from the women in his family.
“Which automatically puts you on my list of people to look at more closely.”
The way he said it, Delene got the distinct feeling the detective wasn’t just talking about the murder. That he meant something more intimate than that.
For just the barest instant a wave of heat passed over her, spreading out all through her body. That same funny, silly, overwhelming sensation experienced by teenagers during the “did-he-notice-me-or-didn’t-he?” ritual from years gone by.
Get a grip, Dee. You’re not sixteen anymore.
She told herself she was just hallucinating, that what she felt was merely a by-product of countless nights with too little sleep because of the damned nightmares.
It had been years since she’d reacted to a man. Any man. And she intended to keep it that way.
“Then you’d be wasting your time,” she told him softly.
Her voice, low, sexy and intoxicating, got under his skin. He was having some very unprofessional thoughts right now. “My time to waste.”
She drew back, shifting gears. That had been a dangerous road she’d just touched on. Dangerous for her. “Not when the department is paying you. Daddy wouldn’t like it.”
She had the pleasure of watching the handsome detective stiffen. Obviously she’d stumbled across a button she could press if needed. She wondered if there was friction between the older and younger Cavanaughs.
The grin on Troy’s lips hardened ever so slightly. “Are we going to play this game all evening or are you going to tell me what made you come back to the motel room where Petrie was killed? As far as I understand the duties of a probation officer, your business here is over.”
He was putting her in her place. She didn’t like that. Delene took the upper hand. “Relax, Cavanaugh, this isn’t an old-fashioned melodrama. The killer isn’t coming back to the scene of the crime.” Shoving her hands into her back pockets, she shifted slightly on the balls of her feet. It was a habit she had when she was searching for a way to calm down. “Clyde has a daughter.”
“All right.” Troy drew the words out, waiting for the woman to follow up the statement with more concrete information. “So he has a daughter. What’s that got to do with you?”
Nothing. Everything. Because I was cursed with a conscience.
She ignored his question. “Her name was tattooed on his forearm.”
He’d noticed the tattoo when he was examining the body. “Rachel” in common ink. “Not exactly top grade,” he commented.
“He was probably stoned out of his mind when he got it. That doesn’t promote the best judgment as to where to get one,” she said. “He was lucky he didn’t get blood poisoning from a dirty needle.”
“Whatever luck he might have had ran out today,” Troy said.
“Yeah, it did.” She sighed, glancing around the room. Anywhere but at the chalked outline. “I figure his daughter has a right to know that he’s dead and didn’t just take off and leave her.”
There was something in the way she said the last part that had him looking at Delene. And wondering.
“Is that the way it happened?” he asked softly. He knew he was intruding, but she’d been the one who had inadvertently thrown it out there.
Delene pulled back her shoulders, as if unconsciously bracing for a blow. “What?”
“To you,” he said, taking the same tone with her that his cousin Patience took with the wounded animals she cared for in her capacity as veterinarian. “Did your father leave your mother. And you?”
Her expression hardened. All traces of friendliness vanished. “Don’t try to analyze me, Cavanaugh. You’re out of your league. I just felt sorry for the poor slob. And for the little girl he brought into the world. End of story.” All totaled, she’d worked with Clyde Petrie for almost three months, inheriting his file when another officer had retired. She’d made it a point to learn his background, to know what she was up against. “I know he tried to clean up twice, always saying that a daughter deserved to be proud of her father.”
She looked around once more. The motel room looked no better in the late-afternoon light than it had in the predawn hours. An oppressive feeling of hopelessness seemed woven in with the stains and the grime. That and an almost disabling loneliness.
“I thought maybe he had her address here or a phone number.” It was her intention to exhaust the regular avenues of search before resorting to the Internet.
Tying up those loose ends wasn’t exactly within the probation department’s jurisdiction, but he liked the way the woman thought. “Do you know what her mother’s name is?” he asked.
Delene shook her head. “Clyde never married her so it’s not on our records. I wouldn’t have known about the girl at all except during one of the department’s impromptu visits, I found Clyde sitting by the window, holding her picture. There were tears in his eyes. He told me she was four, maybe five. He wasn’t too good with dates.”
Troy had his own thoughts about the origin of those tears. Probably Clyde realized that he didn’t have enough money to score, he thought. “Well, I guess he wasn’t ready to take on the dad from The Brady Bunch for the title of Father of the Year.”
She moved her shoulders in a half-dismissive shrug. “I suppose Clyde did the best he could, given how weak he was.” This time she did look down at the chalk outline. “At least he tried.”
What was she really doing here? Troy wondered. He caught himself wondering other things about her, as well. Things if he asked, he was confident he’d only get a flippant response to. He decided that once he was off-duty, he was going to do a little homework. See just what he could find out about Agent Delene D’Angelo. If all else failed, he was pretty sure he could always ask Brenda, his brother Dax’s new wife. The woman could make a computer do anything but sit up and beg—and maybe even that, too.
“Want me to help you look around?” he offered.
The first response that occurred to Delene was she didn’t want to be indebted to anyone. Favors required favors in return.
“It’s not that big a place,” she told him, then reconsidered. This was his crime scene, not hers. Technically he could order her off. “Sure, why not? Two sets of eyes are usually better than one.” Approaching the largest pile of fast-food wrappers, discarded soda cups and stained carryout bags, she paused to take out her gloves. “What is it that you’re looking for? Just in case I stumble across it first.”
He gave her a grin that she found much too engaging. “I don’t know.”
Their eyes met. Hers were incredulous. “You don’t know?”
Admitting it didn’t seem to phase him, and she found that unusual. Most men liked to look as if they knew what they were doing.
“Nope. Just that I’ll know it when I see it,” he said.
Her mouth quirked and he felt something skip a beat
