There was no indication of a man in her life, but she had a smush-faced little cat, sitting proprietarily atop her wrought-iron bed. The powder-blue chenille bedspread looked as soft as a cloud, the hardwood flooring was polished to a dull shine and the pale yellow paint was warm and unassuming.
It was…cozy.
On impulse, he reached out to place his palm on the pillow where he imagined she put her head. His hand stood out against the white pillowcase, obscenely dark and masculine in the feminine space, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with awareness.
It was just like his mother’s house, he realized with horror. Nothing new, nothing matching, nothing expensive and a sense of complacent loneliness that tugged at the heartstrings.
He jerked his hand away from the pillow, unsettled by the revelation. Sidney’s cat startled at the sudden movement, flying off the bed and losing her footing on the slippery floor as she rounded the corner. Berating himself for the moment of sentimentality, he went downstairs and attached a listening device to the cordless phone on his way out.
In addition to the search warrant, a judge had signed his request to run video and audio surveillance. If the killer was in contact with Sidney, feeding her specific details about the murders, that made her an accessory after the fact.
If she was telling the truth…
Marc shook his head, because he couldn’t fathom it. Maybe he was a cynic, but at least he wasn’t a sucker. There was one born every day, his father had always said, and he’d been a master at spotting them. He claimed there was nothing more rewarding than pulling off the perfect con. Marc respectfully disagreed. Catching the player at his game was far sweeter.
So why did the thought of arresting Sidney leave a bitter taste in his mouth?
Deputy Chief Stokes had given him the authority to run full surveillance, if not the budget. He’d booked a cheap hotel room less than a block away, but he couldn’t get a visual on her back door from there. They couldn’t afford to have undercover officers parked on the street in front of her house or hanging around the beach behind it.
He grabbed the white hard hat he kept in the trunk of his car for assuming alternative identities and climbed the telephone pole closest to her house, hoping anyone who saw him would think he was a well-dressed phone company employee.
Near the top, he saw the angle gave him a bird’s-eye view into her backyard. It was a miniscule space with an array of potted plants and a large outdoor shower, probably for washing off sand from the beach. He set up a small, nondescript video camera, similar to the ones that come with your basic home computer nowadays, but of marginally better quality, and made sure it was pointed toward her back door.
With that done, he returned to the hotel room, engaged the feed for the bugs and the video camera and waited.
Detective Lacy arrived after he’d done all the work, but she brought excellent takeout so he didn’t fault her.
“I was thinking,” she said around a mouthful of mu shu pork, “maybe she’s not faking.”
Marc gave her an expression that meant she was incredibly naïve, and kept eating his beef and broccoli.
“I mean, how did she know about the scarf?”
“Your face is an open book,” he said, because he didn’t know, either.
She grunted in disbelief. “Next time you’re going to pull a stunt like that, could you let me in on it? I almost died of embarrassment.”
“How was I supposed to know you had kinky stuff in your locker? It was the only article of clothing I could find in there besides a uniform.”
“Well, I don’t see how she could have known-unless she talked to Gina.” She narrowed her eyes. “They did smile at each other.”
Marc laughed at her display of jealousy. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“She’s straight.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do,” he said, aware that he sounded very arrogant.
Lacy crossed her arms over her chest. “Not every woman is after your schlong, Marcos.”
“Well, if I stick with the ones who are,” he said lightly, taking no offense, “I still have a variety to choose from.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“What?”
“Fulfilling a badge-and-holster fantasy for jaded bimbos?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because it’s degrading.”
“Not to me.”
“To them, then.”
He shrugged, because he didn’t care.
“Sidney Morrow is not your type,” she announced, coming around to the point she really wanted to make.
“She’s not yours, either,” he retorted, starting to get pissed off.
“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “She might go for it. A bottle of wine, a couple of scarves…”
Over my dead body, he almost said before he realized she was teasing. Then he scowled at his reaction. Since when had he been possessive over a woman-a suspect no less-one who was unequivocally hands-off?
Lacy was right, anyway. She wasn’t his type.
When Sidney came home, Marc and Lacy settled in for a brain-numbing evening. Stakeouts were always tedious.
From their vantage point inside the hotel room they could see Sidney’s front doorstep and the south side of her house, complete with one bedroom window, blinds closed. The street she lived on was moderately busy, as was the enticing stretch of sand beyond.
After opening the windows to let in a hint of breeze, she walked out the back door in a demure black Speedo and bare feet.
“That’s the ugliest swimsuit I’ve ever seen,” Lacy said.
He grunted in agreement.
On the beach, Sidney didn’t sunbathe or stroll along the shore but swam straight out into the Pacific and started doing vigorous laps.
After thirty minutes she came out of the waves like a wet seal, sluicing water off her arms, black bathing suit clinging to her. The Speedo was a crime against nature. It flattened her breasts and covered everything from neck to upper thigh, thoroughly disguising her shape.
As she approached the house, they switched their attention to the video monitor, which gave a view of the side yard. She turned on the outdoor shower, her back to them, and he noticed the sleek muscles in her shoulders.
Especially when she peeled down the upper half of her suit.
The shower had block walls on both sides and a pair of shuttered wooden doors in front that parted, saloon-style. It was a perfectly modest setup, except that the angle of the camera allowed them to see down into it.
“You put the camera there on purpose,” Lacy accused.
“No,” he said, his throat dry. This scenario really hadn’t occurred to him. Videotaping a subject without their knowledge, in a place where they had the reasonable assurance of privacy, was illegal. Bathrooms, locker rooms and bedrooms were off-limits. An outdoor shower was kind of a gray area.
Until now.
“I wouldn’t have…” Whatever he was about to say was lost, because she pushed the swimsuit off her hips and turned around.
“Oh my God,” Lacy murmured. “Who would’ve thought she was hiding a body like that underneath those horrible clothes?”
Marc had to admit his wild speculations hadn’t done her justice.
Her rose-tipped breasts were lush and natural, a sight he could appreciate in this age of implants. Her belly was sleek and flat, her hips flared out sensually from a slim waist and her legs…they went on forever.
“We shouldn’t be watching this,” he said hoarsely. There was a protocol for surveillance, and ogling naked women in the shower didn’t follow it.
“Definitely not,” Lacy agreed, making no move to turn off the monitor.