Twisted (16 page)

“Someone’s been counting. I hear your workload is legendary.”

He gazed out the window. “Record number of cases.” He glanced at her. “That stat’s misleading, though. Everyone else I started with has left for private practice or to write books.”

The books, she’d heard about. She’d even read a couple when she was a brand-new detective, even though at the time she’d been busy working car thefts, not chasing down murderers.

“You think you’ll ever do that?”

He glanced at her. “Which one?”

“The writing. I bet you’ve got some interesting stories.”

“If we all sat around writing books, who’d be left to work the cases?”

“Good point. But it’s not your job to work
all
the cases.”

He didn’t look at her, and she realized maybe he thought it was.

“What kind of private practice?” she asked, shifting the topic.

“Consulting, mostly. Private security stuff. Forensic psychology. And there’s always my law degree.”

“You ever consider leaving to do that?”

“Not really.”

He looked out the window. From the way he clammed up, she figured this was another taboo subject, right along with his marriage. Didn’t matter. Allison could probably guess the story. Many of the cops she knew were either divorced or headed there because of the hours, the stress, the drinking. She even knew a few guys on the job who swore they’d never get married simply because the divorce numbers were so high. But Allison didn’t buy into that thinking. Numbers were just numbers. If she let statistics intimidate her, she wouldn’t have a detective’s shield right now.

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I need to give you some advice.”

Allison glanced at him, immediately defensive. But then she took a deep breath and steeled herself. She was on a task force with a world-renowned FBI profiler, and he could probably teach her a thing or two if she’d let him.

“I’m all ears,” she said.

“You should team up with Macon on this.”

She looked at him, surprised. “Jonah?”

“He seems sharp. He’s got some tough cases under his belt. His work on the school shooting last year was solid.”

“You checked out his background?”

“He’d be a good mentor for you as you get your feet wet.”

Allison trained her attention on the road and tried not to feel slighted. Was this really about work, or was he trying to find a tactful way to put distance between them?

“Are you trying to tell me something, Wolfe? Because if you are, I’d rather you come out and say it.”

He turned to look at her, and she felt anger welling up.

“I’ve been doing this a long time, Allison. Let me tell you how it works. I come into town. They’re putting together a task force. Some people listen to what I have to say. Some people don’t. Often, we make an arrest. Occasionally, we don’t. But there’s one thing that always happens. Without fail.” He paused. “There’s always a bump in the road, a setback. And when that happens, guess who the bad guy is?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Your chief, your lieutenant, your detective friends—every one of them will happily feed me to the sharks if the case goes sideways or if another victim turns up. And you know what? I don’t blame them. Always easier to make a scapegoat out of the outsider. They’re the ones who have to live in this town long after I’m gone.”

“You think
you’re
the outsider here?”

“I am.”

“Try being one of only two female homicide detectives in the entire county, one of only four women in my whole department.” She didn’t usually talk about this because she didn’t want to be seen as a whiner.

She glanced at Mark, and he was watching now with
one of those unreadable looks that drove her crazy. Maybe he
did
think she was a whiner.

“That’s a fair point,” he said, surprising her. “We’re both outsiders. But it just reinforces what I’m saying. You should team up with Macon, not me, or you’re going to get burned. Something goes wrong on this case—and it will—I’ll be the one taking the fall.”

She scowled. “Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?”

“I’m giving you a warning. You’ve got a promising career ahead of you. Don’t blow it right out of the gate by making enemies with the people you need to help you.”

“I’m making enemies by working with you? That’s ridiculous.”

The truck lurched forward. Allison clenched the wheel and glanced at the dashboard as it abruptly slowed, then lurched, then slowed again and sputtered to a crawl.

She slapped the steering wheel. “Damn it!”

She eased onto the shoulder and coasted to a halt, then glanced at Mark. He didn’t look surprised at all—just resigned.

“I’m not out of gas,” she said. “That gauge is broken.”

He unbuckled his belt and pushed open the door.

She cursed as she jumped out after him.

“Pop the hood,” he said.

She ducked back inside and pulled the lever. Steam spewed out from the front, and she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

The hood squeaked as Mark lifted it. He plunked his hands on his hips and gazed at the filthy engine. In a suit and tie, with his badge and his Glock on display, he
looked like the quintessential federal agent—which was not what she particularly needed right now.

She needed a damn tow truck.

“This happen before?” He looked at her.

“Not in a while.”

He went back to the passenger door, which was still standing open.

Allison ducked under the hood and waved the steam away. Her automotive knowledge was less than extensive, but she wasn’t a complete idiot.

“I’m not out of gas,” she reiterated. “The gauge is busted. I filled up last night.”

He reappeared at her side, minus the jacket now. He’d shed the tie and rolled up his sleeves, and she watched with interest as he reached across the engine. He examined a black hose and a gray one. He crouched down and peered beneath the truck. Then he stood up and frowned.

“Oil,” he said.

“No way. I get the oil changed every three thousand miles. I’m religious about it.”

He looked at her and the corner of his mouth ticked up. “Religious, huh?”

He leaned in again and fiddled with some more hoses.

“This engine’s a 350,” he said. “You’ve probably got a fuel-pump seal failure. That’s right beneath your crankcase. Drains the oil out of the engine. Pretty common on these old pickups.” He straightened and looked at her. “Got any backup?”

She stared at him. In the space of two minutes, he’d gone from being a staid federal agent to a sexy car guy.

His eyebrows arched impatiently.

“I’ll check.”

She yanked her keys from the ignition, then unlocked the built-in toolbox behind the cab.

He leaned against the truck. “Where’d you get this thing, anyway?”

“My grandfather.” She moved a wooden caddy filled with rusted hammers and screwdrivers. She shoved miscellaneous items aside: a pair of fishing waders, a tire iron, the work boots Mark had borrowed the other night, a flannel shirt stiff with dirt. Allison’s grandfather was a pack rat, and she hadn’t gotten around to cleaning anything out yet.

She glanced up, and Mark was watching her with interest. “What?”

“Not a bad deal. My granddad left me a barbecue pit.”

“He’s still alive.” She tossed some more tools aside. “He’s in a nursing home. Alzheimer’s. Before it got bad, he asked me to look after his truck for him.”

She culled through the remaining junk and found what she was looking for—a quart of motor oil. A second quart lay on its side, and some of the oil had leaked out.

“I’m guessing these have been in there a while.” She handed the containers to Mark. “Watch your shirt. That gunk won’t come out.”

He shot her a look as he bent back under the hood.

“This’ll probably get us back into town,” he said. “But you need to get the fuel pump and seal replaced or you’ll blow the engine.”

She watched him work and felt a warm pull of attraction. His forearms were tan and muscular, his fingers deft.

“Where’d you learn about cars?” she asked.

He didn’t respond, and she thought he’d tuned her out. She looked away from him as another pickup roared by.

“My dad was a mechanic,” he said, pouring the oil. “Started working for him when I was eight.”

Allison looked him up and down, trying to mesh this new information with what she’d assumed. She’d definitely pictured a more white-collar background.

“Georgetown University seems like a stretch for a mechanic’s family. How’d you afford it?”

He smiled and shook his head. “That’s tactful.”

“Just an observation.”

“I went to college on my jump shot.”

“Basketball?”

He raised an eyebrow, and she felt stupid.

“So, if your dad’s a mechanic . . . does that mean you’re a car buff?”

“Nope.”

“What do you drive at home?”

“A Ford.”

She laughed. “Is it blue?”

“Black.” He glanced up and gave her a wry smile. “I couldn’t care less about cars. Just need to get where I’m going.”

Allison shook her head and looked out at the horizon. The barren hills rose up around them and the grass was yellow from cold. A gust kicked up, whipping straight through the thin blazer she wore to conceal her holster. She wanted to get her jacket, but she didn’t want to be a wimp when Mark was standing there in his shirtsleeves.

He screwed the cap back on the fill hole. “That should do it.”

She handed him the old flannel shirt to wipe his fingers.

“Get back in and give it a try.”

She climbed behind the wheel, and after a few failed attempts, got the engine going. He slammed down the hood. Then he tossed the shirt and the empty oil containers in back and slid inside the cab.

“Sorry about this,” she said. “You’re definitely going to miss your meeting.”

He didn’t comment.

“Thanks for the help. I owe you one.”

“Get your truck to the shop.” He glanced at her. “And next time, I drive.”

Mark stood outside Stephanie Snow’s apartment building in the chilly dusk and watched as Jonah used a pocket-knife to cut through the official crime-scene seal on the door.

“This place gets released tomorrow morning,” Jonah said, turning the knob with a gloved hand. He held the door open for Mark and reached inside to flip on a light switch.

Mark stepped over the threshold and tried to take a mental step into the victim’s life. He scanned the room for a moment, wanting to get a feel for it. A few minutes in a person’s home could be more revealing than hours of interviews with friends and loved ones.

“Her parents been by yet?” Mark asked.

“Only her aunt last week. She needed some clothes for the funeral home. Think the mom sent her over because she didn’t want to come in here.”

“I don’t blame her.”

The apartment was cold, dim. Everything was tidy but had an off feel—the result of countless law enforcement officers tromping around and poking through
things, without putting a single item back precisely where they’d found it.

Mark glanced around, looking for the source of the Superglue smell. He noted the purple smudges on the doorknob.

“Styrofoam cup method?” he asked, referring to the technique sometimes used to develop prints with cyanoacrylate. The cup trapped the Superglue vapors so detectives didn’t have to remove the doorknobs.

“Did all the knobs in the unit,” Jonah said. “There were only seven.”

“Anything interesting come back?”

“Stephanie’s prints, the ex-boyfriend, and a few others. No hits with AFIS on the unknowns, though.”

Mark stepped deeper into the living room. The one-bedroom unit was small but new. It had been new to Stephanie, too. She’d moved in this past summer right after graduation. According to her parents, she hadn’t managed to find a paying job yet, so she’d taken an unpaid internship at an engineering firm in town to build her résumé. Jonah had said the parents were very involved in Stephanie’s life, and Mark guessed they were subsidizing her living expenses, too.

He surveyed the furniture—a modern blue sofa beside a green, seventies-era lamp. A flat-panel TV and a slumping tweed armchair. It was a mishmash of old and new that Mark had seen in many first apartments, and it spoke of trips to IKEA and forays into parents’ attics.

“We been over it all twice,” Jonah said from across the room. “Ric found a stack of letters tucked into the box springs. Something we missed on the first pass.”

“Letters?” Mark stepped into the kitchen. “Hardly anyone writes letters anymore.”

“Addressed to Stephanie in Germany. She spent a semester there, spring of her junior year.”

“Who sent them?”

“Some guy back here. Ex-boyfriend. We checked him out already. He’s in law school up in Dallas.”

Mark shot Jonah a questioning look.

“Alibi checks out,” he said.

Mark donned a pair of latex gloves and opened the refrigerator. Diet sodas, salad dressing, a bag of slimy brown lettuce. The freezer was chock full of Lean Cuisines.

He opened a few cabinets and drawers and saw the expected assortment of basic kitchen supplies. The drawer closest to the breakfast nook contained a stack of bills bundled together with a rubber band. Mark thumbed through them: cable, electric, cellular phone service.