by Maggie Price
“All right, Sergeant McCall, you win,” Mark said, then set his mug on a coaster. “Let’s see if you can help figure out ‘who done it.’”
He scooped the reports up he’d been reading and shuffled them into order. When he looked down at the top page, his eyes sobered.
“Buffalo’s first victim was murdered a month shy of her fifteenth birthday,” he began quietly.
For the next hour Mark shifted through the reports and photos spread on the table in front of him. He used the information they contained and the theories he’d developed after his visits to the first two crime scenes to give Grace a chronological overview of the Buffalo homicides.
Surrounded by the suite’s lavish elegance, he had the sense that describing the murders was like talking about some parallel universe where three young girls took center stage in a hideous, violent play.
Propped in the corner of the couch, Grace listened, her eyes rarely leaving his face. Her questions were few, always germane.
Mainly she listened.
And Mark realized the longer he talked, the lighter the load he felt on his shoulders.
“That sums things up.” He laid a handful of reports on the table, then eased back and met Grace’s gaze. She was snuggled into the thickly padded corner of the couch, an oversize pillow propped behind her. Since the white terry robe reached only to her calves, she’d burrowed her bare feet beneath one of the cushions to keep them warm. Her eyes were dark and sleepy, her face relaxed. Clearly the brandy had taken effect.
“So, Sergeant McCall, what’s your opinion?” he asked quietly.
“The Buffalo detective’s boss thinks they’ve got different killers because the body disposal methods are so varied,” she replied, sounding as tired as she looked.
“Right.” Mark reached, took the almost-empty snifter from her hand and set it on the table.
“But you disagree. You think there’s one killer who changes his MO between murders. He does that because he’s growing more confident. Each time he kills, he gets better at it.”
“Very good job at reading my mind, McCall. And since you’re about to fall asleep on me, we can finish this discussion in the morning.”
“What about you?” Her eyelids fluttered shut, opened.
“What about me?”
“You look as tired as I feel.” She studied him for a moment. “More tired, maybe.”
“Maybe.”
Silently Mark conceded that tired wasn’t the word for what he was. If he was lucky, he’d get a couple of hours of fitful sleep. Then the images of all the horror and death he witnessed on a daily basis would begin racing through his head and he’d jerk awake, sweating, his heart pounding. He knew from bitter experience that once awake the rest of the night would be shot.
So he would then dig out the files on one of the other cases he’d dragged here with him and go back to the unending cycle of reading reports and analyzing crime-scene photos. He wiped a hand over his face. Somehow his life had become a merry-go-round of death that never stopped spinning.
His life. Back in Virginia, he had a rented townhouse, a closetful of made-to-order suits and a vintage Mercedes sedan. He put the rest of his money away toward a retirement which he couldn’t envision himself ever taking, since he had nothing but the job.
Grace’s soft, steady breathing pulled his gaze back to the end of the couch. She was asleep now, her dark lashes shadowing her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, her raven hair rumpled and glossy on the pillow behind her.
Watching her, he noted the natural color, bleached out of her face when she’d first stepped into the living room, had returned. He furrowed his brow, wondering again what it was that had kept her from falling asleep. What had prompted her to come in search of a drink strong enough to settle the nerves he’d seen in her eyes? What had compelled her to spend time with him when she’d been so annoyed earlier after he’d refused to talk about his past?
Right now he could be selfish for himself and admit he didn’t much care what had brought her out of that bedroom. He was just glad it had.
Rising, he switched off the lights. In the dark he stood at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at Vegas’s eternal neon light show. Beyond the glare, the desert was an ocean of inky black.
Behind him Grace shifted; he heard the delicate change in her breathing as she slid deeper into sleep. Mark closed his eyes as fatigue shuddered down through him, giving his stomach a kick as it went.
Her mere presence was like a seductive song, calling to his battered senses. Unable to resist, he moved to the couch, eased down beside her. She stirred, then cuddled against him.
He smiled to himself. Grace was a cuddler. Always had been.
Over the raw yearning inside him, Mark felt an even more potent satisfaction. For this one night she was his again. At least until the dreams came back, jarring him out of whatever fitful sleep he could manage.
He slid his arms around her, closed his eyes and dropped into sleep.
Mark woke wrapped in woman.
He blinked against the shafts of morning light that streamed in the long windows, tossing diamond patterns against the living room’s polished woods, brasses and marble. He wasn’t sure what surprised him most—to wake with Grace McCall draped against him, or that he’d slept through the night. He hadn’t accomplished the latter feat in at least a year—close to two. What was it about this woman—this one woman—that had the power to hold back the demons inside him?
They lay on their sides, pressed close together, almost nose to nose. A shapely yard of leg was tossed over his sweatpants-clad thigh; one of her palms was pressed against his chest, as if she’d decided to check his heart rate during the night.
Not wanting to break the spell, Mark remained unmoving, one arm trapped beneath her waist, while an enveloping silence hovered around them. His gaze traced the curve of her cheek, her lush, unglossed mouth. The closure of her terry robe was slightly parted, giving him a view of one supple swell of breast. While her soft, distinctive scent filled his lungs, the struggle built inside him rapidly, almost painfully, to prevent his hands from pulling aside the robe to find her.
Even as lust slapped at him, he acknowledged that his need for her wasn’t just physical. It was emotional. She was bringing something back to him, to his life, he hadn’t known he’d missed. Something he wasn’t quite ready to pin a label on. Still, whatever it was, he was no longer certain he could do without it.
But did he really have a choice?
With a conscious effort of will, he tried to put himself into the same mind-set he used when he analyzed a case. It had always felt to him, then, as a kind of separation. As if he were in some other dimension, devoid of emotion. Lying there, he tried to get to that place but failed. Where once he had found it easy to separate himself from his feelings, he found doing so was no longer possible.
Not when it came to Grace. She was the only person who made him wonder what his life would be like if he’d made other choices. The years he had gone without seeing her, touching her, crowded in on him. Just the thought of walking away from her again tightened his chest and made his throat go dry.
With only a whisper of space separating them, she slept on.
Mark grazed his fingertips down the length of her dark hair. Where would life have taken them if their backgrounds had not been so diverse? If he’d learned something growing up other than how effective violence could be? If some adult in the town where he’d lived hadn’t looked the other way and had helped the small, terrorized boy he’d been?
Feelings he had suppressed for years bubbled to the surface, clawing at him. He had grown up a victim. Now he felt like one all over again. An unwilling victim of his past. Unable to reach out and take what he wanted because he was too busy chasing the same type of demon who’d made his childhood a terrorizing hell. How many children would suffer if he looked the other way?
From the small alcove came the faint ring of the fax machine that sat on th
e credenza. He figured the information coming in was the background data on Stuart Harmon, Sr.
He closed his eyes. He and Grace would spend the biggest part of the day going over the information now pouring out of the fax. In the morning they were scheduled to fly to Oklahoma City, then drive to Winding Rock to meet with Harmon. By then they would have formulated a plan on the best way to deal with Davenport’s lawyer pal.
Asleep, Grace sighed and moved against him. For an instant blood ruled. She was as warm and lovely as any fantasy, yet she was real. More than anything, he wanted her. With reason slipping against the need ripping at his insides, Mark held himself back.
Logically, he agreed that keeping their relationship on the level of colleagues was the smart thing to do. Problem was, his body didn’t give a damn about smart. Not while her scent seeped through his system like a quiet promise, lulling him into believing he could have her again. He ached to touch her. To strip off that robe, fill his hands with her breasts. Feed on her warm, scented flesh while her body melted against his.
Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself he and Grace had no future. Less than a week from now he’d probably be God-knew-where, working some other case. She would be back home, getting on with the life she’d made for herself. A life that in no way was in synch with his.
As desire rippled along his skin and regret filled the air like invisible smoke, Mark forced his thoughts to business. Easing away, he rose and left her.
Chapter 10
Grace and Mark flew from Las Vegas to Oklahoma City the following morning. After an hour’s drive west through a cold December rain, they arrived in Winding Rock. Even through the downpour Grace could see that Iris Davenport had been right—the town boasting cobblestone sidewalks and wrought-iron street signs had a refined elegance that spoke of money.
As did the Mirador Resort.
Seconds after Mark pulled their rental car beneath the hunter-green awning, a uniformed valet swung open Grace’s door and offered her a white-gloved hand. The instant she slid out of the car, an icy awareness rose inside her like a floodtide, lapping at the back of her throat. Instinct told her the sensation wasn’t due to the cold, wind-driven rain. She’d been a cop long enough to know she was under surveillance.
Her sense of being watched heightened when she and Mark walked through the revolving door into the lobby’s gilded silence. They paused at the marble-topped counter where he dealt with checking in to the suite that had been reserved for the Calhouns. While she waited, Grace slipped out of her wool coat and smoothed the lapels of the black silk blazer she wore over gray wool slacks. She swept her gaze around the lobby, its floor, walls and soaring ceiling all done in soft pink granite.
Several men had settled in a grouping of bloodred leather chairs near a copper-faced fireplace that held a blazing fire. From the coffee carafes, cups and file folders littering the low table in front of them, it appeared they had chosen the spot for a business meeting. A woman clad in a white blouse and red blazer affixed with a gold name tag rearranged several intricately tied bows adorning a massive Christmas tree. A man wearing an identical blazer sat at the concierge’s desk. Holding a phone tucked between one cheek and shoulder, he jotted notes on a pad. Across the lobby, a couple whose very attire bespoke wealth and status paused to admire one of the large oil paintings that lined the walls at precise intervals.
Grace couldn’t peg anyone who seemed to have even a vague interest in Mr. and Mrs. Mark Calhoun. Yet, she felt the surveillance.
Which in no way surprised her. The stakes had risen when Iris Davenport revealed the identity of the attorney who allegedly handled illegal adoptions. Putting the Calhouns of Houston under close surveillance simply provided another layer of security for those involved in the operation.
Grace stepped to the counter and laid a hand on Mark’s arm. “Almost done, sweetheart?” she murmured.
He handed a signed credit card slip to the clerk behind the counter. “Just about,” he said, then shrugged off his black wool overcoat. “I feel the same as you.” The pointed look he gave Grace sent the message that he, too, sensed eyes on them. “Anxious to get to our suite and relax.”
The clerk gave Grace a polite smile while handing her a small folder. “When your reservation was made, spa time was also booked for you, Mrs. Calhoun. Your exercise class schedule is inside.”
“Thank you.” Keeping her smile in place, Grace glanced at the schedule. When this operation ended, she was never again climbing on another damn spin bike.
The clerk checked his computer’s screen, then looked back at Mark. “A dinner reservation has been arranged for you at seven this evening in the Sabroso Room.”
“Fine,” Mark said.
The clerk motioned to the bellman waiting beside a brass cart that held their luggage. “Charles will show you to your suite. If there’s anything you need to make your stay at the Mirador more enjoyable, let us know.”
They rode in a glass elevator that smelled of lilacs and zipped busily up to the top floor. Charles keyed open a nearby towering wooden door and stepped aside to allow Grace to lead the way.
Her heels tapped against a gleaming hardwood hallway, its walls covered with oil paintings. Light sparkled from a small cut-glass chandelier. The short hall led into a sitting room with a rolled-arm sofa covered in ivory damask fabric, two raspberry leather chairs, polished tables and floor-to-ceiling windows.
Moving to one of the windows, Grace edged back the sheer drapes. The lake Iris had mentioned was visible a hundred yards below. The water looked as gray as old quarters through the sheeting rain.
Charles rolled the cart through a set of doors into the bedroom. Leaving her purse and coat on the couch, Grace peered in after him. From where she stood she could see a four-poster bed with a red satin duvet flanked by dark wooden end tables holding leaded glass lamps.
When the bellman reemerged with his empty cart, Mark handed him a folded bill. “Any idea how long the rain is supposed to last?”
“For several more hours at least, sir.”
Mark glanced at Grace while he laid his briefcase on the coffee table in front of the couch. “We may have to swim to Harmon’s office.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Grace replied. She knew the bellman could be on the attorney’s payroll, monitoring her and Mark’s every word and move. Just another layer of safety to ensure the Calhouns were what they seemed: a couple excited by the prospect of an adoption. “We’ll get there in a rowboat if we have to.”
Mark gave her an understanding smile. “Don’t worry, darling. Nothing’s going to stand in our way this time.”
He waited until the door bumped shut behind the bellman to pull out the two small surveillance devices that resembled cell-phone chargers. Without comment, he handed one to Grace. When she switched the unit on, a red light flashed. She felt her throat tighten. The red light meant an eavesdropping device was nearby, emitting electronic radio waves.
“This suite is lovely,” she said, angling the unit in Mark’s direction. “So cozy.”
“Smaller than the one in Vegas,” he commented. “But you’re right. It has a certain atmosphere.”
Carrying the second unit, Mark strode into the bedroom. A moment later he reappeared in the doorway. “Darling, our early wake-up call and flight are catching up with me. I’m going to squeeze in a shower and nap before our meeting with Harmon. Interested in joining me? Or are you headed for the gym?”
“The gym can wait,” she said, lowering her voice to a silky murmur. “I prefer the kind of exercise you have in mind.”
Arching a dark brow, Mark gave her a slow smile. “I’ll certainly try to make the next three hours worth your while.”
His voice was as soft and warm as the press of velvet, his dark eyes unnervingly watchful as Grace walked toward him.
Noting the surge in her pulse rate, she reminded herself they were merely actors in a play. Putting on a necessary performance for whomever was eavesdropping on their conversation
.
She stepped past Mark into the bedroom, its air laced with the scent of warm vanilla. He shut the door behind her, then tipped the surveillance device in her direction to show her the green light.
“They only bugged the sitting room,” he commented. “This room and the bath are clear. Which makes sense. If we were cops posing as a married couple, we wouldn’t spend time together in the bedroom. We’d use the sitting room to write reports, talk over the case and make phone calls.”
Grace agreed with this logic. Still, she kept her voice whisper-soft. “Are you sure we can’t be overheard through the door? The walls?”
“Positive.” He bounced the surveillance device in his palm. “The frequency is too high for us to hear, but this unit emits electronic noise that prevents our voices from being picked up outside this room.”
Turning, he positioned the device on the nearby bureau. The piece of furniture was dark and heavy, and looked identical to some Grace had seen in high-dollar antique shops.
“We need to keep in mind that whenever we talk to each other outside of this room, we’re the Calhouns,” Mark added.
“Got it.”
Grace felt her stomach jitter when she slid a look at the big, firm four-poster, piled with pillows. In no way did she want to bring up the subject of sleeping arrangements. But with the surveillance device planted in the sitting room, the matter had to be discussed. Too much was at stake for her and Mark to make what might be a crucial mistake.
“We need to discuss where I’ll sleep,” he said, his thoughts mirroring hers.
She looked back at him. “Yes.”
“My bedding-down on the couch worked in Vegas because we weren’t under surveillance, at least not inside the suite. I can’t do that here, Grace. Not with a listening device planted out there.”
“I know.” She snicked open the locks and raised the lid on the suitcase the bellman had left on the bed. “The Calhouns are happily married,” she reasoned. “Crazy in love. Ecstatic that their dream to have a child is about to become reality. It’s a moment they’ve been awaiting a very long time and there’s no way they’d sleep in different rooms.” She scooped several pairs of shoes out of the suitcase. “One of us can sleep on a pallet on the floor.”
