Trial by Fire (16 page)

Kat sniffed in appreciation. “Ohh, looks yummy. I’m hungry.”

In the wake of her enthusiasm, the knot loosened. “I tried the recipe on the team last week. It was a hit, except with Zack, who hates pasta. Of course, a horde of ravenous firefighters will eat almost anything. The menu is usually carb city, but we burn the energy fast.”

“Goody for you.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

Laughing, he planted a quick kiss on her nose. “You’re cute when you get sassy.”

“Oh, right.” She rolled her eyes, a slight blush staining her cheeks as she gathered the cucumbers and dumped them into the bowl with the lettuce. The diced tomato she dumped into a separate bowl to garnish her salad. “Can’t believe you don’t like tomatoes on your salad. That’s just wrong, my friend.”

He shivered. “I don’t eat tomatoes in any form, if I can avoid them.”

“Thus the white sauce instead of marinara.”

“Yep, afraid so.”

“Weirdo.”

“That’s me,” he agreed. “Funny, I vaguely remember liking them when I was a kid. My mother’s homemade spaghetti sauce—”

His hand froze over the dish. A strange chill enveloped his body, as though he’d stepped into a walk-in freezer. His head swam and he felt a little sick.

“Howard?” Kat touched his arm. “Are you all right?”

Starting, he blinked at her. Kat’s sweet face was scrunched into a concerned frown. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, glad that the nausea and chills were already receding.

He gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You looked ready to fall over.” She ran a finger down his cheek, clearly not convinced.

“Whatever came over me, it’s gone. Promise.” He smiled to reassure her. In fact, the sensation had fled so fast he might’ve imagined it.

“Okay. But if you start to feel bad again, let me know.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The oven beeped, indicating the temperature was ready. Grinning to himself, the incident forgotten, Howard squished the foil down again, then slid the dish into the oven to heat.
Lovemaking, dinner, and meaningful conversation with a cutie who’s wearing my clothes. I could get used to this.

“Thirty minutes. Want some wine while we wait?” he asked.

“After the day I had at work, that sounds fantastic.”

He retrieved a bottle from the fridge, held it out for her inspection. “Will this do? It looked nice, all pink and whatever. I don’t know squat about the stuff.”

“I love white Zinfandel! You’re a lifesaver, buddy.” Kat put the salad on the table while he fished a cheap corkscrew from the depths of his kitchen junk drawer. Curious, she eyed him, and he waited for the inevitable question.

“I take it you don’t drink much wine.”

He shook his head, began to twist the corkscrew through the wax seal. “I don’t drink alcohol, period. Tried it once, didn’t like the taste or feeling fuzzy. Doesn’t bother me one bit if my friends partake, so enjoy.”

“Hoping to get me drunk and have your evil way with me again, Lieutenant?” Lowering her tawny lashes, she sent him a sultry look.

“Doesn’t say much for my manly skills if I need to get you soused to achieve that.” The cork came out with a soft pop. “Hope you don’t mind drinking from a juice glass.”

“An IV would do.”

“Yeah? I could fix you up.” Opening the cupboard, he retrieved a glass and filled it with wine. “Fortunately, that won’t be necessary. Here you are.”

She took a sip and sighed with pleasure. “Mmm, heavenly. Thanks.”

“For you, no problem.”

The phone chirped from the corner of the bar separating the kitchen and dining room, interrupting their nice interlude. He frowned, hoping it wasn’t the station needing a man to sub on shift. Or worse, Sean, off the wagon and off his rocker. A glance at the caller ID didn’t do much to relieve his mind.

“Excuse me for a minute.” Leaving Kat to enjoy her wine, he answered. “Paxton.”

“Ford here,” the detective said, sounding grim. “Got a confirmation on the victim through dental records. Does the name Sherri Pearce mean anything to you?”

Howard searched his brain, came up empty. “Nothing, sorry. Never heard of her.”

“Think back. Maybe you met her through a call. Traffic accident, medical emergency, treed cat.”

Rolling his eyes at the bad joke, he walked into the living room and lowered his voice so Kat wouldn’t overhear. “I saw her picture. I’d think knowing how she was murdered would’ve jarred my memory real quick.”

“Damn. Good point.” The detective sighed, the deep sort of tired that cut to the bone. “Was worth a shot. Anything else unusual happen since my visit?”

“It’s been quiet. Maybe he’s lost interest.”

“Maybe.” Ford didn’t sound convinced. “Keep an eye out. Call me directly if he fucks with you again.”

“That’s all? We just wait?”

“
You
wait, and watch. I investigate. I’m not leaving you out of the loop, you got my word. The sick bastard used your station’s sector for his deed. The photo left specifically for you indicates he carefully chose his location to bring in your team.”

Cold blew through Howard like ice. “You think he’ll continue his spree in my neck of the woods? Endanger my men?” The thought was enough to make him want to break the perv’s neck with his bare hands.

“I believe his game has very specific rules, with a desired end result. Not random,” Ford replied. “Are you the center of the game? No way to tell yet. Could be he’ll choose another station to taunt with his kill next time, perhaps in another city. But I don’t doubt he’ll enact the scenario again.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“Hang in there, Lieutenant. I’ll be in touch.”

“Wait—” Glancing toward the kitchen, he saw Kat busying herself with gathering plates and forks, humming. Still, he kept his voice quiet. “Did you say anything about the photo and my involvement in the case to Kat?”

“No, and I wouldn’t unless it were absolutely necessary. We’re also holding back those two details from the media—the picture and your involvement—as our ace. I do want to run Pearce’s name by Miss McKenna, though, just to be sure the two women aren’t connected. ”

“I don’t think they will be. The killer used the Hargraves’ house, not the McKennas’. Besides, Kat wasn’t even supposed to be in her parents’ neighborhood at that hour.” His protective instincts surged to the fore with a vengeance. He wanted her out of this,
now
. “Kat’s here. Why don’t you go ahead and ask her.”
And then leave her the hell alone.

“Sure.” Ford did not sound surprised by this news.

Howard covered the mouthpiece and carried the phone to the kitchen. “Kat? Detective Ford has a question for you.”

“Oh . . . okay.” With a puzzled frown, she took the receiver and mustered a pleasant greeting.

Howard pretended to be absorbed in checking their dinner in the oven, while hanging on every word. No, she wasn’t acquainted with Sherri Pearce. Yes, she was positive. His knees went weak with relief. Now Ford could put Kat at the bottom of his priority list.

Kat hung up and replaced the phone in its cradle, rubbing her arms. “Poor woman. How awful. Did you know her?”

“No, thank God.”

“Why is the detective still questioning you?” she asked, cocking her head. “Is that normal procedure? I mean, your station responded to the fire, but it’s not like you’d know anything about the murder.”

“Well, this one was particularly grotesque, and it happened on my watch. I guess he’s covering his butt.” Christ, he hated lying to Kat. He ought to tell her the truth, but he didn’t want a pall cast over their evening. Before she left tonight, he’d have to come clean for her safety. He couldn’t be around to protect her twenty-four/seven. He hoped she’d forgive his deception and still want to hang around.

He thought about that—the sticking-around part— through dinner. Went fifteen rounds with his conscience. A wonderful woman like Kat deserved a guy who could give her stability. Kids.
Love.
The first, he had covered. But the other two?

She had no idea how much he wished he possessed the ability to give those things. One was impossible, the other improbable.

You’re a fighter,
he reminded himself.
And she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

“Gosh, that was delicious.” Kat leaned back in her chair, patting her stomach with a groan. “I’m not used to eating a big meal during the week.”

He smiled. “Glad you liked it. Don’t you cook?”

“For myself? Why bother? Eating alone is no fun.”

“True.”

“But my mom is a great cook,” she went on. “We do the family deal at my parents’ on Sundays once or twice a month. My sister drives in from Nashville since it’s not far, and she’s got no good excuse to bail. Sometimes she brings a guy friend, but mostly it’s just us four.”

Do you ever bring a “guy friend”?
he almost asked. And stopped himself. He was not going there. Didn’t want to know.

“We don’t get together as often,” he said instead. “When we do, it’s usually a big blowout. Like this Saturday. ” The idea hit as soon as the words left his lips. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Kat tilted her head, an inquisitive expression on her face. He was starting to dig when she looked at him that way. Or any way, really.

“What’s going on this Saturday?”

“It’s Bentley’s birthday. The big six-five. We’re gonna grill burgers and dogs out back,” he said, jabbing his thumb in the direction of his deck. “A lot of people coming, mostly firefighters and their families. Some of Bentley’s cronies and guys from several stations, including ours. You’re officially invited, if you’re brave enough to take us on.”

Her eyes rounded. “Wow, sounds like quite a crowd. Grace and I had plans for lunch and shopping Saturday. I don’t know . . .”

“Bring Grace along. We’re harmless, I promise. Well, most of us.” He grimaced, thinking of Julian. “I’ll run interference for you ladies, so no worries. I want you here, and I know everyone would love to meet you. They’re a terrific group of people. Say you’ll think about it.”

“Well . . .” She chewed her lower lip, looking tempted. “Oh, what the heck. How much trouble can we get into at a sixty-five-year-old man’s birthday party? I’ll ask Grace. If she’s game, we’ll come. Work for you?”

“Oh yeah. That works just fine.”

Inviting a lady into the sacred fold. A first for him. He’d never hear the end of the curious questions, the third degree from the guys.

He must be losing his mind.

If so, he sort of looked forward to the trip.

Second Avenue. A little too business-class for Frank’s liking, full of suits and tourists. The bars along this street weren’t quite right for his purposes. Too eclectic for his personal taste—not his crowd, the fucking yuppie fat cats—except for the Wild Horse Saloon, which was a big, two-level country-and-western dance bar. Crowded even on a Monday night, the place might’ve shown promise—except for the bouncers checking ID at the door.

Someone might remember. Not good.

Walking on, he bunched his shoulders against the crisp October night. At the corner, he hung a right on Broadway, heading away from the river toward the old part of downtown he knew better. Much more suitable for his mission.

The area hadn’t changed much. Storefronts showed age and wear, a combination of dirty brick and peeling paint. Tired, but still standing, like the middle-aged cowboy leaning against a building in the darkness, strumming a six-string and singing for tips. Praying for a break that would never come his way.

What a goddamned waste of air,
Frank thought.
Go home, asshole.

Picking up his stride, he passed a gift shop, a Western-wear store, and a music store with tons of guitars and shit. The “World Famous” Tootsies Orchid Lounge was just a few doors ahead, and he considered the benefits of hunting there.

Tootsies was split-level, small, always packed to the brim with tourists and locals. Some a bit rough around the edges. If a man didn’t find a woman looking to get laid in Tootsies, she couldn’t be found. The major drawback was the live music being played on each level, the establishment frequented by talent scouts, agents, country music industry professionals.

Everyone
went into Tootsies looking to get noticed, which meant they’d pay real close attention to new faces in the joint. Hoping to spot their elusive big break. Too bad he didn’t dare use the same bar where he’d picked up the other bitch. Too risky.

On impulse, he pushed into a joint two doors down from Tootsies. Busy, but not so crowded a guy couldn’t breathe. No band on the small stage tonight, which meant he could listen to conversation unhampered, make a connection. Bait tomorrow night’s hook, reel in the big fish.

Sink a certain sorry bastard a little deeper into his personal hell before filleting him like a gaping trout.

He took a seat at a scarred wooden table along the wall, half hidden by shadows, yet close enough to the bar to make eye contact with a dark-haired slut trolling for company.

Patient, he stayed put. Let her feel him, build her curiosity. Halfway into his second beer, she approached him. They always did.

Silky brunette tresses fell past the shoulders of her crop top, framing full breasts ripe for tasting. Her oval face was attractive enough, though her dark eyes glinted with a jaded attitude. She’d seen a little too much, lived a little too hard.