“That’s better,” he said, surprised.
“Good. I took some classes in acupressure hoping it would work on me, but I’ve never been able to make my own headaches go away.”
He walked around the counter and slid his hand up under her hair. “Still hurts here?”
She nodded and let her head drop forward while his thumb unerringly found the right place on her neck. A shiver ran down her spine. “Yeah, right there.” But the words came out husky and suddenly there wasn’t quite enough air.
The room grew quiet as his hands moved to her shoulders, kneading through the thick tweed of her jacket. All Alex could hear was the dripping of the coffeepot and the sound of her own pulse thrumming in her head.
Meredith cleared her throat. “I think I’ll go to sleep now,” she said.
Meredith’s door closed, leaving them alone. Another shiver shook Alex as he slipped her jacket from her shoulders, but the warmth of his hands chased the chill away.
“Umm.” It was a throaty little moan as she leaned on her forearms as he had done.
“Don’t go to sleep,” he murmured, and she let out a breath.
“No chance of that.”
He turned her so that she looked up at him. His eyes seemed bluer, more intense, and set off little tingles through her body. The pulse that thrummed in her head now beat a steady rhythm between her legs, making her want to press against him.
Then the thumb that had worked its magic on her neck lightly brushed her lip and she wondered what it would feel like… elsewhere. And she wondered how a woman went about asking for such a thing.
Then she stopped thinking when his lips covered hers. Her arms wound around his neck and she gave herself up to the riot of sensation she hadn’t felt since… since the last time he’d kissed her. His mouth was soft and hard all at once and his hands… They pressed hard into her back, then slid down and around until they bracketed her ribs. Until his thumbs rested beneath her breasts and his fingers dug into her sides.
Touch me. Please. But the words didn’t come and when he looked into her eyes she hoped he’d understand. His thumbs swept up, over her nipples, and her eyes slid shut. “Yes,” she heard herself whisper. “Right there.”
“What do you want, Alex?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
He asked the question even as he toyed with her breasts, caressing, teasing, until her knees went weak. “I…”
“I want you,” he murmured against her mouth. “I’m giving you fair warning. If this isn’t what you want…”
She was trembling. “I…”
She felt him smile against her lips. “Then just nod,” he whispered, so she did, then sucked in a breath when he pushed her against the cabinet, rocking against her.
“Oh, yes. Right there,” she said, then stopped talking when he took her mouth in the hardest, hottest kiss yet. His hands slid to her hips, lifting her higher, fitting her better…
Then the pounding at the front door shattered it all. “Vartanian!”
Daniel lurched back, rubbing one hand over his face, his eyes instantly focused. His right hand went to the gun he had holstered at his hip. “Stay here,” he ordered, then opened the door so that she was shielded from view. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Radio call for all local units,” said a male voice, and Alex moved until she could see around the door. It was one of the officers from the car outside. “Shots fired at 256 Main Street. A pizza parlor. There’s an officer down and two other victims. One of the victims is the waitress who was closing the place.”
“Sheila,” Alex said, her heart sinking.
Daniel’s jaw clenched. “I’ll go, you come in. Koenig’s still in the car?”
“Yeah.” The officer walked in and gave Alex a nod. “Ma’am. I’m Agent Hatton.”
“You can trust Agent Hatton, Alex,” Daniel said. “I’ve got to go.”
Dutton, Wednesday, January 31, 12:15 a.m.
Holy hell. The silence was surreal as Daniel edged through the door of Presto’s Pizza where he’d brought Alex and Hope just hours before. He gripped his Sig, every sense on alert, but immediately saw he was too late.
Draped over the counter by the open cash register was a black man. His arms lay limply over the edge, both hands open, and on the floor lay a.38. Blood had pooled on the counter and was dripping down the side and Daniel couldn’t help but think of Hope’s little face, covered in pizza sauce.
Swallowing his shudder, he saw Sheila sitting on the floor in the corner by the jukebox. Her legs were spread wide, her eyes wide and lifeless, her red lipstick garishly bright against her waxy face. She still held a gun clasped in both hands, limp now in her lap. Her uniform was shiny as blood still oozed from the holes in her abdomen and chest. The wall behind her was covered in blood. A.38 left one hell of an exit wound.
From the corner of his eye Daniel detected a movement and lifted his Sig, ready to fire. “Police. Stand, with your hands where I can see them.” A man rose from behind an overturned table and Daniel lowered his weapon in stunned recognition. “Randy?”
Deputy Randy Mansfield nodded, mutely. His white uniform shirt was covered in blood and he took a staggering step forward. Daniel rushed to catch him and lowered him into a chair, then sucked in a breath.
“Fuck,” he whispered. Behind the table, a young officer wearing a Dutton sheriff’s department uniform lay flat on his back, one arm outstretched, his finger still curled around the trigger of his service revolver. His white uniform shirt had a six-inch stain across the abdomen and blood ran in a little stream from his back.
“They’re all dead,” Randy murmured, in shock. “All dead.”
“Are you hit?” Daniel demanded.
Randy shook his head. “We both fired. Me and Deputy Cowell. Cowell got hit. He’s dead.”
“Randy, listen to me. Are you hit?”
Again Randy shook his head. “No. The blood’s his.”
“How many gunmen?”
The color was slowly returning to Randy’s face. “One.”
Daniel pressed his fingers to the young officer’s throat. No pulse. Holding his gun at his side he slipped inside the kitchen through the swinging doors.
“Police!” he announced loudly, but there was no reply. No sound at all. He checked inside the walk-in freezer and found it empty as well. He opened the door to the alley behind the restaurant, where a dark Ford Taurus was parked, its motor still running. If the shooter had had any company, that person had long since fled.
He holstered his weapon and returned to where Sheila sat slumped in the corner, looking like a discarded Raggedy Ann doll. He saw something white peeking out of her pocket. Pulling on a pair of the latex gloves he always kept in his pocket, he crouched beside her, knowing what he’d find.
The something white was the edge of a business card. His own.
Daniel swallowed back the bile as he studied her face. Had he seen her this way first, he would have recognized her immediately, he thought bitterly. With her dead eyes and lax facial muscles, the resemblance to one of the women in Simon’s pictures was much clearer.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The voice shook him and Daniel slowly rose to find Frank Loomis standing in the middle of the restaurant, twin flags of color standing out on his pale face.
“She was my witness,” Daniel said
“Well, this is my town. My jurisdiction. My crime scene. You’re not invited, Daniel.”
“You’re a fool, Frank.” Daniel looked at Sheila and knew what he had to do. “I’ve been one, too. But I’m not anymore.” He walked from the pizza parlor, past the small crowd of shocked townspeople that had gathered. When he was alone, he called Luke.
“Papadopoulos.” He could hear the TV in the background.
“Luke, it’s Daniel. I need your help.”
In the background the TV was abruptly silenced. “Name it.”