"He wants to talk."
"My wife, Yolie, will be the first one to tell you—I am a guy. And even if she didn't want to personally vouch for me, I got my man card to prove it. So I've got a pretty good idea what's on his mind. Not sure about you. Like the book says, women are from Pluto."
"And men are fresh from Uranus. What's your point, Tony?"
He turned toward her with a hesitant smile and placed his hand on her elbow, giving it a tug. "The guy's got more baggage than the airlines, Mac. And I should know; one of them still has my best Samsonite, a family heirloom lovingly bundled in duct tape. It might be you're setting up for a very big fall."
Despite his attempt at humor, concern shaped his expression when he spoke again. "And we haven't absolved him from any wrongdoing here. Keep that in mind. You're playing a very dangerous game with a guy who might've invented the word 'dangerous.' When you look up the word in the dictionary—"
"Yeah, I know. I'm gonna find his picture." She sighed, paraphrasing his long-standing joke. "And he'll be smiling."
"Still, if he does want to talk, you might be able to learn something useful about his past." Hooking a knuckle under her chin, he badgered her culinary skills. "Why don't you stick around here for a while, then take off when you need to. Knowing you, your cupboards are bare of anything remotely edible by a man's standards. You'll need time to grocery shop and memorize a cookbook or two. I can take care of things here."
"Oh, God, you're right. Why did I promise to cook?" A jumble of expletives rolled from her mouth, easing a chuckle from Tony.
"You're gonna do fine," he lied, not very adept at the art. "Just take care of your heart, partner." His expression grew more solemn. "That part could use some Kevlar."
She smiled at Tony, giving his shoulder a soft punch. "Thanks for the tip, tough guy. Your Yolanda is one lucky woman."
"That's what I keep trying to tell her." He laughed.
Backing away, she let the CSI crew through the doorway, nodding a greeting. "Come on, Tony. We got a crime scene to process. The quicker we start, the sooner you'll be home with your beautiful wife and adorable kids."
"If I get home at a reasonable hour, Yolie will think I'm a burglar. She'd shoot me if she allowed a weapon in the house besides my service revolver."
"Maybe you're the one needing the Kevlar, my friend."
She loved getting the rare opportunity to make Tony laugh. Usually it was the other way around. Given their work, it tipped the scales to have a partner she had grown to love like a brother.
Within an hour, Raven rushed home via the neighborhood grocery store—a list of ingredients filling her brain. Before leaving, she heard Tony arrange to hitch a ride back to the station house with one of the crime-scene techs.
Beyond the normal anxiety surrounding her unsteadiness in the kitchen, her pulse raced at the thought of Christian in her home. She'd been trained to defend herself against larger opponents, scored well at the firing range, was proficient in multiple weapons. Yet the idea of this man crossing her threshold, being invited to share her personal space, unnerved her beyond reason. After all, she was no Martha Stewart.
What the hell had she been thinking?
"I made you a promise, Logan. I know where the pretty detective lives." Vinnie beamed as he spoke into his cell phone, pleased he'd finally satisfied McBride on the subject of Raven Mackenzie. "And you were right. It looks like she lives alone."
With the heater in his truck faltering, he recited the address, giving the man a general sense of the location. The small bungalow was situated northwest of Wrigley Field in a quiet neighborhood of neatly trimmed lawns, flower boxes, pruned hedges, and unattached garages set behind cyclone fences. He imagined the quiet suburb would be thrown off its axis when Logan McBride arrived.
"You think she'd be receptive to a male caller?" McBride asked. "On such short notice?"
Logan's soft laughter sent shivers down Vinnie's spine. He'd been on the receiving end of the man's idea of humor. A small part of him felt sorry for the woman. Fortunately, this weakness was short-lived, as he suspected the detective might soon be.
"She's just been grocery shopping. I'm sure she's up for some entertaining," he replied. If Logan hadn't been in the picture, Vinnie would have considered paying a social call himself. His blood churned south, giving rise to his show of bravado.
"Good job, Vin. Now get out of there before you draw flies." Logan ended the call with his usual lack of protocol.
Shifted into gear, his old truck rumbled a protest when it lurched forward. Vinnie grinned, content he'd done what he could to please McBride. He served up the good detective on a platter, ripe for the taking. After tonight, Detective Raven Mackenzie would understand what it felt like to have the Devil cross her path.
As for himself, he wasn't sure if he considered his involvement with Logan a curse or a questionable stroke of good fortune. But he was willing to share the experience.
Dusk resisted the impending darkness with the last-ditch effort of the sun, spewing tendrils of pale orange across a surging night sky. The sheer draperies of his bedroom window flushed in pastel. Yet in the dying light, his sense of urgency mounted. Christian rationalized that the tension stemmed from his habitual reaction to the coming darkness, understanding and accepting the daily occurrence. But his stress was exacerbated by his concern for Fiona. He stopped his pacing and pulled back the fabric, hoping the view of the lingering sunlight would calm him.
But two of his security personnel, dressed in black uniforms and carrying weapons, patrolled along a pathway outside his bedroom window. The reality of his predicament made painfully clear. Despite the beauty surrounding him, the threat of violence existed. It was his life. With a heavy sigh, he let the drape fall. Turning, he stared at the phone on his nightstand.
Christian dreaded what he had to do.
It went against years of trust, built by a bond forged from a fragile and broken childhood. But he couldn't put it off any longer. He had to find Fiona, retrace her movements. Slowly, he moved toward his bed and sat on the edge of his mattress, imagining the sound of her voice. Still, he had no idea what she'd say.
How was she connected to Mickey? To him, she'd admitted a link to the man. If the police discovered that Mickey had killed Charles Dunhill, would the next logical leap be that Fiona had been involved in her husband's death? And what did all this have to do with his family's massacre?
Dread filled him, jarring bile in his stomach. Dialing the number to Dunhill Security, he waited for someone to answer.
"Security. Edwards speaking."
"Hey, Bill. This is Christian. Any luck on that special assignment I gave you?"
Christian had known Bill Edwards for a number of years. Trusting the man to be discreet, he had asked him to do a preliminary search on Fiona's whereabouts. The connection between Mickey and the Dunhill armory had instigated his initial concern. And after seeing the place, he felt glad he'd assigned the job to this man.
"Not yet, Christian. But something of interest just came up. I was getting ready to call you."
"Oh? What's up?" He wasn't sure he could handle another complication.
"Someone representing themselves as Dunhill Security has been asking about Mrs. Dunhill. Apparently, they're attempting to do the very thing you've asked from me—trying to find her." The grave tone of his voice only mirrored Christian's apprehension. "Whoever it is has contacted the hangar and some of her favorite haunts in Europe. I've determined they came up empty so far, but maybe their luck will turn. What do you want me to do?"