Forbidden Touch (2 page)

Her eyes grew a little wider as he looked back at her. He didn't understand why she was so hung up on getting in between his sheets. Any other male, in any of the departments, single or not, would've been happy to take her up on the offer. A lot of them already had. Maybe it was because he wasn't interested that kept her trying. He'd always been the one man that she couldn't have, and she was determined to change his mind.

Her sneer changed to an all out gloating grin. "I was just saying that Blake and I solved the Hanover case today. The suspect confessed an hour ago."

He looked back at his computer and began shutting it down. "That's good. Although you can't really say you solved the case when the guy turned himself in on his own, Gracie."

"You're such an ass, Mitch. You need to get laid." She actually growled, then turned and stormed off. He would have smiled at that, if it hadn't been so childish.

Mitch shook his head. The woman acted like a spoiled teenager most of the time, but he guessed she was right; he was an ass, always had been. More so in these last few weeks. And for getting laid, well, he wasn't sure he had the energy for such tasks anymore. He was only thirty-two, and true, he shouldn't have any problems in that department, and he didn't, really, everything still worked down there. He just didn't want sex.

The case was really beginning to wear on him, he thought as his eyes widened. Had he really just admitted to himself that he didn't want sex? Shit! He figured he would be ninety before he even thought something like that. And by then, he had hoped to be senile so he wouldn't know any better. He did want sex again, he told himself. He just didn't want it with Gracie Potter or any of the other women at the station, and that was the only place he'd been in the last four weeks.

Mitch could hear the distinct sound of his partner's boots on the cheap commercial tile coming toward his cubicle. He logged off and stood up as Lazarus walked around the thin, four foot cubicle wall. Lazarus wasn't his real name, but any man who could take six bullets in the upper part of his body, die, then come back to life, didn't deserve to be called anything less.

"You're cutting out early tonight, aren't you?" Lazarus said as he rested his elbow on the flimsy wall and looked at his watch. "You haven't left this early in a month."

Mitch grabbed his leather jacket and walked toward the stairs with Lazarus falling casually into step beside him. "I need a drink. Want to join me?"

Not even a heartbeat passed before his partner said, "Nope. I know how you get when you're drinkin' and got something on your mind. Don't guess I need to witness it again."

Mitch had to smile at his partner. "Suit yourself. I'll see you in the morning. Tomorrow is Friday and I think I'll actually take this weekend off. I'm getting nowhere with what I've got. Sure would be nice to have a partner that would solve this damn case for me."

Lazarus stopped and looked up at the stars when they exited headquarters. He'd been so different after the accident, Mitch thought. Almost like he knew a secret that he would take to his grave without whispering a word. He'd been a patrol cop then, and a routine domestic dispute between a husband and wife quickly turned into a homicide/suicide case. He had just removed his safety vest. It had been the end of his shift, and he had actually been on his way home when the call came in. He was within a block of the address, so he'd decided to check it out.

The husband had shot and killed his wife for cheating on him. And as Lazarus, formally known as Kyle Lanton, kicked the door in to subdue the shooter, he took four rounds in the abdomen and two in the chest; one of the bullets only missing his heart by a breath of sheer luck. Then the shooter put a bullet in his own brain, ending it all.

He died four times on the operating table. After being declared D E A D, time of death 11:55 p.m. and all, the son of a bitch took a breath. It's all still yet to be explained, and evidently Lazarus isn't talking about it.
Maybe it was a miracle.

There was a spot open in homicide when Lazarus fully recovered, and he took the job. He didn't need a bigger hint than death to tell him he was in the wrong department. He had been Mitch's partner for two years. And there he stood, looking up at the night's sky like a foolish star gazer. Mitch wondered sometimes if his partner needed a little more psychoanalysis from the department's shrink.

"This one is for you, Foley," Lazarus said, still looking up at the dim specks of light through the city's smog.

"And what the hell does that mean?" Mitch said as he put his helmet on, then started his bike. The engine roared to life, making the loud street even more deafening. It was chilly out tonight. The start of winter was beginning to show its ugly face, and Mitch wasn't anywhere near ready for it. It meant that he would be stuck in that damn car. He hated cars.

Lazarus shook his head as he looked back at Mitch, then he shrugged his big shoulders. "Don't actually know what it means, Foley. Somethin' tellin' me to let you take the reins all by yourself."

Mitch was really getting tired. Tired of Lazarus' damn riddles. Tired of this damn case. Tired of this damn job. He was just plain tired. He took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten to keep from saying something he would later regret. Most of the time he didn't care what the hell came out of his mouth. There were only a few people he held his tongue for. One was his Captain, but as soon as the guy was out of hearing range he told him off. He would do it to his face but he knew that homicide was the perfect job for him. He couldn't imagine doing anything else. Telling the guy off to his face would land him in the unemployment line. The second person was his mother. Well, she had been one up until cancer claimed her life eighteen months prior. The last person was the guy walking away from him, without so much as a good-bye or even a kiss-my-ass-see-you-tomorrow. Lazarus never did say good-bye. He just said what he had to say, and then he would leave or hang up the phone.

Mitch shook his head as he pulled onto the street. He had wanted a drink, but the look on his partner's face a minute ago, when he said he didn't know why he was supposed to leave the case all up to him, disturbed him a little. Was the guy actually hearing voices in his head or what?

Instead of going to Durk's bar, Mitch took a left at the light and headed north to his apartment. It wasn't far, and if he still needed it later, he had his own whiskey in the cabinet.

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Chapter
2

Mitch opened his fridge. He didn't know why. If anything had of been in the damn ice box, it would have been green and furry by now. He hadn't been to the store to buy groceries in months. It wasn't his favorite thing to do. However, he did like to eat, and it was still early enough to order a pizza from around the corner.

He made quick work with his cell phone, and in twenty-five minutes or less, he'd have a steaming all meat and cheese pizza pie delivered to his door. Why did people grocery shop anyway, when you could have the shit cooked and brought to you with only a few numbers dialed on a phone?

There was Chinese, Mexican, Italian, Greek, not that he'd tried Greek, but they would deliver. Hell, you could even have Tofu delivered if you were desperate. He hadn't ever been that desperate.

He made his way down the short hall to his bathroom and, after flipping on the light, he looked in the mirror. Covering the reflection came to thought. He looked like hell warmed over. His dark-brown eyes were dulled by the red around them. His dark brown hair was too long, and that beard he was evidently working on made him look homeless instead of GQ material.

He rubbed his chin, then shook his head. He was too tired to worry about any of it tonight. Maybe he would do something about it all Saturday. He could do something about those bloodshot eyes though. A little Visine and eight hours of sleep should cure those. He squinted as the clear drops fell into his eyes. It burned like hell. He sighed as he thought of sleep again. To get eight hours of sleep was almost like a dream itself. Every time he did try to rest, he would have horrid nightmares. For some reason he related his nightmares to the murders. Maybe the case
was
the reason for the nightmares. The strange thing was, he would see faces in his dreams, then a few days later see those same faces on the front page of the Independent.

He hadn't told anyone about his dreams because, well, he didn't want to look like a total psycho freak. He would say they were premonitions of some sort, but he didn't believe in all that crap. Magic wasn't real. There was only reality, and last time he checked, dreams were not reality.

A snapshot of a woman flashed in his head. She'd been in every one of the dreams. She was beautiful, and maybe that was why he wasn't interested in having sex with anyone he already knew. No female he'd ever met in real life measured up to her beauty. No other female could even hold a candle to her. She'd seduced him with her beauty many times in his dreams ... no sex, no touching, but God how he wanted her. Women that beautiful didn't exist anyway. If they did, they sure wouldn't be seducing him.

The nightmare part of it was that she was always covered in blood just before he was about to touch her.
The victim's blood maybe?
He shook his head. No woman could be responsible for the unusual murders.

It was a serial case, but there was no blood left in the bodies, not a drop. The unusual thing about it all was that there were no injuries on any of them. No slit wrists or throats, no bruises or lacerations of any kind on the bodies, not even needle marks. That was what had Mitch pulling his thick hair out the last four weeks. He couldn't concentrate on finding the
who,
because he couldn't stop thinking about the
how
. How the hell had the killer gotten the blood out of the bodies? There were seventeen, and counting. Seems the guy was murdering three to four people a week, with none of them being alike. No certain race or age or gender. Just randomly picking off people and dematerializing their blood out of their veins. It didn't sound serial, but he didn't know what else to call it. Maybe he just hadn't figured out the pattern yet.

The buzzer sounded, pulling him out of his daydreaming. He went to the speaker, then pushed the button to speak and unlock the main door down below. "Come on up, Brad." It should have disturbed him that he knew the pizza guy by name, but it didn't. He actually knew all the people who delivered food to him by their first name.

He opened the door wide then went to find his wallet. Brad was leaning against the kitchen counter when Mitch came back in the room. "Hey, you wanna go to the game on Saturday? My girlfriend bought me tickets, then found out she has to work. Everyone I know is already going, so I have an extra ticket if you wanna be my date, Foley. Free ticket," Brad said with a smile.

"Well, I don't know. Are you buying my dinner too?" Mitch handed Brad twenty bucks for the pizza. He didn't have to tell him to keep the change. It was an understanding they had. Brad had been his pizza delivery guy for the last two years, and all the other delivery people from different food chains didn't bother to hand him change back either, unless they wanted to get yelled at. They had all learned the hard way. Mitch understood that the people only earned minimum wage, and minimum wage wasn't enough to live on in this city. A seven to ten dollar tip wasn't too much to give them for bringing the food, already prepared, to his door.

"I thought you would buy mine." Brad grinned, and so did Mitch.

"I'm taking the weekend off. Maybe a little football is what I need to clear my head."

Brad reached in his back pocket and took out his wallet, grabbed one of the tickets and handed it over to Mitch. "Great, I didn't want to have to sell it to someone I didn't know. You never can be sure you aren't going to be sitting beside some wacko," Brad said with a smirk. "Well, I guess I still will be, but at least I'll be sitting next to a wacko I know."

Mitch hit him in the arm hard. Brad winced, rubbed the sore spot, but never lost his smile. "See you Saturday, Detective," he said, then turned and left the way he came, shutting the door on his way out. Mitch walked over and locked it, bolted it, then threw the chain in place. You could never be too careful, even in the nicer part of the city where he lived.

He didn't have a whole lot of friends. He didn't have time for them, like he hadn't had time for Jennifer. Maybe he should just tell his Captain that he didn't have any leads. He could hand the case over to someone else, then get a life for himself. He could even quit his job and move back to his small hometown in Arkansas where he'd grown up. His mother had left him the house and all her things. Along with the two large life insurance policies that would keep him well off for many decades without any additional income. He hadn't touched a penny of it. Guess he was living with the illusion that she would come back one day and need it. He missed her, but hardly ever allowed himself to stop and grieve her loss. She wasn't gone to him.