Читать книгу Sinfully Sweet - Carrie Alexander - Страница 9

Two weeks later

“I WAS CRAZY to think that Devlin would be at the reunion,” Mackenzie Bliss said, working her tail-bone even farther into the padded seat.

She received only a grunt in response, but that didn’t faze her.

“Y’know, it’s bad enough that it’s raining and my new shoes hurt and the spiked punch has given me a headache,” she grumbled, pouring out all her complaints. She was in her safety zone, the one place where she could make an anonymous confession. “What’s worse is that my stylist persuaded me to wear a panty shaper. Do you know what a panty shaper is? No? I’ll tell you. It’s a girdle in disguise, that’s what it is.” She tugged up the tail of her blouse and poked a finger into the bulge rising from her tight waistband. “See that? Like a lump of dough overflowing the pan.”

Before her confessor could look—should he even want to—she let the blouse fall across her slumped midriff. “But the worst, the absolute worst, is that I wasted four hours of my brand-new life and four hours of the brand-new fabulous me waiting for a man who was never going to show. I’m deluded, is what I am. Deluded!” She tossed up her hands.

They fell limply onto the seat. She didn’t have the energy to work up a really good snit. The disappointment of missing Devlin was too heavy, despite all her resolutions that she was never going to think of him again. She hadn’t realized until tonight what a large part of her motivation for change had come from the ever-so-slight possibility of seeing him again at the reunion of their high-school graduating class.

“It was my tenth high-school reunion, did I tell you that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of course Devlin wouldn’t come. He was the baddest of the high-school bad boys. By the very definition of bad boy, he wouldn’t come. Reunions are for ex-cheerleaders and the jocks who haven’t lost their hair yet. The geek who made a mil with a dot com, maybe. Girls who organized the car washes and decorated for school dances? Definitely.”

That’s me, she thought. You can cut my hair and dress me up, you can give me a trendy business and a feature article in The Village Voice, but I’m still the girl who did Devlin’s homework.

Not the one he kissed.

“Poor, poor, pitiful me,” she muttered.

The cab screeched to a stop near her building on West 17th in Chelsea, a gently aged brown-stone with rent control. She paid the driver—who hadn’t spoken a word the entire trip—and shoveled herself out of the back seat, gathering her belongings with an unusual carelessness. When the booklet from the reunion fell into the puddle at the curb, she left it, feeling too disconsolate to make the effort. The thing was useless anyway. Although many of her classmates had provided lists of degrees, childrens’ ages, home and e-mail addresses, for Devlin there was nothing. Only an old senior photo and a name.

Devlin Brandt.

Halfway through the evening, she’d taken one of the keepsake pens off a crepe-ribboned table and scrawled MIA? beside his name. At the tail end of the party, having finally worked up some punch-drunk courage, she’d gone around asking about him.

The majority hadn’t seen Devlin since graduation day, when he’d arrived halfway through the ceremony on a dinged-up Indian motorcycle and then taken off with a diploma tucked in the front of his jacket and Misty “Most likely to become a Hooters girl” Michaelson whooping it up behind him.

Those who knew Devlin, or had heard rumors of him, had two words for Mackenzie: Stay away.

He was into bad stuff, they said. She asked what “bad stuff” meant and got back vague mutterings about shady characters, criminal operations and stolen goods. He’d spent at least a year in prison for burglary, someone claimed, one guy whose car dealership had gone under, admitted that he’d run into Devlin at a Yonkers pawnshop where the owner was known for being less than scrupulous about the goods he handled. Apparently the Rolex watches and diamond dinner rings collected from suburbanites who’d missed a payment on their SUVs were just for show. The real action took place under the counter. And Devlin was in on it.

Or maybe not. No one seemed to know for sure.

Mackenzie had finally tracked down Louie Scheck, who’d lived next door to Devlin’s parents. Louie said that his mom said that Mr. and Mrs. Brandt had washed their hands of Devlin after years of trouble had culminated in a prison sentence. He was rotten, plain and simple. Being a nice girl, Mackenzie would stay away if she knew what was good for her.

Stay away.

Wise advice, she supposed, but there was no need for it. She’d never even had the chance to get close.

Mackenzie jumped up onto the sidewalk as the cab drove away, spraying dirty rainwater on her shoes and hose. She tilted her head back, meaning to let out a deep sigh. A short huff was all she managed. Between the panty shaper and her underwire bra, she hadn’t taken a deep breath all night. You were really in sorry shape when you couldn’t even sigh.

The rain increased, pattering her face and running cold down the back of her exposed neck. A streak of mascara came off on the back of her hand when she swiped at her eyes.

Right. The perfect end to a perfect evening.

She trudged up the stoop, sliding her keys from the skimpy evening purse which was on a chain, slung over her shoulder. Raindrops dripped from the ivy that grew in a thick ruff over the lintel. The slap of footsteps running up the street made her turn, but before she could blink the blurry wetness from her eyes she was slammed from behind by a large, wet male. Whump. He had her up against the door.

Terror ripped through Mackenzie. She opened her mouth to scream, and the assailant clamped a hand over the lower half of her face. She bit at his palm, squirming against the pressure of his body plastered to hers.

Instep. She stomped.

Rib cage. She elbowed.

Scream! Filled with frantic strength, she wrenched her face away, gulped air and let out a howl that was immediately cut off when he slapped his hand over her mouth again.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He panted heavily in her ear. “Promise.”

As if she believed that. Her idea of “hurt” and his were miles apart.

She went against instinct and forced herself to stop struggling, as though she were mollified by his words. She was thinking groin shot, if only she could get a leg free. The painful high heels she’d been dying to take off might yet turn out to be a smart purchase.

“Put the key in the door. We’re going inside.”

She made a muffled sound of protest against his hand. He didn’t wait for her to comply, just pried the keys out of her fingers and tried each one in the lock until he found the key that opened the vestibule door.

Her mind raced. Defense class had taught her to never let an attacker get you alone. There was no way she was going into her apartment with a stranger.

He muttered something that ended in “Hurry,” and shoved open the door, propelling her inside. His arms were around her waist like iron bars. She slumped, making herself awkward and heavy in hope that his grip would loosen and she could get away. One of her neighbors would hear if she let out a good, hearty scream.

The plan didn’t work. He jammed his thigh between her legs and boosted her body across the small lobby. The shock of the contact froze her reactions for an instant. Three steps and they were at the door. Her jagged thoughts splintered. It was just her luck to be in 1A. But how had he known that?

Mackenzie renewed her fight when he moved his arm to thrust her key into the lock. She got one hand free and blindly reached back to rake her nails across his face. Eyeball gouge.

“Damn, that hurt,” he growled, shoving his face tight up against the side of her head. She flailed. “Stop it. I won’t hurt you.”

His breath was hot on her face. His mouth—

The feel of his mouth moving against her cheek was horrifying. Again, her attempt at a scream was smothered by his hand. She bucked violently, trying to throw them both off their feet. All that did was send her headfirst into the door. It banged open and suddenly they were inside.

He let her go. A panicked cry tore from her throat. “Help!”

The door slammed, cutting off her best chance to alert a neighbor. Instead, she plunged into her dark front hallway.

His voice, roughened but soft, came from behind her. “Mackenzie, please…”

He knew her name! Somehow, that was worse. The attack was personal now.

She bolted.

The living room was on the right, but she ran past it, not wanting to be cornered in a room without an exit. The bed and bathroom were at the end of the hall. The bath was closer but she veered at the last instant into her bedroom, where there was a phone. And a window and door onto the enclosed courtyard.

She tried to slam the bedroom door behind her, but he was already standing in the jamb, holding it open. She had a fleeting glimpse of a battered face before she whirled away. Her eyes went first to the back door—locked. Was she desperate enough to throw herself through the window? It was too dark to see much, but suddenly she was confused. As if…

“Mackenzie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sorry? The familiarity in his voice was eerie, but she wasn’t about to confront him. Shuddering, she rushed to the window. He must be insane. A stalker.

The window stuck, the wooden sashes swollen by the damp weather. She was gasping, pushing futilely at the double-hung window, when the intruder’s hand closed over her shoulder.

In a last-ditch effort, she dove onto the bed, stretching for the phone on the nightstand. He crawled on top of her, dragging her hands away. “No,” she sobbed. “Don’t—”

“Mackenzie, it’s me.”

The calmness of his hushed voice reached her. She stopped struggling. “Wh-who?”

He let up a little, and she was able to turn her head. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room for an instant. She saw his face for the first time. It was dreadfully familiar.

“D-Devlin?” She sucked in a shuddery gasp, unable to catch her breath. Her mind spun with disbelief. “Devlin Brandt?”

He eased his hold on her, but didn’t let go entirely. They lay flat on the bed, him on top of her twisted body, with his hands cuffing her wrists on either side of her head. Face-to-face.

The moment was surreal. No more than fifteen minutes ago, she had been staring at his senior-class photo in the reunion booklet. Longing for him. That Devlin was a brash kid with a wise-ass grin and long-lashed green eyes, whose silky brown hair had a chestnut sheen.

This man was not the same, even if she discounted the scrapes and swelling of his beat-up face. His eyes were hardened, maybe mean. His hair was dark and stringy. There were hollows in his cheeks, stubble on his jaw, a thin scar above his lip. But he was Devlin. Her vision blurred. One image superimposed over the other. She shut her eyes. Opened them again.

Devlin Brandt. Unbelievable! “What the—”

“I’m sorry,” he said at the same time.

“You’re sorry?” She grappled with him, yanking her wrists from his grasp, but he wouldn’t release her even when she boxed his ear. “Let…me…go!”

“Promise you won’t call 9-1-1.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Her voice escalated. “You grab me at my door, force me inside—”

“I was in a hurry. There wasn’t time to stand around and chitchat.”

“You scared me!”

“There was no other choice. I had to make a fast move.”

She was remembering how she’d been warned away from him. He’s dangerous to know, her classmates had said. Involved in criminal activity. By the looks of him, he wasn’t even successful at it. There was a scrape on his jaw and a lump on his forehead. One eye was swelling shut.

She panted, growing aware of the dampness of their clothing and the compromising position in which he had her. Devlin was heavy on top of her. The smell of his soaked leather jacket was strong, and his hair was dripping wet. He’d been out in the rain for a while. Lurking? Then why had he overtaken her? Why didn’t he let her go? None of this made sense.

Various observations that had been pushed aside in her fear came floating to the forefront. He’d known who she was when he grabbed her. He’d even known which apartment was hers. His motive was obviously crooked….

“What’s going on?” she demanded. “How did you find me?”

“The reunion.”

“What does that mean?”

“I saw your name and address in the list they sent out with the invitations.”

Right. “But there wasn’t any contact information for you,” she pointed out, “so how did you receive the list in the first place?” Part of her recognized that it was absurd to debate details when her teenage crush turned ex-con was holding her tight in the missionary position of her schoolgirl dreams. How many times had she wished to have Devlin Brandt look at her as closely as he was right now?

A self-conscious warmth crept over her. She was no more a pretty sight than he. Her makeup was smeared, her shorn hair was plastered to her head, her carefully chosen outfit was a total mess—

And she was wearing a stretchy pink Lycra panty girdle.

Oh, hell.

“I have my ways,” Devlin said.

She narrowed her eyes. “Criminal ways.”

His face hovered over hers in the dark. Close enough for her to see that despite his condition, his grin was as impudent as ever. “You’ve followed my career.”

“Hardly. But I got an earful at the reunion.”

“Was that tonight?” He angled his head, looking down at her cleavage, which the underwire bra had pushed into the unbuttoned vee of her blouse and halfway toward her chin. The pearl necklace was tossed to one side, following the curve of her breast. “Is that why you’re all dressed up?”

Exasperating. She rolled her eyes upward and stared at the ceiling through wet, clumpy lashes. “Are you ever going to let me up?”

The timbre of his voice dropped an octave. A helluva sexy octave. “I’m considering it.”

“Decide fast,” she said through her teeth. “Before I start screaming again.” Now that her terror was gone—most of it, anyway—the sheer bulk of him was starting to affect her. He was heavy, hard and thoroughly muscled. She still couldn’t draw an even breath. Every time she tried, her breasts swelled, the tips rubbing against the open zipper of his leather jacket. If he didn’t let go soon, any screaming she did was going to be in ecstasy.

Thunder rumbled. “You’ve done enough of that,” he said, and she hoped he wasn’t able to read her thoughts. “I’ll be lucky if you didn’t alert the entire block.”

“What did you expect? Have you never heard of walking up to a person and saying hello?”

His eyes glowed an otherworldly green in the sudden flash of lightning. “I told you—there wasn’t time.”

She turned her head aside, unable to reason under his blatant scrutiny. “I don’t understand.”

“Mackenzie…” He sounded regretful. “I wouldn’t be here if I’d had any other choice.” He lifted his head, listening. Soft, surreptitious sounds came from outside.

He released her arms and stealthily levered himself off her, pausing to stroke two fingertips over her mouth. “Shh.”

There was a metallic clatter. Sounded like a garbage can lid to Mackenzie. Cats, she thought. Or rats.

Devlin was holding himself very still above her. She compressed her tingling lips, waiting. Rain pelted the windowpane. A truck drove by on the street out front, its engine grinding. Her heartbeat hammered. Distant honking and gleeful shouts from the neighborhood’s night people brought the outside world into their tense little cocoon.

She rose to her elbows. “Don’t move,” Devlin whispered. He stood and crossed to the window, as silent and skulking as a cat. The shade was up, the drapes open. He slithered to one side and peered outside, then slowly drew the curtains shut.

“See anything?” she asked when he remained by the window, watching from the side. Finally he reached past the curtains and closed the blind with a snap.

“No.” But his face was drawn into a worried frown.

She sat up on the edge of the bed and rearranged her rumpled clothing. One of her shoes had come off in the chase. Two buttons had popped off her silk blouse and the sleeves of the short fitted jacket that matched her skirt had been torn at the seams. Her blouse hung loose, concealing her bulging waist, so she pulled off the jacket and folded it meticulously before she set it aside.

She looked up and saw Devlin watching her, his head cocked. “I’m nervous,” she said, feeling defensive. Anxiety tended to turn her into a fuss-budget. After the divorce, her teenage bedrooms had always been surgically neat.

He shrugged. “Listen, I know this seems crazy, but you have to trust me—”

A loud bzzzz silenced him. The intercom buzzer at her front door had gone off.

Devlin cursed a single epithet.

She winced at the harsh word. Not that she didn’t hear it every day out on the street a thousand times over—just never in her bedroom. And how telling was that? she wondered. Her sex life was drab and unexciting, exactly like her last relationship. But now was not the time to worry over it!

“Don’t answer that,” Devlin said when the buzzer rang again in a loud, annoying blat.

After a couple of seconds, she heard the faint buzz at her neighbor’s door. Her bedroom shared a wall with Blair Boback’s living room. “They’re trying all the apartments.”

“Damn.” Devlin grabbed Mackenzie’s arm and towed her to the front door, heedless that she’d lost a shoe and was staggering crookedly. He stepped over her upended purse and listened at the door, then looked through the peephole. Abruptly, he drew back. Though he didn’t change expression or tense up, she sensed the freeze in him.

The lobby door clanged open and shut. “One of the other tenants buzzed them through,” she guessed. A large part of her was frightened more by Devlin than the interlopers who’d just gained access to the building. They could be harmless. Devlin was…not.

He squinted at her, his left eye practically swollen shut. A blue shadow ringed it. “Them?”

“Them. Him. Her.” She tried to act defiant. “It could be the entire roster of the New York Jets, for all I know.”

Her doorbell ding-donged. She jumped. He tightened his fingers, digging them into the fleshy part of her arm as he put his mouth to her ear. “Don’t answer.”

“But…”

Bam, bam, bam. They were pounding at her door, so forcefully the hinges rattled.

She shoved her damp bangs off her face with the back of one wrist. “Let me look,” she whispered.

Devlin shook his head.

“Is someone after you?”

“Shh. I’m listening.”

The uninvited visitors had moved to the next apartment. Mackenzie pressed her ear to the door. Low rumbles interspersed with a higher-pitched, and increasingly excited, response. “My neighbor,” she said, so worried she had to resist smoothing wrinkles from Devlin’s creased leather jacket. Her fingers itched to smooth his hair. “Blair Boback.”

Devlin’s face was grim. “I hope she’s smart enough not to let them into her apartment.”

Mackenzie smiled mirthlessly. “Oh, yeah. Blair’s street savvy.”

They heard Blair’s door close. Devlin watched through the peephole. “Going upstairs,” he said. “How many apartments in this building?”

“Only eight.”

He released a breath and leaned against the wall—big, dark, wet and punk-tough against her peach-and-cream-striped damask. “When they don’t find me upstairs, they’re going to come back to your door.” Again, Devlin swore. “They must have seen which building I went into.”

“They?”

He didn’t answer.

“They might be canvassing the entire street.”

“Maybe.” He paused. “Here’s what I want you to do. Open the door, chain on, when they come back. They ask about me, you say you know nothing and shut the door. Be convincing.” He gave her the hard look again, his fingers squeezing her arm like barbecue tongs. “Very convincing.”

She spoke tentatively. “What if I don’t want to—”

He was fast. Before she could blink, he was standing directly in front of her, both hands on her now, dragging her close against his chest. He glared, their faces inches apart. His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared. It wouldn’t be a shock if he snorted and pawed the ground like a bull. The move was supposed to be intimidating—and it was—but the greater threat was the way he made her feel.

Alive. Scared, but so incredibly alive. Her heart was pounding, her blood racing. She was sharply aware of every pleasure point on her body. The distant yearning she was so familiar with had become a strange and potent hunger….

“You’ll do it,” Devlin said grittily.

“Or what?” He’s a criminal, she reminded herself. Not the cool high-school bad boy you remember. The potential for trouble that she’d once found so fascinating had been fulfilled. And there was nothing alluring about knowing that he’d committed actual crimes.

Devlin’s lips came down on hers, knocking out every objection with one striking blow. He didn’t kiss—he attacked. His mouth was hot and his tongue was wicked, thrusting against hers with no pretense at pretty seduction. His teeth ground against her lower lip as he bit and sucked and drove his tongue deeper. The shock was staggering. She hadn’t known that a kiss could be so un-apologetically savage and still turn her molten with desire.

This couldn’t be happening! Oh God, oh please, oh please don’t—

Devlin wrenched his mouth away. His slitted eyes glittered with what seemed like a mocking, devilish intent.

Mackenzie was paralyzed, swaying on her frozen feet. When she licked her lips, she tasted a drop of blood.

“Or what?” was all she could think to say in a hoarse, thready voice.

“Or I’ll never kiss you like that again.”

Her eyes widened.

“Dammit, Mackenzie.” Devlin was obviously frustrated with her. He gave her shoulders a small, hard shake. “Do what I say. If you don’t, there’ll be violence. Your nice clean walls will get all messed up. I hear blood is hell to get out of silk.”

He didn’t have to shake her; she was already trembling. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” she blurted, but she didn’t sound so positive, even to herself. Especially to herself. Her lips were so raw it hurt to speak.

“It won’t be you,” he said. “It’ll be me.”

She blinked. Did he mean that he’d be the one who got hurt? Or that he’d be spilling a third party’s blood? “I don’t understand—”

Devlin released her with a rough shove. Her teeth came together with a click as she stumbled, then regained her balance. He’d turned his back to her and was looking through the peephole again. “You’ll get me killed,” he said.

Too much to absorb. She rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms, then lifted her foot and pulled off the remaining shoe. Part of her wanted to run, even though there was nowhere to go. She held the designer pump in her hand, weighing it as a weapon. The spiked heel could be lethal.

Devlin whirled around. “They’re coming back. Get ready.”

Panic hit her. She dropped the shoe and rubbed at her face as if she could erase his kiss. Her hair was a mess, and her blouse—She looked down. Half undone. Her peach lace La Perla bra showed in the gap between buttons.

The bell rang. She didn’t move except to clutch at the front of her blouse. Devlin had to push her resisting body toward the door. “Tell them you were sleeping. And whatever you do, don’t look at me.”

With a trembling hand, she reached for the doorknob. “Who is it?” she warbled.

“Police.”

She flinched in surprise. Police? Devlin wanted her to lie to the police?

She glanced at him, standing close beside her. His expression was black, ungiving. His hand had closed on the back of her neck and she had the feeling that he could easily pick her up and give her a shake. It was pretty clear, even in her frazzled state—he was the alpha wolf and she was a whimpering puppy, showing her belly in surrender.

Be brave. She cleared her throat to strengthen her voice as she put her eye to the door. “Let me see your badges.”

Something that might have been a badge flashed past the peephole. In the fisheye lens, she saw two men standing at her doorstep. One was older and squatter than the other, but they were both wet and disgruntled, dressed in limp, wrinkled suits and ties. They could be cops. But then they also could be rent collectors, insurance salesmen or…hit men.

“Open up,” the older one barked. He had a gun, she saw, holstered beneath his unbuttoned jacket. He reached across his chest and put his hand on it. Not an insurance salesman, then.

Mackenzie looked at Devlin. He returned the stare, his face drawn tight and pale. Once she opened the door, it would be just as easy for her to turn him in, and he must know it. Maybe there’d be a tussle, but if he surrendered with his hands up, no bloodshed would be involved.

Probably not. Chances were slim. But was she willing to gamble that Devlin would surrender without a fight?

The cops hammered at her door. “What do you want?” she asked.

“We’re looking for a man. He’s armed and dangerous.”

Devlin’s fingers clamped on her nape. Not hurtfully, but another shock ran through her. Her instincts were confused, fizzing and snapping in every direction like Pop Rocks. She didn’t know what to do.

“All right,” she said, turning the locks. Obviously she hadn’t locked them when she’d “arrived” home—at the time, she’d been frightened for her life. That meant Devlin had done it. Before he’d come after her. Whether or not he was armed and dangerous, he was certainly cool and calculating.

And hot and primal.

She took a deep breath and opened the door a couple of inches. The two men pressed closer, their faces leering. The older one reached for his gun. She let out a squeak and slammed the door shut.

They pounded on it, shouting at her. “Lady—open up!”

“Put the gun away first,” she demanded. “I don’t believe in guns.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Devlin crack a small smile.

The cops made complaining noises, but they conceded, stepping back from her door with their hands hanging at their sides. She stared through the peephole for several seconds, then reopened the door. “What’s this about?”

The older one spoke. He had a deep voice, a craggy face and a big gold watch on his wrist. “A violent criminal is on the loose in the neighborhood. Have you been home all evening, ma’am? Have you seen or heard anything suspicious?”

“I—” She pressed her tender lips together, wincing at the pain. Devlin crowded her, guarding the door, but keeping just out of sight. “I was sleeping.”

The cop ran his eyes over the narrow slice of her that was visible through the gap in the door. “In your clothes?”

She gave a shamefaced shrug. “It was a long day, Officer…?” She squinted. “Can I see those badges again?”

“So you haven’t seen a man? About six foot, brown hair, leather jacket and, uh, black jeans? He’s got a scar, here—” The gray-haired cop drew a finger above his upper lip and something in his eyes made her wary of him. The gesture seemed gloating, even depraved. She struggled not to glance at Devlin for reassurance.

Reassurance? Well. That settled it. She hesitated for only a second before answering. “No. Absolutely not. I haven’t seen him.”

“Can we come in and look?” the second guy said. He smiled. He was handsome, but the smile was oiled, as if he practiced it so frequently it slid across his face with no effort or sincerity. “A woman like you, alone in a ground-floor apartment…” He tried to peer past her into the hallway. The smile flickered, then went out. “Could be dangerous.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Completely alone. But thank you for the concern.”

“All right, ma’am,” said the other one. “You be sure to keep a lookout.”

“I’ll call the local precinct if I see him,” she said. “This, uh, criminal you’re after.”

A worried expression passed over the face of the taller cop.

The other simply nodded. “We’ll be in the neighborhood for a while, if you need us.” He swung around to leave, then turned back, drawing a filmy square from his pants pocket. “By the way, is this yours?”

She looked at her scarf. “Why, yes. Where did you find it?”

“Here in the lobby. By the door.”

“I must have dropped it on my way home from work,” she said.

“It’s damp.”

She reached a hand through the crack in the door. “Yes. The rain, you know. I’m surprised one of my neighbors didn’t pick it up.”

He gave her the scarf. His face was closed, but suspicious, she believed. “Be careful, ma’am. You’re a nice lady, I can see.” He glowered. “You don’t want any trouble.”

Her pulse stuttered. Was it a warning? A threat?

Devlin pressed against her so close she swore she could feel his heartbeat. She narrowed the door another inch.

“I will be careful, thank you, Officer. I hope you catch the, um—” She stopped, swallowing nervously. “What’s he done, anyway?”

“Just about everything,” the older cop said, looking at her with lidded eyes that were as flat and expressionless as a lizard’s. “Murder, theft, assault…you name it. The guy we’re after is no lightweight criminal. He’s an ex-con. Rotten to the core. You don’t want anything to do with him.”