“Theories?”
“It almost looks like arson,” Lawson said, leaning back in his chair. “But they ruled it an accident, that it started in the kitchen near the stove, which is consistent with what Devon said.”
Henry didn’t understand it, either. He had no doubt about the veracity of Devon’s story. But the house fire didn’t make sense.
“Autopsy shows Marie’s throat was cut,” Lawson said. “Bastard sliced deep. Damn near decapitated her.”
“Lot of rage,” Henry said.
The personnel file was thin. No commendations, no citations. Nothing really good or bad. By all accounts, Billy was just an average cop. The only two notations of interest were that Billy used all his vacation time, and he seemed to excel at picking locks.
“No wonder he had no problem getting into Jordan’s house,” Lawson said.
Henry saw the captain in his office. Now that the feds were involved, he needed to loop in Captain Buchanan. He scribbled Coleman’s e-mail address on the list of cities and dates he’d gotten from Jordan and handed it to Lawson.
“Do me a favor, e-mail Coleman and see if he can get a photo of Billy from the sheriff’s office. It’s about time you and he got to know each other, anyway. Send him this list and Jordan’s preliminary profile. I think she’s right—Billy’s killed more than the people we know about. Six to one, at least a few of those cities and time frames correspond with unsolved murders.”
*
The cold finally got the better of Devon and Jordan, putting an end to their outdoor fun. They each lugged in an armload of wood, and Jordan quickly set about starting a fire.
“That happened fast,” Devon said, blowing on her hands to thaw them.
“It does that up here, even without a storm coming,” Jordan said, setting up the logs. Within minutes, she had a healthy fire going.
It drew Devon in. “Oh, that’s heavenly,” she said, rubbing her hands together and holding them close to the fire.
“I can pull over a chair if you want.”
“No, that’s okay.” Devon noticed Jordan hung back from the fireplace. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Nah. I’ve lived in Pittsburgh all my life. I’m used to it.” Jordan retreated into the kitchen and called out, “I’ve got tea or hot chocolate. Or I can make more coffee?”
Devon could barely contain a moan at the thought of hot chocolate. “Always chocolate.”
Jordan laughed. “A woman after my own heart.”
Feeling a bit warmer, she followed Jordan into the kitchen. “How’s Henry?”
“Good,” Jordan said. “He just got Billy’s personnel file from Roscoe, and the report on the fire and the autopsy. He’s looking them over now.”
“Good, good,” Devon said absently, talk of Billy instantly dampening her mood.
“Devon?” Jordan asked, immediately picking up on the change. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Devon said, shivering. “I hope there’s something useful in those files.”
Jordan eyed her for a moment but didn’t press. “Hopefully. I don’t expect much from the personnel file, but perhaps from the others. Maybe it will at least give us some idea as to whose body burned up in that fire.”
It was a question Devon had long pondered. There had been no one else in the house that day, apart from Billy, Devon, and her mother. She’d tortured herself for years, knowing Billy was alive, knowing he hadn’t burned, knowing she had no proof anyone would believe.
“Devon?” Jordan said gently.
“Huh? Oh, sorry,” Devon said, coming back to the present.
“Where were you?”
“Oh, I was just…thinking.”
The kettle whistled and Jordan took it off the burner, setting it to the side. She turned back to Devon, stepping closer.
“What were you thinking?” Jordan asked softly.
Devon started to speak, but shook her head. Don’t do this. Please, don’t make me tell you.
Her silent plea went unanswered.
“I need to ask…” Jordan hesitated. “What haven’t you told me?”
There it was, the question Devon had been dreading. A heavy stone settled in her stomach. The time had finally arrived. Jordan had asked, and as much as Devon wanted to, she would not—she could not—lie. Not to Jordan.
God, please don’t let her hate me.
She was about to speak when someone knocked at the door.
Chapter Twenty-one
Jordan’s gun was drawn and in her hand before she could even think. She pushed Devon behind her, aiming the gun at the door. But Max wasn’t growling. In fact, his tail was wagging expectantly.
“Hello? Anybody home?” a familiar voice called out.
Jordan holstered her gun and shook her head. She turned to find Devon still staring nervously at the door. “It’s okay. It’s just Mel.”
Devon visibly relaxed. “Well, that was a heart attack I didn’t need.”
Jordan chuckled and opened the door.
“I just couldn’t stay away,” Mel said. Jordan stepped back to allow Mel into the cabin. “Oh, hey, Sabrina.”
It seemed to take Devon a moment to realize Mel was talking to her. “Hey, Mel.”
“Hello, Max,” Mel said, scratching the dog’s head. For once, Max was uninterested in the affection, focusing on the bundle in Mel’s hand.
“Is that what I think it is?” Jordan asked, her mouth already watering.
“Ever the detective,” Mel said, pulling the red-and-white checked cloth off the treat with a flourish. “I was baking this morning and remembered how much you loved my apple pie, and I just couldn’t let you go without.”
Mel was certainly turning on the charm this morning, Jordan thought. Huh.
Max was still sniffing at the pie. Jordan shooed him away and he went, reluctantly, and lay down in front of the fire. She turned to Devon to tell her she was in for a treat and was taken aback by the stiff set of Devon’s jaw.
“Sabrina—do you like apple pie?” Jordan asked hesitantly. She had no idea what in the world was going on. They had all seemed to get along fine yesterday.
“Actually, I prefer cherry,” Devon said with a smile full of ice. She stepped closer. “Far more succulent.”
“Yes, well, I add cinnamon,” Mel said, also stepping closer, “and Jordan likes her pie a little spicy. Don’t you, Jordan?”
So they were not, in fact, actually talking about pie. Jordan suddenly felt like a prize bull at the county fair. Oh boy.
“I, uh, like both?” She needed to get out of this without hurting Mel. They’d been friends for many years, and Jordan had few friends. She’d thought they were on the same page, friends with benefits, just two lonely people seeking comfort and pleasure in each other’s arms. Apparently, she’d been wrong.
“Hmm, that’s new,” Mel said dismissively, setting the pie on the table. She grabbed a knife and plates from the kitchen. “Jordan, how about I serve you up a piece of my pie so you can see what you’ve been missing?”
Jordan glanced nervously at Devon, who was biting the inside of her cheek.
“You want some, dear?” Mel asked Devon with a honeyed smile laced with vinegar. Jordan thought Devon’s head was going to explode.
“Certainly,” Devon said, laying on the charm. “If you’re giving it away.”
Jordan watched the escalating sexual brinksmanship play out with a mix of horror and resignation.
“Mmmm, so good.” Mel moaned between bites, sounding a bit like—no, exactly like—she did when they were in bed together. Oh dear Lord.
Jordan chewed nervously. It really was good pie, not that she could admit that. She watched Devon from the corner of her eye, smiling sweetly around mouthfuls.
After the third bite, Devon set down her fork and delicately wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Not bad,” Devon said. “I can see why Jordan might have liked it, once upon a time.”
She leaned into Jordan and set her hand on Jorda
n’s bare forearm, trailing her fingers back and forth. Jordan shivered.
“But now that I’m here, I’ll have to serve you up my cherry pie. It just melts in your mouth.”
She couldn’t stop staring at Devon’s lips. Vaguely she heard Mel set down her fork and scoot back her chair.
“It seems your tastes have changed, Jordan,” she said with obvious disappointment. Jordan dragged her gaze away from Devon and up to Mel, who tilted her head contemplatively. “But I suppose sometimes change is good.”
She gave Devon a little nod and excused herself, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. Jordan stared at the closed door, wondering what exactly had just happened. Devon was scraping her plate—with some force—into the trash can.
“Devon?” Jordan brought her own plate over to the counter. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Devon said nothing, taking her plate over to the sink. She jabbed at the faucet, turning it on. “Nothing’s going on.”
Jordan was mystified. The temperature in the cabin had plunged thirty degrees in an instant. Her head was spinning. She felt her ire rising. “Something is most definitely going on. I’m not an idiot.”
Devon’s shoulders sagged. “No, you’re not,” she conceded. She shut off the water but didn’t turn. Jordan waited. Finally, Devon tried to brush past her, but Jordan blocked her path.
“Let me pass,” Devon said, staring at the floor.
“Look at me,” Jordan said. Devon refused.
“Please, look at me,” Jordan said again, but her plea fell on deaf ears. Devon tried to push past her again, but this time Jordan grabbed her arm.
“Let go of me,” Devon ground out.
“Not until you tell me what’s happening here,” Jordan said, her voice rising.
Devon tried to pull away, but Jordan held firm, taking care not to hurt her. “Devon, please talk to me.” She tried again to pull away, but Jordan wasn’t about to let go. “Damn it, Devon, talk to—”
The words died on her tongue as Devon’s lips crashed into hers.
*
The front desk area was crowded when Billy walked in, people pushing and yelling and generally making asses of themselves. There seemed to be two gangs, judging by their tattoos, which was unlikely to end well. It usually didn’t.
Billy waited his turn behind the unruly mob, scratching at his unshaven face. His skin itched, one of the many reasons he hated growing facial hair. He preferred to be clean-shaven, but sometimes he had to sacrifice for his mission. He had dyed his hair that morning, nothing too drastic, but a few shades darker than normal. He wore a pair of jeans, a button-down shirt, and a Pittsburgh Penguins jacket and hat. The key to disguise, Billy had learned over the years, was to blend in.
Coming to the police station was a first for Billy, but it was a necessary risk. Besides, he wasn’t too concerned. Billy Dean Montgomery was a dead man. The cops were chasing a ghost.
The shouting match at the front desk had escalated to the point that several officers had stepped in to keep the peace. They led the two groups into the recesses of the building, presumably to separate corners, if they were smart. He approached the front desk with a shy smile and a shake of his head.
“Busy day, huh?” he said, offering the cop behind the desk a What can you do? shrug.
“Yeah,” the cop said dejectedly. “I’m supposed to be off this afternoon. Got tickets to the Pens game.”
Billy whistled. “Gosh, I’d hate to see you miss that. Hope you’re able to go.”
The officer smiled. “Me, too. Now, how can I help you?”
Billy looked around as if he was nervous and leaned over the desk. “Well, see I might know something. About those murders. At the diner?”
The cop’s eyebrows lifted. “What do you know?”
Billy looked around again, like he was afraid. “It may be nothing but…I figured I better come in. Is there a detective I can talk to?”
The cop called over another officer. “Hey, Frank. Take this guy back to Lieutenant Wayne. It’s about the diner murders.”
The cop named Frank directed Billy upstairs, back to the bullpen. Billy called, “Thank you and good luck,” to the cop behind the desk as he followed. Frank led him over to a chair next to an empty desk.
Perfect.
“You need something, Frank?” another man asked, one who seemed vaguely familiar to Billy. He searched his brain, coming up with it. He’d seen this man at the diner, talking to Wayne and Maddie.
Damn.
“Yeah, this guy needs to see Lieutenant Wayne. The diner.”
“He’s in with the captain. I can take it.”
Frank shrugged and left.
“I’m Detective Lawson. How can I help you, Mr.…?” He waved Billy over to the chair next to his desk. Billy sat down uncomfortably.
“Collins. Jack Collins.”
“All right, Mr. Collins. What can I do for you?” Lawson asked.
Billy needed to adjust, and quickly. He fidgeted in his chair. “Well, I think I might know something. About who did it.”
“Go on.”
“Can I get a glass of water?”
“Of course.” Lawson walked over to the cooler Billy had spotted on the far side of the room. He didn’t have much time. He casually looked around the room, quickly scanning the desk he had initially been brought to, but was disappointed. The desk was clean.
Time to make another adjustment.
He turned his eyes back to Lawson’s desk. The man was a neat freak. No open notes or messages. His computer screen showed the city’s seal. He noted a stack of files in a basket at the far corner of the desk, but it wasn’t like he could just go pawing through the man’s files out here in the open.
Damn it.
Lawson brought back the water, and Billy gulped it down.
“It’s okay, Mr. Collins. Just relax.”
Billy nodded. “It’s just so awful what happened. To Sally and Chuck. They were good people.”
Lawson nodded encouragingly.
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard,” Billy continued. “How’s the waitress? Devon?”
Lawson’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Billy backpedaled. “I heard she found them. Such a nice girl. Works mostly in the morning, so I don’t know her very well. I’m usually a dinner guy. Best meatloaf in the city.”
Billy waited while Lawson considered him. Sweat started to trickle down his spine. He’d been too forward, and this cop was too suspicious.
Damn it. Damn it.
“She’s fine,” Lawson said eventually, betraying nothing.
“Good, good,” Billy said.
Lawson leaned forward in his chair. “What do you know, Mr. Collins?”
“Like I said, I usually go the diner in the evenings. I was there the night before the…well, before. A little later than usual. And there was this guy. At the counter. He didn’t seem right.”
“Can you describe him?”
Gotcha. “Yeah, sure. I didn’t get a good look at him at first. His back was to me, and he left a while before me. But when I left, I saw him clear as day. Up the street, under a lamp. He was watching the diner. I had to walk right by him to catch my bus.”
“What did he look like?” Lawson asked again.
“About my height. Not real bulky, kinda lean. Short hair. Hard to tell the color under the streetlamp but it looked sort of light brownish. Real shifty eyes.”
Lawson began scribbling onto a notepad.
“He kinda looked at me funny. When I passed him.” Billy swallowed hard, putting on a show. “I don’t know if he did it, but I’m kinda scared. That he’ll find me or something.”
Lawson looked up at him. “Don’t worry. We can protect you.”
Billy did his best to look relieved. “Oh, that’s good. Like one of those witness protection kinds of deals? Like on TV?”
“Something like that.”
“Put me in one of those safe houses?”
Lawson’s pen stopped moving. “You know, I’d like to have Lieutenant Wayne hear your story.” Lawson pushed back his chair. “He’s the one running the case.”
Billy had overreached. He replayed the bullpen’s layout in his mind, figuring his way out. His left hand inched closer to the heavy stapler on Lawson’s desk. He knew he could reach it and knock Lawson upside the head before the man would have time to reach for his gun.
“Hey! Put the weapon down!”
Billy’s head jerked up at the commotion erupting behind him. Suddenly officers were running, guns drawn.
“Shit!” Lawson yelled, reaching for his gun. Billy turned. The two groups he’d seen earlier must have gotten a little too close to each other. Lawson headed into the fray.
Billy knew this was his chance. God had opened the door.
He bolted from his seat and flew through the station, down the stairs, and out the front door. He didn’t stop running until he reached his car three blocks away.
Chapter Twenty-two
Kissing Jordan was beyond anything Devon had imagined. What’s more, Jordan was kissing her back.
It had been impulse, without thought, driven by her anger and her hunger. She was not angry with Jordan—how could she be, for she had no claim on her—but with herself. For letting Mel get to her, for pushing, for revealing her desire so openly, for embarrassing herself so completely.
She had wanted to run, but Jordan hadn’t let her. She was coming apart, unable to tell Jordan how she felt despite having already revealed herself. She was a broken thing, damaged beyond repair, lost beyond all hope of salvation.
But Jordan, fearless, valiant, bullheaded Jordan, refused to back down. Refused to let her go. Refused to let her run.
And Devon had kissed her.
Just as she had been unable to stop herself from challenging Mel, so too was she now unable to stop this kiss. The first touch of Jordan’s tongue had been her undoing. The floodgates had opened, and she was powerless against the wave that came crashing through it.
Season of the Wolf Page 17
