Like a good boy, he’d take his medicine and get back to work.
“What the hell is this?” she asked the instant he showed his pseudohumble face.
He looked down at the photos littering her desk. Digital technology, he decided, was a real bitch. The pictures were very thorough, and at an excellent angle, showing all of his sensual trespasses to maximum effect. “Amateur porn?” he quipped.
“Sit down and shut up,” she ordered.
He did.
“You let Crystal Dunn catch you with your pants down.”
His pants had been up, but he thought it best not to quibble over semantics.
“Sexually harassing a suspect, in itself, is bad enough-”
He picked up one of the photos of Sidney’s body plastered against his, her hands in his hair. “Does she look like she’s being sexually harassed?”
Stokes didn’t even glance at it. “As a high-ranking police official, you were in the position of power.”
He had no comeback for that.
“You used incredibly poor judgment and allowed yourself to be photographed in the process. It’s inexcusable.”
“They won’t run it,” he said with certainty. “This is-” he gestured at the photos “-a mistake. A very stupid, very careless mistake. But it’s not a story.”
“They won’t print the explicit ones, no. As long as she makes no complaints.”
“She won’t.”
She quelled him with a look. “Are you psychic now, too?”
He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing he’d had more than three hours’ sleep the past two nights combined. “Chief, I apologize for my unacceptable behavior. To tell you the truth, I really don’t know what came over me.” He felt his jaw tighten, and had to force himself to relax. “But I assure you, this stays here. I will not end up in court, or the papers, just because I kissed a woman in public.”
“You kissed a suspect while on duty. At a crime scene.”
He conceded that these were very sound points.
“What they will run is this-Oceanside Police Department Consults Psychic.”
“They’ve done that before. So what?”
“I won’t let you make this department a joke. And having her name in the paper, when we’re in the middle of undercover surveillance, will hardly work in our favor.”
He cleared his throat. Now was not the time to tell her they’d already been made. “She’s not a suspect,” he asserted.
“Oh, really? I don’t need you making decisions for me, Cruz. Especially when you’re letting your dick think for you.”
He winced at the well-deserved insult. “My instincts say Sidney Morrow is not involved. Most homicidal criminals are loners. They don’t recruit women.”
“It’s not unprecedented,” she said. “Women can be used as a lure, to draw in victims, to gain confidences. She’s good with dogs, and we don’t know how the killer managed to get past them. She’s the perfect accomplice. Perhaps she’s pulled the wool over your eyes, too.”
“Bring Lacy in here,” he requested.
Sighing, Stokes buzzed her in. They both listened to his account of Sidney’s “vision” in the bathroom, Stokes with her arms crossed over her chest, expression closed.
“Do you believe this?” she asked Lacy.
Lacy darted a glance at Marc. “No, Chief,” she lied, throwing him right under the bus.
Stokes studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “You’ve always been a loose cannon, Cruz. Yesterday you went Rambo in a homeless camp. Today you’re Romeo on a picnic table. Your personal issues are interfering with your police work. Not all women are damsels in distress or targets for seduction.”
That hit him where it hurt. He struggled not to let it show.
“I can’t have a wild card on my team right now,” she decided. “You know that vacation you’ve been putting off? As of right now, you’re on it. Two weeks. Now get out of my sight.”
Refusing to meet Lacy’s apologetic gaze, or Stokes’s assessing one, he pushed himself away from the seat and strode out of her office.
Marc was more pissed off at himself than at Stokes or Lacy, but having his boss tell him he had “issues” was humiliating. If his problems with the opposite sex were so pronounced, why was he the only officer on homicide with a female partner?
“I’m sorry,” Lacy said, hurrying to catch up with him. “I was afraid she was going to take me off the case, too.”
He grabbed his keys off the top of his desk. “Any luck with the door-to-doors?”
“No. The park is popular with joggers and strollers, that’s about it. No one noticed a shady character. There are vehicle records I could pull. It’s a two-dollar charge to park inside, at a pay box, but it’s infrequently monitored. Some people don’t fill out the ticket, or bother to pay. Of course, there are places to park along the street, too.”
“He also could’ve walked from home, if he lives nearby.”
“It’s a residential area,” she said, nodding.
And a needle in the haystack.
She followed him out to his car. “I feel really bad, Marc. Stokes doesn’t have to know everything. I’ll keep you informed.”
“You’re goddamned right you will,” he muttered, getting in and slamming the door. If Stokes thought he wouldn’t continue investigating on his own, she’d completely underestimated his psychological flaws.
She thought he had problems with women? They were nothing compared to his control issues.
Chapter 8
Pacific Pet Hotel had been open for business less than five minutes when Crystal Dunn burst through the front doors, microphone in hand, a pair of bulky cameramen behind her.
The pint-size reporter’s heels clicked self-importantly on the tile flooring as she approached. Her tailored black suit hugged her trim figure, and the ruffled blouse beneath showed only a tasteful hint of cleavage, but she still managed to look more like Barbie than Barbara Walters. Her makeup was flawless: pale skin translucent, hair a golden halo.
“Miss Morrow, is it true that you’ve been employed as a psychic by the Oceanside Police Department?”
Sidney’s throat went dry. She couldn’t help but feel awkward standing next to Crystal Dunn, staring at the flashing red light on the video camera. Even with Crystal’s big hair and high heels, Sidney towered over her. “No, it’s not,” she said, forcing herself not to slouch. “And I don’t want to be interviewed. Please leave.”
Undaunted, Crystal continued her questioning, her baby-blue eyes wide with excitement. “Have you revealed the identity of the serial killer?”
“I’m calling my lawyer,” Sidney decided. Maybe she wasn’t the type of woman who commanded instant respect, but Greg, in a professional capacity, was a bone-crusher.
Making a cutting motion, Crystal handed the microphone off to one of her beefcake assistants and sent them both outside with a brusque dismissal. As Sidney picked up the phone to dial, Crystal shoved a full-color photo under her nose.
Sidney’s jaw dropped.
The photograph was a stunner. Marc was carrying her away from the public rest rooms. Her eyes were closed, head cradled against his chest. He looked every inch the hero, concern clear on his chiseled features, the muscles in his arms delineated under the strain of her weight.
“Nice shot,” she said quietly.
“You like it? I’ve got some even better ones.”
