He leaned down to draw in a heavy dose of her scent. “Showering together is good,” he whispered in her hair. Then he nipped her earlobe. “Yeah, you can share my bathroom.”
The enormity of it peppered her arms with goose bumps.
Leaving an open tin of tuna on the window sill for Buzzard, she hoped it didn’t attract anything else. She stuffed a change of clothes and a toothbrush in a plastic grocery bag from a collection she saved for lining the trashcan. What else would she need?
“You stalling?” Witt drawled, leaning against the doorframe at the top of the stairs, one foot crossed over the other ankle, hands folded over his belt.
Max swallowed. Yes. “What car did you drive?”
“Truck.”
Right. Since he didn’t have a department vehicle anymore. Not that she was going to blame herself again. She stepped into her high heels and tried not to think about black and red Dodge Rams. Or the delicious things that could happen in a cab that size. Or why he’d really told her to change into a skirt.
“Wanna ride in my truck, Max?” Voice low, eyes slumberous, ready. Ride ‘em, cowgirl.
Oh. My. God. She opened her mouth. Her voice cracked. She tried again. “Sure.”
That smile. He wasn’t thinking about murder or Bud Traynor or the missing gun or getting her a good lawyer. He was thinking about losing the damn bet he made with her. Or about winning it. Either way, he’d get his hands on her tonight. Her heart kicked up a racket.
He took her hand, maybe to help her down the stairs. Or was it more like making sure she wouldn’t run away? She couldn’t run if she tried, nor did she want to. No, she wanted to be with him, tonight and in the morning. With neither of them jumping out of bed at the crack of dawn. When they got up, they’d do it together. Nothing stood in their way but Max’s fear. She’d conquer it no matter what.
She put her hand to the light switch, turned for one last look at her room, as if when she returned, it would be different. Or she would be.
Something in the center of her rag rug glinted in the light. Something gold, something round, something dark.
“Jesus.”
Witt’s fingers tensed around hers. “What?”
“It’s his ring.” The death’s head menaced her. “Scarface.”
She couldn’t remember if she’d told him her names for Bootman, Tattoo, and Scarface, but Witt didn’t ask. They stared at the thing on the carpet as if it were alive.
He dropped her hand. “What’s it doing here?”
“That has to be the dumbest question I’ve ever heard you ask, Detective Long.”
“Traynor.”
“Duh.” She was stupid, too. Bud’s scent in her apartment hadn’t lingered from his first visit nor been a figment of her imagination. It was real. He’d been in her place that very day. “He must have put it in the box. It fell out when I was looking through.”
“Cat and mouse.” Witt eyed the ring, the muscles of his arms rigid, murder written on his face. “Fifty-fifty chance you wouldn’t find it.”
“Or get rid of it before the cops came looking for me.”
“He’s laughing at you.”
“He’s letting me know he’s smarter than me at every turn.”
Witt moved his head to look at her. “What about me?”
“I don’t think he considers you in the game at all.”
“His mistake.”
Witt squatted to study the piece of evidence Bud had left to incriminate her. “You got a plastic baggie?”
She brought him one from her supply on top of the mini-fridge.
“A pen?” He held out his hand like a surgeon for a scalpel.
Max gave him that, too. Sliding the tip through the ring, he dropped it into the baggie and rose from the rug. He zipped the lock three-quarters, squished the air out, closed it the rest of the way, then slipped the packet into his pocket.
“Are you going to have it tested for his fingerprints? He won’t have left any.”
“Don’t play cop, Max. I’ll take care of this.” He took her hand once more.
Max gave the room one more cursory look before shutting off the light.
What else had Bud left to incriminate her? And what would he leave in the future when Bootman was dead?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The street was dark despite the light of the lamps ringed with fog. Cold air rushed beneath her skirt, blew it into a bell. Max covered the open slit with the plastic bag of clothes dangling from her unimprisoned hand. Her other hand burned up in Witt’s grip. Her heels tapped on the concrete, quick steps to keep up with his long stride.
“Never did say where your car is.”
“I traded with Sutter.”
“Thought you could hide from me?”
“I suppose I did.”
The side of his mouth rose a fraction. “Fat chance.”