No Darker Place. Debra Webb
agility but not the growl of the beast under the hood. With this vehicle, if the need arose, she could outrun basically anything else on the road.
Traffic was light. No kids hurrying along the sidewalk headed for school. Jamie would have started pre-K this fall. The realization sank like a massive rock in her gut. She blinked away the burn in her eyes and forced her attention back on the passing surroundings. D-Boy lifted his head and watched as she rolled past. She’d filled his water bowl and taken him a treat around midnight last night. He was a good dog, but she didn’t need one.
Nick Shade’s image intruded on her thoughts. He’d been watching her. She’d seen him at the fountain last night. There was a darkness about the man. She lacked enough detail to make a valid assessment beyond the fact that he disturbed her somehow. Just another obstacle and potential distraction she didn’t need.
She rolled to a stop at the intersection behind a vintage Camaro as black as the car she drove. The Camaro waited for an opportunity to turn left on Fairground Road. She’d seen it around the neighborhood. Probably belonged to a member of Quintero’s thug gang. One of these days the guy was going to get what was coming to him. He ran the illegal activities on this side of town. Everyone knew it, but no one could prove it. He and Bobbie had butted heads more than once.
When five then ten seconds passed with no traffic and no movement from the Camaro, tension slid through her. She reached for the gearshift to move into Reverse, but the passenger-side door of the Camaro opened and a man emerged.
“Speak of the devil.” What the hell did he want?
Javier Quintero approached her passenger-side window and leaned down to stare at her. “I need to talk to you, mami,” he said, the glass muffling his voice.
She powered down the window. “We have nothing to talk about, Javier.”
He unlocked the door and got in.
Bobbie rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Your friend—” he hitched his head to indicate the cruiser behind her “—is causing my eses discomfort.”
Like she cared what his homeys suffered. “Get out of my car, Javier.”
In her side mirror she watched the officer emerge from the cruiser. She swore as she powered her window down.
“Ma’am, is everything all right?” Officer Delacruz, she read his name tag, already had one hand sitting on the butt of his weapon.
“Everything’s fine.” She offered one of her fake smiles. “Just chatting with a neighbor. Wait in your car, Delacruz.”
The painfully young officer, who shared absolutely nothing but a Hispanic heritage with the gangbanger currently occupying her passenger seat, glanced at Javier before giving her a nod and heading back to his cruiser.
“You see what I mean?” Javier complained. “This is bad for business.”
There were a number of things Bobbie could have said just then, but she decided in the interest of time she would give it to him straight. “You know that serial killer who almost killed me?”
Javier nodded. “I remember. He’s one sick motherfucker.”
On instinct, Bobbie checked her mirrors. “He’s back, so the chief put a tail on me.”
Javier laughed out loud, showing off his gold-and-silver grill. “Your jefe thinks that little boy back there is going to protect you, mami?”
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“You tell your chief this is my neighborhood,” Javier said, ignoring her comment. “That fucker comes up in here—”
Enough. Bobbie slid her Glock from her belt and jammed it in his face. “Get out of my car.”
His mouth eased into a big grin, stretching the scar on his cheek where someone had sliced his face the last time he was in prison. “Don’t tease me, mami. I get hard when you play with me like this.” He flicked out his tongue and traced the muzzle.
She gritted her teeth. “Get out.”
The smile vanished and his brown eyes bored into hers. “Tell your chief that Johnny Law needs an unmarked car. He’s fucking with my cash flow and I don’t like it.”
With that demand he exited her car and climbed back into the Camaro. The driver spun out, tires smoking and squealing. Bobbie shook her head and rolled to the intersection. She hoped Delacruz hadn’t pissed his pants.
Criminal Investigation Division, 8:15 a.m.
Bobbie entered the building and waved to the sergeant stationed at the visitor’s registration desk. If she was lucky, there would be some fresh coffee somewhere in the building. She rounded the corner and bumped into Bauer.
“It’s about time you got here, Gentry. Everyone’s waiting for you.”
Detective Asher Bauer was average height with a well-muscled build maintained by his obsession with the gym. His need to heft weights was matched only by his determination to keep a year-round tan and a trendsetting club wardrobe. The sandy-blond hair and sleep-deprived gaze completed the party-player look he appeared to fancy. If he was smart, he’d find something for those bloodshot eyes. Since his fiancée died he was determined to spend his off time deep in a bottle of Jack and screwing anyone who would spread her legs. Bobbie wished she could find the right words to make him see alcohol and casual sex weren’t the answer.
At least he hasn’t slit his wrists the way you did.
Bobbie closed out the thoughts and produced another of her standard fake smiles for the guy. “As soon as I get coffee, I’ll go to the LT’s office.”
Bauer moved his head from side to side. “Go to the conference room. I’ll bring your coffee. Peterson’s in there, too.”
“Black, no sugar,” Bobbie reminded him before changing directions and heading for the conference room.
Whatever was going on, the chief’s presence confirmed it was a high-profile situation like the Storyteller. Why else would they have called you?
Anticipation seared through her veins and her fingers itched to draw her weapon and hold on to it just in case. The door to the conference room was open. Peterson sat at the head of the table, Lieutenant Eudora Owens to his right, Sergeant Lynette Holt next to her. Across from the LT were Montgomery County Sheriff Virgil Young and Special Agent Michael Hadden from the local FBI office.
All looked up when Bobbie entered the room. “I guess I’m the last one to the party.” She reached for a chair.
“Not quite, Detective.”
Her pulse bumping into a faster rhythm, Bobbie turned to the man standing in the open doorway. Special Agent Anthony LeDoux. Resentment, bitterness and no small amount of dislike stirred. She clenched her jaw and tamped down the surge of emotions.
LeDoux was only four years older than her. He had been on the Storyteller case since the eighth victim was left at his front door. At the time he’d been a brand-new profiler and his work had apparently drawn the Storyteller’s attention. LaDoux’s light brown hair was shorter now than it was last December when she’d first met him, and the wedding band he’d worn back then was missing.
“Why don’t we get started?” the chief suggested, impatience radiating in his tone. Peterson didn’t care much for LeDoux, either, and he didn’t mind showing it.
Bobbie shifted her attention to those gathered at the table. “What’s going on?” She didn’t ask why she was here, she was just grateful not to be left in the dark.
“Lieutenant Owens will brief us,” Peterson said, his somber gaze now resting on the Major Crimes Bureau commander.
Bobbie sat down next to Holt. Bauer showed up and took the seat beside her. Thankfully the cup of coffee he sat in front of Bobbie smelled drinkable, which