The District. Carol EricsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
should I start looking?” Eric flattened his drawing on the desk next to the computer. “Symbols? Signs? Demonic symbols?”
“Try all three.” She pilfered another French fry from his pile and then dusted the salt off her fingertips.
He held a hand over his food. “If you wanted fries, why didn’t you order them?”
“Because there are so many more calories in a full order that you can eat all by yourself than a few stolen fries.” She hunched forward as he scrolled down the page containing websites about satanic symbols.
“Right. When did you ever worry about counting calories?” His gaze darted to his right and then returned and wandered down her body. “Although...”
Prickles of heat danced across her flesh in the wake of his inventory as her body called out for his in every way.
She grabbed another fry and waved it in his face to distract him from the subtle responses shifting through every cell of her being. “Are you trying to say I’ve gained weight?”
He blinked and turned back to the screen. “A little, but it suits you.”
“Just great.” She patted her stomach. “That’s exactly what you want to hear from someone after two years apart.”
He snorted and tapped the keyboard. “Don’t pretend to be the insulted party, Christina. You were skinny before and now you’re not so skinny. You’ve filled out in all the right places and you look great. There—I said it. You can stop fishing for compliments now.”
With her eyes stinging, she took a big bite of her sandwich. He still saw her as devious and conniving, even over something petty like her appearance. How could she ever tell him about Kendall when he still harbored such resentment against her?
She watched his strong hands as they hovered over the keyboard. Resentful he may be, but he hadn’t gotten her out of his blood any more than she’d gotten him out of hers. His brain might be telling him no, but his male libido was sending an entirely different message—one that she read loud and clear.
She’d been on only a handful of dates in the past few years, but she recognized the look of lust in a man’s eyes when she saw it—especially in Eric’s eyes. She’d seen it there enough times when the passion between them ran hot and undeniable.
“Who knew there were so many satanic symbols?”
She cleared her throat. “Maybe it’s not satanic. Maybe it has something to do with Mother Nature or Buddhism or something.”
“I’m looking at all three women now and I don’t see much of a connection between them. Olivia Dearing was a waitress in Portland. Liz Fielding worked as a nurse’s aide, and Nora worked in a bookstore.”
Eric tapped a pencil against his stubbled chin. “They’re all service jobs. Maybe they ran into someone in the course of their day who tagged them for murder.”
“Maybe, although the women don’t look much alike, so if it’s a random selection of victims it’s harder to connect the dots.”
“At least we know he traveled from Portland to San Francisco to San Diego and back to San Francisco at some point, which leads me to believe he lives here.”
She lined up pictures of the three women in life side by side, and pointed to each one. “He travels for work, he eats out, he visits someone in the hospital.”
“Liz didn’t work in a hospital. She did home health care.” He nudged aside the finger she had planted on Liz Fielding’s picture with his own.
She snatched her hand away from his warm touch and dropped it in her lap. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If she wanted to give him the impression that his hard body and smoldering eyes had absolutely no effect on her, she’d better up her game.
“Are you okay?”
Her eyes flew open and she met his concerned gaze. Concern? She’d figured that emotion would be in short supply from him. They were making progress.
“You’re not getting any of those feelings, are you?”
“From a few photos?” She coughed and plucked a tissue from the box on the credenza behind her. “Not likely.”
“The cards?”
“Didn’t have enough time.” She snapped her fingers. “We’re forgetting all about your San Diego victim.”
“I haven’t forgotten about him.” He reached into his bag, pulled out a bulging accordion file and hoisted it onto his lap.
“I mean, what did he do for a living?”
“Shoes.”
“Shoe salesman?” She scooted to the edge of her seat. “Another job with customer contact.”
“Women’s shoes.”
She dug her elbows into the desk blotter and rested her chin in one palm. “It doesn’t mean our killer didn’t notice him there. Department store shoes?”
“A shoe store in a mall.”
“Better yet. The Tarot Card Killer saw him eating lunch at the food court.”
Eric raised his eyebrows. “The Tarot Card Killer? You’ve given him a moniker already?”
“He gave it to himself. Not—” she created a cross with her two index fingers “—in that way. I just mean it’s kind of an obvious name for him, isn’t it?”
“I guess thinking of a catchy name for a serial killer isn’t something I do right out of the box on an investigation.” He slid the band off the file with a snap. “I leave that to the reporters.”
Heat scorched her cheeks. Did she just think they were making progress? Scratch that.
“Excuse me, Mr. Get-Down-to-Business.” She swept her trash from lunch into the wastepaper basket and reached for the papers spilling from his accordion file. “Now let’s get down to business.”
They managed to work side by side for the next four hours without either one of them throwing a punch...or stealing a kiss.
Christina pushed back her chair and stretched, interlacing her fingers over her head. “I’m done.”
“I think we have a good start here. I’m willing to turn over our notes to the SFPD if you are.”
“Sure. Maybe something we pulled out will resonate with them.”
“I know they went to the bookstore where Nora worked, but I’d like to have a look myself. The Kindred Spirit doesn’t sound like your run-of-the-mill bookstore.”
“It’s an independent. That name could mean anything.”
“Yeah, but whatever it is, Detective Winston didn’t make note of it here.” He thumbed through the papers from the P.D.’s case file.
Christina gathered her three folders together and shoved them into her briefcase yawning open on the floor beside her. “Where are you staying?”
“Same place as you.”
“Great.” Her lips stretched into a polite, professional smile. Damn. Someone up there wanted to torture her. “You can follow me over in your car. It’s not far.”
“Well, I would if I had a car.”
She pinched her finger with the latch of her briefcase and then sucked it into her mouth. Someone really wanted to torture her.
“I took a taxi from the airport, left my suitcase in the squad room. I’ll just hitch a ride with you.”
“Sounds...good.” She wheeled back her chair and grabbed her purse from the credenza. She plucked her cell phone from the side pocket and checked the display, cupping her hand around it. She’d have to swap out