She tiptoed to his favorite chair, which he’d already abandoned for his bed, and placed her hand against the warm back.
“Kyra, that you? If not, I’ve got a .45 pointing at the bedroom door.”
“Don’t shoot.” She crept to his bedroom and wedged her shoulder against the doorjamb. “Sorry to show up so late. I thought you might still be up.”
“I just hit the sack.” He dropped his gun on the nightstand with a clatter. He hadn’t been kidding about his .45. “I drank a second beer and it did me in. What did you find out?”
“Not much. McAllister wouldn’t let me near the crime scene.”
“You can’t blame him for that. He’s been burned before by a helpful psychologist.”
“You would stick up for him.”
“He’s a good cop. Did he tell you anything?”
“We didn’t talk, but when he emerged from the bushes I saw it on his face. The call wasn’t a hoax. We do have another victim.” She folded her arms, shoving her fists under her armpits.
“You didn’t talk? You mean he didn’t drive you home?” Quinn struggled to sit up against the headboard of his bed.
“Settle down. I took off before he had the chance.” She took a step into the room, which still smelled like Charlotte’s perfume. “He went back in with the coroner, and the scene was getting too hot to handle—literally. The fire was raging closer and the firefighters advised us to clear out. A friend of mine, a reporter, was there so I asked her for a ride back. She lives in Marina del Rey.”
“All right, and you’ve got your car here.” Quinn yawned and tossed back the covers.
“Where do you think you’re going?” She loomed over his bed and twitched the blanket back into place.
“I’ll walk you out to your car.”
“Don’t be an idiot. Your neighbors are outside, partying, and you’re not the only one who’s armed and dangerous.” She patted his pillow. “Relax.”
As Quinn burrowed his head against the pillow, his tired eyes narrowed to slits. “That gun is not a magic shield.”
“I know, but it helps. Get back to sleep.” She squeezed his arm under the covers. “We’ll talk later.”
“You do realize Jake was suspicious about our relationship, don’t you?”
She made a half-turn at the bedroom door. “I know that.”
“You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later, sooner being better. The man has trust issues.”
“I know that, too. Let me do this my way, Quinn.”
“You always do, Mimi.”
Her nose stung as the nickname floated toward her in the dark. She left the bedroom door open, turned off the TV and locked up.
As she stepped onto Quinn’s porch, a warm breeze ruffled the ends of her hair and she sniffed the air. The firefighters were still out there doing battle with the forces of nature...and maybe the forces of man.
Had the killer set the fire in the hope that the body would be discovered? To give him an excuse to call it in? She hoisted her purse on her shoulder and huffed out a breath. She’d be giving him credit for the Santa Ana winds if she kept on this path.
He probably wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. They never were—except for The Player.
She ground her teeth together and marched toward the bridge. Quinn’s neighbors had called it a night. The water lapped against the man-made shores, and the wooden bridge whispered and sighed as she crossed it.
When she reached the other side, she walked at a fast pace toward the street, her head held high, her arms swinging at her sides, her blood pumping. Both Quinn and Megan had her pegged. Ever since she’d gotten her conceal and carry permit, with the help of Quinn, she felt invincible.
Had she been courting danger? She had dismissed that accusation from Quinn. Going about your business didn’t count as inviting danger—at least it shouldn’t.
A shadowy figure shuffled toward her when she reached the corner, and her hand hovered over the weapon in her purse.
“Spare some change, lady?” The homeless guy peered at her through a curtain of shaggy, sun-bleached hair.
“No, sorry.” She marched past him as he called after her.
“God bless you.”
Her heart rate returned to normal when she hit the street and a few cars whizzed by. Unlike Jake, she didn’t have the perks of a city-issued vehicle and always parked in the public lot when she visited Quinn. The lot still contained several cars. People could be down at the beach or hitting the bars and restaurants on Washington. She was not taking undue risks by walking to her car at night.
The murdered women probably didn’t believe they were taking risks, either, but they didn’t have a gun—the great equalizer. On the ride home, she checked her rearview mirror often. Just because she had that gun didn’t mean she wanted anyone following her to her apartment.
She pulled into her parking spot behind the apartment building and slid out of the car. She held her breath as she walked past the garbage bins and shoved her key into the gate. Management had replaced the swinging wooden door out here with a solid gate with a lock after thieves had targeted several of the units. Hers had escaped, but then she’d secured additional locks on her doors and windows a few years ago.
As she unlocked her front door, the stray cat she occasionally fed rubbed against her ankles. Her neighbors didn’t appreciate her efforts on behalf of Spot, but she’d won him a reprieve by convincing them he was keeping the rats away.
“Hope you’ve been doing your job, Spot. Wait here and I’ll give you some milk and food.”
He meowed in response, knowing full well his flea-riddled body wasn’t welcome inside her apartment.
She’d left a lamp burning earlier, and smacked her purse down on the kitchen table to rustle up some grub
