Page 5 of The Last Close Call

Sasha was back already with a flirty smile. She placed the detective’s soft drink in front of him, and he nodded his thanks.

“Because we know,” he said after she left.

Rowan looked the man over. He had an athletic build, but not the steroid-infused look she was used to seeing with young cops. Then again, he wasn’t that young. The touch of gray at his temples told her he was maybe ten years older than she was, probably late thirties. Or maybe it was the wise look in his eyes that told her that.

She sipped her drink and waited for more.

“A while ago we had the sample analyzed by a genetic genealogist,” he said. “Spent a lot of money and time on that. They ran into some kind of wall, and the results were inconclusive, they said.”

“What’s ‘a while’?”

“Come again?”

“How long ago did you have it analyzed?”

He hesitated a beat.

“Four years.”

Rowan’s breath caught. In terms of DNA technology, four years was like four decades. A lot had changed in that time—new techniques, new tools, new profiles in the databases.

But she tried to keep her face impassive as she folded her hands in front of her.

“I appreciate your effort to track me down,” she said. It told her a lot about what kind of detective he was—precisely the kind that had prompted her to shift careers. “But unfortunately, I don’t do police work anymore. You could say I’m retired.”

“That’s not what Ric told me.”

She gritted her teeth. Damn it, she’d known doing him a favor would come back to bite her.

“Ric said you’re selective, not retired.” He paused, watching her. “He told me you gave him an assist recently and that your help was invaluable.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Rowan said. She was immune to flattery, even from smooth-talking detectives who liked to play head games. “And I can appreciate the pressure you guys must be under with a serial case. But I’m not in that line of work anymore.”

He leaned forward, and she eased back slightly.

“Let me be straight, Rowan.” His eyes bored into hers. “I need your help right now. Not next month or next year. Not whenever you get bored with what you’re doing and decide to come out of retirement. I don’t care if I sound desperate. I’m on a ticking clock here.”

Her stomach tightened at his words. And his prediction that she would backtrack on her career change irked her.

But he held her gaze across the table, and she felt that inexorable pull that had turned her life upside down too many times to count.

She took in the detective’s sharp eyes and the determined set to his jaw. She admired that determination—she had it, too—but she had to resist this time.

At this very moment, she had an inbox full of requests from prospective clients who were willing to pay top dollar for her work. Positive work. Rewarding work. The kind of work that made her get out of bed in the morning with a sense of purpose. She’d spent three years building her reputation as one of the best in her field, and the last thing she needed to do was put all those clients on hold and get sucked back into the vortex of police work.

A buzz emanated from beneath the table, and Jack Bruner took out his phone. His expression remained blank, but she caught the slight tensing of his shoulders.

A callout. Someone was dead or bleeding or in some emergency room somewhere.

He pulled out his wallet and tucked a twenty under his untouched Coke. Then he took out a business card and slid it across the table.

“My cell’s on the back. Call me if you change your mind.”

He scooted from the booth, and she felt small as he towered over her. He held out his hand.

Against her better judgment she shook it.

***

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