Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1) (33 page)

On the plane trip back to California, she'd fretted over how she would handle it when he wanted to have sex. She didn't know if she could, if she would be ready. But now he didn't want anything to do with her. Who would want to have sex with her after what happened?

She cupped her hand over her mouth and ran up the short flight of stairs to her front door. She pushed her key into the lock, turned it, wiping her cheeks as she pulled open the creaky door and stepped inside. The door creaked closed again and she shivered.

"I'll oil that," a voice said.

Emily spun around, slammed into the row of mailboxes attached to the foyer wall. Standing on a short ladder was a man near her age in overalls, painting.

He put down the brush, started down the ladder.

Emily didn't move. Her heart jumped around like a rabbit in her chest. She wanted to leave, to be outside. But he was closer to the door.

"I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Kyle."

She shook her head, but like an idiot, she couldn't say anything.

"I sent a notice around that I'd be painting this week and maybe part of next." He put his hands up, like he was surrendering. "Are you okay?"

She shook her head. Her heart still jackhammering, she ran for the door. As she bolted outside, something yanked her back. He had her bag. She whirled around to fight when she saw him standing back, staring. The strap of her bag was caught on the doorknob.

"Oh God," she cried out.

She spun around to loosen the strap from her shoulder, abandoning her bag on the door as she sprinted to the street.

When she reached the bottom stair, she sank down and burst into tears. What was wrong with her? What the hell was wrong with her?

She held her head in her hands when she felt someone beside her. She looked up.

"I brought you this." Kyle handed her a can of Coke. "It hasn't been opened."

She took it, the metal cool against her fingers. Even in the cold air, the metal felt good. She fiddled with the top, popped it open. The fizz tickled her nose. She drank, mostly so she wouldn't have to talk. He sat on the opposite side of the stair.

"Are you all right?" he asked, after a few minutes.

She nodded and wiped her cheeks. "A little skittish."

"I think it's understandable after what happened."

She frowned.

"Kim told me that one of her tenants was attacked. She was really worried about you. I figured it was you when I saw the—" He motioned to her face, to the bruises.

Her cheeks flamed up and she took another sip of Coke.

"It happened to my sister, too—in college."

Emily didn't respond.

"She says the most important thing is that you talk about it and give yourself time to get over it." He paused. "She's married now, has two little girls." He kept talking, like he was stumbling. "She does rape counseling. Out in Virginia."

They sat in silence for a few minutes; then he stood. "I'll get out of your hair. Sorry again for startling you."

She shook her head. "It's okay. And, thanks, uh—" she said dumbly.

"Kyle," he said.

"Thanks, Kyle."

He opened the door with his key, set her bag on the porch, and went back into the building.

Just when she had gathered the courage to go back inside, Paul's Jeep Cherokee pulled to the curb in front of her building. She watched him get out of the car and lift a box off the passenger seat. He came around, carrying it. He didn't notice her until he reached the curb.

When he did, he jumped back a step. "Hey." He shifted the box in his arms. "I didn't think you'd be home yet."

She stood up and dusted the dirt off her butt then made her way over to him. On the top of the box was one of her old T-shirts. She lifted it, stared down at her stuff—a few CDs, a book, an extra hairbrush, a bottle of red nail polish she'd bought and worn to a wedding over the summer. He was returning her things—bringing it all back when he thought she wouldn't be there.

Dropping the T-shirt, she turned and walked up the stairs to the door without a word.

"Emily," Paul called, but she didn't answer. Let him come after her, the bastard. Or better yet, let him be a coward and leave her stuff at the door.

Her key shook in her fist as she shoved it in the door and turned it. Without a backwards glance, she grabbed her bag off the step and stormed past Kyle and into her apartment.

"You okay?" he called after her, but she didn't risk answering. She was not okay. She was not at all okay.

The front door banged shut. Paul had a key. It was probably somewhere in that box with the rest of the stuff he was giving back, now that he was dumping her.

She let herself into her apartment and slammed the door behind her, securing the chain before crossing to the smaller of the two bedrooms.

She locked the bedroom door, too, and dropped face-first onto the bed. She screamed into her pillow, tried to get it all out—the anger, the hurt, the fear. Then, turning on her side, she pulled the pillow into her arms and cried into it, wishing she'd never come back from Connecticut, that she'd never come out to San Francisco at all, and certainly that she'd never met that asshole Paul.

When the doorbell rang, she sat up and wiped her face. No way would she let that jerk see her cry.

When she got to the door, she heard talking.

"I don't think she wants you around, man."

She peered through the peephole and saw Paul turn to stare at Kyle.

"Who the hell are you?" Paul asked.

"Kyle," he said as though it answered everything.

Emily actually smiled.

Paul looked furious. "You don't know shit, buddy. Why don't you get lost?" He knocked on the door again, and Emily jumped away from the door.

"I think you should leave her alone," Kyle repeated. "She didn't seem that thrilled to see you."

Paul spun around, walked toward Kyle. Kyle didn't back off.

"I told you to get lost," Paul said.

Kyle shook his head. "I don't think so."

Paul charged Kyle, but Kyle was ready. He stepped aside and grabbed hold of Paul's shirt, shoving him across the foyer.

Emily yanked the door open, heart pounding.

Both men turned to look at her.

"This asshole—" Paul started, pressing his palms against his shirt as though to iron it with the heat of them.

"Just leave, Paul."

Paul's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"You heard her, Paul."

"You bitch. You were cheating on me? With a handyman?"

Her stomach clenched. She opened her mouth to stop him from going, but instead she just crossed her arms and shrugged.

Furious, he turned to the door. Then he spun back, finger raised. "You owe me a cell phone, Emily."

She shrugged again. "Bill me."

With that, he was gone.

The momentary rush she felt emptied like water from a cracked vase. She'd let him go, she thought to herself. He was going anyway, another part of her said.

Just then she looked up and saw Kyle, still standing on the other side of the foyer.

He motioned to the door. "I thought maybe he was the one who—"

"He's my boyfriend." She forced a smile. "Was."

Kyle studied the floor. "Jesus, I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't be. It was over anyway." She hesitated, not sure what to say. "Thanks again," she added as she turned back to the apartment.

"Uh, Emily?"

She turned.

"I know it's too soon..." Kyle said, eyeing the floor. "But would you like to get a coffee sometime?"

She frowned. "It's—" She searched for the words. Too soon. It was too soon.

"It's too soon."

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Shit, I'm such an ass. I'm sorry."

"No, I mean yes. A coffee would be good. But slow, you know?"

He grinned. "A slow coffee?"

She smiled back. "Yeah."

He nodded and she saw a glint in his blue eyes she hadn't noticed before. "A slow coffee, it is."

With that, she returned to her apartment, closed the door, oddly more at ease than she had felt since the attack.

Chapter 33

Jamie stood over the bed of the latest victim and watched her chest rise and fall in a drugged sleep. Around them, hospital machines whooshed and beeped. One dripped fluids, another measured her heart rate, and a third controlled her breathing. Her right arm was covered in a bent cast, her left was heavily bandaged. Bruises covered her skin like flowers on wallpaper. Her face was the shade of a plum, her eyes barely lines in the swollen mass. Goddamn.

Jamie sank into the chair, dropped her head to her hands.

Hailey had come and gone. They'd met with the victim's husband. He'd shown them a picture of his wife from his wallet.

Jamie had heard the quick intake of breath from Hailey's lips. The woman had brown wavy hair, cut in a bob, brown eyes. She was attractive, athletic-looking. There was no doubt that she and Hailey had similar features. Looking back at the woman in the bed, Jamie pictured Hailey Wyatt.

The only good that had come from this was that the captain had approved additional surveillance on Marchek. A team had already been dispatched. Undoubtedly he would behave until the surveillance was called off again. She also had no doubt that she had to catch him before then. The escalating violence had left a woman close to dead. She could not let it get to that point.

Just then, Jamie heard the door behind her open. She stood, expecting the woman's husband, and saw Bruce Daniels.

He nodded to her, walked to the bed. Shook his head. "Christ," he muttered, looking at the victim.

Jamie turned without a word and crossed to the door.

"Vail."

She looked back, hand on the knob.

"If you need any support on this—any at all—you call me. We've got to get this guy."

She watched the glassy passion in his eyes. He, too, saw Hailey Wyatt in the woman in the hospital bed.

She stood outside in the cold and smoked a cigarette, trying to calm herself before she got in her car to drive home. Her cell rang and she answered it with a curt voice, tired of all the shit. "Vail."

"It's Roger. I'm down at the lab. I've got a match on the dirt from Marchek's boot."

"You matched it to the soil from my yard?"

"No."

Jamie frowned. "What then?"

"There are some similar elements, but the soil from your yard was much richer in sulfites, commonly found in potting soil. The dirt from Marchek's boot was nearly five percent clay."

"Clay?"

"It's consistent with landfill," Roger explained. "It contains more unnatural elements than other soils. I confirmed it with the ph, which is 5.2, too low for potting soil."

"Landfill," she repeated.

"Right. And where do you find landfill in San Francisco?"

"Anywhere there's dirt, I'd guess. But there isn't much of that in the city. It's mostly cement." She paused. "And I'd guess the park's dirt would be more consistent with potting soil."

"Right. Anywhere else you'd find landfill?"

Jamie thought for a moment. "Roger, if you know the answer, why don't you tell me?"

Roger laughed. "Because it's more fun for you to get it. Plus, it confirms my reasoning."

"So you've ruled out undeveloped land."

"Right. There's nothing anywhere near Marchek's place that's not developed."

"How about a renovation?" Jamie thought out loud. "If someone was taking a house down in the area, they'd hit landfill." Jamie gasped. "The crawl space."

Roger chuckled. "There you go. That was my guess."

Jamie turned and paced. "Shit. That's genius. He's hiding stuff under his building." She started to hang up. "You're the best, Roger. I've got to get a car out to his place."