Page 60 of Lust
He blurted the first thing he could think of against her head. “Barry Bonds: 2986 games; 762 home runs.”
He paused, waiting for her reaction.
“More,” she said.
“Hank Aaron: 3298 games; 755 home runs. Babe Ruth: 2573 games; 814 home runs—”
Liza snorted. “As if.”
“Just checking to see if you’re listening.”
“You can’t make up stats, even for the Babe.”
“Especially for the Babe,” he chuckled. A wisp of her hair floated from the push of his breath. He wanted to catch it and smooth it down, but refused to lift his hands from her.
After a few more minutes of him reciting baseball statistics, she nodded again and let go of his hand. “I’m okay.”
“Wait there.”
He retrieved an unopened bottle of water from the car and gave it to Liza. She gratefully accepted, cleaned her hands, and then washed out her mouth before spitting.
It wasn’t an odd scene. Many officers puked at a homicide like this. If anyone noticed, they’d probably put it down to a queasy stomach.
“You sure you good?” he asked.
“See? You have my back.”
He returned her tight smile and ignored the twinge of guilt in his gut, but knew he couldn’t avoid it forever. He expected a call from his superior by the end of the day.
19
After returningfrom the crime scene, Liza spent the afternoon filling out copious paperwork regarding the Faithful attack. Joe went straight into his office and shut the door. The ride home with him had been interesting. She’d thought, perhaps, her poison-slip had ruffled his careful Italian feathers, but his hair remained tidy, his shirt tucked in, and his tie in a perfect Windsor knot. His eyes were schooled and stark. He wasn’t ruffled.
But he cracked his knuckles continuously.
It reminded her of the time he’d applied for Quantico and was waiting on the results.
Joe sat reclined, long legs sprawled under his desk next to Liza’s. He cracked his knuckles and stared at the phone, foot tapping on the linoleum floor.
Liza put down her phone receiver and glared at him. “Jeez. Enough already.”
She reached across the expanse between their two desks, pressed her finger to a dark freckle on the back of his hand, and then made a buzzing sound.
He looked at her. “What?”
“That was me pressing the off button,” she replied, then raised her brows. “You’re cracking your knuckles again. Relax. They’ll call.”
He was probably still flexing his hands behind his closed door. She glanced at the solid wood barrier, a spear of concern momentarily hitting her, but then scowled back at her paperwork. With it done, she switched her mind to the recent homicide and felt sick all over again. It was hard not to let it get to her. Mirabelle had been so innocent. She didn’t deserve the fate death had dealt her. Liza pulled out her notebook from her jacket pocket and flipped through what she’d found.
Bubkis. Nada. Zilch.
The homeless people saw nothing. No witnesses. No motive. But the nature of the crime matched the MO of the serial killer Joe’s team was hunting.
With a heavy sigh, Liza leaned back in her chair. For the first time in her life, she felt inadequate as a detective. Joe had specifically requested Liza on his team for her expertise, yet a new crime had occurred on her watch. A lot was going on with Joe at the moment. The serial killer, the bombshell about her secret identity, their feelings for each other. He had her back at the crime scene. She used to always have his back, despite him never talking about his problems.
She should do something nice for him.
Roses? Chocolate? She grinned. Not really her style. But catching a killer would be the perfect gift.
