Before She Dies (20 page)

Read Before She Dies Online

Authors: Mary Burton

Tags: #Romance, #Suspense, #Fiction

BOOK: Before She Dies
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“On what charge?” he challenged.
“I’ll find one,” Rokov said.
“And when he’s done making his list of offenses, I’ll add a few of my own,” she said.
Lonnie shifted his gaze to Charlotte. “Sure, Ms. Wellington. Sure. I’ll back down.” He even managed a gap-toothed grin. “I’m just blowing smoke.”
“Be very sure about that,” Rokov said. “Or I swear, I’ll be the first to haul your ass to jail.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Lonnie waved his hand, turned on his heel, and hurried down the steps. He soon vanished around a corner.
“Thanks,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t diffuse his temper so well. I should have known better.”
His glasses tossed back her reflection. “You’re good at stirring the pot.”
“It’s why I get paid the big bucks.”
“You didn’t get paid this go-around.”
“Old habits die hard.”
The danger had passed, the adrenaline had dwindled, and suddenly she felt shaky. She didn’t quite trust her legs to work and hesitated, hoping a small delay would help her gain equilibrium. “Thanks again.”
“You all right?” His gaze all but burned through the sunglasses.
“Me? Sure. I think the guy just caught me by surprise, and I’m not so fond of surprises.”
“You’re headed to your office?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She felt helpless and silly. “I can handle a two-block walk.”
“I can use the exercise. I’ve been sitting too much lately.” He nodded as if to say
, Get going
.
With a begrudging acceptance, she began walking. He kept his strides measured, setting a more balanced pace. She wasn’t a fan of small talk but meatier topics had become explosive: Sooner, the carnival, the Young investigation, and God help her, the sex they’d had just six days ago.
Refusing to stoop to the weather or favorite movies, she chose the lesser of the evils. “How goes your investigation into the Young case? I’ve been keeping up with it through the papers.”
“It’s slow. We’re still looking at her car and the man who got into it before she vanished.”
“You’d think with all the cameras and people in this area that someone would have seen something.”
“Yeah. But I’m starting to think our killer had his entire agenda well planned.”
“Even the best killers leave clues.”
“So I’ve heard.”
They reached an intersection and he took her elbow in hand. Three cars passed. When the road was clear, they crossed the street. Taking her elbow was a protective, unnecessary, and kind gesture she appreciated.
“The organized killers often leave clues so small they are almost invisible,” she said.
“If that’s true, then this guy is very, very organized.”
She’d never heard the faintest hint of self-doubt from Rokov. And even now it wasn’t so much that she heard the doubt ... she simply
felt
the doubt. If she sat in Madame Divine’s chair now, she’d have said he had a strong aura, and he was destined for great things. “You’ll find the killer, detective. You’re a clever one.”
He grinned. “Was that a compliment, counselor?”
“I give credit where credit is due.”
He slid his hand into his pocket. “Let’s hope I am that clever. This guy needs to be found.”
Again she sensed the fear that another victim would die before he could find his killer. But to ask a question so personal meant opening a door she did not wish to open. And so they walked in silence.
When they reached her office, she faced him. “Here I am. Home sweet home.”
He glanced at the three-story brick town house with its wrought-iron front rail, stone planter filled with red geraniums, and dark lacquer front door sporting the pineapple head doorknocker. “Fancy digs, counselor.”
“Don’t be fooled by the old world charm. The HVAC is in need of an overhaul, and I’ve got a couple of basement pipes that like to freeze in the winter.” What had prompted this candor?
He tested the railing’s sturdiness with a sound shake. “It still had to cost you a fortune.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret.” It was a small, safe secret. “I got the place in a bankruptcy sale a couple of years ago. I redid the first floor, electric, and plumbing, but the upper floors are a disaster. I wouldn’t dare show them to you.”
Humor and interest sparked in his gaze. “So Wellington and James is a facade?”
No truer words had been spoken. “One day I’ll have the place finished.”
“You could probably flip the building and make a good bit of money.”
“A second mortgage financed the renovation. Seemed like a good move until the bottom dropped out of the real estate market and landed me upside down in the mortgage. I can’t sell, but as long as I keep working, I’ll be fine. The market will catch back up.” And it would, just as the work would increase.
He glanced around to make sure no one was listening and then leaned toward her. “Why not just dip into the trust fund to finance the renovations?”
That made her laugh. “No trust fund, detective. It’s just me with a big stick holding off the wolves.”
“Alone.”
“It’s the way it’s always been.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
She ignored the subtext. “It’s less complicated that way.”
“No tangles.”
Tangles.
The word of warning she’d used before they’d made love the last time.
“Right.”
“Being alone doesn’t bother you?”
Lately it did. Too many nights she’d lain awake wishing she could roll over into his strong embrace. But the cards didn’t bode well for The Master at Bending Rules and The Boy Scout. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
He pulled off his glasses, revealing a direct clear gaze. “I’d like to see you again.”
“I would dearly love a few hours alone with you.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and she was careful not to lean toward him, fearful someone would notice. “But I’m going to have to take a rain check. I barely have time to sleep.”
He curled and uncurled his fingers as if resisting the urge to touch her. “When?”
“Soon.”
“Very soon.” Not a question but a statement.
“I can’t make promises.”
With an impatient jab, he shoved his glasses in his breast pocket. “Charlotte, stop worrying and just let this unfold.”
“Into what?”
He took her hand in his and rubbed his thumb against her palm. “Isn’t that the fun of it, not knowing?”
“I like being in control.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
Memories of her most brazen bedroom moves warmed her face.
Smiling, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and then released it. “We’ll work on that.”
“Mighty confident, detective.”
“I try.” He glanced around as if scanning the streets for trouble. “Be careful. Lonnie doesn’t strike me as a quitter.”
She straightened, remembering they were in public. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Rokov turned and strode down the street, leaving her to wonder why she was so afraid of the man.
On Mondays, Dr. Maya Jones went running at the local high school track, raced home to shower and change. Then she grabbed a coffee and bagel at Just Java, where she caught up with friends. By three she’d be at the school teaching class.
She was so predictable, as her on-again/off-again lover had once said. But she found comfort in structure and routine and had long ago decided to do what she pleased. She glanced at her sports watch as she strolled into the coffee shop.
The scent of coffee mingled with freshly baked pastries flavored with cinnamon. Warm and inviting, this place always made her happy. Mothers brought their children here. Writers read from their latest works. Business was conducted.
This was a good place. And to think a killer had invaded the neighborhood just days ago. She shuddered. There was always someone to spread poison and evil.
She strolled up to the counter, glanced at the glass jar filled with biscotti, the bin of mints, and the
We Accept Tips
cup. A young teen boy with shoulder-length blond hair, wearing a Georgetown T-shirt and jeans, moved up to the register.
“How’s it going, Joey?” She dug her change purse from her pocket.
“All’s well, Maya. You want the regular? Latte and sugar cookie seeing as it is Friday?”
She laughed. “Yes.”
The kid stared at her with a clear direct gaze, and she had liked him from the start. “So how go your classes?”
He shrugged as he held a pitcher of milk up to the steamer. “Can’t complain. Calculus blows, but I’m managing.”
“I know tutors if you need help.”
“So far I don’t need the cavalry, but I’ll let you know if I do.”
Joey finished her latte, set a cookie on a plate, and rang her up. Seconds later she was sitting at a small round table by the large picture window that overlooked The Wharf. Drooping yellow crime scene tape still cordoned off the area. She’d read about the murder in the paper. There’d been suggestions it was related to the occult but details had been sketchy. Likely it was some ignorant kid who didn’t even know how to spell
devil
.
She sipped her coffee. A couple passed by her table. They were laughing. Some days she wondered what it would be like to experience pure happiness. Or what it would be like to accept a man’s smile at face value without searching for the kernels of evil. Or what it would be like to kiss a man and not fear he’d steal her heart.
This time when she raised the cup to her lips, the tension in her fingers threatened to crack the cup. Carefully, she set it down next to the uneaten cookie.
“Hey, welcome again.”
She glanced up into Katrina’s face. “Good afternoon.”
Her smile brightened as she wiped down a table. “So how does that cookie taste?”
“Good and fattening.”
“Please. You run so much, you’ll never gain weight.”
“You should have seen me forty pounds ago.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You look stunning.”
“Thanks. Lots of blood, sweat, and tears.” Her on-again /off-again had told her she’d looked a little puffy the other day.
Katrina moved on to the next table, leaving Maya to her cookie, her latte, and her book, which she dug out of her worn backpack. Today, she was giving the kids a test so there were no lessons to plan.
When a man sat at the table beside her, she was only vaguely aware of him. When he scooted his chair, the sound dragged her gaze upward. She’d seen him here before. He was quiet. Kept to himself. A reader. All traits she shared. As she lowered her gaze, she noted the book he was reading,
Salem’s Lost.
She had been reading it the other day. It was a historical biography of a woman accused of witchcraft in the seventeenth century. “So how do you like
Salem’s
’s
Lost
?” she said.
He carefully marked his place before he glanced up. “I’m not buying the writer’s hypothesis. I mean really, bacteria caused mass hysteria that led to the witch trials.”
“It’s a theory that has been debated a few times.” She relaxed back in her seat. “Not many folks get into the history of Salem.”
“There’s a lot to be learned from history.” He broke a piece off his muffin as if he were going to eat it. “But in this case, I think the writer has it wrong.”
“Really?”
He didn’t let his gaze linger on her too long. “Bacteria in the bread did not make the town lynch those women. It was fear and greed.”

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