“As if I could afford such upgrades on what Grovesnor pays me.”
He finally cracked a smile. He turned toward the door. Then, at the last second, one step back, twisting, reaching out his hand.
I never dropped into a boxing stance. I never even got my hands up. I just stood there, as he yanked me into his body. Then his hands were on my shoulders, his fingers digging in tight, and my hands were smack on his chest as his lips descended.
There was nothing gentle. No asking, no reassuring, no promising. Just his lips, hard and maybe a little angry, but also hungry and needing and demanding. Then my hands made it to his hair, and my left leg wrapped around his left hip and he was devouring but I was even hungrier, even needier, and I wanted and I wished, and we kissed and we kissed and we kissed.
Then he shoved me away. He stepped back. His short-cropped brown hair stood up on end, while his chest heaved, and he held out a hand, as if to steady both of us.
“Not why I did this,” he declared finally, voice still ragged.
“Okay.” I had my hands balled at my side, mostly to keep myself from lunging for him.
“Gotta get back in the cruiser. Report in. You know that as well as anyone.”
“Fucking dispatch,” I said.
“Couple of hours, I promise to be back,” he said.
“Couple of hours, I promise to be still alive,” I said.
He nodded, looked at me, and then…
He left.
I locked the door behind him. Then I stood there and wondered which one of us would be made a liar first.
Six and a half hours. No gun. No dog. No home court advantage.
Screw it all. I started rifling kitchen drawers, until I found the standard junk drawer. Duct tape, ballpoint pen, four D batteries, fishing wire, twisty ties, hammer, spare change.
I prepared for war.
Chapter 38
D.D. RETURNED TO HQ and took over a conference room. Then, starting on the left-hand perimeter of the eight-person table, she laid out crime scene reports. First Randi Menke. Next Jackie Knowles. In the middle of the table, in a long row, she placed four eight-by-eleven crime scene photos from each homicide, like a string of place mats.
Then she stepped back and stared.
Neil came in, said something about a witness she needed to call back. She grunted. He left.
Phil came in, said something about everyone going for lunch. She grunted. He left.
She stared some more.
She thought of Abigail. A long-lost baby? A splintered personality? A fragment of Charlene Grant’s fickle memory? It didn’t matter what Abigail was, D.D. decided. It mattered who she was.
Abigail. Brown hair, blue eyes, willing to introduce herself to a witness after cold-bloodedly killing a child molester. Connected in some manner to Charlene Grant. Connected therefore to the BFF murders as well? The central link, the missing piece of a puzzle. The reason January twenty-one mattered, happened at all.
Abigail.
D.D. stared at the Randi Menke and Jackie Knowles crime scene photos. And the more she stared, and the more she thought, the more she knew she was on the right track. Abigail had done this. The crime scene photos positively reeked of Abigail.
Feminine, Quincy had called the homicides. The neat and tidy rooms, the fluffed pillows, the spotless floors. Both victims could be sleeping, sprawled awkwardly to be sure, but their faces were not horrified, their necks not broken by brute force, their limbs not skewed painfully.
Even in the close-ups, the bruising around each of their throats was minimal, almost delicate. The killer had applied just enough pressure to get the job done.
And the victims had not fought back, not offered up even token resistance.
What had Abigail known, what had Abigail done that enabled her to kill two grown women so precisely, so neatly, so…gently?