Always Look Twice. Sheri WhiteFeather

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СКАЧАТЬ ran a glob of gel through it, giving the layered strands its usual choppy style.

      Because Olivia always wore makeup, she smudged her eyes with a smoky black liner and applied a deep-red lipstick. In the mirror she saw a haunting resemblance to her mother. But that wasn’t something she could change.

      A moment later rain blasted the window, like a sign from her mother’s people. To the Chiricahua, a dark, heavy rain was male. Of course, Yvonne Whirlwind used to love the hard, driving force of a masculine rain.

      By the time a knock sounded on the door, Olivia was more than ready to get this show on the road. Allie wasn’t, though. Her sister was still in the shower.

      Olivia answered the summons. As usual, West wore a dark suit. His hair, soaked from the rain, was combed away from his face.

      She gestured for him to come in. He gave her one of those sinful looks and entered the loft. Apparently he noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

      Samantha came slinking around the corner, and Olivia waited for her to hiss. Instead she crept up to West and rubbed her face against the top of his boot.

      “Cute cat,” he said, releasing his briefcase and scooping up the finicky stray.

      “She belongs to my sister. And she’s never that friendly.”

      “Really?” He stroked the feline’s slick black fur. “Maybe she’s in heat.”

      “She’s fixed. And is that the only time females like you? When they’re in heat?”

      He released Samantha, then snared Olivia’s gaze. “You ought to know.”

      She contemplated kneeing him in the groin, just to remind him that she’d done it once before. Just to remind him that she was good at it.

      He broke eye contact. “Interesting place.”

      “We like it.” She pointed to the sofa. “Why don’t you have a seat and wait for Allie? She should be ready soon.”

      “Sure.” He grabbed his briefcase and sank onto the couch.

      While he studied the embroidered pillow next to him, giving it a guy-type examination, Olivia sat in a rocking chair she and Allie rarely used.

      “Did you bring all of the pictures?” she asked.

      He shook his head. “Just the ones with the symbol. Some of them are graphic, though. Bloody. Your sister won’t get queasy, will she?”

      “I don’t know. Speaking of queasy. How’s your hangover?”

      “I’ll survive.”

      Olivia glanced at his briefcase, where she assumed the photos were. She’d seen them, of course. But knowing Allie was going to view them made her edgy.

      Finally her sister entered the room, wearing a gauze dress and a floral-printed scarf tied around her waist. West came to his feet and introduced himself. Allie shook his hand.

      “You look like an FBI agent,” she said.

      “And you look like an artist.”

      They exchanged respectful smiles, and Olivia marveled at how easily West had morphed into a gentleman.

      Federal Bureau of Ingenuity, she thought.

      He didn’t waste any time. “Ready?” he asked Allie.

      She agreed and sat next to him. Much to her credit, Allie looked at the pictures without blanching. West explained who was who, speaking gently about the victims, pointing out the symbol that had been drawn onto each woman’s abdomen on the right side, like a bikini-line tattoo.

      “He didn’t remove their clothes,” Allie said.

      “No. He just moved them out of his way to draw the symbol.”

      “I should paint those portions of their bodies, just like they are here.”

      Blood splatters and all, Olivia thought, wishing she could protect her sister from this.

      “I can do it on one canvas,” Allie said. “Close up, in three sections. Then I’ll use a marker for the heart and the arrowhead. Like he did.”

      The special agent merely nodded, handing Allie the photos she needed to complete her project, to help Olivia see the killer.

      After Allie disappeared into her studio, Olivia offered to fix West breakfast, to keep busy while they waited.

      He sat at the glass-topped table in the kitchen, and she removed a frying pan from the counter beside the stove.

      “What are you going to fix?” he asked.

      “The Hangover Five-Alarm.” She turned to see him watching her. “It’s on the menu at Mel’s Diner.”

      “That American Graffiti place?”

      “Yep. Be ready for a chili cheese omelet.”

      He gave her a curious study. “Are you sure that’s a hangover cure?”

      “I’m going to add lots of hot sauce. It works like a charm.” And if it didn’t, then she would ply him with antacids and hope for the best.

      Twenty minutes later they ate the spicy concoction with buttered toast and orange juice. Afterward, they lingered at the table, with two cases of dragon breath. His stomach had handled the food just fine.

      They waited for what seemed like forever. Rain pounded on the roof of the building, echoing through the loft.

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