Trigger Effect

by Maggie Price

  “Jesus.” Nate tossed the asp back on the console where it landed with a clatter. “Do you do this all the time, Carmichael? Analyze every word a person says? Friends? Family?”

  If she had known how to dissect all the smooth, charming lines her husband had whispered, she maybe would have been prepared.

  “It’s easy to deceive someone who isn’t paying attention,” she said. “I pay attention, is all.”

  “Is that what the slimeball did to you, Paige?” he asked quietly. “Lie to you? Did you hone up on statement analysis after you stopped being a cop just so you could spot lies?”

  McCall’s soft tone, his use of her first name had her breath going shallow. Neither of them had moved, but he somehow seemed to have gotten closer. She could smell his cologne, feel the heat of him. His gaze held hers, drawing her in. She felt something she didn’t need or want to feel. Back away, she told herself.

  Her hand unsteady, she grabbed the asp off the console and shoved it into her coat pocket. “Thanks for arranging the escort.” Twisting, she snagged her purse and laptop case off the backseat. “I appreciate it.”

  She shouldered open the door and climbed out of the car. The garage was cold—the brittle, bone-snapping cold that made people hurry to get indoors. As she moved, Paige scanned the other cars for occupants. She saw no one. By the time she got around to the trunk, McCall was waiting for her.

  “Since your information on Isaac was in your stolen briefcase, I called your former partner,” he said. “He’s e-mailing me copies of the files.”

  “I talked to him today, too. He’s sending me the same thing.”

  “Yeah, he mentioned that.” He angled his chin. “Are you positive about staying here after your workshop ends?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll review Isaac’s files tonight. Let’s get together tomorrow after you’re done at the training center and talk about Isaac. I want to hear everything about that bastard.”

  “Fine.”

  His hand gripped her elbow. “I’ll walk you in.”

  During those last moments in the car, something between them had shifted. Despite the cold, she felt her blood heat. “The elevator is three yards away. I can make it there on my own.”

  “No doubt,” he said, falling into step with her. “I have to go by Burke Youngblood’s office. My sisters are getting married on Valentine’s Day and the reception’s here.” He reached past her to the concrete wall and pressed the elevator’s call button. “There’s some sort of paperwork I’m supposed to pick up.”

  “Did you say your sisters are getting married? Plural?”

  He nodded. “Grace, Morgan and Carrie are taking the plunge. Also my brother, Bran. He and his wife are renewing their vows. Everything in one huge ceremony.”

  The elevator dinged to announce its arrival. Paige stepped inside, sliding him a look. “Does that make you Lonewolf McCall? The family’s sole holdout who avoids marriage like the plague?”

  In the elevator’s dim light, she almost missed the shadow that flicked across his eyes. Almost. Perhaps Houdini hadn’t made a clean escape from every relationship?

  “I’ve got another brother. Mention marriage around Josh, he cringes.”

  He’s not the only one, Paige thought.

  The instant the doors slid closed, she knew she’d made a mistake. Her rental car’s closed confines had been bad enough, but the dimly lit elevator seemed more personal. Intimate. McCall’s hand still gripped her elbow, her body was very aware of his nearness, responding to it in ways that were instinctive and fundamentally feminine.

  He had a reputation for seduction, she cautioned herself. She had her own experience with a man like him and didn’t intend to go down that road again. McCall had no business touching her, and she had no business wanting him to.

  Easing her arm from his grip, she took a step sideways and slammed a firm clamp on her libido.

  Chapter 7

  Late the following afternoon, Paige ended her workshop. She was on her way out the door when Kassandra, the training center secretary, caught her.

  “Ms. Carmichael, Chief Quaid’s secretary just called. The chief would like to meet with you in his office.”

  Paige arched a brow. “Now?”

  “As soon as you can get downtown.”

  “Did the secretary say why the chief wants to see me?”

  “No.” Kassandra shrugged. “I asked. She has no clue. Want me to call and tell her you’re on the way?”

  Kidd and Henderson were waiting in their cars to provide escort service. Paige hoped they wouldn’t mind changing their destination from her hotel to the cop shop.

  “Make the call,” she said.

  “So, you accepted Chief Quaid’s offer to consult on the homicide of a city councilman’s wife?” Paige’s boss asked.

  “A councilman who announced his run for governor a couple of hours before she disappeared.” Shoulder-cradling her cell phone, Paige tilted back in the swivel chair at McCall’s desk on which file folders and stacks of paper pooled around a computer monitor. It was nearly six o’clock. OCPD Homicide’s squad room was staffed only by the lone detective who’d told her McCall was in their captain’s office and she should wait at his desk. She knew the reason McCall was meeting with his boss and she felt certain he would not emerge a happy camper. Not her fault, Paige thought, turning her attention back to the phone call.

  “Yes, Holden, I accepted the offer. Is the arrangement I made with Chief Quaid acceptable to you?”

  “As of tomorrow, you’re officially on vacation. Your time is your own.” Despite her boss’s American heritage, he spoke with a faintly British accent, courtesy of his diplomatic-corps father’s overseas service, the majority of which was spent in the U.K. “That is, if you call making yourself a target for an escaped killer a vacation.”

  Paige lifted a brow. Holden Lassiter had spent over a decade as a CIA case officer collecting intelligence and planning missions in dangerous and often war-torn locales around the globe. If that wasn’t making oneself a target, she didn’t know what was.

  “Granted, I’m on my own time. But Chief Quaid asked me to consult on the case because of my expertise in statement analysis. Apparently, the victim and her husband hosted a party to announce his candidacy and the police took statements from the guests and catering crew. The chief thinks my analyzing those statements might help close the case faster. I wouldn’t have this skill if it weren’t for you, Holden. It’s only right the Lassiter Group receives a portion of the city’s payment.”

  Paige wasn’t simply trying to earn points with her boss. In truth, Lassiter and his company were responsible for her well-being. After the breakup of her marriage and loss of her badge, the job Holden Lassiter offered her had given her a reason to get out of bed in the morning. The intensive training had kept her so busy she’d barely had a moment to think about the fact her life had gotten sucked into some dark sinkhole and spit back out in a form she’d hardly recognized. For that, she would be forever grateful.

  “Let’s debate the money issue when this is over,” Lassiter said. “What about Doctor Isaac? Have there been additional suspicious events?”

  “Not since yesterday when my billfold and the assignments were stolen.” Paige thought again of the what-I-did-yesterday assignment that had contained so many indicators of deception. She glanced around the squad room, her gaze landing on the desk that held the nameplate Hugh Henderson. His blatant insistence that she join him for a drink despite the fact he was married seemed to fit the assignment’s author.

  “Since you’re determined to stay in Oklahoma City and flush Isaac out, I feel easier knowing you’re working with the police,” Holden said, pulling her attention back. “In this case, there truly is safety in numbers.”

  Paige was suddenly aware of the clip of oncoming footfalls along the hallway. She glanced up just as McCall stepped through the doorway. His eyes narrowed when he spotted her.

  The detective seated at th
e desk on the far side of the squad room looked up. “Hey, Nate, I took a call for you from—”

  “Later,” McCall said without breaking stride. He stopped inches from Paige’s chair and leaned in. “Follow me.” Without waiting for her to respond, he turned and strode toward a door on the opposite side of the squad room.

  “In this case,” she murmured into the phone, “I’m not sure there is safety in numbers.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’ll explain later, Holden. My new partner is apparently anxious to get started on our joint consultation.” And in no way happy about doing so.

  “Very well. Keep me briefed. And, Paige, don’t take chances where Isaac is concerned. The man is deadly.”

  “I know that all too well.” For the hundredth time, she wondered if Isaac was somewhere nearby, waiting for the most opportune time to make another move on her.

  Spooked by her own thoughts, she concentrated on her boss’s words.

  “I’ve made inquiries to some sources who are attempting to pick up the doctor’s trail.”

  “Care to name some of those sources?” Paige asked. Over the years she and several of her co-workers had begun to suspect that Holden Lassiter had not completely moved away from the CIA to the private sector.

  “As you know I prefer to keep my contacts anonymous,” he replied without missing a beat. “I’ll call if we get new information on Isaac. In the meantime, stay safe.”

  “That’s my plan,” she said, watching McCall shoulder open the door and step out of sight.

  Easing out a breath, she rose and clipped her phone onto the waistband of her black slacks. “Might as well get this over with,” she murmured, winding her way through rows of battered metal desks.

  Palming open the door, she stepped into a small, dimly lit file room. The smell of stale, aging paper hung in the cool air. A wooden table with cigarette burns marching around its edges sat in the room’s center. Battleship-gray file cabinets lined the dingy walls.

  McCall stood at the far side of the room, one shoulder leaning against a file cabinet, his arms crossed over his chest. He had his suit jacket off, shirt collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up and tie askew.

  “Glad you could join me, Carmichael. You want to tell me exactly how you arranged this?”

  She rested a hip against the table. “Arranged what?”

  “Did I tick you off that bad last night when I reminded you you’re no longer a cop? Is that why you went to Quaid and got him to agree to let you consult on my case?”

  “I didn’t particularly like your reminding me of something I need no reminder of,” she said. “Even so, I didn’t approach your chief. He approached me.”

  “How’d you convince him to pull you in on my investigation?”

  “I didn’t. Quaid called me to his office and asked if I was interested in consulting on a sensitive, high-profile homicide case. Since I had already made arrangements to stay in town, I outlined the terms under which I perform consultations for law enforcement agencies. He agreed to them. I didn’t hear any specifics on what case he intended me to consult on until after that. When he mentioned ‘frozen body’ I realized the case is yours.”

  “Right.”

  The disbelief in McCall’s voice stirred her temper. Still, she knew all too well how maddening and frustrating it was to try to work a homicide while the brass jerked the reins and issued orders. And how she’d unequivocally resented so-called experts being crammed down her throat. Experts who sometimes did more to hinder than help an investigation.

  “Look, McCall, Quaid brought me to Oklahoma City to teach statement analysis,” she began, trying for the most reasonable of tones. “Yesterday he sat in on my workshop for a couple of hours. He apparently liked what he heard. Right now, OCPD happens to have a red-ball homicide,” she continued, using cop lingo for the murder of a prominent official or celebrity. “Call it a twist of fate that I’m in town at the same time. It’s Quaid’s opinion that using statement analysis in the investigation might help close the case faster.”

  “And I’m sure you didn’t do anything to dispel that opinion.”

  “Why would I? I happen to agree with him.”

  “Then there’s those of us who find it hard to believe you can figure out what’s going on in some illiterate lowlife’s brain by reading a couple of sentences he manages to scribble.” McCall’s dark brows drew together. “Is that why you wormed your way in on my case, Carmichael? Because you know I don’t totally buy what you’re selling?”

  “Right,” she snapped. “I was just blowing smoke when I told you I’m staying here because I’ve got this huge desire to find the escaped psychiatrist who wants to kill me. The truth is, I gave up two weeks in a villa overlooking the Sea of Cortez just so I can prove to you the merits of statement analysis. In fact, I came up with my brilliant scheme the first day of my workshop when you leered at my legs. Even then, I knew somewhere in this city there was a murdered frozen socialite whose husband is running for governor. And that you would snag the case, and your chief would hire me to consult on it.” She thrust her arms out toward him. “Slap on the cuffs, Sergeant McCall, you have sniffed me out.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. Once. Twice. “You’ve got a real attitude problem, Carmichael.”

  “Me? You’re the one suffering from one hell of a bad case of sour grapes, McCall.”

  He pressed his lips together and stared at her. Her arms still extended in the “cuff me” position, she returned his stare, measure for measure.

  “Hell,” he said after a moment. He shook his head as he straightened from the file cabinet. “Dammit to hell. This is the last thing I need.”

  Paige let her arms drop. She knew most Homicide cops preferred to exhaust all the traditional methods first to solve a case before resorting to psychics or unknown quantities.

  To McCall, she and statement analysis were unknown quantities.

  “I know how it feels to have the brass stepping all over a homicide case,” she said quietly. “I didn’t like it when it happened to me, any more than you like it now. But I learned to deal with it by reminding myself I had victims who couldn’t speak for themselves and it was up to me to do that for them. I learned to ignore all the politics and histrionics and just keep digging and prodding and turning over rocks until I found the truth.” She took a step toward him. “I’ve seen enough of how you work to know you’re the same kind of cop, McCall. You care first and foremost about the victim.”

  He moved toward her, pausing inches away, his dark eyes unfathomable.

  She stared at him for a full ten seconds while a knot of nerves she didn’t want to acknowledge clenched in her belly. “What?”

  “You working me, Carmichael? Saying things you know any Homicide cop worth his salt wants to hear just so I’ll get over being ticked that the chief dumped you in my lap?”

  “I’m saying what I sense is the truth. If it gets us over this speed bump, that’s a plus. The other night you told me your partner is on maternity leave. That means you’ve probably got other detectives helping you out when they can spare time from their own cases.”

  “I did have that. As of this afternoon, the chief slapped a lid on this case and screwed down the latches. As of now, all communication, reports and other information about the Gillette case is limited to the chief, my captain, me and my partner.”

  Having been a murder cop, Paige knew the standard Homicide mantra was: If you’re allowed to know, you’ll be told. If not, don’t ask. And it was a rare Homicide cop who hadn’t snagged an assignment at one time or another where communication was even more limited than usual. Some of those cases were sensitive ones like the Gillette homicide. Others were internal investigations on officers. Since things were kept hush-hush, nobody’s feelings got hurt if things didn’t pan out. If they did, nobody was forewarned in time to hurt the investigation.

  “Well, McCall, since there’s a gag order on the case, it’s fortunate you’ve got me full-time.
And I don’t intend to try to tell you what to do. It’s your case. What I can do is sit in on interviews and analyze statements. Alert you to sensitive areas about which a person should be questioned. Bottom line is, we need to work together. Need to do the best job we can for that woman who had her lights dimmed then got stuffed in a freezer.”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Gillette deserves justice.” Easing out a long breath, he shoved a hand through his hair. Paige could almost feel the tension of the moment fade. “Then there’s the other case I recently took on.”

  “Mine.”

  “Yours. You’ll recall we planned to get together this evening after I read the reports on Isaac that your former partner e-mailed me?”

  “I remember.”

  “I can see one benefit to your consulting on the Gillette homicide.”

  She gave him a brilliant smile. “Just one?”

  He smirked. And, dammit, she had to admit he had a great smirk. “With you in close proximity, I won’t have to worry about you going off on one of those investigative tangents I warned you about.”

  With Oklahoma City unfamiliar territory, she had planned to do a little reconnoitering tonight after she and McCall met. And while she was at it, make a stop that might eventually give her a clue to Isaac’s whereabouts. Although she’d intended to invite McCall to go along, instinct told her now was not the most opportune time to bring that up.

  “I remember telling you I don’t go off on tangents.”

  “That’s good to know, Carmichael. Because in addition to the reports your ex-partner e-mailed, he sent photos of the dead hookers. I saw Isaac’s work for myself.”

  “Sounds as if my ex-partner sent you the entire works.”

  “I like to know what I’m dealing with. Carmichael, your killer shrink is beyond perverted. With the hookers, he was just getting back at his dear old stepmom. You’re different. You tracked him down. Locked him in a cage. Isaac no doubt perceives you destroyed his life, which means he’s got a real hard-on for you.” McCall dipped his head, his voice going as soft as a lover whispering endearments. “I don’t want to think about what he’d do if he got his hands on you.”