The Heart of A Killer (9 page)

She wished. As far as her captain knew she could be interviewing a witness or an informant at her desk. And he wasn’t even at the precinct at the moment, so the likelihood of him throwing Dante out were as remote as James Patterson strolling into the squad room to interview her for his next book.

She should be so lucky.

“Catch any bad guys tonight?”

“I think they stayed inside out of the heat.”

“Smart of them.”

“What about you?”

“Did I catch any, or was I one of them?”

He was a mind reader. Her lips curved while she made some notes in the file and closed it. “You said it, I didn’t.”

“I’m not a bad guy, Anna.”

“So you say.”

“Anything on George yet?”

“I’m not discussing a case with you, especially one you’re directly involved in.”

“Indirectly.”

“Whatever.” And no, she hadn’t found a thing, something she noted in the file she opened next. Unfortunately, she had no suspects. There were no prints at the scene and no witnesses. The only reason George Clemons was dead was a direct link to that night twelve years ago. And because of all of them.

Because of her.

Then there was Dante conveniently showing up at the same time a murder was committed. A murder of someone he was tied to.

And she knew nothing about Dante or where he’d been. No record, no priors, he showed up in no criminal databases, which she supposed should have relieved her, but the odd thing was he showed up nowhere. At all. It was as if he didn’t exist after he left here. Which made her more suspicious, not less.

She knew a lot of guys worked odd jobs for cash, so they never reported income, but for twelve years? Come on.

It made her wonder even more what the hell he’d been doing for the past twelve years. And why he was suddenly back. He said he was back for George and Ellen’s anniversary party. But then George turned up dead. She didn’t like it. Not at all.

As much as she wanted to keep the past where it belonged, as much as she didn’t want to encourage Dante, especially after last night, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get close to him, to find out where he’d been and what he’d been doing while he was gone. Because if he was connected in any way to George’s murder…

“Anything on the flowers and note?”

She shook her head. “Forensics got no prints, which doesn’t surprise me. The scene around my house came up clear, too. It’s just like the alley.”

“What about the alley?”

Dammit. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Talk to me, Anna.”

“No. I’m not discussing this investigation with you.”

She laid her head in her hands.

“Tired?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Did you sleep?”

“I got a little.” Mainly what she got was a whole load of frustration, staring at the ceiling and fantasizing about Dante.

Hot, steamy fantasies. Naked ones.

Ugh.

As if late June wasn’t already hot enough…

Cool fingers swept across her neck, pressing in and massaging the tight muscles there. For a split second she forgot she was at work, that there were other cops there.

Then she jerked her head up and shrugged his hand off. “Stop that.”

His lips curled. “You don’t want me to stop.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“You didn’t want me to stop then, either.”

She looked around, expecting to find the entire squad room of cops staring at her.

No one was even in the room.

Shit.

“You can’t do that here.”

“Where would you like to do it?”

She sighed. “You’ve been back in town for a little more than one day. We hardly know each other anymore. Why the hard press to get in my pants?”

He took a seat in the chair. “Is that what I’m doing? I was just asking you out for a meal.”

She slanted him a look. “You’re asking for a lot more than a meal.”

“What if I want to get to know you again, figure out what you’ve been up to all this time.”

“We aren’t going to find out any more about each other over a meal today than we did yesterday.”

He laughed. “One short conversation? You think that’s all we have left?”

“I don’t have time for relationships in my life, Dante. I’m busy.”

“I didn’t ask you for a relationship, Anna. There are things we need to talk about, and you know it. We all need to talk, not just you and me.”

He wanted more from her than talking. She knew it and he knew it. She hadn’t been a cop for seven years—a damn good cop—by ignoring signals and body language. Dante’s body language told her a lot about his intentions.

Intentions she had no desire to act on.

Okay, maybe she had desires, but she knew nothing about him.

“You want to talk, how about you start by telling me the truth about you?”

He leaned back, a look of wariness on his face. “What truth?”

“About where you’ve been for the past twelve years.” And why he left in the first place.

That shut him up.

“And why you show up here and suddenly someone close to you is dead.”

Now he looked pissed. A sure sign of something to hide. “Circumstance. I had nothing to do with George’s death.”

“So you say. But it sure is a coincidence that George is murdered—” she looked around to make sure no one had wandered into the squad room “—in a place very familiar to you, that no one knows about, on the same night you come back after being gone for twelve years. I’d like an explanation for that one, Dante.”

“So would I. I’d also like an explanation why after the murder someone left you a love note and flowers showing off about the murder. And it couldn’t have been me since I was with you on the scene.”

She opened her mouth to argue the point, but instead clamped it shut.

“We do have a lot to talk about, Anna. You, me, Gabe, Roman and Jeff. Our past has suddenly been dumped right into our laps again. And like it or not, we have to deal with it.”

She didn’t like it.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.”

Great. A get-together with the same people she’d been with twelve years ago.

A reunion she didn’t want to have.

Dante sat in his car and stared at the nondescript brick building that housed the metropolitan police station. Cops wandered in and out as he pondered what his next step would be.

Why hadn’t he just told Anna where he’d been and what he’d been doing for the past twelve years?

Because his life was a big giant secret and he never knew from one minute to the next where it would take him or what his identity would be when he got there. And he knew better than to just start spilling his guts.

He didn’t exist, not officially, and the fewer people who knew that the better.

If he was lucky he could get in and out of town without anyone knowing who he was and what he did.

His superiors would like that a lot.

He’d done the right thing by not saying anything, even if the end result had been the mistrustful look in Anna’s eyes.

He’d been the one who put that look there in the first place, so he was going to have to own it.

Which didn’t mean he’d have to like it.

He started up the car and drove away.

Six

S
leep had been an illusion, a fantasy. Anna had come home after getting off duty, stripped off her clothes and climbed into a hot shower to scrub the remnants of the day from her body, her mind filled with the possibilities of this case.

By the time she’d crawled into bed, the thick shades pulled down to block out the morning sunlight, she was exhausted. But sleep had been in fits, and dreams had been filled of that night twelve years ago, of being pinned down and helpless, the burn and screaming pain of a sharp knife carving into her chest. And suddenly it wasn’t her anymore, but George, a shadowy figure standing over him as he cried out for help, the tip of a knife glinting silver and menacing in the moonlight.

She woke with a gasp, her hand immediately going to her chest to rub the ache that never seemed to go away. Dragging her hand through her hair, she got up, dressed and made coffee.

Cup full of life-infusing brew, she stepped out onto the back patio.

It was brutally hot outside already, the humidity rising like the steam coming off her coffee. She took a seat on a cushioned chair, glad she had a shaded patio to cool her bare feet. If it was this hot in June, what was August going to be like?

Unbearable. And this kind of heat bred crime.

But she wasn’t on duty right now and she’d barely brushed the cobwebs out of her mind. It wasn’t time to think of work yet.

She sipped her coffee and watched the birds peck at the feeder in the corner of the yard. She’d impulsively bought it this spring, thinking her backyard needed some life and color—much like her life—but hey, she had to start somewhere, and the yard was easier. She’d added flowers and bushes, and had spent a couple weekends digging into the dirt with her shovel, sweating her ass off and loving every minute of it.

She didn’t need a social life if she had a backyard project, did she? Try telling that to her father.

Now she had to remember to water everything and put seeds in the bird feeder, but at least she had something out here to look at besides a couple trees and some grass.

She sipped her coffee and smiled at the birds fighting over the seeds.

The only thing missing from her life now was a rocking chair and a cat.

She laughed, thinking her dad would not be amused by that thought. He was already bitching about her getting close to thirty and not giving him grandchildren.

As if that was a priority.

As if any man would want to deal with all the baggage she’d bring to a relationship, the scars from the past, both physical and emotional. She could hardly stand getting naked in front of a man. Nudity required explanation of her scar, and since she’d never told the truth about that night, she had to lie about how she’d gotten it. Sex was much better in the dark, wearing some clothes. Not that she had a problem with sex. She liked it just fine, but the whole relationship and marriage thing? No thanks.

As if she was even interested in getting married and having children, anyway.

Her work hours were shit, she had frequent nightmares, the past still had a stranglehold on her and she liked her independence. She dated rarely, slept with men even more infrequently and took her sexual frustration out on her job.

Yeah, she was one hell of a catch.

Her cup empty, she went inside to refill and saw her phone vibrating across the kitchen counter.

It was a text message from Dante asking her to call him when she woke up.

She pressed the call button and he answered on the first ring.

“I didn’t expect you to answer me right away,” he said. “Figured you’d still be asleep.”

“I don’t need a lot of sleep.”

“So you’ve said. You ready to meet with all of us tonight?”

No. She didn’t want to meet with any of the guys, but figured Dante would keep insisting. And if he didn’t, Roman would. Roman worried like an old woman. “I guess so. How about pizza at my place at six?”

“Okay. I’ll round everyone up. I’ll bring the beer.”

“Won’t this be fun.” The best kind, too—they’d be talking about a murder, and she’d have to once again relive that night.

She clicked the phone off and leaned against the counter, ignoring the throb of the scar on her chest.

There had to be an explanation for George being killed in the alley, for the uncanny resemblance of his murder to the death of Tony Maclin. And for the carving of the heart on the victim’s chest.

But there was also the matter of the flowers and the card. No explaining that away as coincidence. Someone had wanted her to know about the murder. The flowers had been a gift. A sick gift, and there was no way to neatly tie this up as a coincidence, no matter how much she wanted to.

She had time, so she headed to the medical examiner’s office. Richard Norton hadn’t autopsied the body yet and she wanted to take another look.

She walked into the nondescript one-story brick building, which was always cold as a tomb even outside the examination rooms. She figured they deliberately kept it that way to discourage visitors, but on a day as hot as this she welcomed the arctic temperature indoors, passed her way through security and signed in to view the body being held in storage downstairs. The attendant outside the room went in with her.

She pulled the sheet back. George hadn’t been cleaned up yet—they’d do that when they autopsied him, but the carving on his chest resembled hers. Same location, left side of the chest, crude, as if it had been done in a hurry just to make a point. His wound looked deeper than hers, though, as if someone had dug down hard with the knifepoint. She wondered if George had still been alive when the killer had taken the knife to his chest.

Tony Maclin had been toying with her when he’d carved the heart into her skin. She still remembered the burning pain, how much it had hurt.

Had George felt the pain? Or had he already been beaten so badly he couldn’t feel anything at all by that point, not even the knife cutting into his skin?

Her scar tingled. She wanted to rub it, to remember, but the tech’s presence prevented her from doing so.

We’re connected now, George. You’re not alone.

“See something on him?” the tech asked.

“No. Just wanted to take another look, see if there was something I missed.”

She covered him with the sheet and the tech closed the drawer.

It had been a waste of time to come here. She didn’t know what had drawn her.

She stared at the silver drawer where George Clemons lay and thought how easily that could have been her twelve years ago. If the guys hadn’t been there, if they hadn’t rushed to her rescue, she could have ended up on a slab in this ice-cold room, dead at sixteen.

Everything she was now, everything she’d worked so hard to become, would have been obliterated that night in the alley. She’d have been buried underground, locked in a box, surrounded by dirt.