Memories of Us (2 page)

“Don’t hold your breath.” Celia lifted the gray powder from the evidence-collection kit.

Cook peered inside the front seat before placing a crime scene marker next to the fast-food wrappers visible in the floorboard. He grinned down at Celia’s head when she bent to dust the door handle. “So did you go to Price’s little soirée?”

“Oh, I’m impressed, Cook. Your vocabulary’s growing. And, yes, I went to Price’s party. Why? You upset you didn’t get an invite?”

“They were afraid I’d upstage the merchandise.”

Celia laughed, the sweet sound sending a frisson over Tom’s spine. He scowled. Nice place for flirting, with the baby’s body mere feet away. He shouldn’t be surprised—he knew how cops compartmentalized their emotions.

But he’d expected different, expected more from Celia. Distance he could understand. Insensitivity was a different matter altogether.

Insensitive? You’re standing here lusting after your investigator, and
she’s
insensitive?

“How long do you think it’s been deceased?” Celia was once again the consummate professional.

Cook shrugged. “Rigor’s beginning to set in. Haven’t checked for lividity yet. A couple hours, maybe?”

Celia frowned. “Wouldn’t he notice that baby hadn’t cried in a while? It’s young. They cry a lot when they’re little, don’t they?”

Tom closed his eyes for a second, the sound of wails and snuffling cries not dimmed by the distance of time. The hollow feeling in his chest tightened.

“No clue.” Cook pulled his notebook from his pocket. “First thing we’ll do is check missing-persons reports. But seems like we’d have an Amber Alert for a missing child.”

“I can help with running those reports.” Her voice softened as she began dusting the back door panel. The spotlights picked out the darker tones of her hair.

“Great. Appreciate that.” With swift strokes, Cook penned a rough sketch of the car’s interior, scribbling in the margins.

Celia cast another glance at the Chandler County K-9 unit, her blue eyes gleaming in the reflected light. “I want to be in on the questioning.”

The corner of Cook’s mouth lifted and he returned the notebook to his pocket. “Kinda thought that, since you showed up with McMillian. Didn’t figure you were dating him. He doesn’t seem like your type.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Funny, Cook.”

Tom glared at the back of Cook’s head. Not her type? What the hell did he mean by that?

“Know what kind of guy you need?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Fun, no strings attached, shows a girl a good time. One who actually smiles.”

“I see where this is going and it’s not working.” Celia’s mouth curved. “I don’t date Chandler County boys, remember?”

“Who says I wanted you to date me?”

“You know you’re secretly pining for me, Cook.”

“Oh, hell yeah, St. John. I doodle your initials all over my reports. Sheriff gives me hell about it all the time.”

Irritation jerked under Tom’s skin. He’d had enough. She could damn well conduct herself with the decorum demanded by his office. Tom took a step forward, shoulders tight, and stopped. The yellow tape snapped in the light breeze, a visible “keep out”.

He was the outsider here. Hell, how many times had he been there in his marriage? On the exterior of the little world cops built around themselves. He folded his arms over his chest and stared at Celia.

She glanced around as if feeling the weight of his look. He kept his face impassive, hoping she’d pick up the nonverbal warning. She held his gaze for a moment, her own face expressionless, before she turned away, back to the little world where he wasn’t allowed.

His cell phone buzzed at his waist and he jerked it free. “McMillian.”

“What the hell is going on?” Rhett High’s gruff voice filled his ear. Tom used a finger at the other to drown out the commotion around him and focused on his friend and chief assistant district attorney. “You missed the damn dinner meeting, Tom. I waited a fucking half hour for you.”

Shit, he’d completely forgotten. “Sorry, man. I’m on a crime scene with Celia.”

“Yeah?” Rhett sounded only partially mollified. “What kind?”

“Child death. An infant discovered during that roadblock exercise in Chandler County.” He let his gaze linger on Celia, now hunched by the open back door, watching as a crime scene technician and the medical examiner folded the blanket away from the infant.

“A baby?” All irritation disappeared from Rhett’s voice, a sharp note Tom knew only too well taking its place.

“Yes.” He refused to give into the instinct to grind his teeth.

A pause hung over the line. Rhett cleared his throat. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” He narrowed his eyes, taking in the car, the infant seat, Cook leaning to peer over Celia’s head, a hand on her shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“He’s not talking.” Celia pulled the door to Chandler County’s interview room closed behind her. Exhaustion tugged at her, tension pulling across her neck and shoulders, eyes gritty and dry. McMillian waited in the small hallway outside the room.

He rested a hand on the wall and eyed the John Doe suspect through the two-way glass. “He hasn’t lawyered up, though.”

From beneath her lashes, Celia looked sideways at him. “He’d have to open his mouth to do that.”

Frustration sizzled through her. She’d been playing cool and bitchy to Cook’s good ol’ boy consideration for the last hour and a half, and they were exactly where they’d been when they started—nowhere. The guy had fear flickering in his eyes constantly, but it wasn’t fear of her or Cook, of what the legal system held for him. No, this suspect was terrified of something else completely.

McMillian frowned, staring through the glass. “Keep working him.”

The door opened and Cook stepped into the hall. He blew out a long breath and passed a hand over his jaw, a shadow of stubble beginning to appear there. “Oh, yeah, he’s a virgin without a ring. Clammed up
real
tight.”

She suppressed a smile.

McMillian shot them both a glare. “Keep working him.”

Cook shook his head. “Hate to tell you this, Counselor, but the foreplay ain’t getting it with this guy.”

Arms crossed, McMillian failed to look amused. “Then maybe it’s your technique, Investigator.”

One of Cook’s eyebrows angled skyward. “Never had any complaints before.”

McMillian’s expression bordered on thunderous, a deep vee appearing on his forehead. Cook grinned and waved a hand at the interview room. “Why don’t you give it a shot?”

Tension vibrated through McMillian’s body. Celia tried to tone Cook down with a quelling look. “McMillian?”

He turned those electric blue eyes on her. “What?”

She tilted her head toward the suspect. “He’s not going to talk tonight. We can hold him, put his ass in a cell, and once we have the initial ME’s report, we can question him again tomorrow. If we’re lucky, we’ll have a match on his prints. Or something we can use to get him talking.”

Brows lowered, he studied the nameless man once more. “You think that’s the best route?”

“I do.”

“All right.” He cracked his knuckles. “Remember we only have forty-eight hours before he has to be arraigned.”

Cook crossed his arms. “We can always charge him with an insurance violation. That’s a jailable offense.”

“Do that, then. Investigator.” McMillian nodded at Cook. He pulled his keys from his pocket and slanted a look at Celia. “Ready to go?”

She shifted under a strange pull of conflicting loyalties. The first forty-eight hours following the discovery of a body were crucial to a homicide investigation. If she knew Cook, he wouldn’t be going home, although his shift had ended almost an hour ago, at eleven.

“Go on without me. I want to review the particulars with Cook one more time, see if we can turn up any leads.”

McMillian nodded, his mouth a thin line. “You don’t have your car.”

Cook hooked his thumbs in pockets. “I’ll give her a ride when she’s ready.”

If anything, McMillian’s mouth tightened further. He glanced at Celia. “Is that what you want?”

She shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“Okay then.” He stared at her a moment. “I’ve got to be in court at nine. I’d like you in my office for debriefing at eight.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked down the hall. Cook’s gaze followed him, a wicked grin playing around his mouth. “He doesn’t like the idea of me taking you home.”

Celia rolled her eyes. “He could care less.”

“Sure he could.”

“Cook, shut up and get this guy to lockup. We have things to do.”

“Whatever you say, St. John.” He pushed the door open. The suspect looked up, a muscle flickering in his jaw. “We’re charging you tonight with failure to provide proof of insurance. You’ve already had your rights explained and you still have the right to exercise them at this time. Any questions?”

The man shook his head, Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin throat.

Cook nodded. “All right, we’ll take you to lockup for the night.”

The jail was relatively quiet, the televisions and lights off, only the occasional murmur of a quiet voice rising to cut through the silence. With Chandler County’s new digital fingerprinting machine, taking the suspect’s prints took a fraction of the time and involved less mess. Cook placed the guy in a cell alone and slid the door closed, the lock clanging.

He held the paperwork aloft. “Won’t take me long to process this.”

Celia followed him upstairs to the squad room and dropped into the chair next to his neat desk. He squinted at the computer screen, angling it in her direction. “Looks like the motor-vehicle database is back up. Where’s the VIN from the car?”

She picked up his notebook and flipped through it until she found his notes. As she recited the numbers and letters, he keyed them in. The screen flashed a request to wait before flipping to a display of driver information.

“There it is.” Cook reached for his notebook and pen. Celia leaned forward to read over his arm. Her hair fell forward and she tucked it behind her ear. Damn, this was why she never wore it down for work.

Tillie Tyrone. 183 Miller Street, Jacksonville, Florida.

No driver history found. Vehicle not insured.

Celia clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “He doesn’t look like a Tillie to me.”

Cook leaned back in his chair, its springs squeaking. “No report of it being stolen.”

She reached for his desk phone, dialed information. Within a minute, she replaced the receiver with a sigh. “No Tillie Tyrone listed anywhere in the Jacksonville area.”

Leaning over, he picked up his laptop then passed it to her. “Google her while I fill out this report.”

While the laptop booted up and connected to the wireless server, she studied him with sideways peeks beneath her lashes. A sardonic laugh bubbled in her throat. He actually thought McMillian minded his taking her home. What a joke. Cook could do a lot more and McMillian wouldn’t give a damn.

“Hey, St. John, you gonna do that search or just stare at the screen all night?”

She blinked. A smirk curled his mouth and he shook his head before turning back to the desktop computer. “You’re not with it tonight. What’s going on with you?”

God, now she was letting the crap with McMillian affect her job. That was it. The whole constantly-thinking-about-him thing? Stopped right now. And oh damn it, she was doing it again already.

She tunneled her hands through her hair and blew out a long breath. “I’m just tired.”

He harrumphed, clicking the mouse to page down. “I’ve seen you falling-out exhausted and you weren’t this distracted.”

“It’s your investigative prowess, Cook. I’m shocked and awed.”

His rich chuckle rumbled from his broad chest. “Whatever, St. John.”

She returned her attention to the laptop. “Nearest Tillie Tyrone lives in Virginia. She’s an aspiring romance novelist with a blog.”

“Probably a fake name and address on the registration. Search the address, see what comes up.” He heaved a sigh. “No Amber Alerts on a missing infant. No records at all in the database on an infant that young, custody disputes or anything. Closest thing is a parent abduction of a six-month-old from Savannah from March.”

“That baby had to come from somewhere.” She rubbed her fingers across her aching eyes. “Maybe he is the father.”

“He’s not the father.”

She lifted an eyebrow at the certainty in his voice. “How do you know?”

“His kid’s dead and he doesn’t react at all? He’s not the father.”

“People react differently in stressful situations, Cook, you know that. He could be in shock.” Although that didn’t explain the fear she’d seen in the man’s eyes earlier. “Besides, you don’t have kids. How do you know how a father would react?”

His jaw tightened and he chewed harder on his gum. “Because I just do. He’s not that baby’s father.”

She shrugged. “Fine. We’ll see what the DNA test shows.”

He snorted. “Yeah, six to nine months from now. Lab’s still backed up. You know that.”

“Whitlock owes me a favor. I’ll call it in, see if we can get our labs moved to the top of the list.”

“First thing in the morning, we’re getting that baby’s photo on the news.” Cook leaned back, arms folded behind his head. “Anything on that address yet?”

“According to the tax registry, it’s a vacant lot.”

“Another dead end. This is going to be a fun case. I can tell already.”

“Yeah.” Resting her chin on her hand, she tapped her fingers against her cheek. “Pull up the VIN again. What’s the title history on the car?”

The next couple of hours passed without the appearance of any solid leads. Celia could see her own frustration mirrored in Cook’s face as the night deepened. Finally, he pushed back from the desk with a curse. “C’mon, St. John. Let’s get out of here. You look like you could use a few hours’ sleep. We’ll hit it hard tomorrow morning, when we’re fresh. Maybe our guy will be ready to talk by then.”

She nodded, flipped his laptop closed and slid it across the desk to him. Irritation tugged at her—the urge to keep going warred with the sensibility of his suggestion. Rubbing at her nape, she rolled her head, trying to alleviate the tension sitting at the base of her shoulders. Cook slipped the notebook into its case and tucked it under his arm.

He jingled his keys at her. “Ready?”

When they stepped outside, the warm moist air of early morning wrapped around them. Frogs croaked somewhere in the distance. Celia dragged in deep breaths of the fresh air, the sleepy fuzz clearing somewhat.

Where the hell did that baby come from? Why wasn’t someone looking for her?

Cook unlocked the driver’s side of his ancient Blazer. “Want me to go into McMillian’s office with you?”

She stretched, spine popping. “That would be great.”

Her purse slid to the ground. Cook leaned down, picked it up and held it out. “You’re not with it, St. John.”

“Thanks.” She took the clutch, and her brow furrowed. “Did you see a purple gift…”

The words died in her throat. Oh, hell.

She’d left the damn sex toys in McMillian’s car.