Dangerous to Touch (12 page)

“Did Candace Hegel speak German?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

Lacy was silent for a moment. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You do all the thinking, I do all the legwork?”

“Yes,” he said with a grin, and hung up.

Whistling, he wandered over to Blue’s kennel. For once, the dog didn’t lunge or bark at him. Instead he regarded him warily through strange, colorless eyes.

“Hey there, sport,” he said, keeping his voice amiable.

Blue lowered his head and issued a low, rumbling growl.

“Oh, yeah,” Marc muttered. “You’re a keeper.”

“Bonding?” Sidney asked, coming up behind him.

“Best friends,” he agreed, jerking his chin toward the dog.

Blue bared his teeth.

She threw back her head and laughed, the same guileless, throaty laugh he’d been intrigued by from the start. He hadn’t heard it very often, because things between them had hardly been jovial, but he liked the sound. Even more, he liked the way she looked, unselfconscious and unadorned, her simple beauty complimented by his plain white T-shirt and her cap of short, black hair.

He smiled back at her, wishing for a moment he had a fraction of her innocence. When she noticed his appraisal, the happiness drained from her face. “I’m done,” she said, stepping away from him. “I always close at noon on Saturdays.”

“Do you think he misses her? Candace?”

She raised her eyebrows, perhaps surprised by the sentimental question. “Yes. He mopes and sighs and takes very little joy in life.”

“Maybe he was like that before.”

“No.”

“And his aggressiveness? Is that also a symptom of grief?”

She hesitated. “With most dogs, aggression is a learned behavior, although some animals seem to be naturally more inclined to it.”

“What is your professional opinion, in his case?” he asked, adopting her clinical tone.

“I think he was abused or mistreated before the abduction.”

“By Candace Hegel?”

“Of course not,” she protested, as if defending a close friend.

“Could he have been trained that way?”

“I don’t know. Most formally trained dogs are very controlled, very well-behaved. Their owners spend a lot of time caring for them. Are police dogs aggressive, off-duty?”

“No,” he admitted. Even the most vicious attack dogs were the best of canine companions, according to their human cohorts. Examining Sidney’s face, Marc shelved thoughts of the investigation temporarily. It was Saturday afternoon, she rarely had time off and she looked tired. “Would you like to go with my mother and me to the mission?”

She rubbed at her eyes with her fists, an endearing, childlike gesture. “Actually, I’d like to go home and go to bed.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Alone,” she clarified.

He bit back another smile. “I knew what you meant.” Not that he wouldn’t enjoy joining her there-when she was no longer a part of this investigation. Last night, once again, he’d gone too far with her. He’d known his mother had been due back any minute, but he’d gotten lost in the taste of her mouth, the feel of her body, the scent of her skin.

He would have her, Marc told himself. Just not yet.

“If I go home, will you follow me?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She sighed. “Then I’ll feel guilty for keeping you.”

“Don’t. I’d rather work than go to church.”

“And here I thought you were a good Catholic boy,” she teased. “Responsible, God-fearing, dutiful.”

“I said I was responsible, not obedient.” With his mother, he’d always felt more like a parent than a child. She was emotional and reactive, all sense, little sensibility. He’d taken advantage of her fragile nature and ignored her admonishments more often than a good son should. People with weaknesses were easy to exploit, he’d discovered at a young age, and had hardened himself accordingly.

“I’d rather commit sins than atone for them,” he added, his eyes on the curves of her body.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’ll take you home first. You can pack an overnight bag.”

She scowled at him. “Presumptuous, aren’t you? You think I’m spending the night with you again?”

“I’d prefer it, but don’t get any hopes up that I’ll ravish you. My mother isn’t leaving until tomorrow morning.”

While Marc waited downstairs, Sidney packed her bag, casting a longing glance out her bedroom window. It was a beautiful day, crystal clear and not too hot, the recent rain having scrubbed away both the smog and the humidity.

She would have loved to spend the afternoon at the beach.

Sighing, she shoved some clothes and toiletries into a green canvas tote, then searched her closet for a dress to wear. She only had one appropriate for the weather, so there wasn’t much to deliberate over.

Her shoe collection was also woefully inadequate. She’d never thought she needed flirty summer sandals until this very moment. Shrugging, she grabbed a pair of simple white Keds. They weren’t new, but they were cleaner than her work sneakers, so she called it good.

“I have to talk to my neighbor about something,” Marc said after they’d arrived at his house. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

Sidney glanced at the front door anxiously. “What about your mother?”

“She doesn’t bite.”

Clutching her bag to her chest, she knocked on the front door.

“Just go in,” he said over his shoulder.

She made a shooing motion with her hands, waving him away. He may not care what his mother thought of her, or of him, for that matter, but she did.

Alma Cruz answered the door with a warm smile on her face. “
Mija
!
You don’t have to knock,” she said, ushering her in. “Where is Marcos?”

“Next door.”

“Oh, good. I wanted to apologize for last night. I’m so sorry for embarrassing you.”

“Um,” she murmured, feeling her cheeks heat.

“Are you going to
La Misión
with us?”

She smiled hesitantly. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” she said, her eyes alight with pleasure. “Have you eaten
lonche
?
”

“No.”

“Come, come. I made enchiladas. You like?”

Sidney shrugged, puzzled by her excitement. As the older woman’s hand clasped around her upper arm, the reason for her hospitality became clear: Alma thought she was speaking to her future daughter-in-law.

Apparently Marc didn’t make a habit of introducing his lady friends to his mother. Nor did he have them spend the night on the couch while she was visiting, or invite them to church the next day.

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” she began.

“Oh, no,” Alma countered, fixing them both a serving of spicy, aromatic food. “I see how young people are nowadays, hopping from one bed to another. I can tell you’re not that type.” She sat down at Marc’s kitchen table, patting Sidney’s hand. “How long have you and Marcos been dating?”

Sidney stared down at the plate in front of her, wondering if her cheeks were as red as the enchilada sauce. “Not long enough,” she muttered.

Alma put a hand over her heart, sighing as if Sidney had said something romantic. “It doesn’t take long, with that special someone. I fell in love with his father at first sight.”

Her eyes got a misty, far-away look Sidney associated with mourning. “Are you a widow?”

“No,
mija
,
” she said with a trilling laugh. “He was a handsome devil, and I was young and foolish. We never married.”

Of course. Marc had admitted to the circumstances of his birth, had he not? And hinted at more, even less pleasant details, albeit unwittingly. Not sure if condolences were in order, Sidney tasted a bite of the chicken enchilada. “This is delicious,” she said, and meant it. It was hot and flavorful, but not so spicy it burned her tongue. “Do you live nearby?”

“In San Ysidro. I take the bus from there one weekend a month.”

“Don’t you drive?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Too dangerous.”

“Won’t Marc pick you up?”

“Yes, but I don’t ride in cars, either. So many accidents.” She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Just last week, in
El Chisme,
there was an article about abduction. An entire family in a minivan was taken by
extra-terrenos.
”

“Extra-terrenos?”

“Sí,”
she nodded. “Space aliens.”

Sidney hid a smile, finding Mrs. Cruz’s eccentricities endearing. It was refreshing to meet another person at least as crazy as she was. Thanking Alma for lunch, Sidney excused herself to Marc’s room to change.

Primping more than usual, she applied a touch of lip gloss and a hint of eye shadow before she donned the navy cotton halter dress. Her lashes were thick and black without mascara, and her cheeks didn’t need any more color.

Stepping back from the mirror, she surveyed her reflection with a frown. The dress was nice enough, showing off her tanned shoulders and cinching in at the waist. It was calf-length and demure, sort of a fifties style, so it didn’t look ridiculous with tennis shoes.

She tapped her lower lip with her forefinger thoughtfully. “My hair,” she breathed, running her fingers through it. She never bothered with bows or frou-frou, and it hadn’t occurred to her to bring any.

“Mrs. Cruz?” she called into the hallway, her voice rising, exposing her nervousness.

“Call me Alma,” she insisted, poking her head out of the guest bedroom.

“Do you have a hair clip? Or a barrette?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes! I have the perfect thing.” She came out a moment later with a white silk rosette attached to a bobby pin.

Sidney smiled at the whimsical decoration, pushing a lock of hair away from her forehead and pinning the flower in place.

“You look lovely,” she said, squeezing her bare shoulders.

Alma was right. For once, she looked pretty, feminine and composed. “Thanks,” she answered, smoothing a hand over her fluttering stomach and wondering if Marc would be as pleased as his mother by her transformation.

M
arc found Tony at his usual station, parked in front of the TV, playing video games. Taking a seat next to him on the couch, Marc tapped his fingers against his jeans-clad thigh, wondering how to broach the subject.

“You know that joint you gave me?” he asked finally.

Tony’s dark brows drew together. “You actually smoked that?”

“No. I sent it to the lab.”

He shut off the video game, for once giving Marc his undivided attention. “Why?”

“Just a hunch. You said it was knockout stuff. I think the guy I’ve been looking for has been using it to drug dogs before he attacks their owners.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

Marc told him about the dead cat at Sidney’s house and explained her involvement with the case.

“I can’t give you any names,” he said, coming to his feet. “This is my life, man. This is my livelihood.”

“I know your customers, Tony. I see them come and go, and I don’t need you to tell me their names. I want your connect.”

Cursing, he paced the living room. Marc was silent for a moment, giving him time to think it through. “The guy I deal with is not a psycho,” Tony said. “He’s just a man trying to make an honest living, like me.”

Marc didn’t bother to point out that selling controlled substances did not fall under the scope of honest living. “Does he get it from someone else? Sell it to anyone else?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, not meeting his eyes.

“Don’t lie to me. Please.”

Tony paused, considering how much to reveal. “I think he grows it himself, and I have no idea who else he sells to. He’s not big-time, but he doesn’t mess around with amateurs.”

“I would never tell him you gave me his name.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” he said with a frantic gesture. “Don’t you see? I’m one of his only guys. The only one, maybe. The process of elimination would be swift and deadly.”

“Deadly?”

Tony scowled. “Not that kind of deadly. The ‘I’ll never work in this town again’ kind of deadly.”

Marc wouldn’t mind if Tony sought more reputable employment, but he refused to turn the argument into a moral discussion. In his current state of disgrace, he was in no position to judge. “Women are being murdered, Tony. I can’t pass up a good lead.”

“I’ll tell you his name,” he finally agreed. “But if you talk to him, I’m toast.”

“Maybe I won’t have to,” he murmured, formulating a plan that, once again, involved Sidney.

To her great disappointment, Marc barely noticed Sidney’s appearance. His mind must have been distracted by other things, because he hadn’t said two words to her since returning from his neighbor’s house.

The mission was less than a mile away, so they set off walking, his mother several strides ahead of them. Sidney assumed she was giving them privacy, not that they needed it. Sighing, she stared at Alma’s sturdy calves between the hem of her skirt and the tops of her sensible black shoes. The colorful umbrella she was carrying shielded her head and shoulders from their view.

“Is your neighbor a woman?” Sidney asked.

He snapped out of his reverie. “What? No.” Then a smile curved his lips. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” she said, feeling ridiculous and pathetic.

To her surprise, he took her hand in his. “I’m not seeing anyone else.”

The gesture was just a simple touch, an easy show of affection, and yet it meant more to her than any of his sexual advances. He knew it, too, judging by his guarded expression.

She looked down at his hand, strong and dark in her own. “Good,” she said, not interested in playing coy with him.

He laughed at her possessiveness. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks.” Feeling her cheeks turn pink, she resisted the urge to fidget with the silly flower in her hair.

“I was just thinking about the case,” he added, offering an excuse for his inattention.

She nodded in understanding. Any woman he became involved with would take a back seat to his job. Then she scolded herself for assuming she held any place in his life, let alone distant second.

Sidney had lived in Oceanside for five years, and was born and raised in neighboring Bonsall, but she’d never visited the San Luis Rey Mission. It was a tourist attraction, a historical site and a piece of local tradition. More quaint than grand, it boasted lush gardens and bubbling fountains, Spanish-style architecture, and an old graveyard.

Afternoon mass was held in a small rectangular chapel with polished pews and a high, domed ceiling. In an alcove at the entrance, there was a small porcelain bowl. Alma wet her fingertips with the holy water and made the sign of the cross.

Sidney paused, not sure if she should follow suit. Taking the matter into his own hands, Marc dipped two fingers into the bowl.

“En el nombre del padre, el hijo, y el espíritu santo.”

As he touched her forehead, the valley between her breasts, and each bare shoulder, Sidney was intensely aware of the damp traces his fingertips made on her skin, like the remnants of a butterfly kiss. In a response that was far from spiritual, her nipples contracted, pushing against the bodice of her dress.

Watching her intently, he repeated the gesture on himself then urged her toward the back of the church, away from his mother. She slipped into the last row, expecting him to follow.

At the base of the pew, he knelt, making the sign of the cross again before entering.

Sidney blushed, embarrassed by her ignorance about his faith and her own inappropriate reaction to his touch. Only a depraved person would get turned on in church.

Oblivious to her inner struggle, he picked up a prayer book and began thumbing through it. Perhaps because she was striving to think of anything but sex, it was foremost on her mind. His dark hands looked positively sinful against the white pages. They were long-fingered and beautiful, much larger and more forceful than her own.

She looked away, but she could feel his hand in hers, strong and warm. Worse, she could feel the blunt tips of his fingers, brushing the naked spot between her breasts, and remembered just how intimately he’d touched her the night before.

Sneaking another peak at his hands, she wondered how she could find the least private part of his body so arousing, and when she’d become such a wanton.

“Get on your knees,” he said.

Her eyes flew to his face. “What?”

“You have to kneel for this part.” He pointed to a cushioned bar at their feet.

“Oh.” Her entire body tingling with awareness, she knelt beside him, trying to deny the obvious sexual parallels.

For an indeterminable length of time, the ups and downs of the ceremony kept her physically occupied, if not mentally. Catholics apparently spent a lot of time on their knees. The sermon was in Spanish, and although Marc knew all of the proper responses, his voice sounded wickedly seductive, as if he were whispering dirty things in her ear during sex.

They were sitting again when he did whisper something suggestive. “Are you hot?” he asked softly, his lips brushing her neck.

“What?”

“You look flushed.”

She followed his gaze to the neckline of her dress. Not only was she hot, she was sweating. While he watched, a tiny bead of perspiration rolled from the base of her throat down into the hollow between her breasts.

She swallowed dryly. He moistened his lips.

“Come on,” he said, urging her to her feet, impervious to God’s watchful eye. Just outside the side door, a set of narrow concrete steps let to an underground tomb where esteemed religious figures had been reverentially interred. The instant they were alone, shrouded in cool, blessed darkness, he pulled her close.

“You did that on purpose,” she accused, refusing to let him kiss her.

“Did what?”

“You know what. Taking me to the back row. Acting all…sexy.”

He laughed, curving his arms around her waist. “I took you to the back row so we could sneak out early. But if austere surroundings put you in the mood…”

“It wasn’t the setting,” she defended, her cheeks burning in shame. “It was you. Your voice. Your hands.”

In the dim light, his eyes went opaque with desire. “My hands?” he repeated, bringing one hand up to her collarbone, rubbing his thumb across the base of her throat. “What about them?” He pushed aside her bodice, exposing the pale upper curve of her breast, which he knew made an erotic contrast with his own dark skin.

She closed her eyes, covering his hand with hers. “What am I going to do with you?” she whispered.

He touched his lips to her bare shoulder. “The possibilities are endless.”

Before he could rouse her to mindlessness, she arched away from his eager mouth and extricated herself from his embrace. “Let’s see if you can channel that energy for another intimate activity.”

“What?”

“Conversation.”

He leaned against the wall inside the tomb, wearing a pained, frustrated expression. “You are such a pain in the ass.”

Smiling, she offered him her hand. He took it, but fell into silence as they rounded the deserted graveyard. “Tell me about your father,” she ventured.

“What about him?”

“Were you close?”

“No.”

She squeezed his hand. “Did he hurt your mother?”

He jerked away from her, misreading the gesture. “Yes, he hurt her,” he muttered. “Thankfully he wasn’t around that often. What other misery do you want to pull out of me? Did he hit me, too? No. He was good to me, the son of a bitch. Taught me everything he knew.”

“About what?”

“Conning people. Picking pockets. Sleight of hand. He was the lowest kind of criminal, a petty thief, but he was handsome, and he was charming. My mother couldn’t resist him. No woman could.”

Sidney swallowed her emotion, feeling as though he was hurling the words at her, pelting her with them. But she’d asked for it, hadn’t she? “What happened to him?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “He came by the house just before I got deployed. I threatened to beat the hell out of him if he didn’t stay away from her.” He looked out across the well-manicured grounds, then back at her. “She never forgave me for it.”

“He didn’t come home again?”

“No. A few years later, he got stabbed by a vagrant in the cab of a train. She took the bus all the way to El Paso to see him before he died.”

“Did she make it?”

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m not.”

Sidney wasn’t sure she believed him, and wanted nothing more than to take his hand again, not to read the truth, but to comfort him. She kept her arms at her sides, knowing he would reject the gesture.

Those she cared about the most always avoided her touch.

By the time they returned to his house, it was early evening and Sidney was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in a little ball and retreat from the world.

Marc had other plans for her. “I need you to meet someone,” he began. “Get a read off him, if you can.”

She groaned, rolling over onto her stomach. They were in his bedroom, having just eaten dinner, and the combination of cozy bed and full stomach was lulling her to sleep. “Who?”

“My next door neighbor’s drug supplier.”

“Why?” she whined, burying her face in his pillows.

“Because he’s a suspect,” he said, taking the pillow out from under her. “You know that dead cat in your house? It had a bellyful of pot, the kind this guy grows.”

She glared up at him. “You are so annoying.”

He grunted a response, digging through her overnight bag. “Wear this,” he said, throwing a pair of shorts and a purple tank top at her. “No bra.”

“Oh, great,” she muttered, clenching a fistful of fabric. “Are you going to have me jiggle my way to an introduction?”

“Whatever works.”

He drove her truck past the outskirts of Oceanside all the way out to Bonsall. As they wound through the rolling hills of a middle-class neighborhood, she rolled down her window to study the scenery, struck by a wave of nostalgia.

“I grew up near here,” she said.

“I know.”

“How?”

“I do my homework.” As they went miles beyond city limits, the houses became few and far between, and Sidney saw more horses than cars. Finally he pulled off the side of the road. “See that house? The one with the brick retaining wall?”

She squinted down at it. “Yes.” Sidney knew the house well, actually. A friend of hers used to live there.

“Drive down there and slow to a halt, like you ran out of gas. Then bend over and look under the hood.”

Giving him a disgusted look, she said, “Why don’t I just knock on the front door?”

He deliberated for a moment. “Do that if he doesn’t come out.”

“Who am I looking for?”

“A young guy. Your age.”

“What if he’s the one?”

“Then get the hell out of there. And no matter what, don’t go inside the house.”

She sighed. “I don’t enjoy these adventures, you know.”

“You think I do?” Unfastening his safety belt, he got out of the truck seat. “I’ll be right here,” he said, watching her slide over into the driver’s seat. “With my gun.”

To her surprise, his ruse worked like a charm. She rolled the pickup to a stop, popped the hood and looked under it like a clueless bimbo. In less than a minute, she heard a screen door slam shut and approaching footsteps.

Who knew it was so easy to pick up men? She straightened uneasily, wiping her sweat-slick palms against the sides of her shorts.

The man walking toward her stopped in his tracks. “Sidney?”

For a second, she couldn’t place him. He was tall and lanky, his dark blond hair on the long side, face partially hidden by about a week’s worth of stubble. “Derek?” His blue eyes lit up with delight, and she launched herself into his open arms, forgetting her fear.

Derek DeWinter had been her best friend in junior high, the closest thing she’d had to a boyfriend in high school and quite possibly the only person in her life who knew her secret and had never treated her like a freak.

When she was fifteen, his family had moved from Bonsall to Scripps Ranch to be closer to Children’s Hospital. His little sister Trina had a rare kidney disorder, and the disease had brought the family both heartache and financial ruin.