Thread of Fear (10 page)

“Thank you.” He nodded. “I mean it, I really owe you one.”

She looked at the fish again, composing a painting in her mind. It was a waterscape with not just blues, but fiery oranges and reds swirled in. It was beautiful.

And she’d probably never take the time to paint it because Jack Bowman had pulled her back in.

Jack somehow managed to talk her into a drink after the sushi restaurant. Not wanting to give her time to change her mind, he picked the closest bar he could find, a tiny pub just across the street. The place was overheated and smelled like stale beer, but he glimpsed a dartboard in the back.

Jack took her hand and led her to an empty table near it. “Wine again?” He pulled the chair out for her and helped her off with her coat.

“How about a whiskey sour?”

A whiskey sour. He kept his opinions to himself. At least she was kicking back a little. “I’ll be right back.”

He took a few minutes to get their drinks at the bar, along with a set of darts, and returned to the table. She’d taken off the blazer to reveal a silky white shirt that was a lot more interesting.

“Here you go.” He set down their drinks, but didn’t join her at the table. “You ever throw darts?”

She looked at the box of darts. “No.”

“I bet you’d be good at it.”

He thought she was going to resist the challenge, but she scooted her chair back and stood up. She took a swig of her drink and plunked it on the table. “You’re on.”

He dropped his jacket over a chair and moved beside her in front of the board. “This isn’t a power game,” he explained. “It’s about technique.”

“In other words, I have a chance of beating you?”

“Ah, probably not. But it’ll be fun to see you try.” He took a dart and threw it gently, hitting the outer bull by some amazing stroke of luck.

She smiled up at him, and he got a warm feeling in the
pit of his stomach. Maybe it was the alcohol, but she’d lost her snippy attitude. “Okay, my turn.”

He handed her a dart. She took it and squinted at the board, then leaned forward.

“Wait. You’re leaning.” He guided her shoulders back and eased her pelvis forward slightly. “You need a stable stance.”

She took a deep breath and threw the dart, hitting a three just beneath the inner ring.

“Not bad,” he said. “Most first-timers barely hit the board.”

“I want to go again.”

He smiled and handed her another dart. She stepped forward, eagerly.

“Hey, now. No cheating.”

She dropped her gaze to the floor, noticed the line, and stepped back behind it. Then she bit her lip and sent a dart sailing three feet above the bull’s-eye.

“Oops.”

“It’s okay.” He retrieved the darts.

“You do some,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He managed three respectable throws, even hitting a triple twenty, which she didn’t seem to realize was a big deal. He pulled the darts out and nodded for her to take a turn.

“So how’d you end up in Graingerville?” she asked. “You seem like you’d be more at home on an urban police force.”

“My dad got sick a few years back. Cancer. I was coming home a lot, helping out my mom.”

He watched her almost nail the bull’s-eye, then send one into the wall. Her aim was erratic. He eyed her blouse again, and noticed she’d unbuttoned another button, showing some skin. Her flirting was erratic, too.

“You were saying?” she asked, snapping his attention back to the conversation. “About coming home a lot?”

“So then the chief’s job opened up, and I decided to stay.”

Her face grew concerned. “How’d it turn out with your dad?”

Jack looked at the board and swigged his beer. “He died ’bout eighteen months ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Warm-up’s over,” he said, changing the subject. “Let’s keep score now. You go first.”

She threw a few times while Jack explained the scoring for Cricket—which was a little complicated for her liking—and she suggested they play first person to one hundred points. Fiona wasn’t great, but she wasn’t terrible either. Mainly, he just found himself enjoying her company. She was fun when she wasn’t working. She kept smiling at him, and he wondered why he’d let himself go so long without a date.

“So why’s your sister staying with you?” he asked. He was curious about Courtney, particularly her comments earlier. It sounded like Fiona had had previous boyfriends who were cops. It also sounded like she wanted a break from cops as much as she wanted one from police work. He intended to change her mind.

“She drops in sometimes,” Fiona said, not looking at him. She focused her concentration on the board and threw one smack into the bull’s-eye.

“Oh my God,
look
!” She turned and gave him an excited hug, which would have been great except for the dart in her hand.

“Careful, now.” He took it from her. “Hey, that’s a beauty. Guess I’m getting whipped.”

“Beginner’s luck,” she said, beaming.

Her smile was contagious, and he grinned down at her. “You’re gloating.”

“No, I’m not.” She picked up her glass, but it was empty. “I’m just enjoying the fact that you were so smug when we started. And now I’m kicking your butt.”

He liked her this way—relaxed and confident and loose around him. He nodded at her drink. “Want another one?”

She shook the glass, rattling the ice cubes. “I’d better not.” She put it on the table. “I’ve got to get up early.”

And with that, the mood changed as she seemed to remember why they were here together. She had a boy to interview tomorrow. A homicide to work.

She glanced at her watch. “We should go.”

She looked a million miles away as they left the bar and walked back toward her apartment. They passed a gap between buildings, and an icy gust of wind whipped through. Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into him, and after an instant of resistance, she settled against his side.

“I saw your pictures,” he said. “Back there at your place.”

She didn’t say anything, but he felt her shoulders tighten.

“They’re good,” he added lamely.

She looked up with a wry smile. “You sound surprised.”

“Not really. Nathan said you painted nature scenes. I’d expected some portraits, too, I guess.”

“I don’t like portraits.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“But you’re really good at them. And I’ve only seen a few examples.”

She looked away. “I try to avoid people.”

“Antisocial?”

“Just when it comes to art. Too many sidewalk sketches on Venice Beach, I think. Tourists and wiggly kids.”

He pictured her seated at an easel beside a sunny beach in California. It was a nice image. Much better than the image of her seated beside a gurney in the morgue.

“It was a good place to start,” she continued. “Taught me to work quickly.”

“But you burned out?”

“Yes. Now I’d much rather paint something peaceful.”

They strolled down the street, ducking their heads against the biting wind. He pulled her closer.

“I wish this cold would end,” she said.

He could feel her shivering, even under the coat and blazer. “You miss California?”

Her cheek rested on his jacket, and he could smell her hair—something sweet, like peaches. He couldn’t believe she’d let him get this close, even just for warmth.

“Not really. Seventy-two and sunny all the time gets boring.”

He tried to follow the conversation, but he was distracted. He kept thinking about peeling off all those layers and warming her up the right way. He pictured her flushed and sweaty from sex, and his body reacted.

“Central Texas gets big, dramatic thunderstorms,” she said. “I love those.”

Christ, were they really talking about the weather? This
was pathetic. What he wanted to talk about was where he’d be spending the night.

Although he shouldn’t even be here. He needed to be at work early, and even though he wasn’t technically on call tonight, being chief meant he was in charge twenty-four/seven. He should get back in case something happened.

But he wanted to stay with Fiona. All night. And not get a wink of sleep.

“Is this you?” Her footsteps slowed as they neared his truck, which he’d parked at a meter in front of her building. She stopped and turned to face him, stepping back so his arm fell away from her shoulders. A lock of hair blew across her face, and she peeled it away.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow then? Nine a.m. at the station? I’ll try to get there a few minutes early, before Brady.”

He tried to read what she wanted. Her words were telling him to take a hike, but her eyes were telling him something different. They were dark and liquid and wide with anticipation.

He eased closer, resting his hand on the cold metal of the truck and trapping her against his body. Her breath caught.

“You in a hurry for me to leave?” He stroked his hand up the lapel of her coat and then rested it against the bare skin of her neck, right where her pulse thumped. She had a faint scar there.

“Jack—”

“Invite me up.” He leaned in and kissed her temple. She smelled sweet. He wanted to find out how she tasted. He wanted some of that lush, pretty mouth.

But she turned and looked away. He followed her gaze
to the top floor of her building. She seemed to be focused on the corner apartment where the lights were blazing. “Courtney’s there.”

“Maybe she left.”

“No, I just saw a shadow by the window. She doesn’t usually go out until late.”

Jack sighed. He’d only just met Courtney, but so far he wasn’t a fan.

Fiona slid her hands beneath his jacket, resting them at his waist. He felt the light pressure of her thumbs through his shirt, and his blood stirred some more.

She hadn’t said no. She just hadn’t said yes
tonight
. It was a subtle distinction, but he knew it was progress.

“Tomorrow then,” he said, hoping she knew he wasn’t just talking about work. He took her hand and tugged her toward her building.

Her brows arched, and her feet stayed planted.

“What?” he asked. “You expect me to leave without walking you to the door?”

She eyed him skeptically.

“Where I come from, a man doesn’t dump his date on a street corner.”

Reluctantly, she let him lead her to the entrance to her building. “This wasn’t a date. I don’t date cops.”

He pulled the door open for her and smiled. “You keep right on saying that if it makes you feel better.”

“Here she is.”

The night manager held up a key.

Sullivan took the key ring from him with a latex-gloved hand. The other keys jangled together as the agent unlocked
Room 103. Careful not to mar any prints on the knob, Sullivan kept the key in the lock and used it to push open the door.

“And you’re sure it was vacated yesterday?” he asked the manager.

“Yesiree. He cleared out Tuesday morning. Only person been in here since was the maid.”

“Thank you for your help tonight,” Sullivan said, donning a pair of paper booties. He gave the man a nod. “I’ll take it from here.”

The manager pushed his bifocals farther up on his nose. Although it was twenty-eight degrees out, he wore a lightweight tracksuit and loafers without socks. He seemed to be oscillating between curiosity about what Sullivan was about to do, and a pressing need to get back to the space heater in the front office. “I’ll get out of your way then. You lemme know if you change your mind about that coffee.”

He shuffled off, and Sullivan turned to face the room that was the last known location of Keith Janovic. He’d been sighted by a fellow lodger nearly thirty-six hours ago as he was leaving this motel, and Sullivan was just now making the scene.

Thirty-six hours for the tip to get passed up the channel. Thirty-six hours for the trail to grow cold. Thirty-six hours for a maid to make her way into this small, dark hole and unwittingly eliminate clues.

Sullivan turned on the light and entered the room, closing the door behind him to keep out the cold and the curious gazes of other lodgers. Lucky for him this place wasn’t at full capacity. It was one of the many no-tell motels along Interstate 20, and the man now calling himself George
Green reportedly had been the only other person to rent this particular room in a week.

He’d been alone, by all accounts.

The couple who called in the tip and the two motel staffers who had seen him all reported the same thing: a mid-twenties man, tall and heavyset, who appeared to be traveling solo and drove a burgundy Mercury Cougar. The car itself was a huge lead, one being followed up on at this very moment by several Atlanta-based agents.

Sullivan, meanwhile, had been sent to secure the scene. He’d rocketed down I-20 westbound and made it even before the techs who had been called out to gather evidence.

His gaze scanned the room, taking in the signs of a recent cleaning: the ammonia smell, overlaid with cinnamon air freshener, the freshly folded washcloths stacked on the bathroom counter, the cable brochure propped neatly on the TV set, where it might entice someone to order a skin flick. Sullivan planned to check the motel records to find out what, if any, programs had been requested by 103 this week.

He stepped toward the bed, opened the nightstand drawer, and saw a giveaway pen and a Gideon Bible. He made his way to the vanity and flipped on the fluorescent light above the sink. The porcelain bowl gleamed at him, but still bore rust stains from years of use. He pulled out the trash can and looked inside, but saw only a plastic bag lining the empty can. He stepped into the cramped bathroom. More cinnamon assaulted his nostrils. More freshly folded towels, these large enough for the average five-year-old but not for an adult. A bar of cheap, plastic-wrapped soap sat forlornly on the side of the tub.

A knock sounded at the door, and Sullivan crossed the
suite, wondering just how many DNA profiles could be lifted from the carpet alone. Despite the room’s apparent cleanliness, it was just the sort of setting that drove the forensics guys up a wall. Evidence was everywhere—fibers, fingerprints, hairs, and semen. It wouldn’t be a lack of evidence in a place like this, but an overwhelming abundance of it that would make their task difficult.