He reached for her and before she could protest, he’d drawn her close again and began kissing her as if they hadn’t made love all night already.
But she didn’t protest.
Couldn’t.
She was too caught up in the thrill of it all.
Later, once she’d caught her breath again, Becca rolled off the bed, hurried through her shower, and blew her hair dry in record time. She touched on makeup and yanked on her jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt and, in less than twenty minutes, was hurrying down the stairs, trying not to trip over the dog in his haste to be first. “It’s not a race, you know,” she scolded gently, but Ringo was already at the door, waiting to be walked.
“Okay, okay, a short one.” She snapped on his leash, slipped into mules, and tossed on a jacket, taking him for his morning constitutional as the gray light of dawn cut through the streets and alleys and cars whipped by, tossing up water from standing puddles. High clouds blocked the sun, and it was cold enough that Becca’s breath fogged, but at least, thank the weather gods, it wasn’t raining.
They returned, opened the door to the warm scent of coffee and Hudson walking out of the downstairs bath. His hair was wet from the shower, his jaw still dark with beard shadow, jeans from the night before hanging low on his hips. He was tossing on his shirt as Becca closed the door and hung up Ringo’s leash. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he drawled as she slid out of her jacket.
“Good morning…I guess.” She shuddered. “I’m still sick about Glenn.”
“Me, too. I’ve already got a couple of calls in to the rest of the guys.”
“And?”
“You were right. The Third downplayed it, but he got a note.”
“He did?” Becca stood still.
“Zeke didn’t. Not yet, anyway. And I haven’t got a hold of Jarrett or Mitch. Or Scott, for that matter. I was going to see them this morning.”
“I want to go with you,” she said and poured two cups of coffee from the pot on the counter. “I want to see the other notes.”
Hudson hesitated as she handed him one of the mugs. “I’d like to know more before we take this to the police.”
“If Glenn got a note, do you think it might be at his house?”
“I thought you said it burned.”
“It did…at least in my vision.”
He nodded but she sensed he was having some trouble with the whole vision thing. “Do you want to ask his wife? Gia?” he asked.
Becca grimaced as she tried to imagine what Gia Stafford must be feeling this morning. Last night at the fire, Gia had been sobbing wildly and clinging to everyone within range. She wouldn’t want people descending on her with their own agendas. Then again, she might be interested in anything connected with her husband’s death. “It’s hard to say how she’ll react. If it were me, I’d want to know every scrap of information that might help explain how the person I loved was suddenly taken from me.” There was a pause and Becca asked, “Why Glenn? Was it an accident? Arson? How do these notes fit in?”
“What if the fire was set on purpose?” Hudson suggested, staring into his coffee mug. “Maybe to get rid of Glenn? He was drinking himself into a stupor and no one was around. It was a perfect opportunity.”
“Well, they were really lucky to just happen to have their firestarter arsenal with them—the night Glenn decides to tie one on?”
“Maybe he tied one on a lot.”
Ringo was dancing at her feet, whining and trying to catch her attention. “Oh, buddy. Sorry.” Opening the pantry door, she found the bag of dog food and measured a ration into his bowl. The dog was on it in an instant.
“Maybe it was planned in advance,” Hudson said as she closed the pantry door. “By someone who knew Glenn’s habits and waited for the right moment. And last night was it.”
“Who are you thinking of? Gia?” Becca asked.
“I can’t picture her planning anything so detailed,” he admitted.
“And the notes?”
“We don’t know for certain that Glenn got one,” Hudson said carefully.
Becca knew he was right, but she was inclined to believe in her vision. “Maybe we should ask Gia.”
He reached for his cell phone without hesitation. “She might not be up to a visit.”
“Let’s go see.”
“Where are you going?” Gretchen demanded as Mac grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and made for the nearest exit of the police station.
Her hair was pulled back severely, causing pressure at her temples and straining her eyes so she had a Siamese cat appearance. It looked uncomfortable and he figured it wasn’t going to help her temperament. He’d tried to be absent when she arrived at the station this morning, but he’d gotten caught up in the case and suddenly it was eight-thirty and Gretchen was there with a box of doughnuts.
“Home to bed,” he told her. “Pulled an all-nighter.”
“Doing what?”
“There was a fire. Glenn Stafford and Scott Pascal’s restaurant. Looks like Stafford’s dead.”
“Are you for real?”
He nodded, slid his sidearm into his shoulder holster, and grabbed his jacket.
“Why wasn’t I called?”
“Because the fire investigators haven’t labeled it arson, so there’s no homicide. And it’s outside of our jurisdiction.”
“Bullshit. It involves our case.” The wheels were turning in her mind, the box of doughnuts dropped unceremoniously onto the corner of his desk.
Mac headed toward the door, his head full of images from the night before. He intended to do just as he’d told Scott Pascal the night before: he was going to ask the Preppy Pricks about the notes. He’d made a couple of calls already and was on a mission.
Gretchen was hot on his heels, her footfalls short and angry as she followed him outside. “Your attitude sucks, McNally. I’m this close to reporting you.” She held her hand out, so he could see the index finger and thumb separated by only a hairsbreadth.
“To who?” Mac asked at his own personal Jeep. He’d parked the prowler around the back since he was going off duty—at least officially.
“D’Annibal, for starters. The chief if I have to.”
He’d had it with her. “I don’t know what your gripe is, Sandler. You’ve been to a number of interviews. You think the Jessie Brentwood investigation’s a waste of time, my personal white whale. You hate everything about being my partner. Do whatever the hell you want.”
“You
