Sundays Are for Murder. Marie Ferrarella
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boxes. Within the boxes was the product of his twenty-nine years on earth. The boxes had been here, largely untampered with, for the past six days. He didn’t see a grand opening in any of their near futures.
Nick paused to remove his holster and weapon and place them on the table beside the pizza. He’d then crossed to the refrigerator and took out a can of soda.
You’d think that someone who’d moved and lived in six different states before his fifteenth birthday would be able to unpack everything and get things in their rightful place in a reasonable amount of time. The trouble was, every other time he’d moved, and this included when he’d gone to his own bachelor digs in D.C., his mother and his sister were the ones who did the unpacking for him because he just never got around to it.
It wasn’t his strong point. He knew how to work a case, had a knack for mining the hidden nuggets that could eventually lead to solving it. The gift his mother and sister possessed was that they knew how to make order out of chaos. Something he definitely was not good at.
Popping the lid on the can, he shrugged. There was no sense in unpacking what he didn’t immediately need. And, since dinner tonight had come courtesy of Salvatore and Selena’s Pizzeria, he didn’t need to unearth anything. Certainly not plates or utensils. The pizza represented the ultimate in finger food. He always drank his soda right out of the can, so no need to dirty a glass.
Taking a long sip from his soda, Nick rotated his shoulders before picking up a slice of pizza. Man, he was tired.
His body hadn’t adjusted to the time difference yet. His internal clock was still on East Coast time. It was ten o’clock in the evening back in D.C. right now and, although he’d never been one of those souls who turned in early, the day he’d spent with his new partner, coupled with the time difference, had all but wiped him out.
Catching a serial-killer case his first time up at bat in the new office threw him headfirst into the deep end of the pool.
He was going to have to find a gym and get himself back into shape. Special Agent Charley Dow struck him as a long-distance swimmer. He didn’t want her showing him up. His pride wouldn’t allow it. Not that he had anything against working with a woman. But there was just something about this woman that forbade him to look bad.
There was no doubt in his mind that Dow had a chip on her shoulder. Whether she had something against him in particular or men in general he didn’t know, but it made things difficult. He had the feeling that she was waiting for him to screw up somehow. He was going to have to stay on his toes, not let down his guard. And he was going to have to learn how to get along with her, at least for a while. It wouldn’t look right asking for a transfer his first week on the job. Especially since he wanted in on this case.
He’d gone alone to the morgue to see about Stacy Pembroke. The M.E. was in the middle of his evaluation. Stacy Pembroke was only twenty-five. Ashley’s age. Hell, under different circumstances, that could have been Ashley on the table.
The Sunday Killer’s victims were all someone’s sister, someone’s daughter. The bastard had to be stopped and put away if not put down. And he wanted to be there when it happened.
That meant staying partnered with Dow.
He thought of Gerald, the partner he had before coming out west. Gerald and he had hit a rhythm. So much so that they didn’t even have to talk much. They each seemed to know what the other guy was thinking. He doubted he’d get to that level with Dow. If today was any indication, he had no idea where her mind was going.
Thinking the slice had had enough time to cool off, Nick took a bite. He chewed slowly, evaluating the flavors that came to meet his tongue.
As far as pizzas went, he had to admit that this sampling wasn’t bad. But Salvatore and Selena didn’t hold a candle to the pizzas he’d had in New York City. Cheese there tended to be one long, continuous strand from first bite to last. Sloppy, sure, but tasty as hell. A love affair with the palate.
He couldn’t help wondering how else California would fail to measure up.
Nick went over and turned the TV on, switching to the all-news cable channel he’d discovered earlier in the week. He adjusted the volume, then sat down on the freshly cleaned beige rug.
The blond, perfectly made-up woman behind the news desk looked grim as she announced: “The top story in the Southland tonight is a grisly one. The serial killer has claimed another victim. Stacy Pembroke was discovered early this morning by a friend who was concerned when the twenty-five-year-old restaurant hostess failed to appear at work last night. This makes the young woman the twelfth victim in six years. Our reporters tried to get a statement from the family.”
Nick cringed. Why was there always some reporter looking for a sound bite of attention, willing to shove a microphone into the face of a grieving soul? He reached for the remote to change the channel.
The doorbell rang.
Nick swallowed a curse. “Wouldn’t you know it? Murphy’s law.”
Leaning back, he could just about see around the boxes to make out the front door from his position on the floor. He took another bite, debating whether or not to ignore whoever was at the door or answer it.
Most likely some kid was selling something. He’d already been subjected to that on his first day here and wound up buying wrapping paper he didn’t need in support of some elementary school he’d never heard of. He’d chalked it up to forging good community relations.
But he wasn’t in the mood for wrapping paper. Or interruptions for that matter.
Whoever was at the door rang again. Apparently they weren’t about to give up easily. Persistent, he thought darkly. Which immediately brought his new partner to mind.
Maybe that was Dow at the door. He frowned, taking another bite of his dinner as the woman on the cable channel faded into a commercial.
Likely as not, Dow had probably thought of something after he’d left the office and was here to bust his manhood. He hadn’t told her where he lived, but he had no doubts that she had ways of finding out.
With a sigh, Nick got up, leaving the TV on. He thought of putting his pizza slice back in the box before answering the door, but hunger proved to be greater than his desire for neatness.
After pausing to wipe his fingers on a napkin, Nick opened the door.
No one was there.
He should have remained where he was, he thought. About to retreat, he glanced down at the mat the complex superintendent had given him as a “welcome to Sunflower Creek Apartments” gift.
The body of a small, brown rabbit had been placed right in the middle of it. The rabbit’s throat had been slit.
CHAPTER NINE
NICK REACTED instantly, ducking back into the apartment. He grabbed his sheathed weapon from the table.
When he crossed the threshold, stepping just outside of his apartment, his movements were precise as if in slow motion. No one needed to remind him of the value of caution. One misstep could cost him his life, or at the very least, turn him into a target.
There was no one in the immediate vicinity.
Gun cocked, he scanned from left to right, then out into the parking lot that faced the door of his first-floor garden apartment.
Nothing.
The rain had receded to a fine mist. Just annoying enough to keep evening strollers from venturing out of their dry apartments. The streetlights were on. Nick squinted, trying to make out a solitary figure hiding within one of the carports. There was no one. Whoever had rung his doorbell was as fleet as the rabbit they’d left on his doormat had once been.
A noise caught his attention. In the distance he thought he heard the sound of a car pulling away. But that could have just as easily been one of the complex’s residents going out for the evening. It made no sense to attempt to give chase.