Got Your Number (28 page)

Roxann returned the phone to its cradle. "Angora is having surgery in the morning." They were sequestered in his hotel room on separate "islands," she on one bed with the phone, Capistrano on the other mulling over a manila file of papers. He'd already blown the fully clothed rule she'd laid down by shucking his shirt, while she, on the other hand, still wore her jacket over the shirt he'd loaned her. Zipped.

And as far as shirtless went, he didn't look half bad. She'd never been attracted to a man with a hairy chest—not that she was attracted to this one. But it was... curious, all that dark hair lying close to his skin. And the muscles...

"Roxann?"

She jerked her head up. "Yes?"

"I asked how long she'll be in the hospital?"

Her cheeks warmed. "At least overnight, but I encouraged her attorney to consider a psych consult while she's there."

"The guy seemed like a greenhorn to me."

She bit her bottom lip. "I thought so, too, but he's nice. And he's staying with her at the hospital."

"Racking up those hourly charges."

"No, he took the case for practically nothing. For the experience, I suppose."

"Cape hasn't shown up?"

"No. What are you working on?"

He scratched his head and leaned back against the headboard. His jean-clad legs extended almost the length of the bed. "Just trying to piece together elements of the murder. Sometimes if I keep going over the details, something new will spring out at me."

She swung her legs over the side of her bed to face him. "You know, you never once asked if I did it."

He looked up. "If you did what?"

"Killed Carl. I admitted that I went to his house that night, and he was found with my scarf around his neck, but you never asked."

Capistrano shrugged his massive shoulders. "Didn't have to. You're not wired to be dishonest. If you'd done it, you would've confessed, especially since your cousin is being accused." He turned back to his folder.

It piqued her, his pat psychoanalysis of her, even if it were true. The dishonest pact that she'd made with Angora years ago had eaten at her and she hadn't realized it, not even after her insides were gone. She'd avoided relationships of any kind, pawning it off on her schedule, her obligations, her commitments, when in reality, the Rescue program had been a handy emotional hideout. The sad part was that she still couldn't bring herself to come clean—everyone would be so disappointed in her. Nell. Her father. Capistrano. And wouldn't she then have to face the lie herself?

"Maybe you're biased," she offered.

He looked up again. "Because I'm attracted to you?"

She squirmed and zipped her jacket higher on her neck. He laughed, a big booming noise that made her frown. "How can you even think of sex when my life is such a nightmare?"

He shrugged. "You look sexy in my clothes. Besides, it might take your mind off things."

She sputtered. "Someone who once played an important role in my life was just murdered. I am a suspect, and my cousin, who is also a suspect, is in the hospital. Then there's that little matter of being dogged by a maniac."

"So you're saying you're not in the mood?"

She gave him the finger.

"Okay, okay," he said, seemingly unfazed, then looked back to his notes. "We'll have the medical examiner's report tomorrow. And they're checking for Cape's fingerprints at the scene of the crime."

Roxann marveled at the man's ability to move from subject to subject seamlessly—as if neither one mattered more than the other. She inhaled deeply to calm her frustration. He'd love knowing he irritated her. "Can I have a restraining order issued on Cape?"

"Sure. We'll do it first thing in the morning. Then at least we'll be able to hold him for something if he comes near you again. And maybe by then we'll be able to tie him to the murder."

As much as she hoped that Frank Cape was guilty, the thought of him killing Carl to get back at her was nauseating. If the man was that crazy, then she was seriously glad she'd helped Melissa and her daughter get away from him. And even more disturbed that Nell would suggest that she appease the bully.

In an attempt to look somewhere other than Capistrano's bare chest, she glanced at the sound-muted television, surprised when a picture of Carl appeared over the shoulder of the newscaster. She dove for the remote next to Capistrano's leg and turned up the volume.

"—Seger was a theology professor at the University of Notre Dame, and a coach on the varsity soccer team. Fifty-two-year-old Seger was found dead in his home early this morning in a South Bend neighborhood, a few miles from campus. Police are releasing few details, but a source tells us that Seger, a bachelor and a deacon of the university church, was strangled by a woman's scarf. The mystery comes in the middle of the university's Homecoming activities, when the city's population increases by half. The police have questioned suspects, including some of Dr. Seger's former students, but an arrest has not yet been made. School officials will hold a memorial service for Dr. Seger next week."

She lowered the volume. "It still doesn't seem real."

"Much of life is like that," he said, then stretched tall in a yawn. "Do you want to hit the shower first, or should I?"

"Um, go ahead. I need to make a few phone calls."

He stood and gestured to his gun lying in a holster on the TV cabinet. "Do you know how to use old Pete here?"

She nodded. "I've been to the firing range a few times."

"The safety is on. Don't answer the door."

"Duh."

He moved his body like an animal, slow and measured, and sure of himself. Comfortable. Sexy. Male. The smooth skin of his wide back was broken by a four-inch-long scar, fully healed, but red and perhaps less than a year old. She was torn between asking its origin and not wanting him to know she noticed.

"Steak knife," he said, standing with his back to her.

"What?"

He turned. "The scar. I was stabbed with a steak knife by a woman trying to keep me from arresting her boyfriend who had just broken her jaw." His smile was wry. "My partner told me that's what I got for turning my back on a woman."

"Looks like it was a serious wound."

"Serious enough. Made me start appreciating the things that are important."

"Like?"

"Like family and friends and pistachio ice cream."

She relinquished a small smile. "You're lucky. Most people spend their entire lives trying to figure out what makes them happy." The voice of experience.

"I'm no expert," he said, folding thick arms over his chest, "but it seems to me that people complicate their lives either by trying to be something they're not, or by trying to fix things they can't."

I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.

Some things just can't be fixed, Roxann, no matter how much glue you put on 'em.

She swallowed and gestured to the phone. "I really should make those calls."

He leaned over to pull off his boots and tall thick socks. She watched beneath her lashes, mesmerized. Bare feet were not typically the sexiest part of the body, but just the fact that she was seeing them reminded her of the intimacy of their sleeping arrangement. He rifled through a drawer and removed pale blue boxers, navy pajama pants, and a white T-shirt. He walked toward the bathroom, then stopped short of the door and grinned. "If you happen to change your mind—"

"I won't, Detective."

He sighed and disappeared behind the closed door. The water came on, then the shower, and she tried to think about something else. Oh, yes—the phone calls.

Not a pleasant task. First to her father, who would've probably heard about the murder by now. He had, and he was worried.

"Yes, Dad, Angora and I both know—knew—Dr. Seger. And we were both questioned because we saw him last night at a campus event." True enough. "The police haven't made any arrests yet."

"When are you coming back?" he asked, suddenly sounding old.

"Soon," she promised. "Angora had a gallbladder attack this morning and is in the hospital. She's having surgery tomorrow and we'll stay until she's able to travel, probably a few more days."

"Does Dixie know?"

"I thought I'd leave it up to Angora whether she wanted to contact her mother."

"I don't like the idea of you being there alone with a murderer on the loose."

"I'm not alone." She hesitated. "Officer Capistrano is... around."

"Oh. Well, I guess that makes me feel a little better."

The bathroom door opened and Capistrano yelled, "Roxann, can you hand me a bar of soap?" Then the door closed again.

She covered the mouth of the phone, sending curses through the wall.

"So you are seeing him?" her dad asked.

"No, I'm not
seeing
him. He just happens to be—never mind. One thing before I go, Dad." She took a deep breath. "Angora told me about Mother... that she didn't want custody of me when you divorced."

After a few seconds of silence, he said, "Dixie has a big mouth."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He sighed. "Your heart was already broken like that sad little teacup you carried around. I couldn't bear for you to know that your mother was so wrapped up in her new boyfriend that she didn't have time for you. After she died, well... what was the point?"

She blinked back tears and smiled into the phone, "Dad, when I get back, can we talk?"

"Sure. For as long as you want."

"Roxann?" bellowed Capistrano.

"I'll call you soon," she promised, then hung up and stalked to the closed door. "How dare you yell for me when I was on the phone! That was my father."

"Your father liked me." His voice was muffled, but amused.

"That was before he knew you were taking a shower within earshot of the phone I'm using."

The doorknob moved and she whirled, turning her back just as the door opened. Steam rolled out around her, but she stared stubbornly at the opposite wall.

"Soap?" he asked. "It's in my toiletry bag. You can get it, or I can."

"I'll get it," she snapped, then stalked over to his bag.

"Side pocket, green bar."

"I see it." A big block that smelled like pine needles. She backed up to the door, holding the soap behind her. "Here."

"Thanks," he said, then took the soap and closed the door.

She sighed and wiped her wet hand on her—no,
his
—sweatpants, feeling like an idiot. She had no business being attracted to Capistrano, not when so many other things demanded her concentration.

She called Nell's sister next, just to make sure she'd arrived safely. Nell was resting, her sister assured her. As was Chester, the one cat that Nell insisted on taking with her. At least she was safe, and there was one less person to worry about.

Roxann spotted Capistrano's file and shot a glance toward the bathroom. His electric razor was buzzing, so she had time for a peek. His handwriting was large, but neat—not surprising. Behind the first page was the police report of Carl's murder. Abbreviated and barely readable.
Oct 18, 5:05 a.m. Wht Male found on floor of home libr, apparnt vic of strnglat. Wearing shrt, pants, one shoe. Grn woman's scrf arnd neck. Signs of rigor.

She swallowed hard and thumbed through the file, coming across a manila envelope marked "crime scene photos." Her heart raced, but she felt compelled to slide her finger under the flap. At least a dozen black-and-white photos slipped out into her hand. The first was a wide-angle shot of the library and Carl's body lying on the floor near an ottoman, his limbs sprawled, his head at an odd angle, looking away from the camera. She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth. He looked like a mannequin, a prop in a weekend murder-mystery game.

Another photo was taken standing over his body, this one clearly showing the scarf wrapped around his neck. Her scarf. Roxann gulped air.

Close-ups of different parts of his body and clothing—his hands, his feet, his shirt, his house shoes—one on, one off.

And then his face. Unrecognizable as the handsome, confident man she had known. He was cartoonish and swollen, his cheeks and forehead puffy. His head was turned to the left, his eyes slightly open. Just enough that if she looked hard enough, she could imagine their bright blue color. The photos slid from her fingers and bounced on the carpet. She choked on a sob.

"Hey, hey," Capistrano chided, his arms going around her from behind. "You shouldn't be looking at those."

She turned into his chest and nodded, inhaling a clean, evergreen scent. His skin was damp, and he wore only the pajama pants. She felt petite against his frame and safe in his arms. God, was it good to feel safe. Everything female in her reared its head, and her arms went around his neck. His kiss took ownership of her fear and anxiety, offering comfort and refuge in return. When she moaned into his mouth, he pulled her up and against him, deepening the kiss. But he let her take the lead, let her decide when and if the kiss would go from comforting to carnal. A few skipped heartbeats later, she lifted her leg and hooked it around the back of his knee—an unmistakable signal, she figured.

His hands moved down over her back and inside the baggy sweatpants to mold her into him. When he encountered the thong underwear, a groan of pure male appreciation moved through his body, and she laughed. He grinned and lifted her off the floor to set her on the edge of the bed. The outline of his arousal against the thin fabric of his pajamas sent moisture to her thighs.

He knelt before her, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, with more intensity and a probing tongue that hinted of other intimacies. Her neck loosened and her bones turned elastic. She kneaded the skin on his shoulders and back, reveling in the solid maleness, the stability of his body.

"Let me see you," he murmured, his hands already undoing the ridiculous jacket she wore. She allowed her silence to be her acquiescence. The slide of the zipper sent chills over her shoulders. It would be good for them to get each other out of their systems, she decided. Good to get it over with so they could go their separate ways when this mess ended.