Dangerous to Touch (11 page)

Marc decided it was time for another trip to the crime lab. “Can you bag the stomach contents?”

Sidney brought her cat to the kennel for boarding because she was afraid to leave her at home by herself. Those brief moments she’d thought Marley had been tortured and killed had been excruciating.

She went through her workday in a daze, disturbed by images both sensual and sadistic, seeing dead cats and live men around every corner. By closing time she was completely strung out, awash with sexual frustration and reluctant to engage in another test of wills with Marc.

Sidney wasn’t used to interacting with men, period. Using her sense of touch as an investigative tool and facing the atrocities of a serial killer were scary; spending another night with Marc, terrifying.

As promised, he picked her up from work and took her home with him. He was even hospitable enough to feed her before he disappeared upstairs. While she waited for him to come back down, she munched on an apple and a peanut butter sandwich, studying her surroundings. His house was bigger than hers, his appliances newer and his furniture more expensive, but the place had no soul. It was…boring.

She sat down on his leather couch, discovering it was more comfortable than it looked, and flipped on the TV to see what channel he’d been watching. Sports. Sighing, she turned it off again, disappointed that his personal belongings were as rigid as his personality.

“Getting any ‘impressions’?”

Sidney turned at the sound of his voice, low and intimate in the darkening room. They’d arrived at just before sunset; now night was fast approaching. “I don’t try to get impressions,” she replied, offended by the sarcastic question. “They just come.”

He took a seat at the opposite end of the couch, close enough for her to smell his Old Spice. In worn jeans and an old T-shirt, he should have appeared relaxed. He didn’t. He looked ready to pounce.

Tucking her legs in, she curled one arm behind her head, getting cozy. When his eyes darkened, she suppressed a smile. Taunting him wasn’t nice, but he deserved it. “Why are you so distrustful?”

“I’m a cop.”

Pursing her mouth in concentration, she surveyed the living room once again, looking for clues with her eyes, not her hands.

“You have a cross.”

He followed her gaze to a carved wooden cross hanging near the front entrance. It was the only wall decoration he owned from what she could see. “So?”

“Faith implies trust.”

“My mother put it there,” he explained with a scowl.

Laughing, she stretched her arms over her head, feeling lazy. She hadn’t slept very well last night, but she didn’t need to be alert to pick up on his concern for his mother. She could hear it in his voice.

“You worry about her,” she murmured. “She trusts too much.”

“She spends too much,” he corrected, eyeing her derisively. “On second-rate con artists and religious scams.”

Sidney’s jaw dropped at the implication. “You think I’m a second-rate-”

“No,” he interrupted in a soft voice, his gaze lingering on her breasts. “You’re first-rate all the way.”

A war of emotions waged inside her. She was angry with him for insulting her, and with herself for wanting him anyway. The only consolation was that she knew he fought the same battle. He thought if he kept pushing her away, he wouldn’t succumb to temptation.

She also felt closer to understanding his motivations than ever before. “You believe me,” she said, stunned by the realization. “You’re mad at yourself, because you believe me, and you’re afraid I’ll scam you.”

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, and she felt an answering jolt in her stomach. Marc was not a man who liked to be told how he felt. He was also quite adept at reasserting himself into the position of power with women.

Bracing her hands on the couch cushions underneath her, she scooted back a few inches, trying to put some space between them. Not about to let her off so easy, he grasped her bare ankle and tugged her back toward him.

Just like that, she was struck by another insight: The last time he’d been on this couch, he’d been fantasizing about her. “You…”

He leaned into her, focusing his attention on her mouth. “I what?”

She moistened her lips. “You were thinking about me. That day we went to Guajome Lake.”

“I was doing a lot more than thinking,” he said, bending his head to kiss her. He probably just wanted to shut her up, but Sidney offered no resistance. At the first touch of his mouth, every reason she had for not getting involved with a man like him just sort of…burned up. She melted against him, her mental protestations evaporating like mist. Flattening her palms on his chest, she kissed him back shyly, nibbling at his lower lip.

Her pulse throbbed with sensual awareness. Her body ached for his touch.

He pulled her over his lap, fitting his erection into the notch of her thighs, and she gasped at the intimate contact. Then she moaned, pressing herself harder against him, digging her fingernails into his shoulders and twining her tongue with his.

His hands snuck up under her shirt, splaying over her bare back.

Breaking the kiss, she drew her shirt over her head, offering him even more. Her nipples pebbled under his gaze, jutting against the soft cotton bra, and she reached back to unfasten the clasp. Letting it fall from her shoulders, she watched his face, holding her breath in anticipation.

He slid his hands up her rib cage to the undersides of her breasts. “You’re very beautiful,” he said, cradling her in his palms.

“So are you,” she sighed, brushing her lips over his once again.

At the sound of someone approaching the front door, he froze. Looking over her shoulder, Sidney watched in horror as a small, dark-haired woman walked into the room, chattering in a foreign language.

With a tiny yelp, she clutched her shirt to her chest, preparing to flee.

“Don’t you dare,” he said in her ear, holding her in place. “It’s just my mother.”

“Marcos?” she said, squinting in the dim light.
“¿Que haces?”

“What
am
I doing?” he translated in a mutter, as if he wondered that himself.

“You live with your mother?” she whispered.

“No, she’s just visiting. How was bingo?” he inquired politely, as if he didn’t have a half-naked woman in his lap, hiding his erection.

“It was fine,” she said in heavily accented English, regarding Sidney with undisguised curiosity. “Who do you have there?”

Sidney blushed to the roots of her hair, visualizing the debauched picture she made. “Oh my God,” she moaned, burying her face in Marc’s shoulder.

W
hen Sidney awoke to the smell of good things cooking, she was so surprised she almost fell off the couch in a tangle of blankets.

Remembering where she was, and what she’d been doing the night before, she groaned, pulling the covers over her head in shame. She couldn’t believe Marc’s mother had walked in on them last night. Hasty introductions had been made, after which Mrs. Cruz had gone to bed early, Marc had retreated to the safety of his study to work and Sidney had spent a lonely evening trying to figure out the secrets of digital television.

Although she’d been exhausted, sleep had eluded her. Maybe it was the way Marc’s borrowed sleeveless undershirt and cotton boxer shorts felt against her bare skin, or the faint smell of his laundry soap on them. Maybe it was the cool, smooth leather of his living room couch, the comfy blanket from his closet, or the pillow off his own bed.

She lay awake for what seemed like hours, all of her senses on overdrive, her body humming with frustration. Now, the clock on the DVD player said seven-thirty. She was going to be late! The kennel didn’t open until nine, but she needed to go home and get ready first, and she still had to feed and clean. Saturday was her busiest day.

Hurrying away, she ran into Marc at the foot of the stairs. Literally.

“What’s the rush?” he asked, steadying her.

“I have to shower and change clothes,” she said, her voice throaty from lack of sleep. “I can’t go to work like this.”

“Shower here,” he offered. “And borrow my clothes.”

Her gaze dropped to the fly of his jeans, which was well-worn and well filled out. “Your clothes won’t fit me,” she said, feeling her cheeks tinge pink.

“They can’t fit any worse than yours,” he countered. “Breakfast is almost ready.” He gave her a mildly insulting swat on the behind.

“Hurry up.”

In the master bath, she took a quick shower, using his masculine-smelling soap and shampoo sparingly. She wrapped a towel around herself and opened the door to let out steam as she rifled through the contents of the cabinet for toothpaste. When she found his deodorant, she pulled off the cap and inhaled, delighted to have found his scent.

“You can use that if you want,” he said, standing in the open doorway.

She applied the deodorant to her underarms nonchalantly, as if that had been her intention all along.

With a slight smile, he pulled one of his T-shirts out of a drawer and handed it to her. “All I have is large,” he said, getting an eyeful of her bare legs beneath the hem of the short towel.

“It’s okay,” she said, hugging the shirt to her chest. “I can wear it with my jeans from yesterday.”

She got ready quickly before joining him downstairs.

At the kitchen counter, there was an abundance of scrambled eggs, coffee, orange juice, whole wheat toast and fresh fruit. “Did your mother make this?” she asked.

“No, I did. She’s at church.”

“Hmm.” Taking the plate he offered, she piled it high and sat next to him at a small table overlooking the backyard. “Who takes care of the lawn?” The grass looked freshly clipped, if a bit dry in places, despite the recent rain.

“Me. Why? Can’t you picture me engaging in domestic duties?”

“Cooking, maybe. Cleaning, definitely. Mowing a lawn? No.”

“I think you just offended my masculinity,” he said dryly.

“You know what I mean. You aren’t the power tools and monkey grease type.”

He smiled. “And yet, you are. I’m having a wild fantasy about you tinkering around under the hood of my car.”

“Is that some kind of innuendo?” she asked.

“No,” he said with a low laugh.

“You know what you need?” She gestured with a forkful of eggs. “A dog.”

“I suppose you have a candidate in mind?”

“Yes,” she said in triumph. “Blue.”

His smile disappeared. “Even if I wanted a dog, which I don’t, I wouldn’t take that one. He’s a maniac.”

“I think he could get over his aversion to men, if he found a trustworthy one.”

His expression was bland. “If you think I’m trustworthy, you don’t know me very well.”

“Maybe not with women, or relationships,” she conceded. “But you take care of what’s yours.” When he didn’t argue, she knew he wasn’t interested in pursuing the conversation. “Tell me why you hate dogs,” she continued anyway.

“I don’t hate dogs,” he said after a pause. “I just never really understood their…appeal.”

“You never wanted one, as a boy?”

“I suppose I did.” He paused, as if remembering something. “I fed a stray once. Several times, actually, behind my mother’s back. I thought if I kept feeding him, he’d stay. He didn’t.”

What he’d said was so incredibly revealing that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. It embodied every childhood wish, every lost hope, every unfulfilled dream he’d had growing up. The stray dog was a metaphor for his absent father, whether Marc realized it or not.

Then he continued, having never known how much he’d given away. “In Saudi, there were strays everywhere. I hated the sight of them. They were mangy, ill-bred and ill-kept, like the dogs that roam the streets in Mexico. I couldn’t understand why people with so little to spare would feed an ugly mongrel instead of their own children.”

“I thought Saudi Arabia was a wealthy country. Oil-rich.”

“It is, for the minority elite, but most people just scrape by. In the refugee camp next to the base where I was stationed, the residents were dirt poor.”

“Go on,” she urged.

“There was one dog the other soldiers took a liking to. He was always getting into the chicken coop, making a nuisance of himself, stealing hens. But he was so sneaky and clever he gained their respect. They called him Houdini because they couldn’t figure out how he was getting in and out. I caught him once while I was on night watch, skulking away with a dead bird. I could have shot him then, but I followed him instead, just to see where he was going.”

Sidney nodded, finding the sound and cadence of his voice wonderfully pleasant.

“He was taking the chicken to a little girl. A family, I suppose, although I only saw her. She plucked the bird right out of his mouth, and he gave it up so easily. I couldn’t believe it.

“After that, I looked at the camp dogs differently. Not all of them were loyal and selfless, like the chicken thief, but the people who tossed them scraps were genuinely fond of them, and I finally realized why they did it. It was just basic human nature, to give. To share. To see something hungry and feed it.”

“This is a nicer story than I thought it would be.”

He laughed harshly. “No. It isn’t. We’d all grown fond of the dog, had taken to giving him our leftovers in hopes that he wouldn’t raid the coop. I didn’t see him around for a while, but one afternoon I spotted him walking down the deserted dirt road next to camp.

“It was clear something was wrong with him by the way he was moving. Unsteady, and sort of convulsing every few steps. When he got closer I saw the foam around his mouth.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

“I didn’t have any choice but to shoot him. But just as I raised my rifle, the little girl came running out to him.”

“My God.”

“I walked toward them, shouting at her to get away, to get out of the line of fire. She only understood that I was going to kill her dog. Even half-crazed with rabies, he was protective of her. When he lunged at me-” he stared down at his open palms “-I broke his neck.”

She raised her hand to her mouth, speechless with shock.

He was silent for a moment, then he arched a brow at her. “What do you think? Was it as good as the ones Daddy told?”

“No. Although I don’t doubt he had some similar tales, being a veteran himself.”

“That’s what your sister told me. Right before she took off her clothes.”

She bristled at the provocation, which was too strong to ignore. “I know you didn’t sleep with her.”

He smiled smugly, telling her he could have if he’d wanted to. “And who would you be mad at if I did?”

“You. She probably considers it her sisterly duty to test you.”

“To see if I’ll cheat?”

“No,” she said. “To see if you’re any good.”

He studied her face. “Did you two compare notes about Greg, as well?”

“You’re not fooling me,” she said, tamping down her anger.

“You didn’t want to expose yourself emotionally by telling that story, so now you’re pushing me away.”

“Honey,” he said, his expression one of great pity, “I don’t have any emotions to expose.”

“You saved a girl’s life,” she argued. “Why did the dog’s death affect you more?”

A light flickered in his wary brown eyes, but his voice remained flat. “The dog meant more because he represented compassion, a phenomenon I’ve rarely encountered in life and scarcely understood. And when I found it, I killed it with my bare hands.”

As warnings went, his couldn’t have been clearer. He substituted sex for intimacy because he had nothing more to offer, although he was so skilled at what he did, women probably didn’t complain.

And if they did, he moved on.

Her heart began to beat a rapid tattoo in her chest, and she turned her back on him, afraid her face would reveal her feelings.

This was not a man to fall in love with, logic warned.

Too late, fate replied.

Marc left a note for his mother before he took Sidney to work. She’d be disappointed if he couldn’t accompany her to the San Luis Rey Mission that afternoon, as planned, but she wouldn’t be surprised. His work often superseded all other aspects of his life, and attending religious gatherings had never been high on his priority list.

It wouldn’t be the first time Alma Cruz had only her faith to keep her company.

“You don’t have to stay,” Sidney insisted.

“Yes, I do.”

Alone at the kennel, she was just as vulnerable as she was at home, but instead of dogging her footsteps, he retreated to her office to make phone calls.

“Gina’s got a match on your reefer,” Lacy reported. “Stomach contents from the stray cat and the joint you gave her are consistent. Homegrown, high THC level, same basic color and maturity. Tests on the dog were also positive, but inconclusive for a specific strain.”

He sat back in his chair, letting the ramifications of her words sink in. If the man who broke into Sidney’s house was the killer, Marc had discovered an indirect link to his identity: his friend and neighbor, Tony Barreras.

Finding everyone who had access to a certain marijuana crop was like playing six degrees of separation. A local grower often sold bulk amounts to a few big-time dealers, who in turn hooked up with small-time guys like Tony, who then distributed the product to a dizzying range of nickel and dime customers.

Still, it was worth a shot. “Let’s assume the perp is drugging dogs with marijuana. He may be hiding it in food, giving it an hour or so to kick in before he strikes. If he waits too long, the dog won’t be in the mood to go for a walk, right?” He drummed his fingertips on Sidney’s desk, considering. “Leak it to Crystal Dunn. Giving female dog owners a head’s-up can’t hurt.”

“You really think he’ll stick to that MO?”

“Not after it’s been all over the news. But what choice do we have? If he tried it a few times before he actually abducted a victim, maybe we could jog someone’s memory.”

Lacy groaned, probably thinking of the task force hours that would be sacrificed to old ladies calling to say Muffy had been sluggish after her morning walk six months ago. “I’m already burning the midnight oil here, Marcos.”

“Public service is a thankless job, Meredith,” he returned, completely unsympathetic.

Marc hung up, no more satisfied with the direction of the case than she was. The “grasping at straws” investigative technique was rarely fruitful. Neither was sitting on their hands, however.

He toyed with the idea of calling Tony then discarded it. His friend adhered to the drug dealers’ code of ethics, an unspoken set of rules that included being deliberately vague over the telephone and never naming names. Tony might give up his source in person, but he wouldn’t do it on a live wire.

After spending another hour trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t fit, Marc gave up and left Sidney’s office. He’d kept a surreptitious eye on every customer she interacted with throughout the day, studying vehicles, facial expressions and demeanors.

If the killer had been among them, he didn’t know it, and neither did she. Sidney treated all of her clients with the same deference. Her manner was reserved and her professionalism exemplary. Owners spoke of their pets as though they were members of the family, and Sidney cared for them as such.

It was all very bizarre.

Confounded by interspecies dynamics, Marc wandered to the kennel and roamed the fence line, hands shoved deep in his pockets. What had drawn Blue here? The sound and scent of other dogs? Sidney’s psychic connection?

Shaking his head, he studied the surroundings. The industrial park looked nothing like Candace Hegel’s neighborhood, or any other residential area. Pacific Pet Hotel was part of a business zone, a concrete jungle with scant vegetation and few trees.

He flipped open his cell again.

“What?” Lacy answered, exasperated.

“Where did Anika Groene get her dog?”

“At the pound, same as Candace Hegel.”

“Follow up on the prior owners.”

“I already have. Both dogs were picked up by animal control on opposite sides of the city during routine patrols. No tags, no micro-chip identification and no prior owners.”

Marc mulled it over. Like Blue, Anika Groene’s dog was an odd-looking specimen. What else did they have in common? “Are Dobermans a German breed?”

“As far as I know.”

“Check out local breeders, especially the disreputable kind, those who might sell dogs of questionable pedigrees. And trainers. Maybe Hegel and Groene used the same trainer.”

“They didn’t. Neither dog had ever been to a trainer.”

Marc frowned, thinking of the commands Sidney had given Blue. It wasn’t just a habit; she didn’t use them with other dogs, and half the time, she didn’t seem to have any idea what she was saying.