as it didn’t taint evidence. Yeah, he’d lied, deceived, and talked dirty to Lucy. He’d kissed and touched her, and the whole time he’d stayed within the rules. He’d just been doing his job. At least that’s what he told himself.
Too bad he wasn’t a better liar.
“My friends wouldn’t do anything like this,” she told Kurt, and Quinn’s gaze slid once again down the side of her throat to the little mark on her collarbone. Yeah, he could tell himself and everyone else that he’d just been doing his job, but the fact was that he’d enjoyed it a little too much. He’d enjoyed hearing her laughter and seeing her smile. He’d enjoyed the hell out of kissing and touching and hearing her little moans. He’d enjoyed looking at her in his mirror as he’d touched her breasts and played with her through the thin lace of her bra. He’d enjoyed seeing the desire reflected in her blue eyes and the soft intake of her breath.
He’d picked her up to carry her to his bedroom, but he’d only made it as far as the hall. He’d like to tell himself he’d only stopped to catch his breath, but that wasn’t true. He’d stopped because he’d wanted to get her naked away from the prying eyes and ears of the audio and video equipment. Like a jealous lover, he’d wanted her all to himself.
He’d kissed her bare breasts and touched between her legs, and he couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed himself so much. He’d felt like a kid again, touching and rubbing and tearing at each other’s clothes. He’d enjoyed the hell out of making her come and the touch of her soft hand inside his pants, wrapped around him. And while they’d been getting hot and sweating, he’d never forgotten his job. Not for one second. He just hadn’t cared. The way she’d looked at him, touched him, whispered his name, had made him want her with a ferocity that had trumped his self-control and made her more dangerous than a pack of serial killers armed with flexi-cuffs.
“What do you know of The Peacock Society?” Kurt asked.
“Peacock Society? You mean those women who wear colorful hats with feathers sticking out?” She shrugged. “Not much, other than I think you have to be over fifty, loving life, and loving to clash.”
“You’ve never spoken at any of their chapter meetings?”
She shook her head. “No. Why would I? I write mysteries. Not rah-rah sisterhood stuff.”
There were twenty-two chapters of The Peacock Society in Boise alone, and Quinn had contacted all of them and requested member profiles and rosters. He was also waiting for a membership roster and profiles from the Women of Mystery and the latest toxicology report from the coroner’s office.
“What about the Women of Mystery?” Quinn asked her.
Lucy turned her head slightly and looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. If he’d had any doubt about her feelings for him, the daggers in the depth of those dark blues would have cleared up all confusion.
Her voice was perfectly bland when she asked, “What about them?”
“They seemed to know the plot of the book you’re currently working on.”
“So?”
“Has it occurred to you that your book has a lot in common with the way Breathless operates?”
She turned to look at him fully. “Not really. I know she’s suffocating her victims, but it could be a coincidence. If you want to control someone’s breathing, there’s several different ways to do it.” She pointed to the evidence on the table all neatly bagged. “That person doesn’t say how she’s killing these men.”
“No, but we know how she’s doing it.” He rose to his full height and kept his gaze pinned to Lucy’s. She obviously didn’t like him. He didn’t really blame her, but it didn’t matter. He had a job to do. This time he was going to do it by the book. “She’s cuffing them to a bed and placing a dry-cleaning bag over their heads. Sound familiar?”
If it were possible, Lucy’s face turned a shade whiter, and even though Quinn didn’t want to give a damn, he felt like a real asshole for scaring her more than she was already scared.
She stared at him for several long moments, then said as if she had a choice, “I don’t want to be involved in this. It’s sick.”
“Too late.” He untucked his tie and pointed to the letters. “She’s involved you. I don’t want to scare you, but this is serious. A psychopath has chosen to reach out to you because she feels a connection to you through your work.”
“I realize that, but can’t you just take the letters and leave me out of it?”
He wished he could. More than she could know. Normally he would be ecstatic that a serial killer was finally talking, and he would be looking at every angle and planning the next move in his head. Not this time.
“We can leave you out of the investigation as much as possible,” Kurt said as he played the “good cop,” patting her hand and trying to pacify her nerves. “But I don’t believe you’ve heard the last from her. She will contact you again. You were really smart to put on gloves to open the third letter.”
Quinn slid the envelopes toward her. “Have you noticed the postmarks?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “She mailed the letters three to four days after each murder.”
“Meaning I should get another letter today or tomorrow.”
“Exactly. I take it you haven’t checked your PO box today.”
“No.”
“If you give us the key, we can check it.”
She shook her head and stood. “No, I get important business mail in that box. I’ll go.”
“You just said you wanted to be left out of the investigation.” Which was impossible. She just didn’t know it yet.
“I know, but I can’t let just anyone rummage through my mail.”
It was easier not to argue with her, and Quinn shoved the collection kit into his larger evidence duffle and zipped it closed. “I’ll take you.”
“No thank you.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Lucy.” She opened her mouth to argue, and he cut her off. “Or I can get a warrant and seize everything in the box.”
“But we don’t want to do that,” Kurt hurried to explain, trying to soothe her.
She grabbed her purse off a kitchen chair, and Quinn’s gaze slid from her face, over the laces of her pink shirt, and down her jeans to her feet. She wore brown sandals that looped over her big toes. Her toenails were painted red. “Fine, but I’m driving,” she said and turned to march out the back door.
“Maybe I should go,” Kurt offered. “Soften her up so she’ll work with us. She’s not real fond of you.”
Quinn lifted his gaze to her behind. “She’ll get over it,” he said, then turned his attention to the other detective.
Kurt gathered the evidence sealed in clear plastic bags and slipped them into his notebook. “What happened between the two of you that I don’t know about?”
“Nothing much,” Quinn lied. Only he and Lucy knew what had happened between the two of them in the hallway of his house, and he sure as hell wasn’t talking.
“You’re looking at her like something happened.”
“I’m not looking at her like anything.” Quinn grabbed the small evidence collection kit back out of the duffle. He hoped Kurt would let the subject drop, but Quinn knew better.
“Yeah you are. You look like you’re kinda hungry and she’s a snack tray.” Kurt shook his head. “Too bad she looks at you like you stomped that fat cat of hers.”
Kurt was full of shit, but Quinn didn’t have time to stand around and argue. “Remember to photocopy those before we turn them into the lab. See you back at the office,” he said and walked outside as Lucy backed her silver BMW out of the small garage. He opened the car door and sank into red leather upholstery and palpable animosity.
“Nice car,” he said as he reached over his right shoulder for his seat belt.
“I like it.” She put the car in first gear and practically laid rubber in the alley.
He looked over at her and snapped the belt in place. “Where’s the fire?”
“You didn’t have to come along.”
“Sunshine, you’re wrong about that.”
She stopped the car at the end of the alley, then pulled onto the street. “Don’t call me Sunshine. My name is Lucy. Ms. Rothschild to you.”
He chuckled. “How long are you going to be mad at me, Mizz Rothschild?”
“I’m not mad.” She shifted into third gear and shot down Fifteenth Street at least ten miles over the limit. A squirrel darted into the road, skidded to a halt, then ran back to the sidewalk instead of taking his chances.
