countertop.  The
y’
re not used to lights being on in my kitchen a
t
—

Bam!  Aidan whacks the roach and then washes his hands in the sink.
 “
Too bad for that bastard
,”
he says.

Pleased and wondering why even his violent act of whacking the roach thrills me, I glance at the clock on the kitchen range.
 “I’
m barely awake
,”
I say, hinting, hoping h
e’
ll tell me why h
e’
s here at this hour.

Wiping his hands on a paper towel, Aidan smiles, turns his attention to me.
 “
I like you like this
,”
he says. 

My brain is
n’
t so fuzzy from sleep it fails to recognize the look in his eyes.
 “
You like me . . . how
?
”

Working eight to midnight at Oma
r’
s, I do
n’
t get home before one or two most nights, so sleeping in as late as possible is a must.  Yesterday was
n’
t my day.  I got no sleep.  To top it off Stoke and I worked on the profile of An
g’
s killer before he left tonigh
t—
last night
?—
whenever he left, and then we studied for our crim quiz.  I was exhausted by the time I kicked him out, deciding after all not to work An
g’
s shift.  Let Omar cope,
I’
d decided.  Tha
t’
s what
I’
ve been doing.  Now
I’
m happy: I made the right call for once.

“
Bare
,”
Aidan says
,“
I like you . . . bare
.
”

Bare?

Aida
n’
s steady gaze finally clues me in to the fact I do
n’
t have on a stitch of clothing, other than my panties.
 “I’
m . . .
I’
m so used to dancing topless.  I . . . do
n’
t wear much to be
d
—”

I silently thank Brick Verbot
e’
s Heavenly Father who, possibly, is starting to like me, for the long black hair hiding my breast
s—
mostly.  But it does
n’
t stop my nipples from tightening beneath Aida
n’
s gaze.  I shrug, unapologetic.
 “
Sorry, but I was
n’
t expecting company
.
”
 
If you show up here at this hour looking like you do, then yo
u’
re liable to get an eyefu
l—
and more.
 

“
Do
n’
t apologize.  Yo
u’
re beautiful
.
” 

His caress as he pulls a lock of hair across my exposed breast makes me rethink my assessment of the fiasco in the Buick. 
Could I have been wrong?

“
Um
,”
I say.  His caress sending shivers through me, I back from my tiny kitchen.
 “
I better get dressed.  I mean, if yo
u’
re here to talk about Robin,
I’
m sorry, but h
e’
s no
t
—”

“
Do
n’
t be sorry
,”
he says
,“
for anything
.
” 

“I’
ll be right back
,”
I say.

“
Do
n’
t leave, please
.
”

Reaching for a fistful of my hair, he wraps it gently around his hand and uses it to pull me close to him.  Stepping into his gentle tug, I close my eyes and feel my heart stupidly slamming against my chest, the brush of his holster against my bare skin.  Still gripping my hair, he pulls me up on tiptoes for a mini-version of the exacting
fouet
té
en tournant.

“
Is this what you want, Alaina Colby
?
”

My butterfly chorus spins and kicks dangerously fast in my lower belly.
 “
Wel
l—
damn.  Yes, i
t’s
—”

Without asking, he bends and kisses me, grinding his lips against mine the way I had his, only less brutally, and with abandon.

“
—
i
t’
s definitely what I want
,”
I finish, when he releases me, his taste on my lips sending my thoughts careening.

“
Me, too, he says
,”
green eyes hungry for more, which he takes.

The moment spins out of contro
l—
I love it.  Grabbing the wall as he pushes me back, I feel Aida
n’
s hands cupping my butt.  Lifting me up, he walks us down the hall toward my bedroom, holding our kiss, one big long hot knee-trembling kiss.

For a heartbeat, this feels . . . wrong.  I do
n’
t know him.  But then something bursts free inside me.  Who cares?  Never mind the fact I barely know Aidan Hawks.  We kiss several more seconds. 
I’
m getting lost, his mouth all over mine, sucking me into him. 

Then as suddenly as it arrived, my dreamy mood vanishes. 
What am I thinking?
  Aidan is here to question me about Robin.  H
e’
s a cop. 
No cops.
  Bert
a’
s rule.