Hot Contact (8 page)

“Sounds good to me.” He brushed his lips against hers.

She wondered if she should tell him that as soon as they were done with the investigation, the relationship would be done, too. No. Her reasons would sound egotistical. He was obviously ready for a family of his own. She wasn't. Would probably never be. He was a cop, and cops were notorious for having bad track records with relationships. She'd seen it for herself with her parents, whose relationship was so different from those of her friends' parents. If Arianna ever made a commitment, it had to be a partnership in every sense of the word, the good and the bad.

But if she voiced her reasons out loud, it would sound like she expected him to fall in love with her. She didn't expect that. His ex-fiancée's career got in the way of their relationship. Arianna's would, too. She had to remember that, too, to guard herself. He would be an easy man to get serious about.

So she left it alone and kissed him back, savoring the slow tenderness he offered this time as opposed to last night's impetuous and intense coupling.

His lips were warm and firm and made her hunger for more. His tongue found hers and stroked leisurely, thoroughly, enticingly. His hands moved down her body, leaving a trail of heat. Buttons came undone. The shirt came off. Then he was naked, too, and slipping a leg between hers. He dragged his mouth down her neck and over her collarbone, lifting her breast with his hand to meet his open mouth. Her nipple ached until he drew it into the wet heat, his tongue circling, teeth scraping before closing his lips and sucking it deeply.

She rose up. He held her down. She moaned. He encouraged her. His tempo picked up. Searching. Seeking.
Finding. Satisfying. Oh, he knew what to do. But first she had things to do to him.

He didn't fight it for long. She welcomed the freedom to taste him. Touch him. Please him. She liked that she could draw deep-chested sounds from him, rumbles of arousal, rough whispers of encouragement. She lingered, enjoying herself, enjoying his reaction. She explored his bold contours, savored the unrelenting heat and strength. Triumphed when he called her name, pleasure and pain in the sound. He was as out of control as she'd been last night. It excited her even more, knowing what she was doing to him.

Suddenly he dove his fingers into her hair and dragged her up. He devoured her mouth with his. She let go of any remaining trace of restraint to just feel. She felt his hands cup her rear and lift her higher, pushing himself deeper, moving faster, harder. The pleasure built impossibly stronger but wouldn't peak. She wrapped her legs around him. He kissed her, his tongue thrusting in rhythm.

Then there was no more buildup but a huge burst that lasted and lasted and lasted. He didn't hold back, either, but joined her, their slick bodies slamming against each other, the sex-scented air humid and thick. Finally he slowed, stopped, draped himself over her. She tried to breathe. Tried to come up with a coherent thought. A thought came but couldn't be articulated.

“That was the one-mile race,” he said close to her ear.

She laughed, a short, out-of-breath sound. “I think you broke a record.”

“I think
we
did.” He rolled to his side, taking her with him. “Will you spend your nights here from now on?”

“Yes.”
Until our job is done.

“Good.” He drew her against him, kissed her hair. “Sleep now.”

“I need a shower now.”

“Want your back washed?”

“That would be nice.”

In the shower he showed her he could pole vault, too. She wished she had a gold medal to give him.

T
he next afternoon Joe drove by Mary Beth Maxwell's house, continued around the block again, then parked a few houses up the street from hers. She was Mary Beth Horvath now, having married Leon Horvath nineteen years ago. They had two teenage sons. Arianna's partner Sam Remington had tracked down the eyewitness to Mateo Alvarado's murder to a quiet street in middle-class Fullerton, where they had lived for twelve years.

Barely an hour ago Arianna had called Joe to pass on the information. He volunteered to do a little surveillance but would not approach Mary Beth until Arianna could be there, too. They wouldn't make an appointment, either, the element of surprise generally giving them an advantage. But if they couldn't catch her at home alone, they would have to call and schedule a time.

He studied the surroundings, wondering how long it would take for a curious neighbor to notice him and either
approach and ask what he was doing or call the police directly. A Neighborhood Watch sign was visible from where he sat.

A red Ford Explorer, one of three cars registered to the Horvath family, pulled into the driveway. A woman got out, average height and weight. Attractive. Blond. She gathered a few shopping bags from the back seat and headed into the house. In a few minutes she came back for more then pressed the car alarm button on her key chain and returned to the house.

Joe waited. Twenty minutes later a blue VW Beetle convertible, also registered to the Horvaths, pulled in next to the Explorer. Four teenage boys exited the car and disappeared into the house, backpacks in tow, two of the teens tossing a basketball between them.

A half hour later, three of the boys came out the front door. Two got in the car. The third, the driver, opened his door then stopped and looked in Joe's direction. He said something to the other boys. They got out of the car and ambled up to Joe's car, as if being in a group would save them from being shot, if that was what Joe intended. Kids.

“What're you doin'?” the driver asked. Tall, skinny and belligerent, he was a typical teen.

Joe flashed his detective shield. “Surveillance.”

“Cool,” one of the other boys said. “Who you lookin' at?”

“I can't say.”

“Bet it's—”

The Horvath kid elbowed him into silence. “Your badge says L.A., not Fullerton. Can you be here?”

“Yes. And, boys, you're making it kind of hard to stay unobtrusive.”

“It's cool,” one kid said, grabbing the Horvath boy's arm and pulling him along.

They sent a few backward glances in Joe's direction. The Horvath boy sent a particularly long look, probably memorizing Joe's license plate.

When Mr. Horvath hadn't shown up by six o'clock, Joe left to meet Arianna at home. Her car was already parked in the driveway.

He wondered if he could kiss her hello. She had managed to avoid a kiss goodbye that morning, as if the bedroom was the only place they would touch, the physical relationship to be kept separate from their working one.

He'd missed her all day. He hated admitting that to himself, but he had. She'd had a violent nightmare during the night, and he'd held and soothed her until she fell back asleep. He'd been glad he was there.

But he'd also slept, surprisingly. Better than he had in months. And his stomach had calmed down since he'd started vacation.

Since he'd met her.

He opened his front door and stopped. Something smelled incredible.

He followed the smell into the kitchen, where Arianna was working some kind of magic on the stove.

“You cook,” he said.

“You can thank my mother.”

“I will.” He moved closer, intending to kiss her.

She held up a spoon loaded with a rice mixture. “Taste.”

So, no kiss. He ate the food from the spoon. “Good,” he said. Then fire attacked his mouth and tongue. He grabbed the faucet, turned on the cold water and angled his head to get a mouthful of water. “That's some kick,” he said, breathing hard, his eyes watering.

“I figured you were up to it, Detective.”

Yeah, but not his stomach. Maybe if he filled it with beer first, so it had a place to land and dilute. “What's in that?”

“Rice and beans. Chilis. Hot ones.”

“No—” he coughed “—kidding. The flavor's unbelievable, though.”

She smiled. “I've been marinating chicken in a lime and tequila mix. I started the coals a while ago, if you'd like to grill the chicken.”

“Sure.”

“But first, what'd you find out?”

As he grabbed a beer to cool his still-on-fire mouth, he related what he'd seen. “I couldn't tell from her clothes if she'd been working or just out doing errands, but we can go in the morning and see if we can catch her alone. Can you arrange your schedule to do that?”

“I already did.”

“Okay.” He took the bag of marinated chicken from her and grabbed some tongs. “Don't expect miracles, Arianna. If she couldn't remember then, she probably couldn't add to it now.”

“I know.”

He wondered if she did. He was afraid that her hopes were unrealistically high. All he could do was continue to caution her.

They ate in the backyard again, by the koi pond. It was the best meal he could remember having—at least of the non-comfort-food variety. After having cool lime sorbet for dessert they went back to work on the files.

“Don't you think it's strange that there was only one eyewitness?” Arianna asked after a while. “The liquor store was in a busy part of town. It was noon. Doesn't that seem odd that the store was empty?”

“Yeah. I've wondered about that, too. And his partner was up the street buying them sandwiches for lunch, heard the shots but was too late to see the shooters.”

“No one else saw them, either.” She drummed her pen on the table. “That's hard to believe.”

Because the official reports told only the facts, there was no speculation from Joe's father. He must have thought it odd, too, though. Joe thumbed through the copies of the notebook looking for any mention of the lack of witnesses, something Joe would include in his own notes on his cases—speculation, theories, ideas that went nowhere but needed to be ruled out.

“What was his partner's name?” Arianna asked.

“Fred Zamora.”

“FZ. Z. I've seen that letter alone in the notes. I thought it was a 2, which totally confused me. Have you seen it?” She hunted through the papers.

“Yeah. I thought it was a 2, too.” He checked his list of codes he'd culled from the notes, then spun the paper toward her. “It's on these pages.”

She gave him a flirty look. “I do like an organized man.”

He wanted to kiss her. Ached to kiss her. Her look of intense concentration all evening had made him smile more than once. And the hint of cleavage he could see from across the table made him wish the clock would fast forward to bedtime. She was focused
and
sexy without trying. The one-two punch packed a wallop.

They looked at each of the seven pages with a Z on it, from the day of the murder to a month later, but the letters that followed the Z made no sense to Arianna or Joe.

“We need to contact this guy,” she said. “I'll ask Sam. It'll be a little more difficult without his pertinent numbers, like a birth date.”

“He probably played a prominent role at the funeral. We'll watch the tape again and see if we can spot him.
Estimate his age. I don't suppose your mother would offer any information?”

“I doubt it. I can ask, though.”

“You don't remember him at all?”

“Maybe if I saw him, I would. It was so long ago.”

“Yeah. Even if you could get an approximate age, it would help in eliminating other men with the same name.”

“Can't be too many Fred Zamoras out there.” She stretched and yawned. “I think I've gone as far as I can go tonight. How about you?”

He was good for another hour, but he didn't think time was going to help much. The codes were hard to break, seemingly without any rhyme or reason. If the Z did indeed represent Zamora, that was their first bit of luck. But he also didn't want to spend every hour working on it. He was supposed to be taking back his life. He intended to.

Have a normal life. He wasn't sure he knew what that was anymore, except that he knew Arianna could easily become as obsessed as he'd been. He needed to make sure that didn't happen, that she didn't end up in the kind of shape he'd been in, was still in, to some degree.

“Why don't you go relax in a hot bath,” he said.

“I'm fine.”

“I didn't say you weren't.”

“You didn't have to say it. You implied it.”

“Now you can read my mind?”

She laughed. “That would be helpful.”

“There's nothing on my mind that would shock you.”
Except how often I'd like to strip you naked and—

“I wonder,” she said, then stood. She met his gaze. “I'd like to see the crime scene tomorrow.”

“A lot will have changed in twenty-five years.”

She nodded. “I need to.”

“Yeah. I would, too. Go take your bath.”

He took a quick shower himself, then waited for her in bed.

He heard her pad barefoot down the hall, just the sound arousing him. Then she was in his bed, all warm and dewy. Naked. Kissing him. The force of her passion staggered him until he caught up with her, then took control, giving her more than she asked for, taking as much as she would give.

“I need—” she said, breathless, after he'd entered her.

He'd been waiting, hoping, she would say something. Anything to let him know what she was feeling beyond the physical. “What do you need?” He stopped moving.

“You,” she breathed. “You.”

“You've got me.”

“All of you.”

“What more is there?” He'd left the light on this time so that he could see her. He saw her brows furrow. The skin over her cheekbones was taut and flushed. Her eyes were fathomless.

“I don't know,” she said. “Something.”

He started to move again. Slow. Steady. “This?”

She reached to cup his face, her gaze locked with his. She nodded.

He knew there was more she wanted to say, but she either couldn't or wouldn't. He decided not to press the point but just to please her. And to find pleasure himself.

Later, in the deep dark hours of the night, after he'd calmed her after another nightmare, he regretted not forcing her hand, and hoped there would be another opportunity to ask.

Then he slept.

 

Within ARC Arianna was known for her interviewing skills. Body language was her second language. Nate and Sam almost always had her sit in during interviews because
of her extraordinary ability to read the slightest nuances. It was an art as well as a science, and she was a master.

Today she felt like a novice. Her stomach lurched as she and Joe pulled up in front of Mary Beth Horvath's house. She was grateful he was along and could take over if she faltered, even though the idea of him seeing her falter made her sick.

“No car in the driveway,” she said.

“Maybe it's in the garage.”

He opened his door. She was glad he didn't offer an encouraging little pep talk but assumed she would be professional, no matter how much emotional turmoil swirled around her.
Score another one for you, Joe Vicente.
A lot of men would've shown concern about her doing her job. He seemed to expect her to do her job. His faith settled her.

The woman who answered the door was as Joe had described yesterday.

“Mrs. Horvath?” Arianna said.

“What?” She had the impatient look of a person who figured she was going to have to say “No, thank you,” to whatever they were selling and close the door in their faces.

“My name is Arianna Alvarado. This is Detective Joe Vicente of the LAPD. Could we have a few minutes of your time, please?”

Joe showed his badge and ID. Arianna didn't want to identify herself as a P.I., so she didn't show anything, letting Joe's ID cover both of them.

“I—” Mary Beth stopped. Stared. “Alvarado?”

“Mateo Alvarado was my father.”

Mary Beth's face blanched.

“And Detective Mike Vicente is mine,” Joe added. “May we come inside?”

After endless seconds she backed away, opening the
door, then shut it behind them with a soft click. “This way.”

The house was beautifully decorated in a French country motif, Arianna noted. Tasteful but not overly formal. It was a good house for entertaining business associates while not being intimidating to teenagers who wanted to put their feet on the furniture.

Mary Beth gestured toward the sofa, inviting them to sit. She perched on a blue upholstered chair.

“Are we alone?” Joe asked.

“Yes. My children are in school. My husband is at work.” She closed her eyes for a few seconds. “I thought that part of my life was over,” she said. “I guess it won't die until I do.”

“I'm sorry to resurrect painful memories, Mrs. Horvath,” Arianna said. “We're trying to piece together what happened to my father.”

She frowned. “What can I say that's different from what's in the reports?”

“I don't know. That's why we're here.”

She leaned back, resigned. “All right.”

“All I know for sure is that he had stopped at the liquor store where you worked to get a pack of cigarettes during his lunch break and got caught in the crossfire of a hold-up. And that you were the only witness.”

“Then you also know that I was critically wounded and almost died. I can't remember much of what happened after seeing your father come in.”

“For cigarettes?” Joe asked.

“And a soda. He'd headed to the refrigerator to get it. I was ringing him up. The cash drawer was open. There were two men. I didn't see them until I heard the first shot, and I don't know who shot first. I never saw their faces. After that it's a blur. More shots fired. I don't know whose or
how many. I was shot. It was unreal. I remember falling against some bottles behind the counter. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital with three gunshot wounds, barely alive. I was told the surgeons operated on me for nine hours.”