Obsession (Southern Comfort) (23 page)

And straight into a fist.

His head snapped back, pain exploding around his left eye.  He staggered, but caught his balance quickly enough to lash out instinctively with a solid roundhouse kick.

“Well shit,” came the almost cheerful reply, and Justin shook his head to clear his vision before studying the man he’d knocked to the ground. 

“Corelli.” Justin prodded his cheekbone and blinked again to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.  “What the fuck.”

Grimacing, Anthony brushed himself off before climbing to his feet.  “Wasn’t expecting that,” he said.

“That makes two of us.”

Red hot anger, generally slow to boil with
in Justin, simmered dangerously close to the surface.

“I could have waited to hit you,” Anthony said as easily as if they were talking about the weather.
“Until you knew it was coming.  It would have been more sporting.  But see, the problem is that I actually
like
you, you asshole, so I had to get that in before I reasoned myself out of it.”

Justin waited a beat.  Two.  “What the
hell
is your problem?”

“I hate to fall back on cultural and gender stereotypes, but I believe my problem is that I’m a male of Italian descent.” Anthony rubbed his solar plexus.  “You’ve got a hell of a kick there, Wellington.”

Because he’d always concentrated on developing his self-defense skills using his lower body, in order to protect his hands. 

“You want to tell me why you tried to coldcock me?”

“If I’d tried to coldcock you, you’d be out.  I merely wanted to hit you.  Once.  Call it a territorial thing.”

Because this was starting to make a little bit of sense, Justin studied the other man warily.
  “I’m assuming this has to do with Kathleen.”

“I always knew you were smart.”

Feeling like he was walking on eggshells, as he wasn’t sure whether or not Kathleen had spoken to the man directly, or Anthony had merely heard gossip from another source, Justin stuck his hands in his pockets.  “If I say
I saw her first
I’m going to sound like a douche.  If I say
I’m sorry
it won’t be sincere.”

Anthony studied him for a moment with that intense, black-eyed gaze, before breaking out in a rueful grin.  “I really do like you, Wellington.  You bastard.”

When he stuck his hand out, Justin eyed it for a moment, before cautiously reaching his own out to shake.

“So, what is this? No hard feelings?”

“Well, maybe a few hard feelings,” Anthony acknowledged.  “She’s a great woman, after all.  But we can dial that down to merely a tinge of bitterness and a vague sense of regret if you buy me a beer.”

Unbelievably, Justin felt his own lips twitching. 
“I was on my way to Murphy’s.”

“Seems appropriate,” Anthony nodded.  “In a twisted way.”

Justin shook his head.  This was the second time in as many days that he’d been assaulted by scorned lovers.  Though he couldn’t see Mandy asking him to have a drink to smooth things over.  “Let’s go then.”

They set off, in – maybe not companionable, but at least not contentious – silence.  Because the hell of it was that he liked Anthony, too.

KATHLEEN
eyed her medicine cabinet with no small amount of dismay.

How the hell had she run out of ibuprofen?

She had one bitch of a headache, brought on by a sleepless night, exacerbated by tension, and honed to pinpoint agony by a meeting with her lieutenant.  She couldn’t say she hadn’t expected to be barred from investigating the incident with the doll.  She had.  Not only was it standard operating procedure when a case involved a detective personally, but she was professional enough to acknowledge that she wasn’t, in this instance, exactly at her objective best.

What pissed her off was that the lieutenant had paired Mac and Josh together, knowing that they were not only her closest colleagues, but also good friends, effectively cutting her out of the information loop.
  

So she’d spent the day handling the autopsy of the kid they’d discovered in the alley, and working with Gage Rutledge chasing down leads.
  Not only did Kathleen hate drug-related homicides, because she felt that most of that violence could be avoided with sensible legal reform, but she couldn’t stand not knowing what Mac and Josh might have discovered.

And now she was out of ibuprofen.

“Drugs,” Kathleen grumbled, shutting the medicine cabinet with a bang that in no way ameliorated her headache.  “Well, hell.  At least I know where to find my pusher.”

Maureen was spending one more night in the hospital, and would be out on maternity leave for the next couple months, but her pharmacy was still open.  Kathleen just had to
keep her head from exploding long enough to walk downstairs.

Pulling on her sheepskin slipper boots over her suit pants – hey, it was a look – she grabbed her purse off the hall table.

The bell jingled as Kathleen let herself in the back door.  Peeking his head through the consultation window, Nate, the other pharmacist who worked with Maureen, waved in his jolly bear-like fashion and greeted Kathleen in his big, booming voice.

“How’s it going?”

Kathleen winced.  “Headache,” she said, but if she’d hoped Nate would take the cue and lower his voice a little, that hope was quickly dashed.

“Aw, that’s too bad.  I guess you know what
aisle the analgesics are in.”

“Yes.  Thanks.”

Escaping before he could bring up the baby – or any other topic that would require him to talk to her at the decibel level of a taxiing jet plane – Kathleen beelined toward the painkillers.  One jumbo bottle of ibuprofen coming up.

Prize in hand, Kathleen headed toward the cash register at the front of the store.  The cashier was a girl with a pleasant – and soft – voice.

Glancing to the side, Kathleen found her slippered feet slowing.  Then stopping.  She stared at the boxes in front of her.  A various assortment of condoms stared back.

She tapped her foot. 

Anthony had always supplied the condoms whenever they had sex.  Coming from a very large family – and being rather determined not to start one of his own – he’d taken protection pretty seriously.  It was something he never forgot.

She and Justin had very nearly had unprotected sex against his garage wall.

Not that she thought Justin was given to that sort of thing.  He was a doctor after all.  But it did seem that they were more inclined to get… carried away than Kathleen was used to.

Her pulse spiked at the thought.

“Better safe than sorry,” she muttered, grabbing the first box that came to hand.

Taking her haul to the register, she made minimal small talk with the softly-spoken cashier, glancing out the window as the young woman swiped Kathleen’s card.  The pharmacy shared a parking lot with Murphy’s, so of course
it was packed.

Kathleen’s gaze came to rest on the license plate of one of the cars closest to the window.  Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry?” she said, when she realized the cashier had spoken to her.

“Here’s your card.”

“Oh.  Thanks.”  Taking her bank card and her bag of goodies, Kathleen headed toward the front door.

Probably nothing
she told herself as she stepped out into the brisk air, which seemed to make her head pound even harder.  And she’d come downstairs without a coat.  But she’d been a detective for too long to ignore the little sizzle of… call it curiosity.  Or maybe instinct.

Clutching the bag in one hand, Kathleen studied the back license plate of the dark gray SUV. 
A Kia Sportage.  The license plate was mostly covered with mud, but the first letter was clearly visible.

It was a P.
  Followed by an X.

Kathleen circled to the front of the car.  The bumper was slightly
dented.  A small amount of white paint streaked it.

“Probably nothing,” she told herself again.  But she peered, as unobtrusively as possible, into the vehicle’s interior.  A black jacket lay discarded on the seat.  An empty Starbucks cup sat in a holder.

Kathleen tapped her foot again, and studied the white paint.    

What she had here was a dilemma.  She had no reasonable justification for running this vehicle’s tags, other than her
curiosity.  Considering she’d been run off the road in Mount Pleasant, and filed the report with that department, she should probably call them and have
them
run it.

Of course, if – and this was a big if – that incident was in some way tied to
the bloody doll which had been left in her trunk – something she’d been considering on and off today, given the timing – then that meant that she should call Mac or Josh, and let them in on her suspicions.  A pattern of her being targeted was something of which they needed to be aware.

But
if she called Mac or Josh, and they ran the tags, she wouldn’t be privy to whatever they discovered.  Because the lieutenant had been very clear.  Mac and Josh were handling the investigation, and she was to keep her nose in her own cases.

But if she ran the tags herself, and
then
shared her suspicions, she’d possibly be compromising the case.  If there was a case.  Because this probably wasn’t even the car that had hit her.

Statistically speaking, there were probably lots of small gray SUVs with PX in the license plate.  Small gray SUVs with PX in the license plate that had recently been involved in an accident with something painted white.

And okay.  The chances of that were a little slimmer.

“Considering how long you’ve been standing there woolgathering, you should have enough to knit yourself a sweater.”

Tensing at the familiar voice, Kathleen turned, frowned at Anthony. 

He smiled back at her.

So did Justin.

Although really, Justin’s was more of a wince.

She opened her mouth, but for once in her life, she had absolutely no idea what to say.  Antony raised his brows as heat crept up the back of her neck.  Then her cheeks caught fire.  She was sure they were the color of her hair.

“Hey.”  She cleared her throat.  “Fancy meeting you here.  Both of you.  Together.”

“Yeah, that’s gotta be uncomfortable for you.”  Anthony’s tone was decidedly chipper.  “Something wrong with that car?”

“What?”

“That car.” He nodded toward it.  “You were studying it like a lab experiment.”

Blinking – her headache had suddenly doubled – Kathleen looked back at the car.  Then glanced at Anthony.
Then at Justin.

And made a snap decision.

“I’d like to hire your services.”

“Excuse me?” That wiped the smirk off of Anthony’s face.

“This morning you told me to call you if I needed anything, so I’m calling.  Metaphorically speaking.  I want you to run these tags, and take a paint sample from that scrape on the front bumper.”

Anthony stared at her a moment, then looked at the car more closely.  And exhibiting the deductive reasoning that made him a good detective, put two and two together.  “You think that this is th
e car that ran you off the road?”

“Maybe. 
Maybe not.  I’m trying not to jump to conclusions.”

He glanced up at her again, his dark eyes penetrating.  “And you’re not running this through official channels because…?”

“Remember that red tape we were talking about earlier? It seems to be tripping me up at the moment.”

“Booted you off the case, did they?”

A thread of amusement was back in his voice, and Kathleen fought to keep her patience. She’d dented Anthony’s male ego this morning, but that didn’t mean she had to let him give her grief now.  “Look, you’re either willing to do this or you’re not.  And if not, just say so, and I’ll figure out plan B.”

Anthony raised his hands. “Just trying to get an idea of the depth of the water before I jump in.  I’ll do it, but only on the condition that if this turns into a viable lead, you handle it by the book.  I’m not going to play a conscious role in helping you sabotage your career.
”

“Deal,” Kathleen said.

Anthony frowned, then shook his head in resignation.  “I’ve got an evidence kit in my truck. Keep an eye out here while I go get it.”

He took off at a light jog, disappearing around the corner, and Kathleen turned to look at Justin.  She sucked in a cheek.

“Nice shiner.”

Justin reached up to finger the discolored flesh beneath his left eye.  “I would tell you that the other guy looks worse, but since you just saw him,
that would fall a little flat.”

Kathleen rocked back on her heels.  “
And I would ask you if you wanted to press charges, but since you’ve obviously just come out of Murphy’s together, I can only assume that in the strange, unfathomable way of men, you resolved your problems by first pounding each other and then sharing a couple of drinks.”