Snatched (A Diana Hunter Mystery Book 2)

by Alison Golden

  She washed herself as she thought back to the dead body and the detective. Admittedly, the detective looked better than the dead body, but the latter wasn’t snarky or a know-it-all. Accusing her of being the killer, indeed. What a moron. Or he thought she was one. She sighed, pretty certain she was overreacting to the man.

  It probably had something to do with the fact that he was too attractive for his own good. Or for her peace of mind. And she might have a wee chip on her shoulder when it came to detectives talking down to her.

  She promised herself she’d be more careful when she next met him. She wanted in on this case, not only because it would make for a great article, but because she was curious why someone would leave a body on Royal Bay Beach right outside her home.

  She turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. Drying herself with a fluffy white towel, she padded back into her bedroom and put on her I-want-to-kill-myself-I-have-chores-to-do outfit, which consisted of a pair of yoga pants, a sports bra, and a tank top. She pulled her long, light brown hair into a ponytail, flicking her bangs back. They had gotten too long and kept getting in her eyes. She needed a haircut and her highlights refreshed.

  Diana grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen and sat at her desk, a frosted glass and chrome affair that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay. She fired up her computer, bringing the three-monitor setup to life.

  She was going to get that statement done before the know-it-all detective turned up on her doorstep. The less time she spent in his company, the better. She glanced outside, and that’s when it hit her. Her balcony looked out over the crime scene. She grinned. This was a sign. She walked outside and looked down. The area was now devoid of life, with only a cordon of yellow plastic tape with Crime Scene printed on it indicating anything had happened. She’d definitely be down there soon to take a closer look. She knew it.

  Of course, Max chose that precise moment to come barreling into the room. Apparently, he was in the mood to play. She got down on one knee and petted the bundle of energy that was her dog. “Not now, boy. Mommy has work to do.” He looked up at her with such a sad face that her heart almost broke.

  “This is emotional blackmail,” she grumbled. But, unfortunately, she didn’t have time to play with him. She really needed to get that statement done.

  She went back to her computer with Max at her heels. Seeing he wasn’t getting anywhere, he curled up beneath her chair, waiting patiently. Sort of. Except for the odd lick and nip at her heels that would make her jump now and then. She sighed and focused on the statement she had to write out.

  Opening up her word processer, Diana began to type. She made sure to include as much as she could without actually stating she’d done the unthinkable and touched evidence before the police had arrived. She was so engrossed in what she was doing that she jumped when her doorbell sounded.

  Of course, the moment the bell rang, Max was off like a shot. He skidded to a stop, almost crashing into the door, and he proceeded to bark as menacingly as he possibly could. He was a tiny Maltese terrier. Menacing was not an adjective one could use to describe him.

  She sighed. She had better open the door before Max had an apoplectic fit. Anyway, it could only be Detective Hot-kinson. Jeez. Since when did she have a nickname for the guy? It was a pretty fitting one, though.

  “Max, sit. Stay.” Dutifully, Max sat. She took a deep breath and schooled her features into a mask of welcome. She had to be nice. She opened her door, a smile frozen on her face. Yes, he was still as good looking as earlier. Not her overactive imagination, then. Sigh. No man had the right to look that good.

  “Hello, Detective,” she said.

  “Ms. Hunter,” he replied, inclining his head.

  “Come in, please.” She stepped back from the door to make room for him and he swept past her with a gruff thanks. She closed the door behind him, taking a deep breath to steel herself for what was to come.

  Unfortunately, Max chose that moment to make himself known. This was his home, and other males were not welcome. And since this was the first time a man had come onto his turf, Max was not pleased. So, the 6’2” detective came face-to-face with a growling fur ball that he could easily dispatch with a single, swift kick.

  “Max, no.” Apparently, Max wasn’t interested in listening to her. He wanted the male off his turf, and that was that.

  Surprising her, Detective Hot-kinson sat on his haunches. “What have we here?” He reached out a hand, palm down and held it out without moving any closer to Max, who kept growling, baring his teeth. The detective just kept staring him down. After a few moments, Max stopped growling. He looked at the extended hand quizzically and sniffed it. A moment later, apparently deciding the detective wasn’t the enemy, he yipped and pushed his head under the man’s hand.

  “Who’s a good boy?” the detective murmured, petting her supposedly loyal dog.

  “Traitor,” she muttered under her breath. “Max, bed,” she ordered. Max looked up at her as if she’d kicked him. “Now.” With a disappointed whine, he turned and dragged himself into her bedroom.

  “Nice dog.”

  “Thanks.” Her tone said it all. She wasn’t going to engage in small talk with the annoying Detective Hot-kinson.

  “So, can I get your statement now?” His low rumble sent a shiver up her spine. No, this was not right. She could not, would not, be attracted to the condescending jerk of a detective. Unfortunately, now that the excitement had passed and there was nothing else to focus on except him, she found herself noticing more and more about him. Like his square jawline and that brown stubble she found so fascinating. Or those smoldering blue eyes that were looking at her so intently.

  She cleared her throat, blushing that she’d been caught staring like a schoolgirl. “Yes, of course.” Why did her voice come out so breathy? Ridiculous. He was a fool. She had to keep repeating that to herself. “I have about a paragraph left. Do you want a cup of coffee while you wait?”

  He was watching her closely, which made another shiver skate up her spine. She almost missed his nod of acceptance. She walked into the kitchen, closing a door that was cracked open as she passed it, and poured a cup of coffee. That’s when she realized she hadn’t asked if he wanted milk or sugar. For greater efficiency – and if she was honest, to give herself time to recover – she raised her voice. “Do you want milk and sugar?”

  “I take it black, thanks.” She jumped. Again. Somehow, he’d materialized next to her. Thank goodness the cup was on the counter or she would have spilled it all over herself.

  “Here,” she said, shoving the cup at him. He took it, and of course, just like in every cliché romance novel she’d never admit to reading, their fingers touched, and it was like touching a livewire. She felt the shock all the way down to her toes. “Uhm, I’ll go finish that statement.” She rushed out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

  She sat at her computer and took a deep breath. “Focus, Diana,” she muttered to herself. Squaring her shoulders, she forced her mind to address the task at hand. Whoever had been killed deserved justice, and she needed to do her part. She had to help if she could. Engrossed in what she was doing, she didn’t hear him come back into the living room.

  “You seem to have a perfect view of the crime scene from here. Did you see anything this morning that was out of the ordinary?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not in the habit of hanging out my window at such a crazy hour.” She grimaced. Okay, that had been a bit bitchy. “Sorry,” she said with a sigh. “I think finding a dead body first thing in the morning has thrown me slightly.” It has absolutely nothing to do with you.

  He smiled softly. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  She nodded, though that smile had, once again, thrown her for a loop. With some effort she refocused and printed off a copy of her statement. Grabbing a red pen, she started proofing it. Finding a passage that read awkwardly, she tapped the pen against her lips as she tho
ught of how to rephrase it. Once she was done, she fixed the mistakes on the computer and printed off a final copy.

  “So, I’m guessing I need to sign it.”

  He nodded. “That would be great.”

  She scribbled her name on the piece of paper, pulled out a manila envelope, and slid the paper inside it. She handed the envelope to him, making sure her fingers were in no way within touching distance.

  “I have a few other questions for you,” Detective Hopkinson said.

  “Fire away.” Getting up from her computer, she moved to the couch, then realized it was a mistake. He towered over her when she was standing. Now, she’d end up with a crick in her neck. He apparently noticed her discomfort because he took pity on her and sat in the armchair opposite.

  “The victim’s name was Leonardo Perez. Did you know him?”

  “No, that name doesn’t sound familiar at all. And I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen him before. I think I would have noticed.”

  “And you have no idea how he ended up under that tree?”

  She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “This again? I already told you that I saw him like that this morning when I left for my run. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t there last night. I got in late – past midnight – and there was nothing unusual out there. I would have noticed a guy trying to read under a tree in the middle of the night. But I’ve explained all this in my statement.”

  Detective Hopkinson nodded. “I’m just double-checking.”

  Diana accepted his reply. “Was he from around here?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss an open case with a civilian.” He looked apologetic. Sort of.

  “Sure, I get it. No problem. Just wondering if I should bolt my doors and windows? Or hide from a psychotic killer?”

  “You should always bolt your doors and windows. But no, there’s no indication you have anything to worry about in terms of a psychotic killer.”

  They lapsed into an awkward silence, which he broke after a few moments. “You have a nice place. It’s not what I expected.”

  She glanced around, trying to see her living room from his point of view. Like the rest of her apartment, it was minimalistic. A couch with red cushions and a black frame curved around one corner of the room facing the windows, with a matching armchair sitting across from it that separated her actual living room from her work area. An oval coffee table with a lacquered geometric stand and glass top sat right in front of the couch.

  On the opposite wall from the couch was a frosted glass and chrome media center that matched her desk. The other side of the room was her workspace. Her desk was positioned right in front of the windows, while a black bookcase stood off to the right. On the left, she had two low cabinets with red and black lacquered doors.

  She looked at him curiously. “What were you expecting?”

  He looked slightly nonplussed. “I’m not sure. I guess I expected something a little more…girly.” The last word came out on a choke, as if he’d realized half-way through that it might not have been the wisest thing to say.

  Diana started to laugh. “Let me guess. You were expecting lots of pink, lace, and frills. Maybe even a doll collection?”

  He grinned. “The doll collection was the first thing on my list.”

  “I don’t know if I should be insulted.”

  “No, it’s just that…” he trailed off. “I really didn’t know what to expect but this was definitely not it.”

  “You didn’t expect to like my taste in decorating, did you?” What Diana found remarkable was that he’d actually thought about what her place might be like. And he’d given it enough thought to formulate expectations.

  “Honestly, no. Then again, considering how much of an idiot I was earlier, I certainly wasn’t expecting coffee, either.” Even more remarkable. The detective was apologizing? Okay, it was in a rather roundabout way, but it still qualified as something of an apology.

  “Don’t worry, I slipped cyanide into your coffee,” she replied sweetly.

  Detective Hopkinson actually paled and looked down quickly at his cup of coffee. “I’m joking,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Oh, sorry,” he grinned. “I think I’ve been doing this job for too long. I’ve become suspicious of everything and everyone.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  Again, silence descended. But it was slightly less awkward than before.

  “Out of curiosity, why do you think he wasn’t killed here?” he asked suddenly.

  They were back to that were they? “Are you going to accuse me of killing him again?”

  He chuckled. “I never thought you did. It was just funny to see you get so worked up.”

  “What?” Okay, she had almost screeched right there. Not good.

  “You have to admit, it did look a bit suspicious.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Well, it’s not every day that someone finds a body and is quite so calm about it. Plus, you seemed to know so much about what was going on.”

  “Like?”

  “You did say something about massive blood loss. How did you know that?”

  Diana sighed. She was going to get into so much trouble. “I may or may not have looked down his shirt to see if I could get a better idea of what was going on.”

  “So, it was the gaping wound that gave it away?”

  She nodded. “And that’s also why I think he was killed somewhere else.” He cocked his head, inviting her to continue.

  “With a wound that big, he would have been bleeding. A lot. But there was no blood on the ground around him. So, where did it go? Last time I checked, there were no reports of vampires living in the Vancouver area. And even if a few are hanging around, they couldn’t do that good a cleanup job.”

  She was babbling again. Vampires? Really? For some reason, Detective Hot-kinson gave her foot-in-mouth disease. When she glanced at him, though, he was grinning. Maybe he liked her sense of humor.

  “Good call,” he nodded in approval. “Well, thank you for the coffee. And for only joking about the cyanide.” He grinned. “I have to get back to the precinct.”

  She nodded with a small smile. “Thanks for coming around to pick up my statement.”

  “You’re welcome,” he responded graciously and she let him out. Closing the door behind him, she took a deep breath. Max came scampering out of the bedroom. She turned to look at him. “That was one interesting morning,” she muttered.

  Peter Hopkinson sat at his desk and pulled out Diana Hunter’s statement. The woman was as opinionated as hell, so he was curious to read what she had written. When he was done, he was frowning. It read more like a forensics report than a statement. She’d included every damn thing, including the fact that the victim’s clothes had seemed rather shabby. To be honest, he was surprised she hadn’t performed an autopsy on the body herself, right under that tree.

  She’d been so irritating at first with her I’m-smarter-than-everyone attitude and those grey eyes and haughty looks. It was why he’d made her go through the story twice; three times if he counted the statement sitting on his desk. Just to cut her ego down to size.

  She was a magazine editor, for crying out loud. What the heck did she know about crime scenes and dead bodies? And that was the problem because judging by her statement, she knew quite a lot.

  When he’d gone to her apartment, he’d expected a repeat of the scene at the beach. In other words, he’d been on his guard and had expected her to skewer him. Surprisingly, other than one sarcastic remark, she’d been rather pleasant. She’d been really pleasant, in fact.

  Of course, when she’d opened her door to let him in, he’d had to use every ounce of willpower to keep his eyes on her face. What was wrong with the woman, answering her door looking like that? Didn’t she know there were a lot of bad people around? A gorgeous, single woman living alone attracted a lot of unwholesome attention from the types of people he came into conta
ct with on a daily basis. She needed to be careful.

  He looked at the statement once more. He had a feeling that he and Ms. Hunter would meet again. Her observations were very interesting. They were actually better than the forensics report he’d received. Since the tree hadn’t been the scene of the crime, the forensics unit hadn’t spent too much time on it. He shook his head. He’d have to go back. This case was weird enough without taking Ms. Hunter into account. He was going to need all the help he could get to solve this one. Maybe even the help of a certain magazine editor.

  He groaned. That was going to be awkward. He reached for his phone and dialed the medical examiner. “Doctor Riddle, do you have anything for me?”

  “Hello to you, too.”

  “Sorry, Doc.”

  The man huffed. “Actually, I do. And you can come down here to find out what it is.”

  Great. He really loved visiting the morgue. Not. “I’ll be right down, Doc.”

  A few minutes and an elevator-ride later, he walked into the morgue. The smell of industrial disinfectant assaulted his nostrils. He hated visiting the morgue, a dislike that only intensified when he saw the body of their murder victim on one of the tables, the medical examiner leaning over it.

  When the Doc called, the body was usually covered or sewn up or something. It was rare for the doctor to still be working on it, like he was now, his arms almost disappearing into the corpse as he pulled out the organs.

  Peter prided himself on having a strong stomach. He’d been a member of the Canadian Special Forces. He’d been deployed overseas to more warzones than he could count. He’d seen death. He’d dealt out death. But seeing the Doc playing around with a man’s guts? He struggled to stomach it.

  “Doc?” he said, breathing in through his mouth. The body was giving off a unique perfume that was not wholly pleasant.

  Doctor Riddle looked up. “Good, you’re here.”

  “So what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “Come here, I need to show you something.” When Peter hesitated, the Doc glanced up at him again. “I don’t have all day, you know.”