dream of it,” Jack said. The Bleeker matter had taken a nasty turn, child pornography, mob connections, all sorts of shit. And the word on the street was that Darian Bleeker intended to simply get rid of the witnesses. Kevlar had become de rigueur for the fashionable detective. Jack hated the vest, but he sucked it up and wore it on the days he was testifying. The damn thing was miserable in the summer heat, but certainly preferable to getting blown away.
Donovan helped himself to a corner of Jack’s fritter. “So I’m guessing you were here all night. Come up with anything else?”
“Nothing definitive.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Lab says no.”
“What about the paper?”
Jack shook his head, the lack of any serious leads eating at his gut. “Doubtful. Looks to be pretty common notepaper. But this...” He slid the photocopy across the desk again. “See anything odd?”
Donovan shrugged. “Should I?”
“The e rises a bit. One of the forensic guys noticed.”
“A typewriter? What? Our perp’s not computer literate?”
“Could be a lead—but only if we track down the match.”
Donovan grimaced. “Great. Thousands of typewriters in the greater Manhattan area. I’ll start combing junk shops,” he scoffed.
“I’m hoping your professor can give us some more concrete help,” Jack said.
“I guess you are.” Donovan looked at his watch. “In the meantime, I’ll go to the lab and see if anyone’s hobby is typewriters.”
Jack downed some coffee. “Have fun.”
As Donovan headed off, Jack pulled out the evidence he’d been reviewing all night—the pillow note, two pages ripped from Lady Chatterley’s Lover, a postcard of a half-naked woman, and three postcards showing men and women in positions that, if the right woman came along, Jack might be tempted to try.
“I was hoping to talk to him now. I’m in kind of a hurry.” At the distinctly female voice, Jack looked up, automatically covering the risqué postcards with a manila folder. Near the main doors, a tall woman with a mass of deep brown curls and lips to die for was having an animated conversation with the officer on duty. She looked at her watch, frowned and turned back to the officer. “I’d like to be back at the bookstore by ten.”
Bookstore. Thank God she’d arrived early. He had a ton of questions. Jack jumped to his feet and half ran to the front of the room, stopping across the counter from her and sticking out his hand.
“Detective Parker. I think you’re here to see me.”
Carla, the officer on duty, raised an eyebrow, but he waved her down. The woman shifted her purse and took his hand, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity dancing across his fingertips.
“Veronica Archer.” She glanced from Carla to him and back again. Her eyes widened behind the wire frames of her glasses and she held his gaze for the briefest moment before she looked away, color rising on her cheeks. “I...I’m supposed to talk to you?”
“That’s right,” he said, thankful for small favors. He opened the gate and ushered her through, appreciating the way her hips moved under the clingy knit skirt.
For a brief moment he wondered if Donovan had deliberately picked the sexiest professor on campus to entice him, then dismissed the idea. Off duty, his partner might throw women at him. On the job, Donovan was the consummate professional. Which meant this woman knew her stuff. “I overheard you say that you were in a hurry. Detective Donovan’s down at the lab right now.”
“Oh.” Her easy smile affected him in ways that were hardly professional. With effort, he forced himself to concentrate on her words. “In that case,” she added, “thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”
Her smile broadened, and he found himself returning it. He cleared his throat. “Right. Well, Donovan and I work together.” Jack gestured to a chair, then sat behind his desk. He was grateful for the chair beneath him. As it was, his own knees felt weak. As if this woman had managed to push all his buttons with nothing more elaborate than a glance.
“I see.” She crossed her legs, and he forcibly pulled his eyes away. “Is he the one I spoke to before? I didn’t remember his name.”
“That’s right.”
She shifted in her seat, her sweater pulling against the swell of her breasts. Jack’s mouth went dry.
“Well,” she said, “as I mentioned on the phone this morning, what I would like is—”
“Ms. Archer, I should probably just jump in with the information we need from you.” The approach seemed prudent. Not only did he need the information, he needed to regain the sense of control he’d lost the second he’d laid eyes on Veronica Archer. “At this stage of the game, we want to keep as much confidential as possible. I’m sure you understand.”
Her teeth grazed her lower lip and her brow furrowed. “Well, yes, of course.” She frowned, then shook her head. “No. Actually, the truth is I don’t. I only want—”
“Please.” He pulled out an evidence bag holding a single page and passed it to her, fighting the urge to explain the entire case. Clearly, he was losing it. Not only did his fingers itch to touch her, but something about the woman made him want to open up, to tell her about everything—the anonymous letters and postcards, the frustration of not being able to get a break in the case.
Get a grip, Jack. He was probably just feeling awkward about foisting erotic literature on a woman. Not the kind of activity he tended to imagine in a professional setting. Hell, not the kind of activity he’d ever imagined at all. Though with Veronica Archer, he could imagine some interesting study-hall activity.
With a mental jerk, he yanked his mind back, annoyed that the mere proximity to a beautiful woman was driving him to distraction. Maybe Donovan was right. Maybe he’d been too long without a date.
“So?” She waved the bag, then dropped it on his table.
“Do you recognize it?”
“Sure. D. H. Lawrence. Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” She looked him straight in the eye, and he thought he saw anger brewing. An unwelcome change from earlier, and one he didn’t understand.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Is this really necessary?”
A hard edge definitely laced her voice, but he supposed that was understandable. She was an academic, probably not used to being second-guessed. But he needed to be sure she knew her stuff. “Yes. I think it is.”
“Chapter ten,” she said, her voice tight. “Connie and the gameskeeper. They’ve never been together, really don’t even know each other, but he tells her to lie down, and she does, and then he touches her...that way.”
She raised an eyebrow and Jack swallowed, feeling a little like a student who’d just failed a test.
