She’d propped the garage’s security door open so it wouldn’t lock behind her. She rode the elevator with Cameron’s excitement bubbling around her, fueling her. Entering Suite 452, she closed the door gently. Quiet screamed from the interior. The office door, to the room where Lance had died, gaped like a monster’s open mouth, the desk sitting like a tongue inside it, the back drop of the building opposite like the hole of its throat ready to swallow her whole.
She stayed put a moment, lifting her nose like a dog to scent. Sex permeated the air. Even after the police had descended with powders, gadgets, and technology, after Lance had died, after his blood had soaked into the carpet and coated the killer’s hands, the aroma of sex still hung heavy. Desire, like a palpable thing, sweet perfume, the saltiness of semen, the harshness of panting breath. And need. It, too, had a fragrance, the tang of sweat, the desperation of tears.
“It’s the key,” Cameron whispered.
“The key to what?” she asked with equal caution, as if someone or something might overhear in the room beyond.
“Need is the key. Lance needed Angela. Angela needed power. What did the killer need? Find the answer, and you’ll solve the murder.”
Max took a step forward. “Murder’s always about needs.”
So what did all her suspects need and who had the strongest need? There wasn’t time to ponder. She needed to feel. Her feet carried her forward as if Cameron stood at her back pushing.
The office itself lay in late afternoon shadow. Earlier, she’d rested her fingertips on the mahogany surface where Lance had taken Angela. Max had felt nothing. She hadn’t let herself then. Now, she leaned down to place her palm flat on the surface, the powder slightly greasy as if it had soaked oil from the wood.
She’d experienced visions in different ways before. A snapshot, a full-blown moving picture with colors and sound, or sometimes an irrefutable knowing.
Max closed her eyes, and colors swirled across her lids.
Red for anger, pain, and despair.
Green for desire, need, and jealousy.
Black for death.
Lance’s hand on his penis to remove the used condom, Angela on the desk facing the door, her legs still spread. He’d shouted, she’d laughed, both voices recognizable, masks concealing nothing.
A murky shadow stood in the doorway, poignant tears on the alabaster skin.
Max’s eyes popped open. “Julia saw them together that night.”
*
Max slung her garment bag over the hook on the stall door. The clean chemical smell of the restroom stung her nostrils, but was certainly better than the alternative.
Too much in a hurry to change for the evening, she’d thrown the clothes in the bag and tossed it in her car to change later. She hoped no one entering the ladies’ room across from Julia’s office could hear her huffing and puffing the clothing on. Dressing in bathroom stalls was embarrassing. It smacked of illicit behavior, affairs, and sexual trysts. It was also a palpable reminder of how Tiffany Lloyd, another murder victim crowding Max’s life for a little while, had died.
“Why didn’t she kill Angela, too?” Cameron pressed.
“I’m not convinced she even killed Lance.” She spoke aloud to Cameron, finding it easier to think that way. To hell with someone coming in.
“She caught them. You felt her shock, her anger, and her despair. It’s a damn good motive, Max.”
“She didn’t love him.” Max felt certain of that despite what Julia had said earlier in her office, not to mention the whole conversation with Baxter. “Lance wasn’t worth killing. At least not for that.” She smoothed the thigh-high stocking over her leg.
“You never wore those for me.” The words were combative, but the tone was hot fudge over ice cream and made her melt.
“Will you concentrate?”
“I am.”
“Stop it.” If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe that was his hot breath in her ear. Not here. Not now. “We need to figure out what this means.”
“The older you get, the less fun you are,” he grumbled.
His essence surrounded her. She closed her eyes almost without meaning to and felt him between her legs, his tongue rasping her clitoris.
“Stop it,” she whispered. Urgently. He made her wet, and she couldn’t allow that now.
“I’m getting you ready for your date with Witt.”
Oh God, she was ready. More than ready. Her legs parted as if she had to make room for him. “Witt and I aren’t going to do anything. The entire scenario will be for show. So you don’t need to get me ready for a damn thing.” She gasped as Cameron hit the sweetest spot.
“I’ll make you so hot you won’t be able to push him away.”
Telepathy had numerous advantages, one of them being that Cameron could talk to her and lick her at the same time. But damn it, not now. “Stop. Please. I have to go to the hotel.”
She had to get away from the confusing emotions, about Cameron, about Witt, about letting her husband make her hot and needy for another man.
He sucked at her clitoris. She was close, so close, panting, ready to climb the stall walls. Then he stopped.
Max wanted to howl her anger and frustration. “You bastard.”