Marc arranged for Lacy to pick him up at Pacific Pet Hotel, where Sidney invited him in to clean up his scratched neck.
He didn’t want her touching him, but he couldn’t politely refuse, and he needed an infection from a homeless prostitute’s fingernails about as badly as he needed hepatitis from Agua Hedionda Lagoon.
When she sat him down and pressed a cool washcloth to the back of his neck, he corrected himself. He
It didn’t matter that she wasn’t his type. It didn’t matter that she was probably a liar. It didn’t matter that she was a suspect. All he could think about when he looked at her was having her naked body underneath his, making the same soft panting sounds she’d made by herself last night. Listening to her, he’d wanted to order Lacy out of the room so he could finish himself off the same way. Instead he’d spent a miserable night contemplating his own perversity. With plenty of other women at his disposal, why was he lusting after this one?
She sprayed something that felt like stinging nettle on his neck, and he hissed out a breath, welcoming the distraction. “What’s that?”
“Antibacterial spray.”
She rubbed salve on the raw scratches, soothing the pain but inflaming his desire. If he didn’t get away from her soon, she wouldn’t need to read his mind to know what he was thinking. She’d only have to glance down at the front of his pants.
“Your arm needs some attention, too.”
He cranked his head over his shoulder to see what she was talking about, noticing the dull throb in his elbow for the first time. Blood was crusted in a large circle, the makings of a nasty scab, and dried rivulets snaked down his forearm. Again, it was in an awkward place, difficult to clean on his own.
“Go ahead,” he muttered. While he stood over the stainless steel sink, she washed bits of debris out of the wound. It was uncomfortable enough to keep his thoughts pure. “You aren’t wearing gloves,” he noted.
“Yeah. I should be.”
Damn right she should. He’d never touch a stranger’s blood with his bare hands. She rubbed triple antibiotic ointment on his elbow then wrapped it up with gauze and tape. “Thanks,” he said, curling his arm up to test the bandage. Tight, but not too tight.
“I wanted to be a vet,” she said wistfully.
“What happened?”
She shrugged, looking away from him, and he thought she was much too young to be giving up a dream.
“You’ve got some battle wounds yourself, Deputy,” he said, indicating the scratches on her long, lovely legs, using concern as an excuse to keep his eyes on them.
“Are you going to take care of them for me?” she teased.
His gaze jerked to her face. Was she toying with him? Perhaps today’s display of bravery, and even last night’s…episode…had been calculated. It didn’t make sense, because she couldn’t have known about the surveillance, and nothing about her was overtly seductive. Her ragged cutoffs were short but baggy, her face was smudged with dirt and her brown T-shirt had a dorky gecko on the front.
Then again, if she was trying to use her understated sexuality to manipulate him, it was working. “I’ll take care of anything you need me to,” he said in a low voice, just to see her reaction.
“Don’t,” she said, her eyes flashing with hurt.
“Don’t what?”
“Come on to me as an investigative technique.”
He’d unsettled her, and he liked that, so he smiled. “If not for this case, I’d come on to you for real.”
She laughed without humor. “Please.”
He longed to hear her say that in a more intimate context. “Whatever you wish to believe,” he said simply, because the conversation had gone way beyond inappropriate. What the hell was the matter with him? Not trusting himself to be alone with her another minute, he walked outside to wait for Detective Lacy, trying to refocus his energy on work.
Stokes was going to rake him over the coals for involving a civilian in a dangerous foot pursuit. He could hear her now, reminding him of protocol, common sense and the inadvisability of taking down an assailant by force with no cuffs or backup. He had no self-control when it came to violence against women, and blah, blah, blah.
Sighing, Marc climbed into Lacy’s Jeep, not looking forward to the remainder of the day.
“Check it out,” she said, handing him a computer printout.
It was an Internet archive from the
“Sidney Anne Morrow, age twelve, daughter of Bonsall residents Aurelia and Frank Morrow, helped local police officers find a missing girl who’d fallen into a well. The girl, Lisa Jane Pettigrew, also twelve, disappeared several days ago and was feared dead. Miss Morrow approached two officers claiming she had a ‘hunch’ that the missing girl was in a long-forgotten well on the outskirts of a rural property.
“She wasn’t able to lead rescuers to the exact location, so a public records survey from 1902 was consulted. Sure enough, Lisa Pettigrew was found at the bottom of the well, malnourished and dehydrated, but in fair condition.
“Lisa’s parents offered a monetary reward to the Morrow family to show their heartfelt appreciation for the safe return of their only child…”
“So what’s this supposed to prove?” he asked, unwilling to give up his initial position. He didn’t believe in supernatural nonsense and he was never going to. “That she’s been working people since puberty?”
“I’m just keeping an open mind,” she said, implying he wasn’t.
In curt response, he crumpled up the printout and tossed it into the back seat.
On the way to the station, he muddled through the details of the case. Anika Groene and Candace Hegel had been slim, petite blondes, easy for a good-size man to overpower. Both had been taken in the morning. Both had been raped, beaten, tied up and tortured. Both had been dumped in water while still alive.
And both had large, intimidating watchdogs.
Marc felt as though this clue was key. The killer was targeting single women who walked their dogs in the early morning. Why not grab a woman alone, or one with a smaller, less dangerous dog? Either the assailant knew the women, and their dogs, or Marc was missing something important.
Of course, there were ways to immobilize even the most vigilant canine companion.
Sidney said Blue had been groggy when she found him. She’d been right about him breaking out of a vehicle; lab results on the safety glass indicated nothing more specific than a newer model car or truck. She’d been right about the river; the dog’s paws tested positive for elements unique to the San Luis Rey.
And yet, the dog’s toxicology report had been clear. No poisons, barbiturates, tranquilizers, or chemical depressants were present in his bloodstream.
“You know what you could do,” Lacy ventured after a pause.
“What?”
“Take her to the sites.”
Marc scowled, remembering what Sidney had gone through after coming in contact with Candace Hegel’s dead hand. How would she react to a crime scene? “The department has regulations against consulting psychics.”
“Like you’ve never strayed from protocol,” she chided.
He said nothing. Although he knew of other cops who had gone that route, he would never do so. In his opinion, so-called psychics victimized the weak and vulnerable, lost souls desperate to communicate with dearly departed loved ones. Taking advantage of-and taking money from-grieving lonely-hearts was despicable.
The intense dislike he carried for otherworldly con artists went as deep as his hatred for men who abused women.
After all, his mother had fallen prey to both.
Chapter 6
Sidney was dozing off on her futon couch, dreaming about playing doctor with Marc Cruz,
