I follow him, my bag at my hip filled with investigative tools that I should have left in the car. This isn’t a crime scene, but it’s like my gut is telling me that I’ll need it. We’re almost to the door when my cell phone rings in my jacket pocket. I snag it, hoping it’s the captain with an update on Roberts, only to find my mother’s name on the caller ID. First time today, which is a miracle considering she’s called me three times a day since I returned to work. With a stab of guilt, I decline the call, but already she’s stirred a flashback to the night my father was murdered—him standing in front of me, while I confronted him over his many sins to the badge. Him telling me that I was a “judgmental know-it-all bitch.” That was the last thing he’d said to me ever in this lifetime. A second later, a gunshot had cracked and he’d fallen on top of me.
Forcefully, I shake off the memory and shove my phone back into my purse. I know my mother’s grieving and scared. I also know that if we’d caught the ex-con who killed my father, she’d be at least a little less clingy. But he had the chance to kill me. He didn’t. He isn’t coming back to do the job now, either. And if I let her make me afraid, I might make a stupid mistake and end up dead, too.
We step under an overhang in front of the house and Lang knocks on Roberts’s door. I ring the bell. That’s us, brawn and finesse. Neither method works. The door doesn’t open. Lang tests the knob and it turns, then he gives me a sideways look. I shove back my jacket and rest my hand on my weapon, giving him a nod. He turns the knob, pulls his weapon, and uses his foot to shove the door open. Heat rushes out into the already-suffocating heat. A look groans between us that says it all. There’s nothing worse than entering a Texas house with no air conditioning, except entering a Texas house with no air conditioning that has a dead body inside. The good news: so far, we’re odor free.
Lang inclines his chin, and a second later, he’s slicing through the heat. His big body bursts into the inferno that is the air-conditioning-free house, with me on his heels. We halt in a living area and Lang gives a curse at what we find. The room is empty, completely barren of furnishings, Roberts’s departure quick and complete. Procedure, and our many years working together, kicks in and we automatically split up, searching the small house. We end our fruitless hunt for Roberts outside in the heat, where it’s cooler than inside in the heat.
“No one leaves this fast,” Lang says, shutting the front door behind us. “Not unless they’re running scared.”
“But he was mindful of his electric bill,” I point out. “Turning off the air tells me that he cared about his future expenses.” My cell phone rings again, and I glance at the caller ID. “The captain,” I say, quickly answering the line. “Captain.”
“Roberts asked for two weeks before he reported to Houston. At this point, they don’t know how to contact him. You’re on your own on the Summer case, at least until we can reach him.”
I glance at Lang, and he nods, silently telling me that he can hear what’s being said. “And this doesn’t feel off to you, Captain?” I ask.
“This is a tough job, something you know better than most these days. Maybe he hit a wall. He needed air, but the good news is we have you. Go get our killer.” He disconnects.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and fold my arms. Lang does the same.
“Do you think this is related to the Summer case?” I ask.
“I told you, I worked with Roberts. I can’t imagine a monster scary enough to spook Roberts. He clearly made a decision to leave. He’s got another job in the department.”
“I agree that yes, it looks that way, but that could be by design. We need to speak to him.”
He motions to the car, clicking the lock, and we start walking. “You keep working the case. I’ll blow off my booty call for tonight and hunt down Roberts.”
We both head to our sides of the car. “Booty call?” I ask incredulously, joining him inside. “Really, Lang?”
“That’s her description, not mine.” He starts the car and cranks the air. “She says that if I fall in love with her or some ridiculous shit like that, one of the killers I’m chasing might want to kill her to get back at me. And if she loves me and I end up dead, she’d be destroyed.”
His booty call story has managed to hit a nerve, and I cut my gaze. “Our world does start and end in murder.” A bitter taste gathers in the back of my throat, my mind going to my father. Ironically, he wasn’t killed for his bad deeds, but his good ones. That ex-con just wanted to pay him back for locking him up a decade earlier.
“We might as well just accept fate and date each other,” Lang jokes, baiting me and not by accident. No doubt, he read my reaction and knows what it’s about. “We’re together all the time anyway,” he adds. “Two badges, one heart.”
I shake my head at his silliness, and silliness is his intent. We spark together, but it’s the kind of spark that sets the wrong kind of fire. The kind you run from, not to. “Funny thing,” I say, “is that I tried dating someone in law enforcement and it didn’t work. I don’t need a repeat.”
“I won’t comment on what happened between you and FBI Agent Wade Miller. I’m going to focus on the here and now, you and me. You know you want my body.”
I snort-laugh, something I’ve often wanted to do when someone is lying to me, but save just for Lang. I also point to the steering wheel. “Drive. We have a killer to catch and a detective to find safe and alive.”
“You’re right. You’re right. Getting naked is proven to be the best way for two people to hate each other.” There’s bitterness to those words that tells me, yeah, he’s joking around about his love life, but being labeled as a booty call bothers him. He’s human. How can it not?
We’re about halfway to the station, and I’ve long ago shifted back to the case when something Lang said earlier pops into my head: I can’t imagine a monster scary enough to spook Roberts. And therein lies our problem. Just because we can’t imagine that monster doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist.
Chapter 6
The drive from Roberts’s house to the downtown medical examiner’s office is not kind. Lang and I end up in a crush of rush hour traffic. When the six o’clock hour comes and goes, I still hang on to hope that the ME on the Summer case might still be at work, but it’s clear that I need to call ahead. I scan the file for a name and groan. “Great. Trevor Richards is the ME.”
“Sourpuss bastard,” Lang mumbles, before adding, “He’s likely gone for the day, and if he’s not, he’s not going to wait for you. Chocolate won’t work on that man.”
Considering Trevor is a sourpuss, he’s right of course, but I’m not deterred. “I have to try. I have his cell number.” I tab through my numbers and punch the autodial.