by Anna Leonard
All right, maybe that was unfair. But she could practically smell the ambition in him, and it made her wary. Lily didn’t understand ambition. She had needs, desires, of course. Everyone did. But ambitious people carried a tension around inside them that made her tense up in return. She preferred the company of those who were comfortable where they were, who took days one at a time and who didn’t ask too much of life.
“There’s an old joke,” she said, shaking off her reaction and responding to his earlier question. “‘Dogs have owners, cats have staff.’ Or, ‘Dogs come when called. Cats have answering machines and might get back to you.’ All true. A cat will do something you ask of it because it chooses to do so. It won’t obey out of loyalty, or fear, or even love—merely choice.”
Cats couldn’t be used. Not that way. It was one of the reasons why she respected them.
Agent Patrick nodded, not laughing, or even smiling at her words. “And cats choose to listen to you?”
No. Cats chose to talk to her. They always had, even when she was a little girl and terrified of them. They would come to her, twine their lithe bodies around her ankles, look up at her as though she could solve great mysteries, and she would curl into a ball against the nearest wall and cry until her mother came and got her. She never got violent, the way some phobics did, and she never got angry—just sad to the point of overwhelming depression. She had wanted to like cats, in a way she never felt with people.
“My boss at the shelter claims I must smell like catnip, or something.”
The look in his eyes suddenly shifted. Lily wasn’t sure how, or why, but the interest deepened, his face changing slightly. It made her suddenly uneasy in a way even his previous intensity hadn’t, as though she had suddenly been dumped somewhere unfamiliar, without warning. The other man, the FBI agent, she knew how to avoid, and why. This man, the one with the glitter-bright stare, he was…Seductive was the only word that came to mind. Seductive, and dangerous, and appealing. Which were three words, but all meant the same thing. He was looking at her as if he wouldn’t mind taking a roll in some catnip, himself, right then. Like he wasn’t undressing her now, but was already inside her.
Lily knew herself pretty well. She was attractive, if you liked brunettes, too short, and had a reasonably curvy, if not stacked, body. Great hair, nice face. A solid B-grade on all fronts. Nice, but nothing that qualified for that kind of fascination. He was interrogating her again, only with a different question in mind.
“Look, I don’t know what Detective Petrosian thought I’d be able to tell him, or what you think I can do. I’m good with cats, yes. But—”
“Have dinner with me.”
“Excuse me?” She should have been expecting that, yet it still caught her off guard.
His thin lips curved in a smile now. The hint of white teeth showed between the pale red flesh, but the intensity of his eyes was, if anything, even more focused on her. Not undressing her, but getting inside her brain. Inside her soul.
She recoiled, and then scolded herself for recoiling.
All right, Lily, stop that, she told herself. You’re tired, stressed and overreacting. He’s just a guy. A cute guy. Why not have dinner with him?
“I’m a federal agent, miss. You can trust me.” She must have laughed at that. “Seriously,” he went on. “I have a few questions I want to ask you, but I just hit town and I’m starving. And we hijacked you out of your job—the least I can offer is dinner, as a thank-you for your help.”
Lily was oddly flattered, but shook her head. She wasn’t much for dating, and even if she were, a guy who was in town for two, three days tops? She needed more time than that to make up her mind about a guy. Even if he was as exotic as a Burmese, and friendly as a Maine coon. And on the hunt sure as any big cat she’d ever seen. “Thank you, but no. I’m just going to grab a ride back to the shelter, pick up my car and go home. It’s been a really long day and I’m not feeling particularly social. Detective Petrosian has my phone number and e-mail address, if you need to ask me anything more, but I’m sure there’s nothing I can add.”
She stood up, and then looked down at the agent, remembering that moment of sympathy she had experienced on the scene, over the bodies of the kittens. “Whoever did this, you’ll find him.”
It wasn’t a question, and Agent Patrick didn’t pretend otherwise.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Petrosian found him half an hour later still sitting at the table, a notepad flat in front of him, the unlined paper covered with circles with words scribbled inside them.
“So what’s the story?” he asked the cop, pushing the notepad away from him in disgust.
“The store was for rent. Last owner moved out four months ago, but market’s been slow, hasn’t even had anyone in to look at the space since then. It was the Realtor who found the bodies, called us in.”
“Four months.” Patrick reached for the pad and jotted that down as well. “We’ll need a list of anyone who might have known about the space, had access to the keys, that sort of thing.”
“Already have someone on it. Anything else you want us to dig into?”
Jon T. Patrick was smart. More, he was savvy. And he knew blue sarcasm when he heard it. So he dragged himself out of his thoughts and gave the detective his full attention. “You guys have it under control. I’m just working a side investigation, is all. A little project.”
“Uh-huh.” Petrosian maybe wasn’t as smart, but he was plenty savvy too, so he let Patrick’s comment go without challenge.
“Although…” Patrick knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t resist. “Tell me about your specialist, Ms. Malkin.”
Ms. Malkin. Lily. It wasn’t a name that suited her: a lily was a delicate, overscented flower. Malkin’s hazel eyes were tough, her body toned and muscled under the curves, her stride strong, and her scent…unscented. Powder and soap.
He usually liked perfume on a woman, liked placing his face against her neck and smelling the aroma rising off her skin. But perfume would be wrong on Malkin. It would be overkill.
He wanted to take her out to dinner. Nothing fancy: pasta maybe, and a bottle of decent wine. He wondered if she drank red wine. He thought maybe she did. Or maybe he was projecting. Patrick was amused at himself, despite the seriousness of the case. Profiler, profile thyself? Why was he so attracted to her? She was a hot little thing, yeah, but he’d seen better. But there was something about her that spoke to him, beyond the physical, and well beyond any use she might have to the case.
That attraction was bad. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. He had a steady rule: no female distractions on a case. After, yes. But he would be on his way home by then.
Petrosian looked at him carefully, and then answered. “Lily’s good people. She works as a teller down at West Central, that’s a local bank. Volunteers at the shelter. Lived here, oh, three, four years? About that. Went to school on the West Coast, doesn’t seem to have any family that she’s mentioned. Straight up, all straight up.”
“And she talks to cats.” She also had skin the color of a sun-ripened peach. He wondered if all of her skin was that exact tone.
Petrosian snorted. “She does something, that’s for sure. Years ago, I was a rookie, we had a cougar wander into town, get panicked. The local zoo sent over one of their people to try to get it back into a cage. Took us all night, half a dozen tranqs, and earned me a couple of nasty gashes before we got the damn thing cornered and caged. Last year? Lily damn near purred a big cat into walking on its own paws into the cage. Took maybe an hour, all told.”
Patrick wasn’t sure he entirely believed that, but they’d probably both seen stranger things in their years. “How does she do it?”
The cop shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care, and she won’t thank you for poking around.”
Patrick sat back in his chair. It wasn’t a warning-off. Quite. But he wasn’t on the prowl; he wasn’t going to do anything that would hurt her. His interest in her was about th
e case; he really did have questions he wanted to ask her. A traditional expert would be by the book. This case didn’t feel by the book. The cats had been clean and well cared for, and killed with what could almost have been reverence. Maybe talking to the cat talker would give him the point of view he needed to understand how and why.
Petrosian looked at the schoolhouse-style clock on the wall. “I’m still on shift. I’ve got other cases to deal with before they let me out of here. A patrolman will take you to your hotel. If we catch any new info, I’ll give you a call.”
That was a clear dismissal. Slaughtered animals were a crime, but they weren’t a high-priority one, not even in a relatively sleepy New England city. FBI man could do whatever he wanted, but the cops weren’t going to hold his hand while he did it. That suited him fine, actually.
Still, Petrosian lingered. “You going to need anything else for your ‘little project’ before I sign off on the paperwork?”
“No, I think I have everything I need for now.” Clearly, he was supposed to skedaddle, as his mother used to say. Patrick closed his notebook and stood, feeling the joints in his knees and hips creak distressingly. He wasn’t getting old, just road-worn. He’d been on another assignment when the call came about this find. He’d barely had time to hand over his notes to another agent and throw some clean clothing into a case before catching his flight to Newfield. “I think I’ll grab some dinner and do some more research.”
“You do that.”
Petrosian watched him walk out; Patrick could feel the man’s gaze between his shoulder blades, like an infrared targeting mechanism. But he had been in cities where the cops were actively hostile, not just cautious, and he had learned not to take offense where none was intended.
The hotel he’d been booked into was pretty standard: a decent enough bed, small bathroom, inexpensive toiletries. But it had hot water, a desk he could work at and a twenty-four-hour restaurant next door. All the comforts of home. But somehow, showered and dressed, his notes spread out in front of him and covered with his scribbles and yellow Post-its, he wasn’t in the mood to work, or to go downstairs and eat alone.
You’re on the job, he told himself. Don’t be an idiot. The lady said no, and you shouldn’t have asked in the first place anyway.
Not letting himself think about it, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the phone number he had jotted on the edge of his notebook before handing back the original file to the police clerk.
“Lily Malkin? It’s J.T. Patrick. Agent Pa—yes, that’s right. Hi. Look, I know you said that you weren’t interested in dinner, but I really want to bounce some ideas off you, and…well, I hate eating alone. Especially when I’m away from home. In a new town. Save me?”
Chapter 3
Lily stared at the phone, not quite believing what she had just heard. Did he know how obvious that line of bullshit was? He had to; she could practically hear it in his voice: “Laugh at me, but laugh with me.”
“Agent Patrick…”
She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. He was far too appealing, and her thoughts had been far too depressing. Against her better judgment, she said yes.
“Great. Nothing fancy—maybe there’s a local Italian around here, a mom-and-pop place you could recommend? I’m craving ziti.”
She knew exactly the place, and on a Tuesday night, it shouldn’t be too crowded. “I’ll pick you up in—” she looked at the clock on her desk “—twenty minutes?”
“Great. I’m at the Veis Hotel, over on—”
“I know where it is. Budget central—nice to know our tax dollars aren’t going to Jacuzzis and wet bars.”
He snorted into the phone. “Hardly. I’ll see you in twenty.”
She hung up the phone and stared down at the pile of bills she had been paying. Or trying to pay, as her thoughts had been more on this afternoon’s scene than what she owed Visa and the electric company. “You. Are insane. And this is a terrible idea.”
Ten minutes later she had gone through three different outfits, finally settling on a pair of black slacks and a dark red sweater, with her favorite boots with the heels that made her feel not quite so short. Jeans were fine for shelter work, but even a casual dinner with a good-looking guy seemed to call for something a little more. Or at least something not covered in cat hair.
She stared in the mirror, giving herself a once-over. A rub of blush over her cheekbones, and eyeliner and that was it. The look was casual, not too much effort, but looking good. Grabbing her keys off the hook by the door, she was in her car and on her way before she could second-guess herself.
Lily Malkin wasn’t much for impulsive actions. She felt more comfortable on her own, when she could control the situation, and not have to do anything other than what she wanted. Her father called her selfish, but among all the men she had dated—and the few she had loved—Lily had never met anyone that she honestly felt that she could relax with; that she felt could accept her for who she was.
Probably because she was never quite sure who that was. An insomniac, not-quite-cat-phobic, detail-oriented female with trust and responsibility issues, to start. In short, a mess. On her own, Lily could deal with it. Bring someone else into the equation, and there were too many variables. Too many ways things could go wrong. So control was important.
After graduating from college, she had gone into banking because she wanted a job that would allow her to interact with people, but from a safe distance, and would allow her to leave the job at the office. Being a bank teller was perfect. She had moved to Newfield after a lot of thought, choosing it for low cost-of-living and a pretty environment.
Even working at the shelter had been part of a long-term planned goal. Tired of having responses to stimuli she could not control, she had finally gone to a therapist who helped her gain the courage to stop avoiding cats, and face the discomfort. It had worked, but the process had been slow, steady, and under her control every step of the way.
She was having dinner with this man because…
Lily knew the reason. Because she couldn’t get the image of those kittens out of her mind, and he was the only way to get answers about who would do that sort of thing. And why.
If she could help him find this guy, then maybe this feeling of depression, of helplessness and failure, might go away.
It had nothing to do with the way his eyes were so dark, or intense. Really. It was all part of the long-term plan.
“And if he suggests dinner in his hotel room, you are out of there, federal agent or not,” she told her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her reflection looked dubious, and she laughed at herself. Right now, she was so tired she’d probably fall asleep in the middle of anything, anyway.
To her relief, he was waiting outside the hotel’s lobby when she pulled up, talking on his cell phone. He saw her and waved, then closed the phone and slipped it into his pocket. He had a slim leather briefcase with him, she noted, and when he slipped into her Toyota she noted there were a number of color-coded files sticking out of it. This really was going to be a working dinner, then. Lily almost laughed again at the wash of disappointment she felt.
They were seated quickly; as expected, the little Italian restaurant wasn’t busy, and they had the corner to themselves. Patrick put the file on the table next to him and quickly buttered a bread stick. “Sorry. I’m a carb addict, if there’s one thing I can’t resist it’s fresh bread.”
“It is so unfair. Guys can eat anything and not gain a pound.” Casual, almost stupid chitchat. They were doing it to keep from thinking about what they had seen that afternoon. Or at least, she was. If she could not think about it, she could keep it from being so real. If it wasn’t real, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.
I’m sorry, kittens, she thought again, feeling the wave of helplessness move through her. There was nothing she could have done, and yet she felt overwhelmed by the feeling that she was supposed to have done something, somehow prevented this.
He protested t
he implied slur in her words. “Pound, shmounds. This particular guy has to keep up with the FBI regs for fitness. They don’t let us relax until after we have seniority behind a desk. That’s why we’re all so anxious to get promoted.”
She laughed, almost more than what the joke was worth. He glanced at her quickly, looked at the menu, then looked at her again, those dark eyes toned down for once. “Lily. Before we talk about anything else…I’m not a practicing psychologist, but it’s okay to be upset. What you saw…most people never run into that kind of violence, and that’s good. Nobody ever should, whether it’s directed at them or someone or something else. And when you do see it, you shouldn’t be unaffected. It’s not healthy, or human, to be unaffected. Even us tough federal-lawman types.”
She toyed with the corner of the menu, rubbing it between two fingers. “I know. It’s just…how do you sleep? After things like that?”
He gave the faintest shrug, barely a jerk of his shoulder. “I catch the people responsible. Or I do my damnedest to try, anyway. That is why I need to pick your brains. I think you can help me.”
She pursed her lips, weighing his words. “All right.”
Something she hadn’t even known was knotted inside her eased with those words. She only meant to agree to having her brain picked in exchange for dinner, but somehow it felt as though it was more.
Is this it? she wondered. Is this the thing I’ve been feeling I need to do? That easy? She doubted it. But it was something.
They placed their orders, and Lily ordered a glass of wine—“None for me,” Patrick said regretfully. “I’m technically on duty. On the plus side, that means I can expense this, so eat up!”
