Bonds of Justice (7 page)

“No. Kenneth Vale’s—the apparent suicide’s—apartment has been compromised to the point where it’s useless as far as any forensic examination is concerned,” she told him, having checked that with Councilor Duncan. “However, it was left intact to give Council psychologists a chance to examine it in case it threw any light on Vale’s personality. His suicide is considered an unusual case.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “You talking about the method he used to hang himself?”

“Yes.” Sophia couldn’t imagine the demons that would drive a man to choose such a long, tortuous form of death—if indeed, he had chosen his death. “I’ve been given the codes to access his apartment.”

“Good, we’ll go have a look. I’m guessing we’ve got nothing on the heart attack victim—file says he was cremated,” Max said, tipping back his chair.

“They would have taken samples of his blood, checked for—”

“I e-mailed Nikita from New York,” Max interrupted, “asked her about that. Seems like the samples have mysteriously disappeared.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it?” He tapped his finger against the table, and it wasn’t a restless movement. “What about the car the third possible victim was driving when she had her accident?”

“It’s being held at a private facility here in the city.”

“Well, that’s something at least.” Scowling, he tipped his chair even farther back. “Would’ve been better if Nikita had called us in right away instead of waiting several weeks after the crash—but I guess she figured she could get to the bottom of it herself.”

Sophia couldn’t concentrate on his words, her attention held by something else altogether. “You’ll fall over if you keep doing that.”

He shot her an amused look, continuing to hold the precarious balance. “Used to drive my foster families nuts.”

His openness about being in the foster-care system was unexpected. And it made Sophia give in to the seeds of rebellion, to ask a question that a perfect Psy would have never asked. “You weren’t with one family long term?”

“No. Longest was six months,” he said easily, and tipped his chair back down on all four feet. “I assume Nikita had her techs check the vehicle out?”

She nodded, a strange realization taking form inside of her. Max hadn’t had parents either, not in reality. He was like her, at least in that way. She wanted to share that with him, with this man who’d seemed to
see
her from their very first meeting, but she didn’t know how, having no capacity or experience at building bonds with another individual. “Yes,” she said instead, harshly aware of how remote she sounded, how inhuman . . . as if she was already dead. “However, Councilor Duncan has authorized the expenditure required to get an independent report if you think it necessary.”

“I’ll decide that after I have a chat with the mechanic.” Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet, the scent of his body—soap, warmth, something darker—sweeping across her senses. “But first—Vale’s apartment.”

“Alright.” She stood, aware her movements were not as graceful as his—her body felt jerky, disconnected. “If you’ll give me a moment to change out of my suit.”

“You had court this morning?” He reached out to open the door for her, the action making her pause for a second. Men never did things like that for her. It wasn’t because she was Psy—she’d watched any number of males do the same act automatically for all females. But they always seemed to want to distance themselves from the violence she wore on her face—as if they were afraid it was catching.

“Sophia?”

She realized she’d been quiet too long. “Yes?”

“How did the case go?”

“How it always does,” she said, unlocking her door with gloved hands that were a constant reminder of who she was, and who she’d be till the day she died—no matter the need to rebel, to break the chains of a past that refused to set her free, there could be no other tomorrow for her. “I told the judge and jury what I saw. That is all I do.”

Max watched Sophia disappear into her apartment and let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. The woman got to him, no doubt about it. And she got to him in a way that made a mockery of any thoughts he might’ve had about keeping his emotional distance.

Heading back to his bedroom with that truth circling in his head, he grabbed a black Windbreaker from his suitcase. It took only a couple of seconds to shove his cell phone inside and shrug into it—walking back out, he leaned against the wall opposite Sophia’s door as he waited for her to finish changing. It gave him a couple of very needed minutes to calm down.

And face the facts.

His body not only liked the idea of Sophia Russo, it liked the reality of her even more. She had lush, sensual lips, curves that made a man thank God—and she smelled so good he wanted to bury his face in her neck like the leopards did with their mates. But those eyes that had once reminded him of River’s laughing gaze . . . they were utterly flat, so lifeless he may as well have been talking to an automaton.

With most Psy, he would’ve accepted that lack as an inevitable side effect of their emotionless personalities, but with Sophia, he knew it had to be a carefully constructed lie. Because no one who’d seen the things Sophia Russo had seen, who’d walked in the blood-soaked footsteps of evil, could have remained unscathed by it.

Not unless her emotions weren’t simply buried, but excised from existence.

The door opened at that moment, revealing the woman at the center of his thoughts. She’d changed into jeans and a gray sweatshirt that covered those curves he was starting to obsess over. He could see the edge of a white T-shirt beneath the sweatshirt, while plain black sneakers peeked out from under the hem of her jeans.

“Is this appropriate?” she asked. “I assumed we might have time to go to the garage as well.”

He ran his gaze not over her clothing, but over the soft curls of her shoulder-length hair. A rich, charcoal black, those curls tempted a man to fist his hands in the softness, tug her close, and sink his teeth—deliciously carefully—into that full lower lip. “Yes.” It came out husky.

She hesitated, as if she’d caught the edge in his tone, but her words when they came were pragmatic. “I’ll e-mail the Councilor from the car, ensure the chief mechanic knows we’ll be coming.” Locking her door after picking up that little computronic gadget that seemed to be surgically attached to her hand, she fell into step beside him, her head not even reaching his shoulder.

“You’re short.” He could tuck her under his arm, and against his body, without any problem whatsoever.

Sophia almost halted. “That kind of observation is rude in all cultures.”

He shrugged, but he’d noted the jerky movement before she smoothed out her stride, considered the implications—Psy made it a point to react as little as possible, regardless of the provocation. And Max was very, very good at provocation when he was in the mood. “I didn’t say you didn’t look good short.”

“I am what is termed a ‘throwback’ to my great-great-grandmother,” Sophia said, her tone pure feminine frost. “She had the identical body type. I will never be slender.”

“From where I’m standing”—Max couldn’t help himself, the devil in him taking over—“slender is overrated.”

Ignoring him with a focus that made his lips curve into a slow, satisfied smile, Sophia pressed her finger to the touch pad for the elevator. “Will your pet be alright in the apartment?”

Surprised she’d bothered to ask after Morpheus, he nodded. “I left a window open for him.”

“There is only a very narrow ledge, and it’s several floors off the ground.” A glance back down the corridor, as if she was considering returning for Morpheus. “He is also in an unfamiliar city.”

That look, the words, the hint of a personality behind the ice, had every one of his instincts humming—Sophia Russo was no robotic Psy. She was something, some
one
far more intriguing. “Morpheus is an alley cat,” he said, remembering the way he’d seen her extend her fingers toward the cat, the inquisitive look on her face when she’d thought he wasn’t watching. “He already considers that ledge his own personal egress and the city his very own playground, trust me.”

“He is your pet and your responsibility.”

Letting her step into the elevator as it arrived, he bit back a grin at that prim reminder and reached for the keypad. “I was told we’d have a vehicle—do you know if it’s already here?”

“Yes. I picked it up and parked it in the basement garage.” She waited until he’d pressed his finger to the appropriate number before surprising the hell out of him. “You can drive.”

When he raised an eyebrow, she said, “I’ve had enough contact with human males to realize you seem to have a congenital inability to function while a female is at the wheel, and I’d rather your full attention be on the case.”

He rocked back on his heels, way past intrigued and well into seriously screwed—because there was only one way this could end. That hint of personality and the inexorable tug of a deeper
something
between them notwithstanding, Sophia wasn’t only a J, wasn’t only a Psy, she was Councilor Duncan’s personal eyes and ears. A smart man would keep his distance, make sure she never forgot that while they might be working together, they sure as hell weren’t on the same team.

There was just one problem with that—he, a man known for leaving his lovers with smiles on their faces, and without a backward look, wanted to know every tiny detail about this woman who spoke to parts of him that had been in cold storage so long, his body physically hurt as they woke. It was, to be honest, uncomfortable as hell. More, the shocking intensity of his response went against the pragmatic nature of his mind—he was used to thinking, to planning.

But he was also a man who knew how to adapt. And he hadn’t backed down from anything or anyone since the day he’d grown old enough, and strong enough, to defend himself . . . to protect himself.

“You know,” he said as the elevator doors opened, determined to uncover the truth of the enigma that was Sophia Russo, “changelings would consider your letting me drive a surrender.”

She stepped out into the garage, so prim and proper that he wanted to mess her up three ways to Sunday, the long-forgotten boy in him sitting up in mischievous anticipation. What would she do, he wondered? Did Sophia Russo even understand the meaning of the word “play”?

“I’m sure you realize,” Sophia said in response to his comment, “that nothing is that easy with Psy, Detective.”

“Max.” He wanted to hear her say his name, acknowledge him as a man.

A slight nod. “This is our car.” She stopped in front of a black sedan with tinted windows.

He whistled through his teeth. “This is a very well-designed tank.” Sleek, meant to mix into ordinary traffic, but—to his experienced eyes—surely bulletproof and with a body built to survive impacts from vehicles twice its size.

“Councilor Duncan thought it prudent since I’ll be working with you.” A curl of raven black hair swung against her cheek as she began to slide off her right glove. “It’s become common knowledge that once a J takes an ‘impression’ of a memory, that memory becomes inaccessible to another J.”

Realization coalesced into a tight line of tension across his shoulders. “How many times has someone tried to kill you?”

“I’m not certain.” She used her thumbprint—her hand unmarked, unscarred—to unlock the car and access the computronic control panel. “I can program you in now if you’ll come over and press your thumb to the scanner.”

He did so, waiting patiently while she ensured he had full rights to operate the vehicle. “Guess,” he said afterward, as she got out and walked around to the passenger side door.

“What?”

“Give me an estimate of how many times you may have been the target of an assassination attempt.”

She opened her door. “I’ve only been shot at three times.”

Only.
A lot of cops didn’t get shot at that many times their whole career. Sliding into the driver’s seat—after shifting it back more than a foot—he brought up the manual controls, viscerally aware of the delicate vulnerability of her skin bare inches away. “Why is that?” he asked, speaking past a sudden possessive edge that honed his protectiveness to a steely gleam.

And that, too, was a surprise. Though he was a protector at heart, a facet of his personality he’d learned to handle, he’d never been possessive . . . or maybe, a long silent part of him whispered, he’d simply learned not to be. If you didn’t claim people, they couldn’t reject you, couldn’t leave you, couldn’t break your fucking heart. Except even that reality didn’t stop his primal response to Sophia—it came from some place deeper, beyond the civilized skin of his humanity.

Sophia turned to buckle her safety belt. “I assume,” she said in response to his question, “people wanted to stop me from giving evidence—if I die, the impression dies with me.”

His fingers almost brushed her hair as he braced his arm on the passenger side seatback in preparation for reversing the car.

The way she shifted to avoid any contact was subtle . . . and a chilling reminder that for all her lush femininity, Sophia Russo would never melt for any man. It should’ve thrown cold water on his simmering hunger, nipped that dawning possessiveness in the bud, but all it did was make him want to tug at her curls, just to see what she’d do.

There was a reason he’d spent most of junior high in detention.

Fighting the urge, he dropped his arm once he had the car out and angled toward the exit. Slow, he thought, he had to do this slow. She was so skittish, he’d have to stroke her into trusting him. If he pushed too hard, too soon, he’d lose any hope of getting through her shields—and that was unacceptable.