Unfortunately, I just don’t think the connection between them is what it seems to be.
That would be just too simple, and if I learned anything in Dallas, it’s that murder is anything but simple.
Even the most cut-and-dried cases have a string of complications simmering beneath the surface. There’s always a motive beyond the obvious, something you’ll never consider until it’s too late. Sometimes, you don’t understand until death is staring you in the face. Sometimes, in that situation, you’ll make the wrong call. You’ll make a move too early and blow everything.
Sometimes, even moving ten seconds too early can cause an explosion where there was supposed to be a simmer.
That makes cases like this precarious. If we move too early, we could lose the killer. If we go too late, we could have any number of dead bodies on our hands. The second our murderer so much as thinks we’re onto him, then it’s case over.
If I learned anything else in Dallas, it’s that killers can disappear as quickly and quietly as they take a life.
I’ve put off calling Ryan Perkins for three hours now. His number is scrawled on top of the case file, but I’m too chickenshit to dial it. I don’t want to know about his relationship with Penny.
I try not to be judgmental in my job. It’s the hardest thing in the world, because sometimes, people need a damn good judging. Ryan Perkins is one of those people. It’s one thing to cheat on your fiancée with another woman. Not right, admittedly, but it’s one thing to do it. It’s another thing entirely to marry your mistress and then knock up her best friend.
I mean, come on, man. If you’re gonna cheat, use a goddamn condom at the very least.
It strikes me that Ryan isn’t the brightest star in the sky.
The moon seems to be brighter.
I take my scissors and cut across the top of the packaging on the new flash stick. I do this four times and insert every one into my laptop, using every USB port. Of course, the laptop freezes, so I remove the sticks, restart, and insert again one at a time.
Each time I push one in, I copy files over. Three months of each year onto each stick, exactly the way they were before. As the files transfers, I pull my sticky labels out and identify what files are where by writing the first letter of each month in tiny letters on the bright, white surface. As another three months of files transfer onto another stick, I cut the label and press the relevant sticker onto the right flash drive.
A knock sounds at my door. “Boss?”
“Two seconds, Marshall.” I pull the device from the USB port once the files finish moving and gather all four drives. Then I drop them into my purse, open my drawer, and shove all the packaging into it.
No one on my team knows about these sticks. No one outside my team does, either. Hell, I even turned the security camera in my office off before I sat down to do this. I’m fed up with my files disappearing when I need them.
“Come in,” I call.
Marshall opens the door with a grim expression.
“Don’t say it,” I order quickly. “If you don’t have the file, leave right now.”
“It’s like it never existed,” he says quietly, shutting the door behind him.
I bang my fist against my desk. Shit. All I have are three albeit detailed surveillance ops written up in Mike’s almost-undecipherable handwriting. No background, no interviews, no images…
I fold my arms on the desk and bury my face in them. A quiet groan leaves me as I process this information.
Whoever the killer is, they know we recovered the information about Lena Perkins and the police have the file. Whoever they are, they’ve been inside my building, and they’ve wiped clear every trace of Claire Santiago and Daniel Westwood’s affair.
Good fucking job, asshat.
I’m angry so much lately that I’m beginning to wonder if my body thinks I’m having a perpetual period. The hormones would explain a lot, for sure.
Apparently, assholes have the same effect as a surge in estrogen.
Still, though, it doesn’t add up to me. It should. It’s simple, right? In theory, Ryan got Penny pregnant, and when he couldn’t work out how to break up with Lena, they devised a plan to kill her. Their alibis are each other, and yeah, the hotel confirms their arrival, but it’s one hour after the approximated time of death.
Then they—or someone else—dumped her here, on my property, the next day, for whatever reason.
But Daniel… He’s a wildcard. Kind of. Maybe Ryan was overcome with grief after having killed Lena, went on a jealous, angry rampage at the man he believed had been sleeping with his wife, and killed him in the manner he had Lena.
Yet…why would he kill him if he wanted to break up with her? Wouldn’t infidelity on her part be the easy way out of the marriage?
I tap my pen against my desk.
Sure it would be, but cheaters… It’s one rule for them and another for another, right? So, in Ryan’s mind, he could grow a mini Perkins in his second mistress’s belly, but the second Lena offered her vagina up for occupation, it was out of order.
Again, it’s a crime driven by anger.
Maybe Ryan couldn’t take that Lena wanted someone more than him.
Maybe Penny hated that Ryan loved Lena more than her and that she’d always be in her way.
Maybe nobody knew what they really wanted.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m totally wrong. After all, I can push it to the side, but I can’t ignore the fact that there’s no DNA tying either Ryan or Penny to the murders. That I know of, at least.
Maybe there is something. Maybe there’s more than meets the eye to this investigation, and Holly Woods Police Department and Detective Drake Nash are keeping it to themselves. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest.
Drake Nash has a particular set of skills. Actually, he has several.
The man is a fantastic cop. There’s no disputing that. He takes no shit and cuts to the chase before his opponent has even thought about running. He’s quick-witted and determined.
The man wrote the book on seduction. With his delightfully killer biceps, cocksure smirk, and eyes that are connected to his cock by some magic thread, he could melt a ton of metal to his bidding in seconds.
The man is intelligent. He barely seems to think before he connects people or situations together, but that intelligence makes him arrogant. He always thinks he’s one step ahead when, maybe, he’s a mile behind. But he doesn’t see that.
He doesn’t see that, once, I was a fantastic cop. That, now, I’m a fantastic investigator. He doesn’t see that, like him, I take no shit and make no time for excuses. My wit almost destroys his on a regular basis, especially when he talks about fucking handcuffs.
He doesn’t see that, as a woman, I’m a master of seduction. I know my body. I know my curves and how to exploit them to my advantage. I can flutter my lashes and pout my lips to rival Dior’s catwalk models if the situation calls for it.
He doesn’t see that my body makes me intelligent. He doesn’t see how I use it to my advantage and almost strangle information from my source. Detective Drake Nash has no idea how I can manipulate someone until I’ve drained every ounce of information from their body.
Detective Drake Nash has no idea who he’s up against.
He has no idea of the power of my mind or my body.
At this point in my investigation, with my privacy violated in a brutal way, with my freedom abused and my workplace contaminated, he has no idea what lengths I will go to if it means I can solve this case.
Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit if I embarrass his ass in front of the sheriff or at the county fair. I couldn’t give a flying hippo if he stares at me when all is said and done and despises every vein that pumps blood through my body.
I don’t care if my heart does some bullshit skip-a-beat thing whenever he walks within ten yards of me. I don’t care if my skin tingles at the barest touch from his skin against mine. I sure as hell don’t care if my pussy goes into overdrive when his body is flush against mine.
If I want that, I’ll take my nonna up on her dates.