Like No One Else. Maureen Smith
those impossibly long legs of hers, had sent his blood pressure skyrocketing through the roof. When their gazes locked in the mirror, Paulo knew that nothing had changed. The chemistry between them was as potent as ever. If his cell phone hadn’t rung when it did, there’s no telling whether he would have stopped at just kissing her.
Paulo scowled, forcefully shoving all thoughts of Tommie to the back of his mind as he reached his destination, a meticulously landscaped neighborhood located minutes away from Houston’s Galleria. Even before Paulo turned onto Woodland Drive, a quaint, tree-lined street flanked by large one- and two-story brick houses, he saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. A car from the sheriff’s department was already parked at the end of the street, discouraging unauthorized persons from turning into the block. Three vans from local television stations and several other vehicles were staked out along the intersecting road. The reporters and cameramen taped live footage of the scene while the onlookers stood outside their cars gawking at the unfolding drama.
Paulo maneuvered around the police cruiser barricading the lane and nosed into a narrow spot beside the ambulance. He unwrapped a piece of Nicorette gum and stuffed it into his mouth, then reached for the door handle. He climbed out of the car and stepped into the clear, crisp night, grateful for the cold snap that had settled over the city, however temporarily.
As he started toward the single-story redbrick house that was swarming with activity, he saw neighbors hovering in doorways and clustered on front lawns and sidewalks. He felt the weight of their stares as he strode up the front walkway, lined on both sides with carefully tended beds of azaleas and begonias. A white BMW was parked in the driveway, and the house had been roped off with yellow crime-scene tape.
The uniformed officer standing guard at the front door nodded a greeting to Paulo and lifted the tape high enough for him to duck under.
“You the first on the scene?” Paulo asked as he signed the obligatory security logbook.
The officer nodded. “Call came into dispatch about an hour ago. I was the closest, lucky me.” He grimaced, shaking his blond head. “It ain’t pretty in there.”
“It rarely is.” Paulo stepped into the spacious foyer and glanced around the tastefully furnished living room. A cream sofa and love seat, along with a brown leather chaise longue, were arranged around a limestone fireplace that soared to the second-story ceiling. Vibrant watercolors depicting scenes of a bustling Mexican village hung on the walls.
The place was already crawling with crime-scene investigators, detectives from the sheriff’s department, and staff members from the coroner’s office. Measurements were being taken, the rooms dusted for fingerprints or shoe prints, a vacuum used to suck up any unseen trace evidence. A videographer panned the rooms of the house, throughout which bright lights had been set up.
Another uniformed officer greeted Paulo by name, then ushered him down a long, wide corridor. The air was redolent with the stench of blood and violent death.
At the end of the hallway they reached the master bedroom. A young woman’s nude body lay spread-eagled on the floor in a pool of blood. She’d been stabbed multiple times across her throat and chest. Blood from the deep, savage lacerations had leaked onto the oatmeal-colored Berber carpeting beneath her. On the wall above the queen-size bed, the word LIAR had been scrawled in blood.
“Jesus,” Paulo muttered under his breath.
After fifteen years in homicide, he had acquired enough toughness and objectivity to work even the most gruesome crime scene without an ounce of queasiness. But that didn’t mean he’d grown immune to the sight of a dead body, that he didn’t feel a twinge of sorrow or anger over the senseless loss of a life. The day he stopped feeling anything was the day he’d quit.
A photographer was busily snapping shot after shot, his flash strobing the grisly scene. Two other technicians were moving carefully around the room, lifting latent prints and searching for trace evidence while the lead forensics investigator, crouching near the victim, took measurements around the body.
Norah O’Connor’s bright red hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her thin, freckled face was set in a grim expression as she concentrated on her task. Hearing Paulo’s muttered oath, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “You got here fast. Donovan says he just called you a few minutes ago.”
“I was nearby,” Paulo said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Where is he?”
“My guess would be the kitchen, interviewing the witness.”
“The witness?”
O’Connor nodded. “The victim’s coworker. She’s the one who discovered the body. She said she came over here after work to check up on the victim, who had called in sick today. She was concerned about her. Apparently they were good friends.” O’Connor grimaced. “Needless to say, she’s pretty shaken up.”
“No wonder.” Out of habit Paulo sketched a quick sign of the cross over his heart before entering the room. Watching where he stepped, he approached the body and sank to his haunches on the opposite side of O’Connor.
The victim was moderately tall, at least five-eight, and appeared to be in her late twenties. Her long black hair was in disarray, as if she’d put up a struggle with her assailant. Dark brown eyes stared sightlessly upward. Her dusky skin was now pallid in death. Although her face was bloated, Paulo could tell she’d been beautiful.
As he studied her, he felt a whisper of recognition. He’d met this woman before. But where? And when?
“You know the victim?” O’Connor, ever observant, had detected the flash of recognition on his face.
Paulo frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”
“You might,” a voice spoke from the doorway.
Paulo looked up as his partner, Julius Donovan, stepped into the room. Tall, bald, dark as Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee with the lanky build of a small forward, the detective had been named after his father’s favorite basketball player, Julius “Dr. J” Erving. To his father’s dismay, Julius had never developed his namesake’s aptitude for basketball, preferring activities that appealed more to his cerebral nature, such as solving crossword puzzles and reading science fiction. He’d graduated from college with honors and accepted a lucrative job as a securities analyst for a major brokerage firm. But after just two years, he’d made a drastic career change, deciding to serve his community by becoming a cop. After nearly four years on the force, he’d established himself as a smart, tenacious investigator with good instincts, even if he tended to be a bit overzealous at times. Paulo not only liked the kid; he had a lot of respect for him. Which was something he couldn’t say about everyone he worked with.
Paulo warily regarded the younger detective. “What’re you talking about?”
Julius Donovan, wearing pleated trousers and a dark sport coat that hung loosely on his narrow frame, advanced farther into the room. “The victim’s name is Maribel Cruz. She’s twenty-nine years old.” He paused, then added pointedly, “She worked as a legal secretary at Santiago and Associates.”
Paulo stared at him, his gut clenching. “Shit,” he muttered grimly.
Norah O’Connor glanced up from measuring blood spatter to divide a speculative look between the two men. “Why is that significant?”
Donovan frowned, bemused by the question. “Why? Because Sanchez is re—” He broke off abruptly at the hard look Paulo gave him.
Very few people in the department knew that Paulo was a member of one of Houston’s richest, most powerful families. And he preferred to keep it that way. Although he’d been in law enforcement long enough to be considered a seasoned veteran, he was still a relative newcomer to the Houston Police Department. The last thing he needed was to be ostracized or harassed by his peers just because some of his relatives happened to be worth a fortune.
“The victim worked for the largest law firm in Houston,” Donovan amended, recovering quickly from his near admission. “Isn’t