Shiver. Cynthia Cooke
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of man any woman would love to see trip over his own shoelaces. As they entered the elevator, exasperation ballooned inside her. “Is this really necessary? I have things I need to get done today.”
“Yes. I believe it is,” he said without looking at her. He just stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the elevator doors.
“I already told you, I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Yes, you did.”
She gritted her teeth and bit back an expletive. She might as well be talking to a huge granite wall. Frustration burned inside her. “In fact, I know that I did lose my necklace at the hospital last Saturday.”
“Oh?” His eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch.
“Yes. Joey, a little boy at story time, told me he found it last week.”
“Really,” he drawled.
Never had the southern Louisiana accent bothered her more than it did when this man opened his mouth. “Really,” she responded and stiffened her legs to keep from stomping her foot.
He turned and pierced her with a look so cold shivers cascaded down her arms. She stepped back, her heartbeat accelerating. It was amazing the effect he had on her. Too bad it wasn’t the same effect he seemed to have on all the other women in town.
His eyebrows arched in cold speculation. “You expect me to believe this little boy, Joey, left the hospital in the middle of the night and walked down to the Quarter where he killed an NOPD officer, then hurried back to the hospital. But not before leaving your locket clasped around her neck?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Exactly. I couldn’t have said it better myself.” He turned as the doors slid open and stepped into the hall.
Could he be any more obtuse? She took a deep breath and followed his long steady gait along the blue-carpeted corridor lined with cubicles on either side. At this point, she didn’t care who heard her, she just wanted him to stop and listen. She lunged forward, grabbed his bulging bicep and pulled.
It was like trying to move the Rock of Gibraltar.
“Excuse me,” she said through gritted teeth. This time, he stopped, and more than one head popped out from around a partition to see what the ruckus was about. “Joey told me there was a man at the hospital who said he was my friend. Joey believed him when he said he would return the locket to me. So, he gave the locket to the man.” She said the words as clearly and as succinctly as she could. Now all she could do was hope there was more to him than bulging biceps and a killer smile. Now all she could do was hope he’d focus on “the man” and leave her alone.
He stepped closer, looking down at her with that piercing gaze that made the oxygen suddenly evaporate from the space she was standing in. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier while we were still at the hospital?”
“I don’t know. I guess your charm overwhelmed me and I forgot.”
He took another step toward her and, for a second, she thought he was going to throttle her.
“All right, I’ll send an officer down to talk to Joey. Maybe he’ll remember what the guy looked like.”
“Dark eyes,” she responded and took a small step back so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck. At least, that’s the reason she told herself.
“What?”
“Joey said he had really dark eyes.”
“Hmm. I’ll be sure to write that down.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t want to forget.”
His jaw stiffened, and she held her breath while waiting for his response, but he didn’t answer. He just turned and led her down the hall once more. As they reached a row of desks next to the windows, he pointed to Detective Tortorici. “Would you mind going with Tony down to fingerprinting? I’ll type up your statement. You can read it over, sign it, and then I’ll take you home.”
“Fingerprinting?” she asked, her voice coming out in a squeak.
His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. You have a problem with that?”
She straightened her back and took a deep breath to make sure the squeak was gone. “As a matter of fact, I do. Are you booking me?”
“Did I say I was?”
“Then I don’t agree to be fingerprinted.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “Why not? You got something to hide?”
She threw up her hands. “I believe you’re trying to stomp all over my civil liberties, Detective MacIntyre, and I don’t like it.”
“Really? I thought you were more than willing to help with this case in any way you could.”
“I am.”
“Except for getting fingerprinted,” he said calmly, his gaze cool and slightly disbelieving.
“Exactly.” She clenched her teeth, refusing to budge an inch. “So, I really don’t see any point in my staying here.” She took a step back. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait.” He latched on to her arm.
She looked down at his hand, then back up into his dark brown eyes. Something lurched inside her—something…uncomfortable. “What?”
He released her and rubbed his face. “I’ll drive you.”
“I’d rather not.”
“It’s too hot to walk,” he cajoled.
She gave him an icy stare of her own.
“All right,” he relented. “If you don’t want to be fingerprinted, I can respect that. But can we hang out long enough to get the statement written up? Unless, that is, you don’t want to cooperate with the police after all?”
For a second she thought about it, then decided it would be better to cooperate than to have the whole department thinking she had something to hide. “Very well.”
“Good, ’cause the process of typing up my notes helps me put my thoughts together and it never fails that I always seem to remember something else to ask. It would help me out a lot if you were here.” He smiled at her. That stupid smile he used when he thought he was being charming. But he wasn’t. It didn’t work on her, not one little bit. She pursed her lips, and tried to rekindle her fading anger.
She gave her statement, then sat quietly as he typed away, his fingers moving awkwardly over the keys and slower than molasses in January. She squeezed her hands together to stop from insisting on typing her statement herself, then looked out the window, examined the clutter on his desk, then looked out the window again, anything to keep from jumping out of her skin with impatience.
Her gaze fell across a picture on his desk—the detective standing between and resting his arms on the shoulders of another man and a woman. Devra’s eyes widened as she took in the striking resemblance she shared with this woman—so much more so than with the others. So much more than she remembered from her dream. The sound of typing stopped. She looked up to find the detective staring at her, his eyes hard and unreadable.
“Have you seen that woman before?” he asked.
What could she say? That she’d seen her in a dream with her throat being slashed? They’d lock her up in the nearest loony bin. “She looks like me,” Devra stated.
Suspicion teemed in his eyes. And something else…something cold—rage. Fear zipped down her spine.
“And…” he prompted.
“She does look a little familiar,” she hedged. “Perhaps I’ve met her at the hospital. Does she have children?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She