Twisted (13 page)

She turned to look at the door, where a brawny man had just stepped in from the cold. He wore jeans and cowboy boots, but the way he carried himself was pure cop. His gaze went from Allison to Mark and instantly turned suspicious.

Allison swiveled on her stool as he approached. Six-two, two-twenty, buzz cut. Mark wondered if he owned a pair of size-twelve work boots that he’d left with his ex-girlfriend.

“Cal, thanks for coming.” Her tone was brisk. “This is Special Agent Mark Wolfe with the FBI. Mark, meet Deputy Sheriff Calvin Brooks.”

They shook hands and spent a moment sizing each other up. The deputy turned to Allison.

“Talked to Austin this afternoon. Not sure I got anywhere.” He looked at Mark. “Maybe you got some other strings you could pull on that rape kit.” He reached into his camo-print jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Here’s the highlights. All copies, but it’s a start. You didn’t get this from me.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll work on Denton.”

“Thanks, I owe you.” Allison dropped the envelope into the purse at her feet. “Can I buy you a beer? You drove all the way down here.”

“I’ll take a rain check. Keep me posted on the case.”

“Will do.”

Mark watched him leave, then glanced down at the envelope.

“The Jordan Wheatley file. How’d you manage that?”

“I took your advice and made nice with the deputy.” She rattled the ice cubes in her glass. “Plus, I did a favor for Ethan.”

“Ethan?”

“Jordan’s husband. Turns out he’s got some friends up in Wayne County. Word gets around.”

He looked at her, intrigued. “What was the favor?”

“Are you always this nosy?”

“Yes.”

“Helped him avoid a drunk-driving charge. Our paths crossed last night, and he was kind of on a tear.”

“And who’s Denton?”

“The sheriff. He and Reynolds have some kind of pissing contest going back to God knows when.” She turned to face him and tilted her head to the side. “Hey, I’ve been thinking about your profile.”

Mark sipped his beer and waited.

“Was that the full thing, or did I get the nutshell version?”

“You got a lot of it. Why?”

“Then you know he’s left-handed, right?”

Mark gave her a sharp look. “Where’d you get that?”

“From the autopsy report. The ME noted abrasions on Stephanie’s back, indicated he was on top of her during the struggle. She had bruises on the right side of her face, and he knocked out a tooth, too—upper right side.” Allison made her left hand into a fist and mimicked a swing at Mark’s jaw. “See? He’s a lefty.”

Mark just looked at her.

“Also, the throat cutting,” she said. “Someone left-handed would probably slash right to left, because it’s a more natural motion. Cut penetrated deepest on the
left
side of Stephanie’s neck, which seems to support that.”

Mark shook his head. Clearly, he’d underestimated her. It probably happened a lot.

“Well?”

“Nice logic—sounds like he’s left-handed.”

“But you already knew that, huh?”

“I didn’t.”

“Come on.” She narrowed her gaze at him.

“It’s a new detail. An important one, too. Roughly eighty percent of people are right-handed.”

“You’re telling me
I
told you something you didn’t know?” She smiled. “Well, okay then. That’s three things I did right today.” She signaled the bartender. “Think I’ll quit while I’m ahead.”

The bartender dropped off the check, and Mark picked it up.

“Hey, you bought last time.”

He ignored her and put some bills down, leaving a generous tip in case he decided to come back to interview the staff.

Allison shrugged into her leather jacket and led him out of the bar. When they were on the sidewalk, she glanced over her shoulder at the traffic on the interstate.

“It’s supposed to be icy tonight.” She turned to face him, and her breath was a puff of steam in front of her face. Her cheeks were pink. Her mouth, too. She caught him looking at it, and there it was again—that pull he’d been trying to resist since he first met her.

He stepped closer and touched her cheek. She went still and gazed up at him as he traced her jaw with his finger.

“How’s the bruise?” he asked.

“Better.”

She looked up at him and he knew what she was thinking, because he was thinking the same thing. For a moment he let himself picture her in the dimness of his motel room. He pictured himself peeling that leather jacket off her and tossing it down on the bed. He pictured her eyes going dark with desire.

The door slapped open and several men filed out of the bar, trading good-natured insults as they headed for their trucks.

Mark’s attention settled on his rental car parked in the nearest row. It was always the same—rental cars, airplanes. Motel rooms, police stations. Torn-up families. Neglected relationships.

Mark let his hand drop. He stepped back and a cold gust filled the space between them.

“Good work today,” he said. “See you at eight tomorrow.”

Confusion flitted over her face. He was giving her mixed signals, and he needed to stop.

“What happens at eight?” she asked.

“Reynolds set up a meeting. Wants me to present the profile.”

“So he’s on board.” It was her cop voice now.

“From the sound of it, yeah. He’s pulling together a task force.”

“You could have told me.”

“I figured you knew.”

“I didn’t. Which means I’m not on it. Damn it, I’ve had it with that man.” She stomped her foot. “What do I have to do—”

“Allison, calm down, you’re on it.”

Her gaze turned suspicious. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Tell me what you did.”

“You did it yourself.” He pulled out his keys and started for his rental car. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you. A long week. Get some sleep, and we’ll tackle it again tomorrow.”

Jordan stared at the rafters as the wind rattled the windows and the cabin creaked. Beside her, Ethan snored. She turned to look at him. The only time she ever looked anymore was when he was asleep and she could do it in private. In sleep, he seemed so young. Boyish. And she felt a pang of regret for all the pain she’d put him through this past year.

She turned her gaze back to the ceiling and forgave herself. It was the only thing she could do. She regretted what she’d done to him, but what had been done to her was worse, and she couldn’t take on everyone’s hurt—it was more than she could stand.

At the end of the bed, Maximus lifted his head. His ears perked, and Jordan sat up on her elbows.

What is it, boy?

He turned to the window, a low growl in his throat, and hopped off the bed.

Jordan glanced at Ethan. She heard Max’s paws on the wood as he trotted downstairs.

Easing out of bed, she followed her dog. She crept
down to the living room, where everything was washed in moonlight. Max approached the door, and she watched from the shadow of the staircase as he gazed outside. He turned to look at her.

What is it?

He scratched at the door. It was his signal, and she walked over to let him out. She shut the door quickly against the icy air and locked it as he bounded down the porch steps and sniffed around the yard. They had no fence, but Maximus was well trained. He’d come to her that way—not as a puppy, but a fully grown guard dog. He’d been a present from Ethan, and at first she hadn’t wanted him, but now she felt profoundly grateful. She’d fallen head over heels for the dog, and she preferred his company to people. Ethan knew it, too, and it probably hurt his feelings, but that didn’t make it any less true.

Max sniffed at the edge of the orchard. He paused beside a tree. His muscles tensed, and Jordan felt a chill of fear.

Is he out there, boy? What is it?

She eased deeper into the shadows and gazed through the glass. Her heart pounded. Her palms began to sweat.

You know when you’re in the presence of danger.
The special agent’s words came back to her, but they didn’t help. The problem was, she
didn’t
know. Her instincts were muddled. She didn’t trust herself—not anymore.

But she trusted Maximus. He stood rigid beside the orchard, tail up, ears pointed skyward. Jordan’s fear became a brick inside her stomach.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand . . .
If she got to ten, she’d call 911.

Suddenly, Max relaxed. He crossed the yard again
and climbed the stairs to the back door, where he sat and gazed up at her expectantly.

Jordan blew out a sigh. She let him in, and he licked her knees and rubbed his cool, thick fur against her calves.

She scanned the woods one last time as she bolted the door. Another night. Another nobody. Max was halfway up the stairs already, and she followed him back to bed.

Allison’s knocks on Mark’s motel room door went unanswered early the next morning. She stood in the parking lot beside his frost-coated Taurus and scanned the frontage road for possibilities.

To the north was a Denny’s. To the south, an IHOP. But somehow she couldn’t picture him hunched over a greasy plate of eggs. She glanced at his motel again, and this time her gaze landed on a set of railroad tracks stretching east into the sun, and a figure in the distance. He was running. The unexpected sight of his tall, broad-shouldered form pounding along the train tracks made her breath catch.

Intensity.
Mark Wolfe had it in spades. Kelsey had put a name to it, but Allison had sensed it from the very beginning. It was in the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he made an argument. It was in his laser-sharp focus when he talked to a victim. It was in the way he looked at her sometimes—as if he could see straight into her mind and read her private thoughts.

She wondered what it would be like to have all that intensity directed at her in bed.

He reached the parking lot and stopped beside his car. His Georgetown T-shirt was soaked with sweat, and his chest heaved up and down as he looked her over.

“Morning.”

He nodded.

“How far’d you go?”

He jerked his head east. “Out to the bridge.”

“That’s got to be eight miles.”

“Six.” He watched her, still breathing hard. His legs were long and powerful, and the sight of them made her stomach flutter.

Behind him, the muffled ring of a phone. He glanced over his shoulder at the door.

“That’ll be Reynolds,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow and took a keycard from the pocket of his running shorts. She followed him into the room but remained near the door as he crossed to the nightstand and reached for the phone.

“Wolfe.” He glanced up at her. “Okay.”

Allison turned and checked out his room as he took the call from her lieutenant. Draped over the desk chair was a plastic dry-cleaning bag. He’d taken his shirts in, apparently. On the desk was a closed laptop computer and a tall stack of files. She stepped over and read the labels. Case numbers. Lots of different ones. All the folders were fat with papers, and it occurred to her just how much work he was juggling in order to be here. This case seemed to have him by the throat, and she wondered if it really was all because of some promise he’d made ten years ago.

She glanced up to find him watching her reproachfully.

Okay, so she was nosy. Came with the job. She surveyed
the rest of his living quarters. The wastebasket contained a Coke can and a Subway wrapper, evidence of a solitary dinner at his desk. A black garment bag sat in the corner, patiently awaiting the next journey. On the dresser lay a worn black billfold and a rental-car key. The wallet was the most personal item in the room, and all at once she felt terribly lonely for him. What sort of life was this that he’d built for himself?

Mark hung up the phone. “Meeting’s been moved,” he said.

“Eleven o’clock.”

He grabbed a towel from the rack beside the sink and rubbed the sweat from the back of his neck. “He didn’t explain why.”

“He does that sometimes. Power trip.”

He crossed the room and stood in front of her, hooking the towel around his neck, and she noticed the stubble all along his jaw. He watched her, still waiting to hear what she was doing here.

She cleared her throat. “So, we’ve got a good three hours until the meeting. I’m on my way to Austin.”

His eyebrows tipped up.

“I’m authorized to pick up the rape kits for Jordan Wheatley and Stephanie Snow. We’re hoping to get faster turnaround at the Delphi Center.”

“You’re officially on the task force.”

“Yep.”

“Congratulations.” He gave her one of those long, penetrating looks. “What do you need me for?”

She shoved her hands in the pockets of her blazer. “Just thought you might want to come, that’s all. Case there’s any red tape.”

The side of his mouth curved up. “You’re using me for my FBI badge.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No.”

She glanced at her watch again. “Look, you want to come or not? I need to get going if I’m going to be back for that meeting.”