Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
H unt couldn’t dispute the fact that he liked seeing Savannah curled up in the guest chair in front of his desk.
The police station was in the Public Safety Building in the Mission District. It was a few years old, done in a modern style, with lots of glass and concrete. Unlike some of the other detectives, he kept his office sparse and his desk clean.
The only knickknack he had was a paperweight shaped like a police badge that Brynn had given him for his birthday one year. Outside, phones were ringing, and voices were raised in multiple conversations. There was always action around the detective offices.
He’d watched Savannah absorb it all as they passed through. She’d explored his office in thorough detail.
“I was expecting mismatched furniture and stained linoleum,” she said.
“You’ve watched too many old cop shows on TV. The city built this place a few years ago to house the police station, fire department, and arson team.”
“It’s fancy.”
His cell phone rang, and he saw it was Vander. He held up a finger and pressed the phone to his ear. “Hi, Vander.”
“I’m incoming with Ace.”
Hunt stiffened. “You found something?”
“A whole stinking pile of something. You know she’s wanted for questioning about a murder?”
Hunt’s hand clenched. “No.” He felt hot, then cold. His gaze shot to her—small, delicate, beautiful.
Savannah a murderer? Every instinct in him screamed that it was a lie.
But was he too close to make the judgment?
“It stinks to high heaven, Hunt. Some things are off about it. Wait, Ace has something else. You know she has a stalker?”
Hunt ground his teeth together, his eyes on the curve of her jaw. “I suspected something like that.”
“Hold tight, and we’ll share when we get to you.”
“Roger that.” Hunt slipped the phone away. “I have a meeting. Don’t leave this office.”
She saluted him. “Aye, aye, captain.”
“Smart ass.” He touched her cheekbone, because he couldn’t stop himself. He saw the spark in her eyes.
If she was a killer, he’d turn in his badge. He wished she’d confide in him though.
“I’ll be back,” he told her.
He took a moment to organize a meeting room, and soon Ace and Vander strode in. Hunt watched a female officer do a double take at the men. Vander was wearing a suit, and Ace was in suit pants, with a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a laptop bag slung over one shoulder.
Hunt waved them into the room and closed the door.
“Savannah was attacked last night,” he said.
Vander’s face darkened. “What happened?”
“Intruder at her house. Tried to choke her. I intervened, but the asshole got away.”
“How is she?” Vander asked.
“Bruised.” Just the thought of those marks again shot anger through Hunt’s veins. “She’s not a fucking killer. I arrest killers for a living.”
Vander sat as Ace opened the laptop on the conference table.
“We all know that the right circumstances can cause anyone to take a life.” Dark shadows stirred in Vander’s eyes. “But no, I don’t think your woman is a killer.”
Hunt’s hand flexed. “She’s not mine… Yet.”
Ace snorted. “Where did she sleep last night?”
Hunt stayed silent.
“She staying with you now?” Vander asked.
Hunt nodded.
Ace turned to the big screen at the end of the room and tapped his keyboard.
“This is what I dug up. It was hard to find because it was buried deep. Her new name was generated by someone with talent. It would’ve cost a pretty penny.
” A picture of Savannah’s driver’s license flashed up.
“Savannah Cole’s background goes back ten years, but it’s only been active for the last four. ”
Hunt frowned. “Someone created it four years ago, but went back and laid a trail for ten?”
Ace nodded. “Most people only go back a few years. Prior to four years ago, she was Susannah Hart.”
Pictures from some sort of party at an art gallery popped up on the screen.
Savannah’s hair was shorter, more silvery-blonde. Her smile… Hunt’s chest hitched. It was wide and open. She looked happy, not guarded.
“She was an up-and-coming artist in New York City,” Ace said.
Fuck . Hunt pressed his hands to the table. “What happened?”
“A young, blonde artist named Amelia Kerry was found dead in the gallery after Susannah Hart’s showing. She was also an up-and-coming artist, a rival of Susannah’s.” The next images were crime scene shots.
Vander’s face didn’t change, Ace winced, and Hunt’s lips flattened. It was brutal and bloody.
“Susannah Hart’s prints were everywhere, including on the knife beside the body.”
“She had an alibi?” Hunt asked.
“She said she’d been held by a madman. An art admirer who’d been stalking her. She’d reported him before. NYPD hadn’t been able to track the threatening letters and gifts down to anybody.”
“But?” Hunt prompted.
“She was covered in cuts. The police surmise that they could have been defensive wounds.”
“Any pictures?”
Ace shook his head. “Then Susannah Hart disappeared.”
“And Savannah Cole was born,” Vander continued. “She moves around, rarely stays anywhere long.”
Hunt nodded. “She’s currently housesitting.”
Vander crossed his arms. “No lease or bills in her name.”
“Someone attacked her. And likely shot at her at the coffee shop.” Hunt had connected the dots.
“Maybe Amelia Kerry’s family? After revenge?” Ace suggested.
Hunt growled. “Savannah did not kill that woman.”
The man looked at him steadily.
He cursed. “Don’t tell me you think she did.”
Vander leaned back in his chair. “Fuck, no. It took Ace an hour to find her stalker.”
The image changed to show an unassuming man in his mid-twenties. He was smiling like life was good.
“Andrew Brandon Walkson. Art lover.” There were candid shots of the man at the gallery, standing right behind Savannah.
“How come NYPD didn’t nail him?” Hunt said.
Ace shrugged. “I ran every person from all of Susannah Hart’s art shows, and focused on repeat customers who bought her artwork.
Got hits on CCTV at her old apartment. This guy also has a juvenile record for stalking a girl at his high school.
According to him, she was his girlfriend. She said they barely knew each other.”
“How did you access a sealed juvie record?” Hunt shook his head. Ace was a top-notch hacker. “Never mind. Don’t tell me.”
Ace grinned, but then his smile dissolved. “Susannah Hart started getting gushing, creepy cards, letters, flowers. She ignored them. Then she started dating a guy, a stockbroker.”
Hunt kept his face blank.
“When she did, the letters turned threatening. The police had no leads. Walkson bought a lot of her artwork, then she found one piece, broken, on her doorstep. Walkson said it was stolen. Then Susannah was allegedly attacked, and Amelia Kerry was murdered.”
“And Savannah ran. And she hasn’t stopped. Where’s Walkson now?”
“New York. He’s an insurance salesman. Travels a lot.”
A muscle ticked in Hunt’s jaw. “Makes for good cover to stalk a woman on the run. Has he been here in San Francisco?”
“He was in LA recently, but not San Francisco. As far as I can tell, he’s in New York.”
“Why shoot up a coffee shop?” Vander asked. “Or get someone to break in and choke her? Does that fit this guy’s profile?”
No. It didn’t.
“I need to talk to Savannah,” Hunt said.
He tried to control the emotions inside him. Usually, it wasn’t a problem, but this mix of anger, rage, fear, and frustration was volatile.
He’d asked her if she was in danger, and she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him.
He looked at the open, pretty face of Susannah Hart. Could he really blame her?
“Thanks, Ace, Vander. I owe you.”
“We’ll keep digging on Walkson,” Vander said.
The men rose.
Vander stopped by Hunt. “And you don’t owe me anything. I know I owe you, for so many things.”
“Including letting you touch my cousin,” Hunt said dryly.
Vander’s lips quirked. “I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Said what?” As though they’d summoned her, Brynn appeared in the doorway.
“Nothing, Detective.” Vander tugged her close and kissed her. “Your cousin was just being protective.”
“Overprotective.” Brynn rolled her eyes. “He can’t help himself. I’m living with the man, Hunt. You’ve got to let it go.”
Hunt tugged on her ponytail. “Never. I need to talk with Savannah.”
Brynn eyed his face and frowned. “Problem?”
“Yeah. I’ll let Vander update you.”
Hunt headed for his office.
It was time for some answers.
* * *
Wielding her paintbrush, Savannah slashed paint on the paper she’d spread out on top of Hunt’s desk.
She’d sketched for a while, but the urge to paint had taken over.
She’d spread some plastic on his desk, rolled out a large sheet of paper, and gotten to work.
It was an impressionistic portrait of the police station. People coming and going, leaving trails, like car lights at night.
She wished the cops in New York had helped her. She didn’t blame them, though. They had rules to follow, and so many who needed help. Walkson had set things up to make it look bad for her. She shuddered.
Daubing some blue paint on the paper, her thoughts turned to Marcie. She wondered how the woman was doing. Savannah dipped her brush in the blue paint and swiped some more on the paper.
One person in the painting stood in the center of the chaos, like a rock in a river. So steady and strong.
Hunt was really turning into her muse. She’d painted the detective faceless, with his hands on his hips, tie askew and holster on. But he had Hunt’s broad shoulders and long legs.
The office door opened.
She looked over her shoulder and saw Hunt in the doorway. He looked at his desk, and his mouth dropped open. His brows drew together.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Brain surgery.” She moved the brush, adding more strokes.
“On my desk?” He strode over.
“I covered it in plastic. It’s fine.”
He growled.
She turned. “You wanted me to come here. I needed to work.”
“I thought graphic design was your job.”
“It is, but I…needed to paint.”
“Art is your true calling. You should have a showing.”