Busted. God, how could she be so stupid? She opted for the truth. At least then he’d only doubt her sanity. “Same way I knew 452 was a flight number. I saw it all in a dream.”
He ignored her. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you, talked to him?”
“Of course not.”
“Goddamn it, he’s wanted for questioning. Where is he?” He pointed his finger again.
She knew she’d gone a tad too far. It wasn’t a good time to remind him she hated finger-pointing. She couldn’t remember hearing him swear before. She shoved his hand aside anyway.
“I have no idea.”
She suddenly became aware of eyes at the window of the shop opposite. A horn blasted; she jumped. Her eyes teared up from the road grit in the air.
Witt never took his gaze off her. “Where did you see him?”
Damage control. “He accosted me at the grocery store yesterday. On Friday, I saw him at a bar I...frequent.”
His lips thinned, turned white. He really was pissed. “You’re playing with fire.”
Shades of Cameron’s little speeches. “I should have told you, but—”
“Two women are dead, and someone tried to run you down. Are you an idiot or just crazy?”
“I really don’t think he kil—”
“You have no fucking clue what any of these people are capable of.”
There it was again. Another swear word. Worse than the last. “I assure you I know any one of them could be a killer.”
Witt suddenly stepped forward, pushed her flush against the rear car door with his body. Sirens sounded in the distance. His gaze was dark, deadly. “Someone just tried to kill you.”
“It was probably just a scare tactic.”
“Whatever game you’re playing, Max, it better be worth your life. Because that car would have hit you if I hadn’t seen it coming.”
“I wasn’t really paying attention when I crossed the street.”
“It pulled away from the curb and aimed right for you. If I hadn’t been here, the responding officers would have been calling for a body bag.”
She shivered. This time, she knew he could feel the tremors. His eyes darkened. He raised a hand to her face, trailed a finger down her cheek. “Am I scaring you yet?”
He did far more to her body than scare her. She liked it, the macho man act, the big hulking body, everything. “Yes.”
He watched the slide of her throat as she swallowed. “Good.” His voice and touch were soft. Like a lover’s. His gaze was absorbed. Angry. Hot.
“Just one thing, Detective. If he was over there waiting for me”—she pointed east—“and you were over there”—she pointed west—“why didn’t you see him and arrest him?”
The sirens were closer now, right on top of them, screeching, and the sudden cessation of sound as they cut off created a vacuum around them. His jaw tensed. “I should have seen him. I didn’t. I was watching your ass.”
God, a man who admitted making a mistake. She liked that about him. Dammit. And she liked that he’d been looking at her ass.
“You will tell me why you’re looking for Wendy Gregory’s killer, Max. Sooner or later.”
“You didn’t believe me when I told you before.” Her heart pounded in her ears. Her voice inside her head sounded distant, tinny, like a microphone caught on reverb.
He eased himself away from her. “You sit.” With his hand on the back of her head, he pushed her down on the front seat. “When I’m done here, I’ll follow you home.”
“I’m fine, I can—”
“Don’t argue. I’m not in the mood.” He pulled a pad and pencil from his shirt pocket. He’d taken three steps toward the officers in blue when she called his name.
“Yes, Miss Starr?”
Ahh, he was back to calling her Miss. Things couldn’t be all that bad. “Thanks for saving my life.”
He smiled then, a mere quirk of his lips. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”
Chapter Twenty-One
It was dark by the time Witt followed her home. He didn’t get out of his car, but stayed until she’d parked at the curb, pulled up the top on the Miata, then closed and locked her door. His headlights swept the drive as he made a slow U-turn.
Max climbed the stairs. She was tired, angry, and cold despite the fact that the heat of the day hadn’t fully dissipated in the stuffy apartment. She kicked off her shoes, dumped her jacket and shirt in the middle of the floor, then pulled out an old sweatshirt from the bottom drawer of the dresser. Tugging it over her head, she moved to open the window.
Buzzard sat on the big ledge. His plaintive meow ceased only after she’d set down half a can of cat food mixed with a handful of crispies. His backbone and ribs still stuck out ominously, but his fur was sleeker, and his cries had become less strident.
“You’ll hang around for the food or until something better comes along. Just like a man.”