Speak No Evil (20 page)

“What can we do? Can we find him now? Do you have an address?”

“Slow down. This is a huge leap forward, but we still only have his public persona. No IP, no home address.”

“The key here,” Dillon said, “is that we can focus our resources on finding Scout instead of wasting time chasing other people down.”

“You’re that certain,” Nick said.

“You have doubts?”

Nick was silent for a good minute, looking over the comments. “No, I think you’re right.”

“We have our work cut out for us,” Carina said, “but we’re getting closer. I can feel it.”

TWENTY
-
FOUR

S
HORTLY AFTER
D
ILLON AND
P
ATRICK LEFT—TELLING
Carina to go home and sleep a couple hours—Carina took Nick back to her parents’ house. She glanced at the dashboard clock: 1:13 a.m. The lights were off, except for the front security lights. One in the morning was too late for her parents.

She shut off the car, turned to Nick. The entire drive over she couldn’t get him out of her mind.

Maybe it was because they’d just been at a crime scene and she wanted to rid her mind of the images so she could sleep tonight. Or maybe it was because Nick Thomas was so damn sexy she’d been having erotic dreams about him for the past two nights.

But, if she wanted to be honest with herself, it was two reasons. First, Nick
was
sexy and he didn’t know it. He didn’t flirt, he didn’t try to be anything he wasn’t. The raw realism that what you see is what you get with Sheriff Thomas attracted her like little else. She didn’t date much because she didn’t want to sort through truth and lies to figure out if her date was someone she wanted to explore a relationship with. And, frankly, her job kept her so damn busy she didn’t want to spend that much time separating the wheat from the chaff.

And second, well, this was a little too close for comfort, but Carina knew herself well: she’d always been attracted to guys who didn’t flirt, the hard-to-get type. Since she turned fifteen, grew breasts, and developed a curvy figure, she’d had guys hitting on her wherever she went. While she didn’t particularly like it, she expected it, so when it didn’t happen, she looked twice at the guy.

Certainly Nick found her attractive. He wasn’t married—no ring, no phone calls to or from a spouse or girlfriend. At least in her presence, and they’d been together virtually every waking hour since he’d come to town. Maybe he was discreet, professional. Called late at night.

There was one surefire way to find out.

She turned to Nick, taking in his rugged sexiness that had been the subject of her hot dreams. His square jaw, piercing blue eyes, the scent of soap and sweat and nothing else. She licked her lips. His eyes dropped to her mouth.

Carina reached over with her right arm and grabbed Nick’s neck. She pulled herself to him, her lips to his, and kissed him. No tentative kiss, no wimpy damsel. A full-frontal, openmouthed assault on the mouth of the man who had captivated her for three days.

There was no turning back now. His mouth was heavenly, hot and sensuous and far better than any dream.

Nick knew Carina was going to kiss him the second before she latched her lips onto his. It took him a moment to adjust—no woman had ever initiated physical contact, not like this.

But Carina Kincaid was not like other women. Self-confident, in both her career and her body, she had a sensual self-awareness that enticed him.

He didn’t wait long to return her embrace.

As soon as he responded, she wrapped both arms around his neck, her fingers running through his short hair, massaging his head as she reached deeper into him with her mouth.

He wanted her.

Nick reached for her face, her soft skin silky against his rough hands. He pulled his mouth from hers, kissed her jaw, her long, sleek neck. She moaned into his ear, her reaction to his attention giving him the confidence to explore further. To touch her breasts, rub his thumb over her hard nipples. She gasped, clutched at his neck, kissed his ear, her hot breath sending shivers down his spine until all he wanted was to strip her naked and make love to her.

They’d become twisted in the front seat. Contrary to what teenagers thought, cars were not made for sex. Carina whispered in his ear, “Take me upstairs.”

At the same time her hand moved from his thigh to his knee. A jolt of fiery pain shot through his nerves. Damn, why now? Why couldn’t he have one night the way
he
wanted it?

He pulled away from her, hating to let her go. He swallowed back the pain that ran from his knees through his entire body.

“That’s probably not a good idea.” Nick turned his head, unable to look Carina in the eye. She was a woman who demanded honesty, and he couldn’t lie to her face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.” She looked at his knees and he felt uncomfortable but not surprised. She was a cop, trained to observe. He didn’t want her to know how much pain he was in, didn’t want her to think that it impacted his job. By tomorrow morning after a few Motrin he’d be good as new. He just over-did it today. He wasn’t used to twenty-hour days anymore.

“I’m fine,” he said, too sharply. To compensate, he reached over and kissed her lightly on the lips. Damn, she tasted so good. He kissed her again.

He touched her beautiful face, the slender lines and thick lips, naturally red from their hot kisses. He wanted her. But not now, not like this. Not in a car, not when he couldn’t carry her up the stairs.

“Good night, Carina.”

It took every ounce of strength to get out of the car without his knees buckling and crumbling to the driveway. He stood next to the car, unable to walk away.

Carina stared at him through the windshield, thinking.
Don’t think too hard, Carina.
He didn’t want her pity, he didn’t want her sympathy. He just wanted her to leave so he could take care of himself, so he’d be ready tomorrow morning for the autopsy of another young woman who didn’t deserve her fate.

Finally, she started the engine and backed up. She stopped the car, rolled down the window. “Dream of me tonight, Nick.”

She drove off. He watched the car until it reached the end of the tree-lined street. He expected it to turn the corner; instead, she pulled into the driveway of the corner house. The garage door went up and she pulled in.

She lived really close to her parents.

The garage door closed behind the car and Nick released his breath, not realizing he’d been holding it.

Damn. Even now, nearly a year later, the Butcher had left a permanent mark on Nick.

His knees were so shot he didn’t think he’d make it up the stairs. He almost hadn’t made it out of Carina’s car, and he was grateful she hadn’t said anything.

He’d taken the ibuprofen back at Jodi’s apartment, but it had done nothing to help the pain. Worse, he’d forced himself to stand longer than he should, not wanting to show any weakness in front of the San Diego Police Department or Carina. Especially Carina.

He dry-swallowed two more pills and shuffled over to the stairs leading to the apartment, then sat on the bottom step. A light above the apartment door illuminated the stairs.

Something about Carina . . . it drew him in like no woman had done before. She intrigued him. Pretty, certainly, and sexy, but it was more than her looks: there was a sharp brain and deep confidence. Like so many people in the world, she’d suffered tragedy, but her strength and natural optimism gave her the ability to persevere and create something much, much better with her life. Her drive to be a good cop, a great cop, was alluring. Almost as sexy as the way she put her hand on her hip, subtly, unconsciously, drawing attention to her oh-so-feminine curves.

He closed his eyes and wondered what would happen between him and Carina if he didn’t have so much baggage. He liked the way she thought, the way she looked, the way she loved her parents and respected her family. She’d kissed him, not a tentative, uncertain kiss, but a fierce and confident embrace that told him she wouldn’t be a shrinking violet in bed. She would give as good as she got.

He wanted her in his bed. Her bed. He would have taken her in the car, and knew she’d be more than willing if, perhaps, they weren’t sitting in her parents’ driveway.

More than anything, he appreciated her straightforward manner, the fact that she said what she thought and didn’t agonize over every decision she made.

He realized that’s exactly what he’d been doing back home in Montana. Agonizing over whether to be sheriff or give it up. Not because he wasn’t a good cop, but because he didn’t know if he wanted it anymore. The only person his bad decision had affected last year in the Butcher investigation was himself. It could have been worse. Someone could have been killed because he’d acted the maverick.

Still, being here, working this case, showed him he still had a sharp mind. Maybe sharper now for what he’d gone through in the past. If only his body would cooperate, he’d be at the top of his game.

Carina was a physically active, intelligent woman. Could he keep up with her? He wanted to. But look at him now, sitting on the stairs, unable to walk to the apartment above. Was it even fair to her?

“Beautiful night.”

Nick tensed until he recognized Colonel Pat Kincaid’s deep voice.

“Yes, sir,” he said, opening his eyes. By the colonel’s expression, he didn’t know if he’d witnessed Nick’s make-out session in the car with his daughter. “You snuck up on me.”

The colonel grinned, leaned against the stair railing. “I’m light on my feet.”

Nick knew he should stand, but if he tried he’d fail. Embarrassment warred with his predicament. He needed help; he didn’t want to ask.

“Carina has been working long hours on this case,” the colonel said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You can drop the ‘sir.’ I’m retired. Makes me feel old. And on duty.”

Nick couldn’t help but grin. He remembered telling his favorite deputy, Lance Booker, virtually the same thing.
Can the “sir.”
But old habits die hard. He’d always said “Yes, sir” to his father. His father demanded the respect.

Already, Nick had more respect for Pat Kincaid than he had for his own father, and that thought unsettled him. The respect for Colonel Kincaid came from the results of his parentage, and one night of good conversation. He loved his family, showed it. Not only in the way he spoke of them, but in the way his children spoke of him.

“Carina is a good cop,” Nick said, feeling like he had to say something. He didn’t do well with small talk.

“That she is. Driven. You know about my grandson.”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

The colonel took a deep breath. “It was the worst day of my life.” He paused. “When Nelia came home from law school and said she was pregnant, Rosa and I were shocked.” He grunted. “We shouldn’t have been. Kids have sex. They get pregnant. It happens all the time, but . . . we thought we’d raised a nun.” He looked pointedly at Nick. “Nelia was our first—first daughter, first child. We shouldn’t have been surprised. She was twenty-three. Not a young kid. And Andrew was willing to do the right thing. Marry her.”

They were silent for several minutes. The colonel wanted to talk, but Nick didn’t rush him. He understood the need to collect thoughts, try to make sense of the insensible.

“Rosa and I are from the old school. The right school, in our minds, even now. Men did the right thing in our day. You got a girl pregnant, you married her. Everything worked out, more or less.

“But maybe, sometimes, marriage isn’t always the right thing.”

The colonel paused again. “A lot of women are capable of raising kids on their own. Especially with family,” he said, more to himself than to Nick.

“Nelia and Andrew, they never argued. They never disagreed. They were always respectful, always polite. I should have seen it sooner.”

When the colonel didn’t say anything, Nick asked, “Seen what?”

“That they didn’t love each other.”

“But that certainly didn’t have anything to do with Justin’s murder.”

“No, it didn’t. But it’s never just one thing, is it? Wrong place, wrong time . . . or maybe a gradual layering of choices? First, having sex. Then getting married. Moving here, or there. Taking this job, or that one. Every decision, every choice, changes the path we’re on.

“Nelia and Andrew didn’t love each other, but they are both good people and they loved Justin. They did the wrong thing for the right reasons. If they had really loved each other, they wouldn’t have spent so much time apart.”

“But that has nothing to do with Justin’s murder.” Nick didn’t see where the colonel was going with the conversation. Maybe he was too tired, or in too much pain. But there seemed to be a disconnect that Nick just wasn’t getting.

“Have you ever been in love, Sheriff?” the colonel asked.

Nick’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

“Did you want to spend your free time with her? Did you think about her when you were apart? I mean, not all the time. There’re other things, like the job, the World Series, but work and sports aside, didn’t you just want to be with her?”

Nick thought about Miranda. He would have given his life for her. He’d wanted to marry her. He’d loved her. She hadn’t loved him. He’d known it from the beginning, thought he could change her, convince her that he was the right man for her. That he could protect her, take care of her, keep her demons at bay.

But he couldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to do, and it took another man to fix Miranda’s wounded soul. He’d finally accepted that, moved on.

The colonel continued. “Andrew and Nelia, separate, are incredible people. Wonderful. I admire both of them. Separately, they made great parents. They loved Justin. They would have done anything for him.” He paused, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Together? They
respected
each other. And as the farce of a marriage continued, they spent more time apart.”

Nick could picture the relationship perfectly. Two people who stayed together, without anger or love, because of a child.

“So when Justin died, they had nothing left,” Nick said quietly.

“Not even each other,” the colonel said equally quietly.

He sat down on the stair next to Nick.

“Carina said his murderer was never found.”

“True. Nelia left, she couldn’t stay here with the memories. I haven’t seen her in years. Rosa, she talks to her once a week. Every Sunday. But no one else. Nelia is grieving alone, and to me, that’s the saddest thing. It’s been eleven years.”

They sat a long moment in silence.

“I heard about the third murder,” the colonel said. “That the girl was kidnapped from her apartment.”