Vengeance to the Max (33 page)

An eyebrow shot up. “Don’t think I can lose either way, then, huh?” Still, he didn’t move. His eyes, serious despite the smile, searched her face.

“I’m not doing this to get an alibi,” she told him.

“That didn’t occur to me. But you need one badly.”

Her stomach lurched. “I do?”

“Need a good criminal attorney, too.”

She turned out a joke to hide the fear. “How can you, a cop, say the words
good
and
attorney
in the same sentence?”

He didn’t laugh. “You been watching too much TV again.”

“I don’t need a lawyer to answer a few simple questions for the cops.”

“Questions won’t be simple.” He pointed his finger at her chest. “And you’ve got a powerful motive.”

“Doesn’t having a lawyer along make a person look guilty?”

“Better than letting a cop twist your words to mean things you didn’t intend.”

He should know, being one of them. She swallowed despite her dry mouth. “You don’t do that, do you?”

He didn’t answer that one, said instead, “They aren’t your friends, Max, no matter what they try to tell you.”

“But you know them—”

He cut her off. “They aren’t my friends either.”

She gave in. “I don’t know any lawyers.” Not criminal ones anyway.

“I know a few.”

His seriousness made her a little desperate. “You said the cops thought it looked like a frame.”

“Said they were of two minds. That’s before I knew about the gun.”

“But Cameron said it was cold. It can’t be connected to me.” Unless Bud left it somewhere that
did
point to her.

Instead of agreeing or telling her why it bothered him, Witt asked, “Why’d your husband have a cold gun?”

Would it be betrayal to tell? Did she care if it was? Yes, dammit, she did. She wasn’t like Bud, but she owed Witt the truth on this. “He wanted to threaten Bud with it.”

“A cold gun means he wanted it for more than threatening.”

“Do you want me to say he was thinking of killing Bud?”

“Was he?”

She gave a non-answer. “He had it with him the night he left me.” She ignored the ache in that statement.

Witt did, too. “Had it with him? That wasn’t in the report.”

“It was in his bag in the trunk of his car.”

“His car should have been inventoried, bag included.”

“But everyone thought it was a robbery. Why would they have looked in his car?”

“Damn shoddy work,” he muttered, then looked at her. “A good cop
never
assumes. He
always
looks for the hidden motives. He
never
takes the first or the easiest explanation.”

It didn’t say much in favor of the cops working Cameron’s case. But it sure as hell said a lot about Witt, about why he hadn’t given up on her. About why he’d force her to get an attorney to cover her ass. Witt’s motive became clear.

“You don’t think the guys on this case are shoddy, do you?” It was merely a request for confirmation.

“Hard to tell. They shoulda found you before I did.”

“But?” She really didn’t want to hear the
but
.

“But with Traynor doing such a fine job setting you up, you need a damn good lawyer to do some fast talking on your behalf.”

Was he trying to scare her? She was doing that so well on her own, she didn’t need any extra help from him. Max shifted so that her thigh pressed against his. “There’s like this one small thing I forget to tell you.”

His blue eyes narrowed, and he took a deep breath, most likely to steady himself so he wouldn’t yell at her. “What?” The voice of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“There’s kinda been this newspaper reporter following me.”

He mouthed the epithet that sprang to his lips. “Media attention screws a case every time.”

Yes, but would that be in her favor or against?

She didn’t have to say the words aloud. Witt saw it all. “He makes a stink in the papers about vigilante justice gone wild, and you’re dead.”

“He knew about Wendy, and the others, too.”

He put a hand to his forehead and rolled his eyes like a damsel going into a dead faint. “How long’s he been after you, Max?” Calm, too calm.

“Well, I sorta noticed him about the time Lance got killed.” Three weeks ago. “Then I saw him when we were at the airport.”

“And you didn’t tell me because?” He let the sentence hang. So Max could hang herself.

Honesty was the best policy, didn’t someone say that? “I don’t have a good reason. I should have told you.”

He laughed, shook his head, then put a hand on her thigh which was the closest part of her anatomy. “Christ, you never cease to amaze me. Here I was waiting for some cockamamie excuse, then you blow me away with the truth.”

“I’m not used to sharing.”

“Or letting someone else help with your problems.”

“Right.”

“Don’t suppose you know how your telling me makes me feel.”

She wondered if she should know.

He put a hand to her cheek, smoothed rough fingers over her skin. “Like there’s a lotta hope for us.”

God, that was the absolute last thing she’d expected him to say. That damn gushy feeling went off in her stomach again like an alarm. “Yeah, a lot of hope if I don’t end up in jail.”

He leaned forward and pecked a kiss on her lips. “Have to make sure you don’t. Let’s go to my place, sweetheart.” With that, he rolled to his feet in one fluid motion and held his hand out to her, popping her to her bare feet when she grabbed on.

The movement made her dizzy and gave her butterflies. Ohmygod. What had she done? Adrenaline pumped, but she didn’t run. She wasn’t a chicken. And she sure as hell wouldn’t lose that earlier bet.

Her hand still in his, Witt marched to her closet and opened the door. His gaze flicked over the meager contents, mostly black suits and skirts, a little gray, and clean white shirts. He pushed aside a hanger to examine what it held with a critical eye.

“Think you oughta change into this.”

A long, black skirt, one Angela had helped her pick out.

“Why?”

He looked down the length of her. “Wanna see your legs through that slit.”

If she remember rightly, the slit hit high enough to show a lot of thigh. Witt wanted her to play
peek-a-boo
.

She dropped his hand, took the skirt still on the hanger, and made a move towards the bathroom. Damn, she wanted him to look at her legs, too.

“You can change out here.”

She batted her eyelashes. “What’s the fun in opening the package if you saw it right before it got wrapped?”

“Good point. Hey, wear these as well.” He held out a white button-down shirt, one she wore to work, a red and black striped tie dangling around the neck. Red and black, sexy colors, her favorite colors, and he knew it. His eyes were the deepest blue and focused on her breasts beneath the tight turtleneck she wore.

Max caught her breath and closed the bathroom door on him. Her cheeks flushed, and God, was that a pant coming from her throat? After all the ways he’d touched her, after the things they’d done in their Lines motel, her fingers still trembled with anticipation as she buttoned the blouse. Witt whistled outside the door, a seductive unrecognizable tune that made her squirm. She brushed her teeth, fluffed her hair, and rubbed flowery lotion on her hands. She perused her wide-eyed reflection in the mirror, declared herself ready, then opened the door to him.

He eyed the skirt’s slit, which, at the moment, revealed nothing. It would when she walked. Max tilted her head. “Are you going to let me share your bathroom?”

“Sharing my bathroom is important?”

She twitched her lips right, then left. “Yes.”

He leaned down to draw in a heavy dose of her scent. “Showering together is good,” he whispered in her hair. Then he nipped her earlobe. “Yeah, you can share my bathroom.”

The enormity of it peppered her arms with goose bumps.

Leaving an open tin of tuna on the window sill for Buzzard, she hoped it didn’t attract anything else. She stuffed a change of clothes and a toothbrush in a plastic grocery bag from a collection she saved for lining the trashcan. What else would she need?

“You stalling?” Witt drawled, leaning against the doorframe at the top of the stairs, one foot crossed over the other ankle, hands folded over his belt.

Max swallowed.
Yes
. “What car did you drive?”

“Truck.”

Right. Since he didn’t have a department vehicle anymore. Not that she was going to blame herself again. She stepped into her high heels and tried not to think about black and red Dodge Rams. Or the delicious things that could happen in a cab that size. Or why he’d
really
told her to change into a skirt.

“Wanna ride in my truck, Max?” Voice low, eyes slumberous, ready.
Ride ‘em, cowgirl
.

Oh. My. God. She opened her mouth. Her voice cracked. She tried again. “Sure.”

That smile. He wasn’t thinking about murder or Bud Traynor or the missing gun or getting her a good lawyer. He was thinking about losing the damn bet he made with her. Or about winning it. Either way, he’d get his hands on her tonight. Her heart kicked up a racket.

He took her hand, maybe to help her down the stairs. Or was it more like making sure she wouldn’t run away? She couldn’t run if she tried, nor did she want to. No, she wanted to be with him, tonight and in the morning. With neither of them jumping out of bed at the crack of dawn. When they got up, they’d do it together. Nothing stood in their way but Max’s fear. She’d conquer it no matter what.

She put her hand to the light switch, turned for one last look at her room, as if when she returned, it would be different. Or she would be.

Something in the center of her rag rug glinted in the light. Something gold, something round, something dark.

“Jesus.”

Witt’s fingers tensed around hers. “What?”

“It’s his ring.” The death’s head menaced her. “Scarface.”

She couldn’t remember if she’d told him her names for Bootman, Tattoo, and Scarface, but Witt didn’t ask. They stared at the thing on the carpet as if it were alive.

He dropped her hand. “What’s it doing here?”

“That has to be the dumbest question I’ve ever heard you ask, Detective Long.”

“Traynor.”

“Duh.” She was stupid, too. Bud’s scent in her apartment hadn’t lingered from his first visit nor been a figment of her imagination. It was real. He’d been in her place that very day. “He must have put it in the box. It fell out when I was looking through.”

“Cat and mouse.” Witt eyed the ring, the muscles of his arms rigid, murder written on his face. “Fifty-fifty chance you wouldn’t find it.”

“Or get rid of it before the cops came looking for me.”

“He’s laughing at you.”

“He’s letting me know he’s smarter than me at every turn.”

Witt moved his head to look at her. “What about me?”

“I don’t think he considers you in the game at all.”

“His mistake.”

Witt squatted to study the piece of evidence Bud had left to incriminate her. “You got a plastic baggie?”

She brought him one from her supply on top of the mini-fridge.

“A pen?” He held out his hand like a surgeon for a scalpel.

Max gave him that, too. Sliding the tip through the ring, he dropped it into the baggie and rose from the rug. He zipped the lock three-quarters, squished the air out, closed it the rest of the way, then slipped the packet into his pocket.

“Are you going to have it tested for his fingerprints? He won’t have left any.”