Sundays Are for Murder. Marie Ferrarella

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ good enough yet,” he reminded her coldly.

      She closed her eyes. “Yes, I know.”

      “He killed your sister. You can’t let him go free.”

      “I don’t intend to, Dad.”

      “So what are you doing about it?”

      She felt even more weary than she had when she’d walked in through the door. Talking to her father always drained her. “It’s an ongoing case, Dad. I can’t talk about it.”

      Anger filled his voice. “I’m your father.”

      “And I’m a federal agent. There are rules. I’ve got a call coming in, Dad. I have to go.” She disconnected before he had a chance to protest. Leaving the receiver on the sofa, Charley leaned her head against Dakota and forced herself to think about nothing.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      WHILE JUGGLING his pizza box, Nick managed to insert his key into the lock. Because the key was new and the lock was not, there was an awkward dance between the two, a moment of inflexibility before the tumbler finally gave way and turned, allowing him into his newly rented garden apartment.

      His palm had grown uncomfortably warm where it was making contact with the bottom of the pizza box. The small mom-and-pop store directly behind his apartment complex took pride in serving their food hot. Very hot. He was going to have to curb his hunger if he didn’t want to burn the hell out of the roof of his mouth, Nick thought.

      He closed the door with his shoulder, then flipped the lock. This stretch of Santa Ana, where he’d chosen to live, was away from the high-crime area that marked the center of the old city. Located across the street from Costa Mesa and South Coast Plaza, touted to be the largest shopping mall west of the Mississippi, the area was almost safe enough for him to leave his door unlocked during the day.

      Almost being the operative word, Nick mused as he slid the box holding his dinner onto the tiny table in his breakfast nook. Nook was a perfect word to describe the area. Nook could also aptly describe just about every part of the apartment. There was a nook where his sofa and TV set resided, a nook for his bed and battered bureau.

      Maneuvering between the nooks was a challenge because, in addition to the furniture, the moving company had delivered a myriad of boxes. Within the boxes was the product of his twenty-nine years on earth. The boxes had been here, largely untampered with, for the past six days. He didn’t see a grand opening in any of their near futures.

      Nick paused to remove his holster and weapon and place them on the table beside the pizza. He’d then crossed to the refrigerator and took out a can of soda.

      You’d think that someone who’d moved and lived in six different states before his fifteenth birthday would be able to unpack everything and get things in their rightful place in a reasonable amount of time. The trouble was, every other time he’d moved, and this included when he’d gone to his own bachelor digs in D.C., his mother and his sister were the ones who did the unpacking for him because he just never got around to it.

      It wasn’t his strong point. He knew how to work a case, had a knack for mining the hidden nuggets that could eventually lead to solving it. The gift his mother and sister possessed was that they knew how to make order out of chaos. Something he definitely was not good at.

      Popping the lid on the can, he shrugged. There was no sense in unpacking what he didn’t immediately need. And, since dinner tonight had come courtesy of Salvatore and Selena’s Pizzeria, he didn’t need to unearth anything. Certainly not plates or utensils. The pizza represented the ultimate in finger food. He always drank his soda right out of the can, so no need to dirty a glass.

      Taking a long sip from his soda, Nick rotated his shoulders before picking up a slice of pizza. Man, he was tired.

      His body hadn’t adjusted to the time difference yet. His internal clock was still on East Coast time. It was ten o’clock in the evening back in D.C. right now and, although he’d never been one of those souls who turned in early, the day he’d spent with his new partner, coupled with the time difference, had all but wiped him out.

      Catching a serial-killer case his first time up at bat in the new office threw him headfirst into the deep end of the pool.

      He was going to have to find a gym and get himself back into shape. Special Agent Charley Dow struck him as a long-distance swimmer. He didn’t want her showing him up. His pride wouldn’t allow it. Not that he had anything against working with a woman. But there was just something about this woman that forbade him to look bad.

      There was no doubt in his mind that Dow had a chip on her shoulder. Whether she had something against him in particular or men in general he didn’t know, but it made things difficult. He had the feeling that she was waiting for him to screw up somehow. He was going to have to stay on his toes, not let down his guard. And he was going to have to learn how to get along with her, at least for a while. It wouldn’t look right asking for a transfer his first week on the job. Especially since he wanted in on this case.

      He’d gone alone to the morgue to see about Stacy Pembroke. The M.E. was in the middle of his evaluation. Stacy Pembroke was only twenty-five. Ashley’s age. Hell, under different circumstances, that could have been Ashley on the table.

      The Sunday Killer’s victims were all someone’s sister, someone’s daughter. The bastard had to be stopped and put away if not put down. And he wanted to be there when it happened.

      That meant staying partnered with Dow.

      He thought of Gerald, the partner he had before coming out west. Gerald and he had hit a rhythm. So much so that they didn’t even have to talk much. They each seemed to know what the other guy was thinking. He doubted he’d get to that level with Dow. If today was any indication, he had no idea where her mind was going.

      Thinking the slice had had enough time to cool off, Nick took a bite. He chewed slowly, evaluating the flavors that came to meet his tongue.

      As far as pizzas went, he had to admit that this sampling wasn’t bad. But Salvatore and Selena didn’t hold a candle to the pizzas he’d had in New York City. Cheese there tended to be one long, continuous strand from first bite to last. Sloppy, sure, but tasty as hell. A love affair with the palate.

      He couldn’t help wondering how else California would fail to measure up.

      Nick went over and turned the TV on, switching to the all-news cable channel he’d discovered earlier in the week. He adjusted the volume, then sat down on the freshly cleaned beige rug.

      The blond, perfectly made-up woman behind the news desk looked grim as she announced: “The top story in the Southland tonight is a grisly one. The serial killer has claimed another victim. Stacy Pembroke was discovered early this morning by a friend who was concerned when the twenty-five-year-old restaurant hostess failed to appear at work last night. This makes the young woman the twelfth victim in six years. Our reporters tried to get a statement from the family.”

      Nick cringed. Why was there always some reporter looking for a sound bite of attention, willing to shove a microphone into the face of a grieving soul? He reached for the remote to change the channel.

      The doorbell rang.

      Nick swallowed a curse. “Wouldn’t you know it? Murphy’s law.”

      Leaning СКАЧАТЬ