* * *
Beyond the two-story buildings that fronted Broadway, the dark glass towers of Seattle were blades through the hearts of the low clouds over the city. They released rain like a cold, grey curtain over the sullen waves of Elliot Bay and Puget Sound, and sheeted down the shimmering asphalt of Denny Way. Southeastward there were so many clouds Mount Rainier was as invisible as if it didn’t exist.
When there were no empty parking spots on the busy street, Vallon abandoned her car in a ‘no parking’ zone behind the bookstore and circumnavigated the block to come up in front of the garage. The heavy rain pinged off her neck, but sank into her shoulders and plastered her hair onto her head and neck. Cold water trickled down her back and soaked her black boots and jean cuffs.
She shouldn’t be here. At least she should have gone home for a jacket. She knew both Bryson and Gleason would be pissed off if they knew, but that was just too damn bad. She wasn’t the kind to just lay back and take this. She had to find the evidence to clear her name.
Hiking her turtleneck collar up around her chin, she ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and hustled down the sidewalk to the stairwell, then paused.
Something about this place. She’d felt it last night, too. A certain almost-familiar tingle that sent the hackles on the back of her neck on end.
The thought of Landon’s suggestion about layers of Gifted just made it worse. No way he could be right.
Except she’d felt the stranger’s power.
Shivering, she -reached- out and ignored the flow of power beneath her. Blocked out the flickering candles of people all around to focus on the feel of this concrete. This building. She’d found that a change actually had the taste of the Gifted who caused it.
Licorice, was her first thought. Dark and twisted and undercut with the drunken, arid taste of well-oaked red wine, pungent as unwashed body.
Fi?
She fell back into her body and staggered against the wall. Even that little power use was too much, too soon, after the battle the night before. The ‘overindulged’ feel of the garage was like and unlike Fi. Dissolution, but something was there. Somehow Fi’s attendance at her house the very night of the garage’s appearance wasn’t a coincidence—not with this evidence.
Evidence that was worth exactly nothing in the face of detective Bryson’s scrutiny. She screwed up her face, then hauled out her cell phone and dialed Lamrey’s number and held the phone away from her ear.
The distant buzz. Again. Upstairs. So the phone was still here, but who knew how long the battery would hold out. She scrambled up the two flights, tracking the sound.
And ran smack-dab into a trench-coated figure.
Vallon fell back a pace and looked up into the strong, angular features of the last person in the world she wanted to see. A strong hand imprisoned her wrist, but she jerked free, backing against the wall and clicking her cell phone closed. The burring of the answering call cut off. Not a black trench coat—more like rain-sodden grey.
“Agent Drake. Twice in one day. What an incredible pleasure.”
His voice was cool and so were those espresso eyes, but the hand on her wrist had been hot. Too hot, and she fought back the afterburn he resurrected too well.
Dammit, she needed a man. That’s what she should be doing—cruising a bar—not digging herself deeper into trouble.
She pulled herself straighter. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“And I could say the same, given the yellow police tape blocking entry. But then you don’t follow the rules, do you Agent Drake?”
She ignored the flush that was already running up her neck. “I thought—given you seemed so sure that I had killed Agent Lamrey—that I should conduct my own investigation.”
“Aah.” A grin.
That infuriating little word that was supposedly sufficient as a response. “And what are you doing here? I thought you had the evidence you needed for a conviction.”
It came out as more of a snarl than she’d intended and his damned grin only deepened.
“Actually, I suspect I’m here for much the same reason as you. I thought your version of events should be explored. I was looking for the phone in case my men missed it.” He looked away down the pavement. “I was just giving up when damned if I didn’t think I heard a phone.” Another grin. “And then you appeared and nearly bowled me over. Of course.”
“Of course?”
“Of course it had to be you. If there’s one person I can think of who’d be likely to get themselves into trouble by returning to the scene of the crime, you would be it, Agent Drake. So does the AGS sanction your interference in police business?”
She looked away from his far too knowing gaze. “What do you think?”
And at that he did smile, a full-blown, bowl-you-over smile with a set of white fulsome teeth that made her think of Crest commercials and his lips on hers. Damn him.
“You really are a piece of work, Ms. Drake.”
“And I’d say it takes one to know one.” That firm, full mouth just might be the answer to her afterburn problems.
A bad idea, but he just happened to be available and clearly interested.
“So.” He straightened. “Did I hear a phone? Because there isn’t anything on this stretch of concrete. I’ve checked.”
She started down the concrete. Heck, what harm would it do if she dialed Simon’s phone and let it ring? Detective Bryson couldn’t—wouldn’t blame her for that because it made absolutely no sense at all that Simon Lamrey’s phone should be in a concrete wall. The thought of Gleason’s anger almost made her smile.
She held up the cell for him to see, showed him as she hit speed dial for Simon’s number.
The answering buzz came from down the row of empty stalls.
“Well I’ll be…? I searched there.” Detective Bryson jogged down the empty garage, Vallon not letting him lead. When they came to the space where Simon had been when the police arrived, they both stopped. Sure enough the buzzing came from the base of the wall. Vallon closed her eyes. Gleason was going to kill her for this.
Bryson dropped to his knees by the wall and placed his palm against it.
“I’ll be damned. I can feel the vibration.” He stood up to face her, his brown eyes searching. “How the hell would a phone get into a wall?”
“You’re asking me? I just got here, remember?”
The buzzing kept it up and he finally grabbed her cell, studied the number and then snapped the phone shut. “Don’t want to run that phone out of juice. Now wait here a moment.”
He left her and strode down the concrete, trench coat fanning behind him until he disappeared down the stairs.
“What the hell are you doing, Drake?” She could imagine Gleason’s epithets. Irresponsible. Juvenile. Loose cannon.
All the things she’d been dubbed during her stay in the Academy. Still, she should probably have let the phone be—at least until she could remove it herself. Of course then they’d probably say she planted it.
She considered taking her leave over the garage wall, but something held her in place and by then it was too late. Bryson came jogging back with a smile and an ancient screwdriver in his hands.
“Never know when you might need one, my father-in-law used to say.”
“Used to….”
“He’s dead now. A good man. Handy.” He was down on his knees looking pretty darn handy himself as he used the heel of his hand to drive the screwdriver into the concrete and chip away a chunk. “Look! Just as I thought. It’s close to the surface.”
A smooth chrome surface curved away into the concrete. He grinned that big smile again and looked like a small boy who’d just found a secret treasure. “Looks like we got us a mystery.”
His use of ‘we’ grated because he was the enemy who was trying to put her in jail and she didn’t need a partner. Besides, look what it had led to for the last guy.
“I believe it’s you who has the myst
ery, Detective. Clearly I didn’t lie to you and so I believe I should be cleared of your suspicions.”
The grin smoothed away with—was that a hint of regret? But he saved face with his nod. “Of course this makes things somewhat different, but there are still explanations required.”
“Explanations.”
“Like why you made that drawing; there wasn’t a wall in it. And why the hell the phone’s in the damned wall. Care to enlighten me how the phone could be there?”
The man was way too astute and way too willing to go to places she didn’t want him to go, and suddenly all Gleason’s misgivings were hers.
“Does it matter? You seem to be able to make the facts fit your theory no matter what I might say. Good day, Detective.”
She turned on her heel and got three steps back towards the stairs when he stopped her, yanked her around.
The contact sent the afterburn popping like flashbulbs, blinding. Her boundaries flash-burned to ash and suddenly she was too close, too close, and all she could feel was his heat.
She looked up at him, focused on the intensity of his gaze. Licked her lips.
“What? You going to arrest me again, Detective Bryson? You’d enjoy that wouldn’t you?” Her voice had gone husky.
He released her and fell back as if burned.
“What? You can’t handle what you’ve created?” Pinpointed on him, she ran her hands down her bared throat and gloated at the way he backed away from her. “I was trying to leave you in peace, Detective. See what you’ve done? Made me hot.”
It came out in a throaty snarl, a part of her knowing she was way too out of control this time, another part not caring. She grabbed his trench coat and leaned in, inhaled his cedar scent.
“Nice.” Rubbed her cheek up his chest.
“Damn it, Drake, stop it.”
He grabbed her shoulders, and that was about the worst thing he could have done—or the best, because suddenly the afterburn roared into full flame and she was against him, leaned up to him and his lips met hers.
Hot. Searing.
The shove sent her stumbling back, breathing hard from his lips and the pounding afterburn and trying to make sense of what she’d done.
Bryson was staring at her in shock. His hand at his lips. Then he turned and prowled away down the garage shaking his head, and she managed to exert a last shred of control.
She fled. Down the stairs and back to her car and sped out of the laneway so fast she almost sideswiped a black SUV parked at the corner. Then she was zooming down Denny, rain bouncing off the pavement, her windshield, and she turned towards Lake Union and Fremont and home.
“You’re an idiot. A frigging oversexed idiot.” She scrubbed at her lips, trying to rid herself of the warm sweet-coffee taste of them and the sense of passionate response she’d felt. It wasn’t that she was really oversexed—it was the damned gift that set her libido on overdrive.
She needed to get laid. She should just go use the AGS’s brothel service, but she didn’t want her need to be noted by Gleason or anyone in authority. She was in control, but….
“The last thing you need is an affair with the cop investigating you.” Turned onto the Fremont bridge and the car skidded a little. She straightened it out and drove through the traffic.
Maybe Gleason was right. Maybe she was a loose cannon because she’d sure enough screwed this one up big time. She aimed the car for an open parking spot at the curb and climbed out and ran through the rain for the house and safety and a place to sort things through.
Her hands were shaking as she fumbled the key into the front door lock and half-fell, soaked and frozen, into her living room. Slammed the door behind her. Silence and the ticking of the kitchen clock from the next room.
But something was different. The air—someone was there.
Chapter 8—The Scent Intrudes