I crawled out of bed, opened the door, and padded into the den. Finn sat in front of his computer, a steaming cup of chicory coffee by his side. The familiar, comforting smell reminded me of Fletcher, and I felt the sharp pain of his loss. The image of his flayed body flashed in front of my eyes, but I pushed it aside and focused on my last memory of Fletcher-the old man drinking his own cup of coffee at the Pork Pit. I breathed in, letting the rich aroma coat my lungs, pretending Fletcher was warming the apartment with his ghostly presence. Pretending he was warming me.
Finn saw me step into the room. He waved at me, then pressed a finger to his lips and pointed at the sofa. I looked over the back of the furniture. A mound of blankets covered Donovan Caine like the thick layers of a burial shroud. I could just barely make out the top of his head through the fabric. For a moment, I wondered if the detective slept nude. Mmm. Wouldn't have minded a peek if he did.
Finn pointed to something beside the sofa. I leaned over. One of the detective's guns lay on the floor within easy reach. I frowned. Despite our truce, Donovan Caine still didn't trust me. What had he thought I was going to do? Slip out and murder him in the middle of the night in my own apartment? I was ruthless, not stupid.
I walked over to Finn. The mid-morning sunlight slipped through the curtains and highlighted his face, his strong features that were so similar to his father's. I leaned over and mussed his walnut-colored hair.
"What was that for?" Finn murmured, smoothing down his bed-head cowlick.
"Just because," I said, trying to hide the emotion that thickened my voice. "Late breakfast?" "Omelets. Definitely omelets. Pancakes, too?" Finn asked.
I mussed his hair again, moved into the kitchen, and got to work. I pulled several eggs out of the refrigerator, along with cheese, milk, and butter. Packages of frozen strawberries waited in the freezer, and I plucked them out of the frosty depths. Flour, sugar, nonstick cooking spray, and pepper came out of the cabinets. Again, the steady process of cooking, of creating food, soothed me. I chopped tomatoes, onions, green peppers, and ham to put into my southwestern omelets. The berries went into the microwave to defrost. Buttermilk beaten with flour and just a hint of sugar formed the base of my pancakes.
The faint clank and clatter of dishes woke the detective. Donovan Caine let out a low groan and sat up. The blankets fell away, revealing the same jeans and T-shirt the detective had worn last night. So he didn't sleep in the buff. A shame, really.
Caine frowned, as though he didn't understand where he was. He caught sight of me, and the knowledge and memories of last night flared in his hazel gaze. His eyes cut to Finn, then back to me. He didn't relax.
"Morning," I said, flipping one of the strawberry pancakes.
The detective grunted something unintelligible. Caine rolled off the sofa and stumbled into the kitchen. He leaned on the counter and stared at the bubbling coffeepot like a teenage virgin would at a stripper.
"Mug?" he mumbled.
I opened a cabinet and passed him a white ceramic cup. Our hands brushed. Once again, that hot awareness of him coursed through me. My breasts tightened, and a pleasant ache pulsed between my thighs. But Donovan Caine was too caffeine-deprived to notice or respond in kind.
The detective sat at the table next to Finn and stared bleary-eyed into his mug. After a few minutes, the caffeine fumes worked their morning magic. The detective blinked and took a sip of his coffee.
"Gah!" He almost spit the steaming mouthful back out. "What the hell is this?
Poison?" "Nope, it's chicory coffee." Finn raised his own mug in salute. "It'll put hair on your chest." Caine grimaced, but he kept drinking. The detective even poured himself a second cup.
When the pancakes were golden brown, I put them on a platter, along with several omelets. Plates, silverware, and napkins went onto the table, along with a pitcher of orange juice. Once again, I used my Ice magic to frost the container. Donovan Caine didn't say anything about my power, but his eyes stayed on me. Cool and calculating.
Everyone helped themselves to the food. Still suspicious, Caine didn't touch anything until after Finn and I had both swallowed several bites. But once he started, the detective ate more than the two of us put together.
"This is really good," Donovan Caine said, attacking his third strawberry pancake.
"You sound surprised," I said.
He shrugged. "I just didn't think an assassin would be able to cook like this." "Well, I do get lots of practice with knives. You could say I'm multitasking." The detective froze, his fork halfway to his mouth.
"I'm kidding. I enjoy cooking. It relaxes me."
"I'll bet," Caine muttered. But his unease didn't keep him from stuffing another bite of pancake into his mouth. We ate in silence for several minutes.
"So what do you do when you're not assassinating people, Gin?" Donovan Caine finally asked. I raised an eyebrow. "Why so curious, detective?"
He shrugged. "Just making conversation. Since we're stuck with each other for a while, I thought it might be polite to talk about something other than the fact we're going to commit a felony today."
"Only one?" I mocked. "You're selling us short, detective. The day is young." Donovan's eyes narrowed. He realized he wasn't going to get anywhere with me, so he turned his gaze to Finn.
"And you?"
"Oh, Finn isn't an assassin," I cut in. "He's much, much worse. He's a banker." My snide comment took Finn by surprise, and he choked on his coffee. Donovan Caine let out a guffaw of laughter. It was the first time I'd heard the detective laugh without an undercurrent of angry sarcasm. A sharp sound, tinged here and there with bitterness, but not an unpleasant one. Rather like my laugh.
Caine smiled, his teeth flashing in his bronze face. The expression warmed his eyes to liquid gold. My breath caught in my throat. If the detective looked that good merely smiling, how would he look after a night of slow, sweaty sex? Mmm.
Donovan's smile faded under my intense gray gaze. "What are you staring at?"
"Nothing," I said. "Eat your breakfast. It's going to be a long day, and everyone needs to keep their strength up. Finn, what do your contacts say?"
Finn gave me a dirty look before answering. "Still no hits on the dead guys' fake IDs or any info on the tooth rune. Whoever the Air elemental is, she's running a tight ship. No leaks so far."
"Any news about me?" Donovan Caine asked. "Or the attack at my house?"
"Nothing on the morning news shows," Finn said. "The elemental must have cleaned up after herself. No talk of bodies, wind damage, nothing. However, according to my sources in the police department, your captain, Wayne Stephenson, is looking for you.
He wants a word about your maverick investigation into the Gordon Giles case and the fact that you haven't reported in for duty today."
Caine grimaced, because his captain's interest in his whereabouts was more evidence Stephenson was involved with the elemental.
"Do you have anything on Stephenson yet?" I asked Finn.
He shook his head. "Nothing so far. At first glance, his financials look clean, and he's not dropping wads of cash on any vice or habit I can find. I'll keep digging." We finished our breakfast in silence. I started to clear the dishes from the table, but Donovan Caine got to his feet and reached for the platter in my hands.
"Let me," he said. "I'm staying in your house, eating your food. It's the least I can do."
"My, my, my, handsome and polite," I drawled. "Your mama raised you right, detective."
His eyes sparked gold at the word handsome, as he took the platter and dumped it in the sink. I sat down, sipped my juice, and leered at the detective.
"What about Carlyle?" Finn asked, not sharing my fascination with Donovan Caine's ass. "We still going to brace him at Northern Aggression tonight?"
"Yeah. At this point, he's our best lead. Our only lead." I turned my gaze to Finn. "So call Roslyn and tell her we need to meet this afternoon."
"Last night you said you didn't need Roslyn's permission to storm her club," Finn said. "Why the change?"
I took another swig of juice. "Because she might know something else about Carlyle.
You know how she likes to keep track of her guests' habits. And I want to know everything there is to know about the bastard before we confront him tonight."
Chapter Eighteen
Since we'd abandoned the SUV Finn had stolen yesterday, we were without transportation. So Finn had to boost another car from a parking garage four blocks away from my apartment. He stalked through one level of the garage, sneering and passing up several serviceable compact cars, before going down to the next level.
"What's he doing?" Donovan Caine asked as we walked along behind him. "This isn't the supermarket."
I snorted. "Tell that to Finn. He's a car guy. The more expensive and roomier it is, the happier it makes him."
Finn finally stopped in front of a late-model Lexus and nodded his head. "This will do for today. Tool please, Gin." He held out his hand to me.
"Didn't you bring your own?"
"Why carry the extra weight when you make such good disposable ones?" he countered.
I hated to admit it, but Finn had a point. I sighed and reached for my Ice magic.
Donovan Caine eyed the silver glow flickering over my palm, wondering what I was doing. A question I often asked myself when dealing with Finnegan Lane.
A few seconds later, I passed Finn a long, slender, wirelike rod. He took the cold, Ice wand and jammed it into the car window. The lock popped open, the rod shattered, and Finn wiped the remaining chunks of the wand off his impeccable jacket. Then he opened the door, sank down into the driver's seat, reached under the dash, and tugged on a couple of wires.
Thirty seconds later, the engine roared to life, and Finn gestured for us to get in. I took the passenger's seat, while Donovan Caine slid into the back. Finn steered the car out of the garage. A beautiful September day greeted us. Blue sky. Wispy clouds.
Faint breeze. The sun gleamed like a gold coin, brightening even the grime and graffiti on the downtown streets and buildings.
"Where are we going?" I asked Finn. "Where have you tracked Roslyn to? The nightclub?"
Finn had made a call on one of my disposable cells and set up a meeting with Roslyn just before we'd left. "Nah, the club doesn't even open until eight. She's at home right now."
Despite the money generated by her nightclub, Roslyn Phillips didn't live in Northtown like the rest of the rich types. Instead, she made her home out in the suburbs just west of Southtown. Rolling hills cut through this part of Ashland like jagged teeth on a saw, although the scarlet, gold, and cinnamon color of the fall leaves helped to smudge the edges of the rough ridges. I rolled down my window and let the cool air rush into the car.
Thirty minutes later, Finn turned into a driveway lined with crimson maples. He drove up a steep hill before the trees receded, revealing a modest, two-story home made of gray brick. Black shutters and white flowerbeds framed the square windows, while a variety of colorful toys fought for space on the green lawn. Suburban bliss at its finest. All the house needed to complete the picture was a goofy golden retriever loping through the grass.
Finn parked the stolen Lexus, and the three of us got out of the car.
"Just let me do the talking, and everything will be fine." Finn smoothed down his suit jacket. He'd gone with a gray seersucker today, with a silver shirt that somehow made his eyes look even greener than they were.
"That was my plan," I replied. "You're the mouthpiece. Figured you'd use some of that storied charm you claim to have to pump Roslyn for information. Or were you planning to use a more persuasive technique today?"
Beside me, Donovan Caine snorted, but his mouth curved into a small smile.
"You're just jealous." Finn dug a canister of breath spray out of his pants pocket and squirted some into his mouth.
"Hardly. Been there, done you," I replied. "Adequate, but unremarkable." Donovan Caine started at the revelation. He frowned, and something shimmered in his hazel eyes. But the detective masked the emotion before I could decipher what it was.
Finn clutched a hand over his heart. "Oh, Gin, how you wound me."
"I'm going to wound you a lot more if you can't sweet-talk Roslyn and smooth things over for us tonight," I snapped.
"Don't worry," Finn said. "Roslyn will shower us with cooperation, since you took care of her brother-in-law a few months ago. Or have you forgotten already?" A man's face flashed in front of my eyes. Chocolate skin, curly hair, a dimpled smile, and black eyes that were even colder than mine. No, I hadn't forgotten Jeremy Lawson. My cheek twitched with a phantom ache. The half-giant had broken my jaw before I'd managed to cut him down.
Disgust tightened Donovan Caine's face. "You assassinated this woman's brother-in-law, and you think she's happy about that?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but Finn fixed the detective with a fierce look.
"Yeah," he snapped. "Bastard liked to beat on Roslyn's sister and her niece. Last time, they were both in the hospital for two weeks. The little girl is four, in case you were wondering."
The detective's gaze flicked to the toys in the yard, and the disgust drained out of his rugged face. "Why didn't she call the police?" Caine asked in a quieter voice.
"Roslyn did, but Jeremy had a couple of fishing buddies on the force and plenty of money to get everyone else to look the other way. The coppers wouldn't even file a domestic dispute report," Finn said. "So Roslyn decided to look for another, more permanent solution before he killed them."