“It smells wonderful. What is it?”
“Potato soup. I seasoned it according to my taste, so if it’s a bit too salty for you, I can add some more milk.”
“You mean this didn’t come out of a can?”
“Nope. Want a sandwich to go with it?”
“Sounds good, but I’d better stay with just soup for now…at least until my mouth isn’t so sore.”
Mac frowned. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Maybe I should run the soup through a food processor. You could drink it rather than chew.”
“That’s assuming I have a food processor, which I don’t,” she muttered, then slipped the first bite into her mouth, relishing the warmth as well as the flavor. “No need. This is perfect.” She waved her spoon toward the stove. “Aren’t you going to have some?”
He hesitated. Sitting at the table with Caitlin Bennett meant drawing some kind of a truce. He wasn’t sure if that was such a good idea, but he was hungry, and she had offered.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, and dipped himself a hearty bowl, grabbed a handful of crackers and sat down in the chair across from hers without looking up.
For a few minutes there was nothing to be heard but the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl. Caitlin was the first to finish.
“That was very good. Thank you.”
Mac shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with her congenial mood. “You’re welcome.”
“Somehow I never pictured you being so domestic,” Caitlin drawled.
Mac’s eyes narrowed sharply. Something told him that congeniality was fading fast.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing,” Caitlin said. “It’s just that when I think of you, I picture underdone meat and knives with big blades.”
Mac leaned across the table and grinned. “Why, Caitlin, I didn’t know you thought of me at all. Just goes to show how wrong first impressions can be.”
Mentally cursing herself for getting personal with a man who pushed all her warning buttons, she scooted her chair back from the table and stood up.
“Where are you going?” he asked as she headed out the door.
“To my office to check my e-mail. Were there any calls while I was asleep?”
“No, but the police came by.”
She frowned. “Why didn’t you wake me? Now they’ll just have to come back, and I don’t want this to go on for—”
“They didn’t have anything new to tell you, and you had nothing new to tell them.”
“But the man in the—”
“Did you see him?”
She frowned. “Well, no, but…”
“Right. You didn’t even know he’d been there until I told you, so there was nothing you could have said that would add to the investigation. You needed your rest. I talked to them. Told them everything that happened.” And then he added, “For all the good it did. I’m not too impressed with either one of them, especially Detective Neil.”
“What do you mean?” Caitlin asked. “I thought he was nice.”
Mac resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You would.”
Her chin jutted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not
supposed
to mean anything other than what I said. He’s a cocky, pretty-faced cop with a badge and a gun. From the way your nostrils are flaring, I’m guessing that turns you on.”
Caitlin gasped. “You are beyond belief! My
nostrils
are not flaring, and he did not turn me on! If I went for cocky, gun-toting males, then you’d be at the top of the list, wouldn’t you?”
Mac stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from putting them around her neck and glared.
Caitlin sniffed delicately. Satisfied that she’d scored the last point, she walked away.
“Your nostrils did flare,” Mac said beneath his breath.
“I heard that,” Caitlin yelled.
“Christ almighty,” Mac muttered, then pivoted angrily, grabbed the empty soup pan from the stove and shoved it into the sink. Banging pans was the next best thing to wringing her neck.
Sweat oozed and ran from every pore on Buddy’s body as he pounded the heavy punching bag in the corner of the gym.
Bam.
The blow jarred all the way to his back teeth.
Bam. Bam.
The one-two made his right ear pop.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
After the trio of rapid-fire blows, he tasted blood and knew he’d bitten his tongue. But he couldn’t stop. The need to punish was uppermost in his mind. Damn Caitlin Bennett for not dying. Damn her rich bitch self to hell.
“Easy there, fella, you’re gonna blow a gasket.”
But Buddy ignored the trainer and kept on punching until he was so blinded by his own sweat that he could no longer see the bag. Exhausted, he staggered backward until he came up against the wall, then bent forward, his gloves on his knees, struggling to stay upright.
“Is he dead?”
At the question, Buddy took a deep breath and looked up. “What did you say?”
The trainer tossed him a towel and grinned. “I asked you, is he dead?”
Buddy’s voice iced. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Chill, man, it’s just a figure of speech,” the trainer said. “You were nailing that bag so hard, I don’t have to be a genius to know somebody pissed you off. Right?”
Buddy sighed. “Oh…yeah…right.”
“Sit down,” the trainer said. “I’ll help you take off your gloves.”
Buddy straddled a weight bench and held out a glove. In a few moments, he was free of them both.
“Thanks,” he said, and stood up. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to shower and head for home.”
“Yeah, sure. See you around.”
Buddy was already walking away.
Half an hour later he came out of the locker room and headed for the door, taking the stairs three flights down to the street. The stairwell was cold, and as he started down, he pulled his coat collar up around his neck, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring a sock cap to cover his wet hair. Bracing himself for the worst, he took the steps down in a hurry, exiting the building onto the street. The cold air hit his lungs like a fist to the chest. Before he’d gone half a block, his hair was stiff, the moisture frozen from the rapidly dropping temperature.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and hunched his shoulders up around his ears.
A light dusting of snow was falling, and from the looks of the sidewalks, it had been falling for quite a while, obliterating all but the deepest of tracks. A thin crust had formed on the surface, and as he walked, his steps made crunching noises that echoed in the air. Traffic was light but steady, and he forgot his discomfort in the monotonous motion of putting one foot in front of the other.
In the next block, he saw a taxi suddenly pull to the curb and let out a fare. The luxury of taking a cab home rather than the subway seemed like a wise investment, and he yelled for it to wait, but the driver sped away into the night. Cursing beneath his breath, he continued to walk. Only five more blocks to the subway station and he would at least be out of the snow.
Another block up, the lights of a diner spilled through the windows onto the snow. A couple emerged as he walked past the door, bringing with them the scent of warm food and hot coffee.
On impulse, Buddy did a one-eighty and went back to the diner. A hot meal seemed prudent, considering the fact that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He slid onto a stool at the counter and picked up a menu.
“Hey, handsome, how about some coffee?”
Buddy looked up. The waitress was young and smiling. He smiled back.
“Yes, please,” he said. “Black.”
She set a cup in front of him and filled it to within a quarter-inch of the brim.
“Do you know what you want to eat?” she asked.
“Got any chili?”
“Oh, yeah. Gus makes good chili. Hot, though. If you don’t eat your food spicy, you might not like it.”
Buddy leaned forward, flashing the young waitress another heart-stopping smile.
“Oh…I like spice,” he said softly. “In my food
and
my women.”
She giggled and went to fill his order, leaving him with his coffee and his thoughts. A couple of minutes later she was back with a steaming bowl of chili and a side of corn bread, along with a small bowl of diced onions.
“Do you want some cheese with that?” she asked.
“No, this looks good as is,” Buddy said, and scooped up a big bite, rolling his eyes as the first taste sensation hit. “Um, you tell Gus this is damned good chili, okay?”
She smiled and nodded, then moved on to tend to a couple who’d taken a seat in a booth.
Buddy ate without thought, simply savoring the warmth of food in his belly and the peace in his mind. He was both physically and mentally exhausted. Surely he would be able to sleep tonight, despite the fact that Caitlin Bennett still drew breath.
He was almost through eating when the woman came in. He saw her from the corner of his eye, watching as she took a seat at the counter, three stools down from where he sat. Her voice was low and husky, but her clothes and her demeanor screamed whore. She asked the time, then ordered a cup of coffee.
Thinking about the possibility of getting a quick fuck, he turned for a good look and then stifled a gasp. The food he’d just eaten threatened to come up. He stared in disbelief, watching her lift the coffee cup to her lips. She had dark shoulder-length hair and a mouth so like Caitlin’s that it caused him true pain.
He stood abruptly, threw some money down on the counter and strode out without looking back. The subway station was only a couple of blocks ahead. He found himself running toward it like a man hurrying toward salvation. But the closer he got to it, the slower his steps became.
Then he stopped. For several moments he stared down at the sidewalk, studying the snow on the toes of his shoes as his fingers curled and uncurled and then curled again into fists. He stood that way for what seemed like an hour, making a bet with himself that if she came this way, then she was his, but if she left the diner and walked north instead of south, then it wasn’t meant to be.
Several people passed him as he waited, his back to the diner. Every time he heard approaching footsteps, he held his breath, waiting to see if it was her. Then, when his feet were so cold he couldn’t feel his toes, he told himself, just one more person, and if it wasn’t her, he would go home.
Within a few seconds of the promise, he heard footsteps again, this time shorter ones, moving faster than those that had come before. His breath came in short, jerky puffs, like small white clouds beneath his nose. He lifted his head, then found himself turning—turning—and watching the concentration on her face as she tried to stay upright in the snow on those three-inch heels.
“You should have worn boots,” he said softly.
She pulled her coat a little closer around her slim body, then smiled. One more john before the night was over couldn’t hurt.
“Not when there are good-looking men like you to keep me on my feet,” she countered.
“But, honey, I don’t want you on your feet, I want you on your back.”
Her eyes narrowed as she raked him with a predatory gaze.
“You can have me any way you want me,” she countered, “but it’ll cost you.”
“Not as much as it’s going to cost you,” he said under his breath and grabbed her by the hand.
Six
T
he squeal of brakes from the incoming subway train drowned out the sound of onlookers’ voices as Detectives Amato and Hahn ducked under the strip of yellow crime scene tape and moved to the end of the platform. The medical examiner was already packing up, but the photographer from forensics was still taking pictures.
Sal spoke to the coroner as he waited for the photographer to finish.
“What have we got?”
The warmth of the M.E.’s breath hit the cold morning air, giving him the appearance of “blowing smoke” as he picked up his bags.
“Trouble,” he said, and pointed toward the body with his chin. “She died here. The killer turned her body to the wall and covered her from the waist down with that newspaper. Probably so any passersby might think she was just drunk or sleeping. Best guess is she died around midnight, maybe a little later, and if I was a betting man, I’d say the same killer as before, but I’ll know more after I get her into the lab.”
Sal’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, the same killer?”
“They didn’t tell you?” the M.E. asked.
Amato shook his head.
“Look for yourself,” the M.E. said, and headed for the stairs as Sal moved toward the body. He cursed softly beneath his breath as he took his first look.
“Hell,” he muttered, then stood abruptly as his partner, Paulie Hahn, looked over his shoulder. “Christ almighty, just what we need.”
“This is only the second body. We can’t jump to conclusions with only two victims,” Paulie said.
Amato pointed to the woman’s neatly quartered face. “We can when they look like that. Call the lieutenant and tell him he’d better get down here fast. Someone is bound to leak this to the press, and when they do, the media will have a field day.”
Paulie took out his radio just as the doors of the train began to open. The noise level, borne of curiosity over an ongoing police investigation, made a call momentarily impossible.
“Can’t hear thunder here,” Paulie said. “I’m going to the far end of the platform to make the call.”
As Paulie moved away, Sal began taking notes from the patrolmen who’d been first on the scene, gathering any available information that might aid in their investigation.
“Hey, Sal, anything we can do to help?” Trudy asked.
Amato turned; he’d been unaware that Kowalski and Neil had arrived. He frowned as he pointed to the victim.
“Take a look,” he said.
Trudy gasped, her gaze immediately shifting to her partner’s face to see if he was drawing the same conclusion. When she saw his lips firm and his nostrils flare, she knew he had. She looked over at Sal.
“Was she killed here?” she asked, her gaze raking the far corner of the subway platform on which they were standing.
“The M.E. says yes.”
“Time of death?”
“Sometime around midnight.”