Under the Gun (15 page)

Sampson held up a paper Starbucks cup. “Had to get out. Will’s place is nice but full
of tea. And did you know he keeps his cleats in the dishwasher?”

“The racks help stretch out the leather,” I murmured. “So, you’re getting some cabin
fever cooped up in there, huh?”

“Not really,” Sampson said, sinking Will’s key into the lock. “I’ve been able to get
out, get some information.”

A little flower of hope bloomed in my gut. “Oh, really? Anything worthwhile?”

Sampson swung his head and my hope died. “Nothing panning out yet. But I’ll keep you
posted. Have a good day at the office.” He flashed me a smile that was kind enough,
but almost bordered on aloof. The slight chill stayed with me all the way through
the workday.

I had successfully avoided Steve’s unholy stink and Dixon’s eyebrows-up stares when
5
PM
rolled around. I wasn’t particularly excited to study the minutiae of the Sutro Point
crime scene—especially since my guts had been wound in a tight, angsty coil for the
last eight hours—but I was ready to leave the office. But first I had to finger-walk
through the Underworld Detection Agency files, snagging out any creature, demon, deathwalker,
or dragon that could have the ability to kill a vampire—or at very least, had the
ability to remind Alex that something other than a werewolf could be responsible.
My stack wasn’t huge, but it was a start, and I was able to escape the office without
fanfare. I felt my tension rise as the elevator brought me closer to Alex and the
crime scene photographs. I tried to convince myself that it was solely the details
of the case that had my pulse racing, but every time I thought of Alex, of those ice-blue
eyes pinning me with one of his steely gazes, it wasn’t just my pulse that throbbed.

“Get yourself together, Lawson,” I murmured to my reflection in the silvery wall.
“Murder, mayhem, clearing a dear friend. Not sexy time.” I glared down at my zipper.
“Not sexy time.”

I kept up my no-sex mantra all the way to the diner across the street, where I picked
up a double bag of burgers and fries. By that time, I was so enamored with the smell
of greasy fries and oozing cheeseburger that I had abandoned the idea of taking Alex
into a dark corner, and instead fancied taking a cheeseburger there.

Yes, I am a fickle lover.

The police station was filled with the usual buzz—ringing phones, squawking shoulder
radios, officers trying to calm down screaming clients. The smell of sweat and fear
hung heavy in the air and was only offset by the cheery shafts of sunlight that made
their way through the three inches of dust on the big bay windows. I wound through
the maze of desks and people, keeping my eyes firmly focused in front of me and my
hands on my shoulder bag, my thumb digging into the corner of one of the file folders.
By the time I got to Alex’s office I had worked the folder into a stinging paper cut,
the pain a calming reminder that these demons were the only ones who caused pain,
were the ones who could be truly bad.

I stopped in front of Alex’s office door. He had moved offices since our last meeting
and this new office—more permanent, I guessed—actually had his name stenciled on the
door. It should have made me feel comfortable that Alex was rooted enough to his job,
to San Francisco—
to me?
—that the police department had seen fit to paint his name on the door, but suddenly,
nothing made sense anymore.

I rapped gently with the back of my hand. “Alex?”

I didn’t wait for him to invite me in, even though I should have known better by now.
Instead, I pushed open the door and my knees immediately went rubbery and weak and
before I knew it I was staring at his coffee-stained carpet, knees hugging my ears,
wildly sucking in huge gusts of stale air. Alex was crouched by me with a paper bag
in one hand, his other hand resting gently on my knee. The heat from his palm seared
my skin and helped to reground me.

“It’s okay, Lawson. Just relax.” His voice was soft and comforting. He patted my knee
awkwardly and thrust the paper bag directly into my upside-down line of sight. “Do
you need this?”

I slowly straightened up. “No, I’m okay.”

“Do you want me to turn this around?” He was standing next to the huge white board
that had made all the blood rush out of my body and strangled my heart. The entire
board was covered in full-color photographs of the bodies from Sutro Point. And although
I was
there,
had actually physically seen the bodies, they failed to have as much impact as they
did here, photographed, laid out in graphic, static detail, mouths forever locked
in silent screams, fingers constantly clawing for safety that would never come.

“It’s okay.” I turned my chair around so I wasn’t staring directly at the unseeing
eyes of one of the victims—a blond girl who, before that morning, was probably close
to my age and carefree, judging her life by the day, by her exercise routine, by what
she was going to have for lunch that afternoon. I stifled a shudder.

Alex set a paper cup of water on the arm of my chair and leaned back against his desk.
He kicked out his long legs and crossed his ankles, crossed his arms in front of his
broad chest. His eyes were wide and bright and had that uncanny—but comforting—way
of seeing me so completely that I shrank back a little bit in my chair.

“Where’s my culinary fee?” He shot me that cocky grin, but I couldn’t appreciate it.
I pulled the Fog City bag from my purse and pushed it toward him.

“You’re not eating?”

I shook my head. “Not much of an appetite.”

Alex looked startled. “Are you sick? What about a donut?” He reached into a pink pastry
box sitting on a stack of procedural handbooks and waggled a sprinkled donut in front
of my face. I felt my lip curl and my stomach acids churn.

“I don’t see how you can eat with that”—I gestured to the white board—“and all of
this going on.”

Alex dropped the donut and grabbed his burger, splatting a packet of ketchup on it.
“All of what going on?”

I took a short breath, feeling an anxious flutter go through my belly. “Everything.”

Alex set his burger down, his eyes turning to a deep ocean blue. “It’s a practiced
skill.”

I watched Alex eat for a few silent moments, stacking and restacking the UDA files
on his desk. “Did you pull any files? You know, ex-cons, or unsolved cases with similar
MOs?”

Alex smiled behind his burger. “Someone ought to get you a badge.”

I cocked my head, my angst turning into slight annoyance. “I’m serious. Does the department
have any leads about who might have done this? Gang retaliation, Satanic offering,
or something?

“Do you know how many actual cases of Satanic offerings there have been in San Francisco
County?”

I felt my brows raise, suddenly obsessed with knowing if any of my neighbors—past
or present—had set out a little offering to dear old dad.

“How many?”

Alex shifted his burger to one hand and wrapped his free fingers into an O-shape.

“Zero?”

“Nada. None.”

“That you’ve found,” I clarified.

“That have panned out to be actual acts of true Satanic ritual or Satanism. Generally,
it’s stupid kids or your everyday socio-slash-psychopath.”

“I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel better or worse.”

Alex shrugged and stuffed a Sophie-worthy handful of fries in his mouth.

“So, you’ve got no leads.”

Alex rubbed his palm over his forehead, raked his fingers through his dark curls.
“That’s the thing, Lawson. I looked—I really did—but nothing matched up to anything
in the system. There were no prints, which means that our perp was careful or DNA-aware.”
Alex glanced up at me, the statement in his eyes.

“Or didn’t have prints—or standard DNA.”

He nodded, his mouth contorted in that false, “sorry to have to point it out” kind
of way.

“I’m not entirely sure that whoever did this was normal.” His eyes set on mine again
and this time, the accusation seemed to burn into them. The weight of my secret—and
my guilt—sucked all the air out of the room.

I needed to tear my eyes from Alex’s, so I chanced a glance at the whiteboard, my
stomach protesting with a nauseous wave when I did.

“Are there any pictures of your vic?”

I shook my head. “Of course not.”

“Oh,” Alex said, “right—because they turn to dust, right?”

“Uh, no, Buffy, they don’t turn into dust. No film. Can’t be seen on film whether
or not they’re dead or . . . dead again.”

“That’s a problem.”

There was a beat of awkward silence. Alex popped the last of his burger into his mouth
and downed a mouthful of fries. I pulled the files closer to me, cutting the stack
in half and pushing those toward Alex. “We should probably get to work on this,” I
said. “We have a lot of files to go through.”

Alex paused, his eyes going soft.

“What?”

“You’re really tightly wound right now.”

“Of course I am, Alex. There’s a psycho killer on the loose ready to Filet-O-Fish
his next vic.”

“We’re never going to make any headway with you in this state.”

I gritted my teeth, anger surging through my already tightened muscles. “With me in
this
state
?”

Alex held up his hands placatingly. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to offend you. I just
think you need to relax a little bit. Do a little stress release before we get started.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair, scrutinizing the hard set of Alex’s
jaw. “And I suppose you know exactly what I need to relax.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I have a few ideas.”

 

 

I heard Alex’s shirt rustle as he slipped out of it. It didn’t take long for my eyes
to adjust to the low lights, but once they did I felt my jaw clench and did my best
to unlatch my eyes from the white T-shirt that clung to his every hard curve. It hugged
his chest; the flimsy fabric pulled mercilessly over each stair-step abdominal muscle,
straining over his biceps, just exposing the lickable feathers of his winged tattoo.
I felt my mouth start to water again, felt my palms go from dry confidence to schoolgirl
sweaty.

He said this would relax me, but suddenly my every muscle fiber was on high alert,
every synapse firing to embrace every sound, the smell of heat and fire that clung
to the air between us. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, managing to channel a
sense of calm—that flitted right out the window when I heard the snapping of his belt.

My eyes flew open and Alex’s were intent on mine. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I nodded, not trusting my own voice. Then, finally, “Stress release.”

“As long as you’re sure. I mean, this is what relaxes me. . . .”

I forced a smile that I hoped looked as calm and collected as I
didn’t
feel. “Me, too.”

Now it was his turn to smile and something about the relaxed, almost sleepy grin that
he shot me made the tension start to loosen. “A girl like you?” he said, “I have a
hard time believing that.”

“You don’t know everything about me, Alex Grace.”

I liked the sexy, smoky tone of my voice and Alex seemed to, too. He came closer to
me, extended a hand. “As long as you’re sure.”

I licked my paper-dry lips and stared at his hand, my stomach seizing. I took it,
finally trusting, and laced my fingers through his. The immediate sense of comfort
washed over me; that sweet feeling of home set in.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

Alex pulled me close to him. He let my hand go and it fell limply to my side, the
singe of his touch turning my hand suddenly icy cold. I felt his breath, moist and
hot on my ear, as his lips trailed through my hair, his fingers tangling in it, brushing
it aside. I leaned into him, and after all the gentle motion, his hands were suddenly
firm on me, sure. He turned me quickly, with so much need that gooseflesh covered
every inch of my skin, exposed and not, and I felt my breath rising, then catching
in my throat. His chest pressed against me and my back immediately arched, my rump
pressing against him, heat searing every inch of me. I knew my blush was evident and
obvious and it made me want to hide—but the feel of his body against mine was magnetic
and I feared I couldn’t move, even if I really wanted to—which I didn’t.

His heart beat in a steady, dizzying rhythm against my shoulder blade as his palms
traced their way down my arms.

“As long as you’re sure . . .” Alex whispered. His voice was so calm, yet so authoritative.
The whole situation was overwhelming, the emotion buzzing all around me, the air electric.
I started to tremble—a tiny, delicious tremor that Alex must have taken as a sign
because he pulled me even tighter against him until I could feel his belt buckle at
the small of my back.