Dangerous to Touch. Jill Sorenson
gaze darted to Bill, who had assumed a defensive posture. “You told,” she accused.
“They have a warrant for your arrest, Sid. I had no other choice.”
Feeling cornered and betrayed, she began to back away.
Lieutenant Cruz reached out and clamped his hand around her wrist. “Do you see bars in your future?”
She struggled against him, but he held tight. A woman’s ravaged face flashed before her, slimy things squirming in the soft tissues. Just like in her dream, a brackish taste filled her mouth and the smell of blood flooded her nostrils, strangling her, drowning her.
Examining her strange expression, he released her arm.
“I’m going to be sick,” she said, rushing to the nearest bathroom. She fell to her knees as the contents of her stomach came up, not swamp water or blood, as she almost expected, but the pulpy remnants of an orange she’d eaten for lunch in her truck on the way over.
With nothing more to purge, she dry heaved quietly, tears burning in her eyes, citric acid stinging her throat. When she was finished, Lieutenant Cruz handed her some wet paper towels.
“Thanks,” she said in a hoarse whisper, wiping her face.
“Do you have a weak stomach, or a guilty conscience?”
“Neither,” she muttered. “I have a sensitive nose, and you smell.”
He turned to Detective Lacy, frowning. “Do I?”
“A little bit,” she admitted.
“I thought maybe you’d had a ‘psychic vision.’” He sneered around the words, showing not only disbelief, but utter contempt.
Sidney flushed the toilet angrily.
“We’re going to need you to come back down to the station,” he said, not offering to help her to her feet.
“What for?”
“To take your statement.”
“Look, I’m not psychic. I don’t have visions. I don’t know anything more than I’ve already told you, and I’m not interested in being jerked around.”
His jaw tightened with displeasure. “Vincent wasn’t bluffing about that arrest warrant, you know. I have it right here,” he said, patting his suit pocket. Today’s was dark blue, with a crisp white shirt underneath. He looked immaculate, but she hadn’t been lying about the odor. A vaguely swampy, fishy scent clung to him. “You can come willingly, or unwillingly, it’s all the same to us.” Letting his eyes sweep down her trembling form, he added, “But I don’t think you’d like the booking process. There’s a lot of…manhandling.”
“I have a business to run,” she said, hearing desperation edge into her voice. “I’m the only employee.”
“You get a lunch break, right? This shouldn’t take much more than an hour.”
Sidney looked to Bill, who offered no support. “Can you come back here afterward?” he whined. “I’m serious about you taking that dog. He’s vicious.”
Given no alternative, she allowed them to escort her back to the station. Sitting in the back seat of Lieutenant Cruz’s Audi, she noticed a grocery bag with a pair of wet blue shorts inside. The unpleasant smell and sensation rushed her once again, and she hit the button to lower the window, needing fresh air.
“You’re not going to throw up again, are you?”
Putting her face to the lukewarm breeze, she shook her head dumbly.
“I’ll pull over,” he offered, probably more for his leather interior’s sake than her own.
She waved him on, because she didn’t have anything left in her stomach anyway.
In front of Oceanside Police Department, a crowd of reporters had congregated. Lieutenant Cruz let out an inventive combination of expletives. “What do they want?”
Lacy shrugged. “Go around back.”
He maneuvered his car into the rear parking lot and jumped out. To Sidney’s surprise, he opened the door for her. As she exited the vehicle, a tiny blonde strode toward them with a purpose, cameraman in tow.
It was Crystal Dunn, Sidney realized, mildly starstruck.
“No comment,” Lieutenant Cruz said before the pretty reporter could ask a question.
“Are you a witness in the investigation of Candace Hegel’s death?” Crystal asked anyway, shoving the microphone in Sidney’s face.
“Death?” Sidney repeated dully.
“She has no comment,” Lieutenant Cruz grated, clamping his hand around Sidney’s bare upper arm. Even in public, on camera, no less, his touch elicited a shiver of excitement. And a startling secret: He’d been romantically involved with Crystal Dunn, at one time or another.
Her pleasure fizzled. No wonder Sidney wasn’t his type, if he chased after doll-sized blondes with rapacious personalities. As he strode across the parking lot, practically dragging her along, she could hear Crystal Dunn’s no-nonsense voice as she shared the details of the latest homicide:
“Miss Hegel was found dead early this morning in Agua Hedionda Lagoon. Police officials have no comment—”
“You’re hurting me.”
He looked down at his hand, wrapped around her arm. “Sorry,” he said, loosening his grip. Sidney could tell he was furious, although he hid it well. He probably didn’t care for Crystal Dunn leaking details of a homicide to a possible suspect.
It had been petty and unprofessional of her, actually. With so much animosity between them, it was hard to guess who dumped whom.
“Detective Lacy, would you show Miss Morrow to one of the interview rooms, please?” he asked, looking down an empty hallway. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Lacy kept her face bland and authoritative. “Right this way, ma’am.”
The women’s locker room was clear. Marc breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he’d catch hell from Deputy Chief Stokes if she found him snooping around in here.
He located Lacy’s locker and began rifling through its contents. She had some girl stuff, makeup and deodorant, but no perfume or jewelry. A clean, pressed patrol uniform hung on a wooden hanger.
He grabbed a mesh bag from the bottom. Towels, shampoo. Damn.
Frustrated, he grabbed her oversize brown leather purse, preparing to dump out its contents and use it as his prop. Inside, however, there was a flimsy purple scarf, folded into a tiny square. Perfect.
He shoved it in his pocket, hoping to discredit Sidney Morrow for good. The look on her face, right before she got sick, had been damned convincing. He was still pissed off at himself for getting caught up in her ruse, even for a second.
Lots of women could vomit on cue. It was called bulimia, not ESP.
When he opened the door to the interview room, he was all business. Lacy was intimidating the subject with a cold, hard stare, arms folded over her chest. On the other side of the table, Sidney was fidgeting.
As he took his seat next to Lacy, he studied his quarry, confused by her appeal. He liked confident women. Bold, aggressive women who knew how to please a man. Women who were well aware of their own allure.
Sidney Morrow was as timid as a rabbit. If he touched her, she’d jump. If he kept touching her, she’d squirm. She was like a bundle of raw nerve endings. Against his better judgment, he speculated on what it would be like to go to bed with her.
“Dr. Vincent says you…know things,” he began. “Sense them.”
“I don’t.”
“Come