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.Had Clarissa used mental acuity instead of push-up bras and blow jobs to land her stories, Angela would’ve thrown her a bone and traded a little information.But the whole “I’m-beautiful-help-me-out” attitude annoyed the hell out of her.So, Miss Thing was on her own.“Yeah, definitely,” Angela murmured, watching Clarissa cozy up to a rookie uniform guarding a perimeter cordoned off by yellow police tape.Slamming the Jeep door behind her, she clipped her badge on her belt and made tracks, moving down the sidewalk at a fast clip.Dressed in club wear, the crowd stood three deep, college-age looky-loos jockeying for a sneak peek.Same story, different night.Except with Mac’s radar up and running, Angela knew this scene was different.Murdered girls, same MO, dead within days of each other.Nothing run-of-the-mill about that.With an “excuse me” or two, the gang of coeds parted and she slipped through, flashing her creds as she ducked beneath the crime scene tape.Miss Thing didn’t miss a beat.Waving her microphone like a cheerleading baton, she went from batting her eyelashes to the flapping red-lacquered lips in a heartbeat.“Detective Keen…Detective Keen! What can you tell me about the—”“Nothing.” A warning in her gaze, Angela made eye contact with the rookie patrol officer.Her focus slid from him to the reporter then back again.“Watch out, man.She’s got teeth.”One corner of his mouth quirked up.“Roger that, Red.”Angela wanted to grimace.She nodded instead and, brushing by him, quashed any outward sign of discomfort.Red.The nickname from hell.One she’d tried to murder when she moved from Vice to Homicide.No such luck.The guys in her squad had picked it up quick.Even after she whacked off her hair—going from ponytail to pixie—the God-awful name stuck like gum on the bottom of a shoe.The only saving grace? Her partner never called her that, knowing she didn’t like it.Not that she’d ever told him.But Mac was scary like that—so perceptive that it sometimes bordered on eerie.“Hey, Ange…over here.”Speak of the devil.Ignoring the smell of week-old garbage, Angela stepped into the mouth of the alley, toward six and a half feet of ripped Irish-American.Harvard-smart with a whole lot of street savvy, Mac was a man women loved to look at…eye candy without the inferred sweetness.Most cops didn’t want to work with him.He was too aggressive, too hot-tempered, too, well, everything.Angela had heard the stories, been warned six ways to Sunday that Mac rode the razor edge and was on his way out, but a fluke in scheduling had thrown them together.Now, almost two years later, she couldn’t imagine working with anyone else.But the biggest bonus? No sexual spark to screw it up.Most women would have mourned that fact—done backflips to catch Mac’s eye.Not her.She liked the big brother vibe, thank you very much.And so did he.It was the perfect scenario in an imperfect job…great chemistry without the mind fuck of physical attraction.Outstanding.Boots traveling over cracked asphalt, Angela stepped over a crumpled soda can, coming up alongside her partner.“Don’t you sleep, Irish?”Mac flashed his pearly whites, the grin half-angel, half-devil.“Not much and never alone.”Angela rolled her eyes, but let his evasion slide.She didn’t need to ride him about his insomnia or taking better care of himself.No matter how subtle, he’d gotten the message.“You’re a sick puppy, you know that?”He shrugged and, tapping his pen against his notebook, returned his attention to the CSIs on the other side of the beat-up Dumpster.Silver crime-scene cases open and tools in use, the two techs were working the scene like pros: cameras flashing, markers out, gathering evidence before the ME came to take the body away.“Less than twenty, Ange.You’re getting faster.” Restlessness getting the better of him, Mac walked to one of the small orange cones set out on the pavement.Crouching to examine the evidence beside it, he glanced at her over his shoulder.“Didn’t take the time to brush your teeth, did ya?”Lifesaver in her mouth, Angela drilled him with a glare.“Shut up and fill me in.”“Dead girl…name’s Hannah Gains.” Fighting a smile over the big cop attitude she was throwing his way, he pushed to his feet.“Nineteen, five foot five, brown hair, blue eyes.A freshman at Seattle U.”“Crap.”“I used something a bit stronger.”“I’m sure,” she said, aware Mac’s vocabulary rivaled a gang banger’s.“Anything else?”“Big-ass boot print…military issue.” A muscle twitched along her partner’s jaw as he pointed his pen toward the girl splayed like a broken doll on damp pavement.“My guess? About a size fourteen.”Saying a soft “hey” to the CSI scraping under the victim’s fingernails, Angela circled around behind Mac to where the dead girl lay, eyes wide open, staring up at a starless sky.The sight made Angela’s chest go tight.The sick bastard.Look what he had done…how he’d left her: half dressed, lying in the worst filth the city had to offer.Balanced on the balls of her feet, Angela crouched a few feet away.Her heart sank as she got her first glimpse of her victim’s face.Yeah, she fit the profile: young, pretty, a leggy brunette in a halter top and micromini.Just like the other two.Mac was right.It was the same guy, and he had a type.She glanced over, catching Mac’s gaze.“Military? How do you know for sure?”“I used to wear something similar.”In the SEAL teams [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]