Cavanaugh Pride Page 10

  He would have thought so, yes. But somehow, when she was the other party involved, it wasn’t as pleasing as it should have been.

  “In theory.”

  Her brain was in a fog. Was he trying to tell her something? Right now, subtlety was wasted on her. “And in practice?”

  The smile on his lips was a fond one. She didn’t want fond, she wanted passion. Fireworks. A release from all the tension she’d been experiencing.

  “You’re tipsy, Julianne,” he told her gently. “Go in and sleep it off.” Rather than kiss her again and run the risk of giving in to his baser feelings, Frank paused to brush his lips along her forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Frank turned on his heel and walked away. Quickly before he had a chance to change his mind—or act on a mind that was already calling him a fool.

  He left her standing before the hotel, open mouthed and deeply puzzled. And torn between deep disappointment and a budding ray of admiration.

  Morning crept into her system, dragging with it a really annoying headache that was not about to be ignored and an even more annoying sense of embarrassment. For a moment, she pulled the covers over her head and tried to will herself back to sleep.

  Nothing happened. Because her mind launched into high gear. Throwing herself at McIntyre, what was she thinking? What the hell had gotten into her last night? she demanded silently.

  And McIntyre—he’d turned her down. Was he displaying superior morals, or was it just that she wasn’t to his liking?

  Didn’t matter. Either way, she really didn’t want to have to see him today. But there was no way around it. She couldn’t just not come in. After all, this wasn’t her normal stomping grounds. She was a loan-out.

  Okay, might as well face the music, she thought grimly, sitting up. Putting it off wasn’t going to solve anything. It would only fester and grow if she hid out for the day—and the next.

  Julianne dragged her hand through her long, straight black hair, wishing with all her heart that she could just as easily drag the cobwebs out of her brain and the sour taste out of her mouth.

  What in God’s name did people see in drinking anyway? Why would they want to deliberately wake up the next morning, feeling like sewage? A momentary surge of exhilaration the night before just wasn’t worth the price.

  Julianne stumbled into the shower and turned up the cold water in a desperate attempt to wake up and come to. She supposed she would have felt twice as bad this morning if they’d actually had sex. Grudgingly, she had to give him his due. McIntyre had saved her from that.

  She supposed she should feel grateful to him. But she didn’t. It was all she could do to bank down the hostility.

  Frank was already in the office when she came in a little less than an hour later.

  Restless, frustrated, unable to sleep more than a few minutes at a time, he’d decided he might as well come in and try to do something useful instead of tossing and turning all night, thinking of the warm mouth and warmer body he’d walked away from.

  Something else to hold against this job. But even as he thought it, he knew that wasn’t it. It wasn’t the job that had him walking away from her last night; her judgment had been seriously impaired by the alcohol. As little as she drank, it had hit her hard. He couldn’t just satisfy his own needs at her expense.

  If they did wind up coming together, she would have to be clearheaded, not have her judgment clouded by either alcohol or emotions that had run rampant.

  Until then, Frank mused, watching the woman walk in as if on cue, he was just going to think of her as the one who got away.

  “’Morning,” he called out as she passed by his opened door.

  Julianne barely glanced in his direction. “Yes, it is.”

  And then, because there was no one else in the squad room yet, she decided to say something before the matter took on the proportions of an elephant standing in the living room, something to be acutely aware of but not mentioned.

  She stopped and turned around, walking into his office. “About last night—”

  He smiled at her. “You really don’t drink, do you, White Bear?”

  Good, she was White Bear again, not Julianne. That made talking easier. “No. But I just wanted to say—” Julianne paused. What was it, exactly, that she wanted to say?

  Why didn’t you want me? Why didn’t you take me when I literally threw myself at you? Is the idea of making love with me that repugnant to you?

  But even as the questions formed in her mind, she knew that wasn’t it. He hadn’t turned her down for any of those reasons. She hadn’t imagined the electricity, the chemistry that crackled between them. Hell, she could feel it now, just standing in the same room with him.

  She pressed her lips together, then said, “I just wanted to say thank you.”

  The surprise in his eyes melt into a smile. Something inside of her said that this was far from over, which meant that she was far from out of danger. Because she could care about him. And she didn’t want to care. Not about anyone. Caring only led to pain—and she’d had enough of that to last her a lifetime.

  “Don’t mention it,” he told her, his voice low. “Just know this. The next time you do it—”

  Her head snapped up as her eyes met his. “There won’t be a next time,” she cut in.

  Frank continued as if she hadn’t said anything. “—I might not be able to walk away. Consider yourself warned.”

  “Right.” He was warning her? Did he think she couldn’t take care of herself? Julianne blew out a breath, then forced herself to focus on the only thing that actually mattered, she silently insisted. “What’s on tap for today?”

  He glanced down at the notes he’d made to himself early this morning. “More apartments to search, more people to question. Nothing else matters until we get this creep off the streets.”

  Well, at least they were in agreement on that. She looked at him for a long moment, not sure how she wanted him to answer the next question. “We still partnered?”

  “Yes.”

  Then she was going to have to dig up her A game and be on her toes at all times. “I’d better get some coffee.”

  He pretended that they were talking about being alert, and nothing more. “Sounds like a good idea,” he told her, already turning his attention to the screen he’d pulled up on his monitor.

  But as Julianne walked away, he couldn’t help looking in her direction, observing the soft sway of her hips as she put distance between them.

  Frank held back a sigh.

  Sometimes he wondered if he was just too noble for his own good.

  The tiny third-floor walk-up held the dust and grime of several tenants who had come before the victim they were investigating.

  Julianne looked around with an impartial eye, deliberately leaving her emotions out of it. This was no more a home than a public restroom at a bus station. But it was the last known residence of Candy Cane, whose real name was still unknown and very possibly always would be.

  Julianne couldn’t help thinking of her own place, a small one-bedroom apartment she’d moved into right after joining the force. She thought of it as her haven, some place to take shelter. Periodically, she scrubbed it until it shone, determined to keep her tiny space immaculate.

  No such wish here, she thought, running her hand along the bureau. The plastic gloves instantly turned grimy. Suppressing a sigh, she got down on her knees to look under the bed.

  “Find anything except dust bunnies?” Frank asked a moment later, walking over to her. A search of the cupboards had yielded nothing of interest, other than telling him that the victim had a weakness for marmalade, something he himself actively disliked.

  “Dust bunnies?” Julianne echoed, amused despite herself as she lowered her stomach to the floor and snaked her way under the double bed with its sagging springs. “Strange term for a head detective to use.”

  “Thanks to two sisters and a mother, I’m in touch with my feminine side,” he
cracked. He came around to her side of the bed. Only her legs were visible. “What are you doing down there?” he asked, crouching beside her. Instead of answering him, she sneezed. “Besides sneezing and getting dirty?”

  He tried not to notice how firm her butt looked as the slender Mission Ridge detective undulated her way out from underneath the bed.

  “Getting this,” she announced, holding up a piece of crumpled paper. She sneezed again.

  “Bless you.” Taking the balled up paper from her, he smoothed it out. It was from a homeless shelter in the vicinity, asking for volunteers and donations. “Just a flyer,” he told her.

  Sitting on her heels, Julianne took the paper back from him and scanned it. Something rang a bell. “I’ve seen this before.”

  She’d gotten some dust in her hair. Leaning forward, Frank gently removed it. He heard her draw in her breath, as if the contact surprised her. Glancing at the paper again, he raised his eyes to hers.

  “Where?”

  “Yesterday. At the first prostitute’s studio apartment. She had it on top of her TV set along with another flyer. Something from a local fast-food place.” Was this finally something to connect the women? “You think it’s a coincidence?”

  Frank rose to his feet, offering her his hand. For a moment, she debated not accepting it, or his help, then decided that maybe, at this point, they were past playing games. Wrapping her fingers around his, she got up. And found herself standing a little too close to him for either of their own good, she thought.

  Damn chemistry, anyway.

  Frank regarded the flyer in her hand. “Maybe, maybe not. Both women probably lived on the street at one point or other. According to the address, this is just the closest homeless shelter. St. Vincent de Paul’s Homeless Shelter,” he read. “Stands to reason that they’d stay there to get a warm meal and a place to sleep.”

  Something about his voice didn’t sound as if he was completely convinced about what he was saying. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  He was thinking he wanted another chance at last night. This time around, he would have suggested she have ginger ale. And if something happened afterward when he brought her to her hotel, there’d be no reason for recriminations or acts of conscience.

  What he was thinking made him grateful that the woman before him wasn’t clairvoyant.

  Pushing his thoughts before they took him in a whole different direction, Frank nodded. “I am if you’re thinking that we should go back and get copies of the victims’ pictures to show around to the staff at St. Vincent de Paul’s Homeless Shelter.”

  A glimmer of a smile curved her mouth. “I guess then we’re on the same page,” she told him with approval.

  “Mostly,” was all he allowed himself to say before he turned around and led the way out.

  The present director of St. Vincent de Paul’s Homeless Shelter, Colin Wilcox, had been on the job a little less than a year. Of average height and slight build, he had a round head made that much more apparent by his swiftly receding hairline. His eyes moved like small brown marbles as he looked at the array of photographs spread out on the rickety card table before him.

  If the man concentrated any harder, Julianne thought, she was certain smoke would come out of his ears. Finally, he looked up at her.

  “Some of them, yes, they look familiar. But after a while—” he moved his shoulders in a vague way “—they all start to look alike. At least the ones without kids,” he added hurriedly. “Kids make a difference. They tend to stick in your mind.”

  “Do you have some kind of sign-in list, records you keep of the people who’ve passed through here?” Frank prodded.

  “We used to,” the homeless shelter director answered.

  And then he shrugged haplessly again. “But then, after a while, there didn’t seem to be much point to keeping it going.”

  “Why not?” Frank wanted to know.

  “Because all we wound up collecting were a bunch of aliases. Most of the people who stayed here were too ashamed to use their own names and some of the others, well, they hadn’t heard someone say their name for so long, they just forgot it.”

  “These are all young women,” Julianne pressed. “They wouldn’t have forgotten their names.” She pushed Mary’s photograph in front of him. “How about this one? Do you remember ever seeing her come by? Did she ever stay here?”

  Colin shook his head. “No.” And then he paused, wispy eyebrows drawing together. Just as she began to pick up the photograph, Wilcox pulled it back over and studied it. “No, wait. She did,” he amended. “A few months ago, I think. But she didn’t have black hair. She was a blonde. Yeah, I’m almost sure of it. A blonde.” Frowning, he began to look at the other photographs again, as if seeing them for the first time. “They’re all blondes, aren’t they?”

  “One way or another,” Frank commented. It was very obvious that the prostitutes were all dyed blondes, getting color out of the cheapest product they could find. The career women were another story. If they weren’t natural blondes, they would have gone to salons to have their hair dyed.

  “Guess California is the place for blondes,” Colin murmured. His small, dark eyes darted toward the woman next to him, taking in her midnight black hair. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” she replied, dismissing his comment. All she cared about was piecing together Mary’s last few weeks. Maybe if she did, they could get that much closer to who had killed her. “So she was here? This one?” she emphasized, taping Mary’s photograph when Wilcox looked as if his mind was wandering.

  “Yeah, she was here. I’m certain of it now. Didn’t talk much.”

  “What was her name?” Frank asked. Julianne looked at him, puzzled. “She might have used an alias,” he explained, then looked at Wilcox, waiting. “Apparently everyone else did.”

  The man frowned again, trying to remember. “She had such an innocent face, I thought she was still a kid. I tried to ask her about her family, but she said they were all dead.”

  The comment was like a knife to her heart. Stoically, Julianne pressed, “Did she tell you her name?”

  He thought for a moment. “Karen, Krystle, something like that.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m not good with names. I can’t remember—no, wait,” he said, his eyes widening with excitement. “I do.” He looked at Julianne. “It was the same as yours.”

  Julianne stared at him. “What?”

  Wilcox’s head bobbed up and down. “Julie, that was it, she called herself Julie.”

  Mary couldn’t stand what she’d become, so she’d fantasized about being someone else. About being her, Julianne thought.

  Why did that hurt so much?

  “Do you have any idea where she went when she left here?” Frank asked.

  Wilcox looked at him as if he thought the detective had lost his mind. “They never tell me. Least-wise, most of them don’t. The kids, though, they talk. It’s like they need someone to listen to them.

  “The others, the older ones, they just stop coming around. Sometimes they get a place of their own, sometimes they go to another shelter and sometimes, well, they just go,” he said tactfully, but they both knew he meant that they died. He tapped Mary’s photograph. “This one, though, she hardly said two words in all the time she was here. Just kept to herself. Didn’t talk to the other homeless people, either.”

  Julianne had heard only one thing. She exchanged looks with Frank. “She was here for more than a few days?”

  “Yeah, at least a couple of months.” And then his eyes widened again, as if remembering caused his pupils to dilate. “Christmas,” he said suddenly. “She was here during Christmas. I even caught her helping decorate the tree. Mayfair Department Store always donates one every year,” he explained. “When I said something to her about what a good job she was doing, she smiled. First smile I ever saw on her. Only smile I ever saw on her,” he qualified.

  Yes, that sounded very much like Mary, Julianne thought. “She
didn’t have anything to smile about,” she told the homeless shelter director quietly.

  Chapter 10

  At the detectives’ urging, Colin Wilcox slowly reperused the photographs of the serial killer’s victims who had been prostitutes. He wasn’t able to answer whether they had been there or not with any more certainty.

  “Is there anyone else who works with you who might have a better memory for faces?” Frank asked, doing his best to bank down his impatience.

  “We’re badly underfunded,” Wilcox lamented. “Most of the people who do work here are strictly volunteers—and they don’t always show up when they say they will. Some of them come once or twice and then just never come back.”

  “I understand that—but is there any one else who’s paid to be here?” Frank asked.

  “Well, there’s Jon and Suzy.”

  “Great. Are Jon and Suzy here?” Frank asked through gritted teeth.

  “Yes.”

  “Could you ask them to come here?” Julianne suggested. As Wilcox ambled off, she leaned into McIntyre and whispered, “I think you have steam coming out of your ears.”

  Frank took a breath, letting it out slowly. “I have trouble dealing with stupid. It’s a failing of mine.”

  For once, she understood exactly what he meant because she had the same problem. She’d grown up believing that everyone was blessed with a reasonable amount of intelligence. With age, she realized that axiom was erroneous.

  She allowed herself a fragment of a smile. “Not such a failing.” Wilcox returned to the room, bringing two people with him. Julianne lowered her voice. “Let’s hope these two have more than half a brain between them.”

  As it turned out, Jon and Suzy each seemed to possess far more intelligence than their boss. After looking through the photographs, both agreed that each of the deceased prostitutes had passed through the shelter’s doors at least a few times in the last nine months, although neither could be more specific than that. At least, it was a start, Frank thought as he gathered up the photographs.