She lay there a moment, luxuriating in the feel of him, his arm across her just below her breasts, the scent of soap on his still-wet hair, and the way the bed sagged so that she rolled into him. He moved, tucked her in closer. She could have lain like that for the rest of her life and been utterly happy. She could, but she wouldn’t.
“Did Schulz and McKaverty trace the call?”
Witt stiffened, then relaxed. “One track mind, Max.” He nipped, then kissed her nape. She sizzled. Until his next words doused the little flame. “Call was untraceable.”
His arm at her waist held her down when she tried to sit up. “How could it be untraceable? I was on there for a least five minutes.”
“Wasn’t timing. He’s a hacker.”
“A hacker?”
“A phone hacker. Like a computer hacker. He hacked into someone’s 800 line. Phone company can’t trace that to the originator.”
“I don’t get how.”
“You want a communications lecture right now?”
“You can’t dial out on an 800 number. How did he do that?”
“Had a device. It’s not traceable. A dead end. Finito.” He punctuated with a slash of his hand. “There’s nothing they can do.”
Bud Traynor had foiled her again. Tears of frustration burned her eyes, seared her nose. Not again. He just couldn’t get away with it again.
“Will it make any difference if I tell you that was Bud Traynor on the phone with me tonight?”
He was silent a long time, though his fingers flexed against her stomach. She looked at the luminescent red light of the clock as it clicked over from 4:59 to 5:00.
“You’re obsessed.” He said it with the tone of a parent to a child, doctor to patient, teacher to student.
“Maybe I am, but Bud Traynor was Bethany’s Achilles. He said things to me that only Traynor would know.” She stopped, waited, then added, “He used my name.”
“So you think he recognized your voice?”
“I could fool those men who didn’t know Bethany well. I think I could even have fooled Achilles if he was anyone else. Bud’s different. He knows us both too well.”
“It still doesn’t make a difference. They can’t trace it.”
“He’s got to have a device, you said so. What if we could find it in his house?”
“No B&E. No way, no how. We’ve been through this before, remember?”
Oh yeah, she remembered. She remembered getting caught in the man’s house. “We have to do something. He killed her.”
It was a last ditch dramatic effort to bring Witt around to her way of thinking and bore no resemblance to what she really believed; Bud Traynor was a manipulator, his motto being “why kill when you can get someone else to do it for you?”
Witt didn’t fall into the trap, instead using her earlier words against her. “Max, Max, Max.” He sighed. “What was his motive? Your first theory was that Achilles killed her when he found out she’d been lying about what she looked like. Bud Traynor knew exactly what she looked like. He’d known her almost all her life.”
She wanted to cover her ears so she could think. She needed a plan. She needed ... “I don’t know. I have to think this through.”
“Don’t think that’s ever been your MO.”
Bastard. But a correct bastard. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m supposed to do then.”
He was silent a moment, but she was sure his brain was whirring. Finally, he sighed. “You’re gonna love it.” Then he groaned. “I’m gonna hate it.”
She turned slightly, her hip and shoulder pressing into his, her ear coming in contact with his lips. “What?”
“Gotta be crazy giving you ideas.”
His tongue barely touched the rim of her ear. She knew he could feel her shudder when he groaned again.
“Give me one. Please.” Ideas. A kiss. Sex. She’d take whatever he offered.
“Jesus, Max, you’re gonna be the death of me.” His arm around her waist clenched, pulled her tighter against him. “Get yourself invited into his house.” His voice was low and seductive, as if he whispered sweet nothings. “No sneaking this time. Look around, make yourself at home. You find the device, you find the murder weapon, you find anything, and we’ve got him.”
“How?”
His breath warmed her ear, reached down into the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes and bit down on the moan trying to sneak past her lips. He dropped his head to the curve between her shoulder and neck. “Can’t believe I’m even suggesting you do such a thing.”
Neither could she. “Don’t tell me you’re beginning to trust me, Detective?”
“Just can’t figure out how to stop you anymore. Old adage, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
The why of it really didn’t matter. “Tell me more,” she urged. Touch me more.
“You,” he went on, “as a private citizen, can tell me, your friendly neighborhood cop, that you saw a smoking gun in Joe Blow’s house, and I can get the damn search warrant.”
“You’re kidding. Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
He moved slightly, his hips pushing against her butt, seeking a hotter place. “Ya never asked.”
Bastard.
Chapter Thirty