The name rattled through her mind until she felt as if she’d been punched in the temple over and over again. Now, more than before, she wanted to avoid looking at the guy’s face, but her gaze strayed there anyway.
Familiar brown hair, rumpled and in disarray. Familiar brown eyes stared at nothing, still glassed with pain and terror. Those lips had once pressed kisses onto the top of her hand.
“You knew him,” Hector said, a confident observation.
She must have gasped. “Yes,” she croaked. “I do. Did.”
Shock caused the words to leave her with the same inflection an automaton would have used. Zero. “He was a gambler. Built himself up from nothing. Won stock in several different companies. Sold some, bought more in others. Those with old money hated him.”
As Hector dug around in his toolbox, he said, “Your family is old money.” He took several samples from the body—blood, tissue, clothing, under the nails.
“Yes. My dad never met him. Died before Bobby’s time. But my mother hates—hated him. She made no secret about that. No one did. So if you want a list of families who could have wanted him dead, it’ll be a long one.”
The witness had claimed the shooter had worn a suit. Could he have been a businessman Bobby had taken down?
“Yeah, I’ll want a list. Did you?” Hector sorted the vials before placing them in their proper locations in the box. “Hate him, I mean?”
Surely he hadn’t intended for that to sound like an accusation. As if she were a suspect, just because she’d had an association. “I thought he was charming. Ruthless in getting what he wanted, but charming.” So charming, now dead. Gone. “But then, I’m a trust fund baby and my wealth never depended on my business. I could afford to like him.”
And now he was dead, she thought again. Such a startling realization. She remembered his laughter. He’d laughed at her jokes, genuinely amused. He’d fetched her single malt when she’d asked, and had even danced with her a time or two. But he’d never laugh again. Never share a drink with her. Never dance with anyone else.
Though she hurt for what Bobby had surely endured, she forced herself to compartmentalize. Focus, drive. She couldn’t save him, but she could avenge him.
Hector paused, and for a moment, she doubted he was even breathing. “Were you one of the things he wanted?”
In his mind, he’d just dumped her on her ass. Again. He had no right to the answer.
“Maybe at one time.” She told herself she replied for the case, but deep down she knew better. “He loved having arm candy, and I played that role for him every once in a while. Then, a few months ago, he stopped dating. He still went to all the parties, but he never showed up with a woman. Always went solo. Always left the same way.”
A whoosh of air, the click of a lid, the cinch of a lock. “Okay,” Hector said, standing. His expression never changed. He gave nothing away. “Do me a favor and call Dallas. Ask him to get out here, and to keep it on the DL. I’ll process the rest of the scene and see what we’ve got.”
So. Hector didn’t think Noelle was a good enough partner for this job. He wanted Dallas. Insulting, embarrassing … devastating. Never good enough. But okay. She’d call the guy. Then they could both be shocked and impressed with her skills.
’Cause yeah, she would solve this thing. No matter what she had to do, she would solve it. Bobby deserved vengeance. Bobby deserved peace.
And maybe then Hector would consider being with her worth any risk.
When the thought registered, she had to cover her mouth to cut off her cry of alarm. She was doing it again, reverting to her childhood ways, becoming a girl willing to do anything to prove herself, and when that failed, acting out for attention.
And though she’d successfully smothered the cry, Hector caught her distress and pinned her in place with the intensity of his gaze. “What’s wrong?”
How did he do that? How did he always know? “Nothing,” she said, lowering her hands. Shame coated her, a film on her skin. “Nothing.” She would solve this case, but she wouldn’t do it to impress a man or to prove she was worthy. She would do it for Bobby. Only Bobby.
Hector frowned. “You’re lying.” His gaze roved over her, perhaps searching for injuries. He must not have seen the condition of her gown until that very moment, because his jaw dropped. Heat melted his eyes into liquid gold, a frothing cauldron of … desire? “You’re also almost naked.”
Fighting the urge to snuggle up to him, to encourage his arms to wrap around her and buffer her from the rest of the world, from herself, even from him, she lifted her chin. “Right now you’re my coworker, nothing more. You don’t have the right to pry into my feelings or even to comment on my lack of clothing. So back off.”
He was the one to radiate shame this time. “You’re right.”
“Aren’t I always?” A flippant reply when all she really wanted to do was sag in defeat.
Twenty
THE LITTLE COFFEE SHOP reeked of caffeine (a given), sugar (a bonus), and cigarette smoke (a crime). As the only patrons were AIR agents, however, no arrests would be made tonight or any other.
Noelle had spent some time in juvenile detention for lighting up in junior high. Of course, she’d intended to piss her parents off, and—she hated to admit this next one—she had hoped to develop lung cancer. She’d prayed the disease would strike her down, she’d be hospitalized, and all of her family would rush to her side, squeezing her hand, crying, telling her how much they loved her, just as she was, and how sorry they were to have treated her so badly.
Then she’d met Ava. First day, they’d exchanged insults and actually gotten into a fist-fight. Second day, they’d kissed and made up, and the little tart had leaned into her and said, “Why do you smell like my mom?” Noelle had given up cigs from that day on.
God, she missed Ava already.
Ava should be here. Ava should partner her on this case.
Should, should, should. Sighing, Noelle slid into the booth at the back of the The Last Stop, a small, rundown, all-night diner, expecting Hector to slide in beside her. He did not. He sat across from her, and Dallas claimed the space beside him.
And of course Dallas was back to his moody, broody self, glaring at her.
As big and muscled as they both were, they consumed the entire bench. The tabletop pressed into the hard ropes of their stomachs. Their shoulders rubbed.