“All right. Is the door up?”

  “I’ll give you the security code. You need a second one for the door into the kitchen. Can you remember them?”

  His ears burned. Pissed at her implication—stupid since she had no idea how much of his brain he’d pickled the past year—he slid through the stop sign at El Monte and Rose. “Give me the codes.”

  She rattled off a series of numbers just as he made the Mountain View cruiser parked in the shadows.

  “Sonuva—” His breath reeked of gin. Legally drunk, he’d just run a stop sign. And … he was carrying a concealed weapon.

  “What’s wrong?” AnnaSophia demanded.

  “Nothing. Hold on. I’m laying the phone down for a minute.”

  “What’s wrong?” An undercurrent of panic rode the question.

  “Hold on.” He rolled down his window. Idiot. Moron. Fool. A young female cop he didn’t recognize approached. She directed a Maglite an inch over his head so the beam didn’t blind him but let her assess if he was carrying passengers.

  Jaw locked, he kept both hands on the steering wheel. How the hell do I play this?

  “Morning, Mr. Patel.” Dark circles under her narrowed blue eyes testified to sleep deprivation—a chronic condition cops shared without exception.

  “Morning. I have no excuse for running that sign.” Except I’ve drunk too much and slept too little and lost my mind.

  “There’s a refreshing remark.” She made no move to take out her ticket book. “Ex-cops should know better than to go with the BS.”

  “I’m an ex-cop. Not sure if I know better.” But he should’ve known she’d run his plates in the black-and-white and discover his ex status.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  Whenever possible, go with the truth. Words from his favorite expert on how to lie to a suspect during interrogation. “A friend’s in trouble.”

  “Trouble that requires a cop?”

  “A friend.” He met and held her gaze. She was too old to be a rookie so she’d know about Michael Romanov.

  “Does the friend have a name? Like the Alibi Bar and Lounge?”

  “For what it’s worth, I’m not headed for the Alibi.” Several of his former brothers and sisters in blue thought his promotion for handling the Romanov case smelled. Rumors swirled. He’d gotten too close to Mrs. Romanov. Everyone knew she’d killed her super-wealthy husband. Satish had looked the other way.

  He didn’t blame his fellow cops. None of them knew Michael Romanov, the psychopath.

  And none of them had grieved Satish’s resignation four months after he closed the case without an arrest. Or more important—

  The cop at his car window lasered him with the cop-stare—unnerving even though ten years on the Mountain View force had made him immune. “I let you go, you’re not gonna make me sorry, are you, Mr. Patel?”

  Chapter 5

  ANNASOPHIA

  Waiting for Patel to come back on the phone, I watch Stud Guy and Alexandra exchange smirks and roll their eyes. Their goofy smiles ignite the nerve-endings in my jittery fingers and my cuneiform. They don’t have a clue the gun is empty. I cock my head infinitesimally toward the closed door. What the hell was Patel doing?

  “Come on, Mom,” Stud Guy whines. “My arms feel like tree limbs. Tie my hands to the headboard if you want—”

  “What I want is for you to shut up.” Please do not let Magnus or Jennifer or Molly hear us talking and come investigate.

  “Aww, Mom.” He flexes his grapefruit-sized pecs, confident I’ll swoon, I assume.

  “Stop calling me Mom,” I yell, locking my jaw a second later. God, what if Magnus appears and bursts into terrified tears? What if Molly flies across the room, teeth bared, and takes a hunk out of Stud Guy’s ass? Would the stones glittering in Alexandra’s right nipple blind the dog first?

  That pierced nipple—with no signs of redness from recent mutilation—makes me want to turn away. I wave the gun’s barrel at the ceiling. “Pay attention.”

  “Oh, lighten up, Mother.” Alexandra lowers her arms half an inch and winks at me with eyelashes so caked with mascara, I’m in awe her eyelids don’t fall off. “Maverick’s teasing.”

  Maverick? I bite my lip. With a name like Maverick, no wonder the guy’s a sexual predator. I move the Magnum’s barrel up and down a couple more times, train the gun again on his horse-sized balls, and look away from Alexandra’s breasts. “FYI, Mav, I dislike teasing.”

  His Adam’s apple convulses. His wide smile wavers and slips off his suntanned face. He makes an O with his thumb and index finger. “Got it.”

  “I doubt that, but there’s always hope—even for idiots.”

  A shadow passes across his gray eyes, and his jaw tightens.

  Not the first time he’s been called an idiot. Under other circumstances, I might feel guilty for the insult. Under present circumstances, I congratulate myself on my remarkable restraint. When did my daughter get her body defaced? Where’d she meet this loser?

  “FYI, O Brilliant Mother, I invited Maverick into my boudoir.” She purses her lips on the first syllable in a show of sophistication that falls so far short I want to cry. Her lipstick is the color of fresh blood.

  In the dim bedroom, devoid of the feminine frills and dolls and stuffed animals she once adored, black scarves drape lamps and pillows. Everything goes so still I can hear atoms bump into each other. My heart, a solid boulder, crushes my lungs and cuts off my breath as she turns her head over one shoulder, lifts her chin, and bats her eyelashes at the ceiling. Her long, chestnut hair cascades in waves down her back. Her small, firm breasts and thick pubic hair detract from her made-up eyes and over-painted lips.

  Maybe—no, for certain—because I am her mother and love her even in this frozen moment when my mind refuses to accept what my eyes take in—I think this familiar stranger looks young and innocent. So why don’t her pristine, snow-white sheets carry a single drop of blood?

  Chapter 6

  SATISH

  The cop followed Satish for four blocks. Motivation enough he drove like a model citizen. When her cruiser turned onto a side street, he raised his phone’s volume. “I’m back.”

  “From where? God, I thought you’d gone back to India.” AnnaSophia’s voice rose high and brittle—accusatory, as if he’d reneged on his word or hung up.

  He choked the steering wheel and the impulse to remind her he was doing her a favor. Poor timing for snide remarks. Say zip about getting pulled over. The encounter with one of Mountain View’s finest was his own damn fault. Her words stung anyway. About a hundred feet from her driveway, a new, red Audi Spyder convertible gleamed in his headlights.

  No driver visible.

  Satish cursed. Someone tell him why the three homeowners on this godforsaken lane opted to forgo streetlights. He slowed, tempted to stop. Why did the Audi sit equidistant between AnnaSophia’s sprawling rancher and the one to her right? Why didn’t a car belonging to a neighborhood guest or visitor park directly in front of one of the houses?

  Driver’s inside drunk?

  Miniature solar lights lined the driveways and threw off a soft glow, but the softness would offer zero discouragement to teenage neckers.

  Or to a teenage party animal staying late.

  Or to AnnaSophia’s dumb-ass intruder.

  “What’s taking so long?”

  Her demand rammed the Audi to the back of his mind. “I need the garage code.”

  She gave it to him in a pissy tone too similar to his mother in one of her moods.

  Forget it. He stretched and punched in the numbers.

  The garage door slid up with a whoosh and soft thud. A battered white Bronco sat in the middle bay next to a Honda CRV LX. Satish drove the Porsche into the first bay, exhaled gin fumes, but still couldn’t visualize the woman he knew in the pickup. AnnaSophia Romanov belonged in a Benz like a fairy-tale princess belonged in a gold carriage.

  The garage door thumped down and jiggled loose a few thinking cells. Fairy-tale princess? How drunk was he? He swore under his breath, opened his door, planted his feet on the cement, and stepped toward the pickup. He laid his hand on the hood. Warm …

  “I’m inside.” Driven as much by old habits as by curiosity, he snapped a quick photo with his phone of the pickup’s front plate. “Where do I go once I enter the house?”

  “Stay right. Through the kitchen. Third door on your right. My son and housekeeper are asleep. Anastaysa’s at a sleepover.”

  The kitchen, bigger than his living room and master bedroom combined, glowed from mini-lights above the gleaming wood cabinets. Nice. Very nice—cozier than the restaurant-sized space at Belle Haven. Rumors her late husband’s assets were tied up in legal wrangling must be crap.

  He unholstered the Glock. “I’m coming down the hall.”

  “When you’re at the door, knock twice.”

  “Sure.” Whatever her reasoning, he wasn’t about to argue. “How many people are in the room with you?”

  “Two. My daughter, Alexandra. Her … Maverick. Both are on the bed. Hands up. No need for force or macho reaction.”

  “Whatever macho reaction means.” He reached the third door on his right. Knocking twice seemed silly, but he complied with the tip of his Glock and whispered into the phone, “Knock, knock.”

  “Come in.”

  No who’s there? He shook off the brain-blip and shoved the phone in his back pocket. Glock ready, he pushed open the door with his toe. His sense of hearing and seeing and smelling heightened. Neck and leg muscles tensed. He stared. What rabbit hole had he fallen down?

  In the middle of a huge bed with tangled sheets and covers, was a young male on his knees, early twenties, and a younger female—sweet, teenage Alexandra—both butt-naked, hands in the air. The salty odor of sweat and other body fluids carried an undernote of fear.

  AnnaSophia stood to one side, a Magnum .357 pointed at the male’s impressive chest. Echoes of fast beating hearts and ragged breath intensified the excitement Satish could taste on the tip of his tongue.

  AnnaSophia never shifted her gaze from the guy. “Maverick, meet Detective Satish Patel.”

  Chapter 7

  ANNASOPHIA

  Whatever Patel feels, his face gives away nothing. Two years since I saw him last. Time has softened my fear he’ll renege on his word. Time has not softened my grudging anger. He walked away after Michael’s murder knocked my world off its axis. Never looked back. Which is just as well. If he’d ever guessed about the letters—my heart thuds. I swallow and shove the thought into its dark hole.

  While his steady gaze focuses on Maverick, I study Alexandra’s nipple ring. Over her heart. My body stiffens and my jaw cracks. Patel shuts the door. I lower my empty revolver, fingers tingling. Go ahead. Make the stud a eunuch.

  My mouth twists. God, lack of sleep brings out melodrama.

  Patel ignores me. “That your Bronco in the garage, Maverick?”

  Alexandra taps the boob-ring with a blood-red fingernail. “I said he could park there.”

  “And who,” I ask, “gave you per—”

  The slightest shift of Patel’s body stops the torrent of words dammed in my dry throat. He asks, “Did you also give him permission to undress you?”

  “I did. Contrary to AnnaSophia’s assertions, Maverick’s not an intruder. He’s a guest.”

  Tears sting my eyes. Alexandra’s use of my first name catches me off guard.

  Patel asks, “How old are you, Maverick?”

  His Adam’s apple goes into convulsions again. With his over-bright eyes and buzzed hair, he looks nothing like Nicholas, her steady heartthrob. “Twenty … twenty-three.”

  “How old are you, Alexandra?”

  “Old enough to know what I can do with my own body.” She touches the stone in her breast and gives me her chin. “Old enough to know you won’t arrest me. Old enough—”

  “Old enough to speak respectfully,” I say between clenched teeth.

  She laughs and then speaks out of the side of her mouth to Maverick. “She’s channeling dear ol’ dead dad. He must’ve preached that same sermon till the day he kicked off.”

  A pressure builds inside my head, and my vision strobes with mental images of Michael.

  On his knees. In the mud. Taunting. Mocking.

  My throat closes, constricts, and cuts off my oxygen in the electrically charged room.

  From a distant planet, I hear Patel speak in that refined British-Hindi accent I’ve always found calming. “Take your daughter into the bathroom while Maverick gets dressed.”

  “Noooooooooooo way. No way in hell.” Alexandra’s voice rises higher and higher. It swirls and crashes in my ears like the ocean’s roar. “Forget. It. No way.”

  “Let’s go.” Knees wobbly, I clamp onto her elbow, knocking her off-balance, pinching bones until she slides off the bed in a sobbing, jelly-fish heap at my feet.

  “Hey,” Maverick says.

  “A word of advice,” Patel says, his tone silk, his gaze steel. “Say nothing.”

  “I hate you.” Alexandra pounds the carpet with operatic fury. “Hate you. Hate you.”

  The ashes in my gut ignite, but I shrug. “Message received.”

  Please don’t let her see my panicked need to take her in my arms and tell her I love her.

  Those unsaid words sear my throat. I force a hard-ass tone, “Hate me. Love me. You still have to get up and get dressed.”

  Chapter 8

  SATISH

  The tap at the bedroom door was barely audible, but Maverick and Satish flinched as if hearing thunder. Zipping his lips with his thumb and forefinger, he motioned the kid to put on his pants.

  “Not a problem.” Maverick bobbed his head up and down, up and down, like a wired parrot—even after he dragged his briefs from the top of the lampshade.

  “AnnaSophia?” The tap came a little louder. “Is Alexandra okay? I heard—”

  Satish cracked the door, squaring his body in the opening, and holding the Glock behind his back. Who else had AnnaSophia said was in the house? A woman’s round, unlined, flushed face brought her name back—but the woman was faster.

  “Detective Patel?” She peered at him, her blue eyes blurry.

  “Good memory, Jennifer.”

  “Cooking requires a good memory.”

  “I boil water, not much else.”

  She blinked—whether confused or clearing her vision—he could only guess. The former, was his hunch since their conversation bordered on weird at any time of the day, but especially at one in the morning. He glanced over his shoulder. Maverick had pulled on a blue tee and faded jeans. He leaned over his knees, held a fat pillow in a death-hold, and stared at his bare feet as if they were exotic animals.

  Satish refocused on Jennifer. “I’d like you to check on Magnus. If he’s asleep, stay in his room until AnnaSophia comes to tell you what’s happening.”

  “I can do that.” She remained with her nose near the crack in the door. “Magnus used to have nightmares. Now, he’s the best sleeper in the house. I’ll tell him a story if he wakes up.”

  “Thank you.” Satish closed the door, faced Maverick, and holstered the Glock. “How old are you—truthfully?”

  “How old is Alexandra?” he countered.

  “Fifteen.” Going on a tough forty.

  “Shiiiiiit.” Maverick lurched off the bed, stutter-stepped, and flopped on the mattress.

  “At the very least. Is tonight a casual hookup? A regular thing? Something else?”

  “Something else. The first time. The only time. I swear—” He tugged at his buzzed hair. “Dude, I swear I thought she was twenty-six, twenty-seven. Older ’n me. She carries a bitchin’ fake ID. They’d never let her in at Leather’s if they thought for a nanosecond—they’d show her straight to the door.”

  Satish’s jaw cracked. God, AnnaSophia, what a mess. He snapped his fingers at the kid whose head was bowed. “Last time. Pay attention. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one. A month ago. I added two years to impress Alexandra.” He slammed a fist against the middle of his forehead. “Dude, I am fuc—screw—in deep shit, right?”

  “What are the chances she’ll corroborate—back up your story?”

  “No idea. Hell, I met the chick three hours ago. The one th-thing she said for sure that’s truthful is she told me to undress her.”

  “Did you use a condom?”

  Maverick shook his head. “She wouldn’t let me.”

  “Meaning ? She knocked you out? Took the condom? Flushed it down the toilet?”

  “Damned close. I was carrying four Trojan Bareskins in my wallet. They’re lubricated, you know.”

  “Your point?” Satish managed not to roll his eyes.

  “I’m just saying, dude. The Bareskins aren’t cheap. They’re expensive. She punched a hole in all four with a fingernail file. Said she’d stopped using condoms after going on the pill.”

  “You aware the pill protects her from getting pregnant? It doesn’t protect you from an STD.” Did this fool even know what STD meant?

  “Sure. But … hey, she was smokin’ hot. Flounced into Leather’s in a dress barely covering her ass, cut down to her belly button—her little titties—”

  “Watch it.” Satish didn’t give a damn about the kid’s language, but maybe a little editing now would pay off when AnnaSophia had to hear the details firsthand.

  “Boobs.”

  Satish narrowed his eyes. “Are you dense? Her mother’s a doctor.”

  “Okay, whatever.” Maverick shrugged, his forehead wrinkled as if trying to pull out a satisfactory word. “Breasts. Her breasts hung out—one of ’em pierced with some kind of stone. It glittered like a diamond. Every guy there got a boner.”

  “Why’d she pick you?”

  “I lied better than anyone else.” He spoke as if he deserved a prize.

  “How hard was that? What’d you say?”

  Maverick shrugged. “A load of shit. Like how bad I am and how many babes I’ve fucked and how I love to live right on the edge—shit like that.”

 

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