Page 71 of Another Girl Lost

He was having trouble shaking the frustration and impotence that enveloped him now. Eventually, he’d find a way to ball up the bad shit and bury it deep, with the other atrocities that came with the job, but for now the details of the autopsy and screwing Margo were too raw and fresh. He took a long sip of beer.

The bartender set a basket of shelled peanuts in front of him. It was their nightly ritual. He was good for three beers and a large basket of peanuts. Something about the crack of the shell that was satisfying.

He angled a peanut between his index finger and thumb.Crack.

He’d told Margo to meet him here tomorrow night. Funny, he’d been so full of himself. But she’d been a random stranger. Now she was a ball-busting steamroller and his partner on this case.

The irony of their hookup wasn’t lost on him. At this point it would do little to hurt his career, but if Margo wanted to grow her own, she’d learn quickly he wasn’t the guy to help. He could barely help himself these days.

Dawson still couldn’t picture Margo in this dark, shabby place that suited him so well. He snapped a shell. And another. The pile of shells grew. In an hour he’d be back at the office piecing together all the leads accumulated in the Taylor case.

A whiff of perfume caught his attention. Not the cheaper scents that he associated with this place. Expensive. Nice. Margo. She took a seat beside him.

He didn’t look in her direction. He wasn’t anxious to let her know just how glad he was to see her. “Thought we said Tuesday night.”

“Do you turn into a pumpkin on Mondays?” She took a sip of his beer, seeming to savor the cold, salty flavor. “I have a few tidbits about Sandra Taylor, but that can wait for an hour. Ready to go?”

He forced himself to remain still. “You in a rush?”

“Well, we could braid each other’s hair and nurse this beer longer.”

That coaxed a smile. “Point taken.” He cleared out his tab and, aware a few fellow cops were watching, followed her out of the bar. Let ’em gossip. And if he lost his job over it, fine. Life moved on.

They crossed the street to the hotel and then the lobby. He punched the elevator and rode it to the fifth floor, where his room was located.

Neither spoke as they moved toward his door. As he opened it, she checked messages on her phone. The bright light in the bathroom was enough to highlight a pile of dirty clothes, pizza boxes, take-out containers in the trash cans, and stacked Styrofoam coffee cups. Tiffany’s scrapbook sat next to a laptop on the round table by the window.

The beds were made, and fresh dry cleaning hung in the closets. A football game played on the television screen because the sound of voices created the illusion someone was waiting for him. He closed the door behind him and then secured his weapon in the bedside table drawer.

She let her purse drop to the dresser and kicked off her shoes.

When he faced her, she was unbuttoning her blouse. Keeping distance between them was now a challenge. “You’re that sure of me?”

She paused and raised a brow. “We ruled out hair braiding. Want to discuss feelings? Or the case?” She unfastened another button, drawing his gaze to her full cleavage.

His throat tightened. “No.”

“Good.” She shrugged off her jacket, revealing a black lace bra that skimmed full breasts. She unfastened the zipper on her pants and shimmied out of them.

It was Christmas morning for him. And judging by the way she smiled at him, she knew it.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

He allowed his gaze to linger on her body for several beats. This close to her, his skin rippled. The helpless outside chaos faded, and for this moment, he savored a sense of control. He closed the distance between them and skimmed the top of her lacy bra. “Lie on the bed.”

“How did you know I’d be there tonight?” Dawson asked. Staring at the ceiling, he casually stroked Margo’s thigh.

She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Where else would you have been after a tough day?”

“Point taken. But why me?”

“Figured you’d help me blow off steam. When I attend the autopsy of a young girl, I get on edge.”

Dawson was a grinder. He’d never make chief. Now he was with a woman who’d just let him know he was a means to an end. “You knew I’d be handy, ready.”

“And you were.”

“Yeah. I suppose so.” Surprised by the rush of bitterness, he shifted the conversation. “This isn’t your first murder investigation.”

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