Before She Dies
By MARY BURTON
ZEBRA BOOKS
Copyright © 2012
Mary Burton
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-1021-0
Chapter One
Present Day
Tuesday, October 19, 5:15 a.m.
She had a power over him.
In this room, alone with her, words failed him. Here
he followed her lead, moving with an economy of
motion, undressing quickly and falling into bed before
reason spoke. Their sex was always urgent. Hot. And it
left his heart punching against his ribs.
This time, like every time before, she rose out of
bed, his scent clinging to her, and dressed in silence.
He knew what would follow. She'd manage a quick
fix of her tousled auburn hair, they'd share obligatory,
if not embarrassed, pleasantries, and she would leave,
never suggesting that there should be a next time.
However, this time when she rose, Daniel wasn't
content to just let her leave. He rolled on his side and
watched her trembling fingers smooth the bunched
cream silk slip down over her naked hips. She moved to
the mirror and inspected once well-applied makeup
now sinfully smudged and pale skin, crimson with sex's
afterglow.
He wanted her back in bed, curled at his side, but
he hesitated to ask. She'd been clear from the beginning
that she'd only signed up for good, hot sex. She
didn't want a lover or a boyfriend or anything that involved
commitment.
That first time he'd agreed to her terms, counting
his lucky stars and fully expecting little more than satisfaction
and a pleasant memory. But from that initial
release until now, he couldn't get enough of her. The
more she gave, the more he wanted.
And the line she'd drawn between professional
and personal had entirely faded—for him.
Manicured fingers slid over the slip as she glanced
at the clock on the nightstand, sighed, and collected
her scattered clothes from the floor.
He made no effort to hide his fascination with her.
They'd shared this motel room five other times now,
but he'd yet to see her fully naked. She had a long
sleek form, creamy skin, a narrow tapered waist, and a
nicely rounded bottom. He wasn't sure what she hid
from him, but found the mystery more consuming
each time they had sex.
Last time he'd seen the scar marring her side and
thought he'd discovered her secret. When he'd asked
her about it, she'd shrugged and said, "I was shot."
Curious, he'd pulled the police file and read the details
of the shooting. It had occurred three years ago.
She'd been working late. A client's hit man had entered
her office and shot her because she'd been considered
a loose end. Bleeding and alone, she'd escaped
to a bathroom and locked the door. The shooter,
unable to reach her, had barricaded her inside and left
her for dead. It would be another eight hours before
she would escape and call 911. The crime scene photos
had stirred primal anger in him. Even now he could
vividly recall photo images of her blood staining the
bathroom's carpeted floor; the door hinges she
wedged free with the tip of her high heels; and her
bloodied silk blouse left behind by EMTs.
"Do you think about the shooting?" he'd said as
he'd kissed the scar.
She threaded her fingers through his hair. "No."
"It's got to bother you."
Her fingers stilled. "I never dwell on the past."
If she weren't hiding the bullet hole scar, then why
not take off the slip? Last night when he'd tried to tug
it off her, she'd resisted. What else was there to hide?
She slipped on her blouse and efficiently buttoned
it. Sliding on a pencil-thin black skirt, she tucked in
her shirttail and with the flick of the zipper was again
all elegance and class. Maybe some old lesson from
charm school kept her from stripping totally.
Thinking about that slip and what it hid gave him
another hard-on. "Why don't you stay?"
She found her panties and, facing him, tucked them
in her purse. "We both have early calls."
"You gave your final summation yesterday. The pressure
is off until the jury comes back. Go in to the
office late today. You've earned it."
She arched a neat eyebrow. "I've never been late
before."
He propped his head on his hand. "Be late."
"Why?"
"Once is not enough when it comes to you."
She readjusted her pearl necklace so the diamond
clasp was again in the back. A smile played with the
corners of her lips. "I wish I could stay for an encore.
Really. But I've got appointments."
"All work and no play makes Charlotte a dull girl,
counselor."
"All work keeps Charlotte liquid and her bills paid,
detective."
Naked, he rose off the bed and moved toward her
until he was inches away. Towering, he fingered the
pearls around her neck. She smelled of Chanel and
him. "We should have dinner sometime."
She grinned. "We just had dessert."
"I'm talking about real food. Tables, chairs, forks,
knives, and spoons."
She didn't pull away. "I don't think so."
"You've got to eat sometime."
"We drew a line. It has to remain fixed and secure."
He curled the pearls around his index finger. "The
defense attorney doesn't want to be seen with a cop?"
"Maybe the cop shouldn't be seen with the older
defense attorney."
"Three years doesn't count as older. And I don't
care who sees me with you."
She untangled his finger from her pearls. "We are
judged by the company we keep."
The wistful, if not sad, edge surprised him. She
wasn't talking about him. But who? Another mystery.
Another reason to want her.
As she picked up her purse, he pressed his erection
against her backside. "Stay just a few more minutes."
She tipped her head against his chest. Tonight there'd
been more urgency in her lovemaking, which he'd
attributed to the murder trial's conclusion. "I can't."
"That sounds halfhearted." Sensing a shift, he pushed
her hair aside and kissed her neck. Her sharp intake of
breath pleased him.
"I have to go." The trademark steel in her voice had
vanished.
He turned her around and unfastened the buttons
of her blouse until he could see the ivory lace of her
slip. He kissed her shoulder, her chin, and the top of
her breast.
"We have rules about avoiding tangles."
"Fuck the rules. And the tangles."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed
him. When she broke the connection, she was breathless.
"I really have to leave in twenty minutes or I will
be late." The whispered words gave no hints of the
woman he'd seen on the courthouse steps late yesterday.
Swamped by reporters, that woman had been
cool, direct, and flawless ice.
The contrasts added to the mystery. "Have dinner
with me."
Her fingers wrapped around his erection. "No time
for talking, detective."
He swallowed, struggling to hold on to clear thought.
"You are avoiding the question."
Her hands moved in smooth, even strokes. "Nineteen
and a half minutes."
Until now she'd called the shots. But that would
change. Soon.
Dinner and power plays relegated to another day's
battle, he kissed her as he scooped her up and laid her
in the center of the bed. Straddling her, he reached
for the package of condoms on the nightstand. Urgency
blazed through him. He tore open the pack
with an impatient jerk and slid on the rubber.
As she wriggled under him, tugging up her skirt, he
thought he'd explode. There was nothing else in the
world that mattered more now.
When he nestled between her legs, his beeper vibrated
on the nightstand. Fuck.
She glanced at him expectantly. "Do you need to
get that?"
"They can wait," he growled.
She gripped his shoulders as he pressed into her.
"You sure?"
"Very."
They both forgot about deadlines, clients, and responsibilities.
Chapter Two
Tuesday, October 19, 6:45 a.m.
Detective Daniel Rokov pulled up at the crime scene
and shut the car engine off. He got out of the car and
retrieved his suit jacket from the hanger in the backseat.
Sliding it on, he took a moment to adjust the
jacket collar, and then do a quick check of his gun,
phone, and badge, which hung on his belt. He shook
off his lingering drowsiness and closed the squad door.
The scene was at The Wharf, an abandoned restaurant
sandwiched between Union Street in Old Town
Alexandria and the Potomac. The faded white building
was square and set eight feet off the ground on
stilts. The exterior had been neglected since the place
had closed over a decade ago, and the wooden decking
and stairs looked as if they'd tumble in the next
real windstorm. The place had been a popular restaurant
back in the day, and the roof top dining had offered
some of the best views of the Potomac River in
the area. He'd heard that the city had purchased the
building and planned renovations, but given a tanking
economy and a dwindling tax base, that wasn't likely.
The trees along the river had turned from a deep
green to a mixture of oranges, browns, and yellows.
The air was a cool sixty degrees, which compared to
the summer's triple-digit numbers, felt phenomenal.
The paved parking lot, fenced off from Union
Street by a ten-foot chain-link fence, was filled with a
half-dozen white Alexandria Police marked cars. The
city's forensics van was parked on the side of the building,
and the vehicle's back-bay doors were open. He
surveyed the area and searched for any orange cones
used to indicate stray shell casings, tire marks, or anything
else that might be considered evidence. He
didn't see any.
A handful of tourists had gathered. This was the
height of the tourist season in Old Town. Ghost and
historic tours ran nightly, and it was common to see
large groups of people shuffling past as a guide
pointed out the buildings where troubled spirits lingered
past their exit dates. He'd taken a date on a city
tour about six months ago. Monica. She'd been with
the tourism bureau and had suggested the excursion.
He'd been out of his divorce less than a year, but backbreaking
hours had left him little time to date so he'd
still been rusty. The tour had been more interesting,
but Monica had been more concerned about incoming
text messages than him. By the end of the date
she'd called him rigid.
Rigid. Because he'd expected
common courtesy. Shit.
"Danny-boy, is that the suit you wore yesterday?"
The rusty voice belonged to his partner, Detective
Jennifer Sinclair, a tall brunette who tended to wear
jeans with a black turtleneck and a worn leather
jacket. Today, as most days, she'd swept her thick hair
into a bun at the base of her neck. Only on the rare occasions
when she wore her hair down did its lush ends
brush the middle of her back. She liked to work out at
the gym, had an athlete's physique, but swore she
didn't enjoy sports. Raised by a single cop father, she
moved among the detectives and uniforms easily,
never falling prey to jabs and jokes and always able to
toss back what she received.
Rokov rested his hands on his hips. "I can't wear a
suit two days in a row?"
"You only wear your best suits to court. Court was
yesterday. Not today."
Early this morning, he'd walked Charlotte Wellington
to her car parked outside their motel room, left
her with a very public kiss, and then snagged his Dopp
kit from the trunk of his car. He kept the kit stocked
with an electric razor and other essentials. He'd been
presentable in ten minutes, but there'd been no time
to drive to his apartment and collect a change of
clothes. "You're a regular calendar. You gonna hit me
with a weather prediction next?"
Rokov and Sinclair were two detectives in a four-person
homicide department. They had been in court
yesterday along with the other two members, Deacon
Garrison and Malcolm Kier, to hear the summations in
the Samantha White murder trial. White, a thirty-year-old
housewife, was accused of murdering her husband.
Most would have bet the young woman, who'd
confessed to crushing her husband's head with a golf
club, would easily be convicted of first-degree murder.
None of the public defenders had wanted the case.
And then Charlotte Wellington had stepped into the
picture, and all bets were off. Wellington had insisted
her client had acted in self-defense, and the slam-dunk
conviction had dissolved into uncertainty by trial's end.
"So you gonna ask her out?" Sinclair said.
"Who?"
"Charlotte Wellington. I saw the way you were staring
at her in court yesterday. Very intense."
The jab would have gotten another male cop a
threatening glare, but Jennifer reminded him so much
of his kid sister all he could manage was a shrug.
"Maybe I was paying attention to her summation. Try
it sometime."
Jennifer grinned, unfazed. "So you are gonna ask
her out?"
His gaze roamed the lot around the building. "Why
would I ask her out?"
"'Cause you got a thing for her."
A brackish breeze billowed the folds of his jacket.
Hands on hips, he asked, "And what birdie told you
that?"
"Don't need a birdie, man. I can read you like a
book."
He smiled, more relieved than amused. She was fishing
blind. "Sinclair, as much as I love girl talk, we got
a victim who might like some of our attention."
A half smile raised full lips covered with no lipstick.
"Whatever you say, Danny-boy."
They ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and
passed a collection of cops and cars with flashing
lights. Rokov found the uniform that had been the
first responder and secured the crime scene. The guy
was mid-forties, short, stocky, and sported a dark crew
cut and a thick mustache.
Rokov extended his hand and introduced himself.
"You're Jack Barrow, right?"
"That's right." Hearing the sound of his own name
relaxed the guy a fraction. "Heard you had a talent for
remembering details."
"Naw, not really. I just remembered you got that service
award last spring for working with the kids in the
Seminary District."
"Right again." Barrow hooked thick thumbs into his
waistband.
Sinclair shook hands with Barrow. "Your wife birth
that baby?"
"Not yet," he sighed.
"Damn, boy," Sinclair said. "What does this make,
number four?"
"Five." He glanced at Rokov. "This gal's old man trained
me when I was a rookie. I think she was in elementary
school then."
Sinclair shook her head. "Please, no visiting the
dark ages."
Barrow tossed her a friendly wink. "She tossed a
mean softball."
"We're not here to talk about me or your old self,"
Sinclair said. "Give us the rundown."
Barrow's gaze turned toward the building, and his
expression grew somber. Few outsiders could understand
how cops could joke in times like this. Cops,
however, understood it was the jokes that got them
through times like this.
"This one is a real freak show. Sure to give cops
nightmares and land on the ghost tour when the details
leak out." Barrow glanced at Sinclair, all traces of
humor gone. "I'm sorry you're gonna have to see it."
Sinclair cocked her head. "I can handle it."
"Break your old man's heart to know you do this
kind of work."
For the first time, Sinclair had no quip.
"What drew you to the building?" Rokov said to
Barrow.
"Saw a light in the second-story window. Like a
candle flickering. The place is locked up tighter than
a drum because it's unsafe. City bought the building.
Supposed to be torn down. Anyway, thought we might
have vagrants or druggies so I called for backup and
we went to check it out." He rubbed the back of his
neck with his hands. "We didn't find anyone there
except the victim."
"Male or female?" Rokov said. He pulled a notebook
from the breast pocket of his jacket and a pen.
"Female."
"You see how she died?"
Morning light cast shadows on Barrow's face and
deepened the creases. "No. The scene makes me think
of, well ... better you just go up there and see for
yourself."
"Sure," Rokov said.
"Watch the stairs. They're old. Not too stable."
"Thanks."
He moved past Sinclair and took to the stairs first,
knowing if they gave way, he might have time to warn
Sinclair off. Plus he couldn't shake the thought of
Sinclair's old man cringing when his baby girl entered
the scene.
"I could have gone first," she said.
His partner didn't appreciate chivalry, so he did his
best to downplay it. "Then move faster next time."
The stairs creaked and groaned and shifted slightly
as they climbed past the first floor to the second. Sunlight
streamed into the first floor, but instead of cheer,
it added an eerie quality that deepened and extended
the shadows.
There was only one other cop on the floor and the
forensics tech. No doubt, there'd been some concern
about structure as well as foot traffic in the dusty room.
Plus, the fewer people up here, the better.
Both detectives put on paper booties and snapped
on rubber gloves.
They moved toward the tech, Paulie Somers, a crusty
guy in his late forties who didn't tolerate interruptions
well. Paulie wore a jump suit, booties, and gloves. Snapping
pictures, he didn't bother with greetings.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Before She Dies
by MARY BURTON
Copyright © 2012 by Mary Burton.
Excerpted by permission of ZEBRA BOOKS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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