Chapter Thirteen
Braddock was still reeling from the events of the past two and a half hours.
Had he lost his grip on reality?
Apparently.
He damned sure had lost all semblance of self-control.
The forensics tech was almost finished upstairs.
The perp had entered the house through an unlocked window on the back side of the ground floor.
All the windows in the house were unlocked.
It seemed that before the perp had finished his task, the worn-out window sash in Shelley’s room had dropped unexpectedly and shattered the glass.
Braddock couldn’t say whether the perp had been too rattled to simply go out an upstairs window or if he’d intentionally mowed CJ down to frighten her.
Whatever the case, if they were lucky, some of the prints lifted would give them a match.
But they’d have to be damned lucky. Shelley had entertained lots of guests in her bedroom.
Even with eliminating the prints they’d collected immediately after her murder, they could be interviewing matches for weeks.
And if the perp had worn gloves, as Braddock imagined he had, the whole exercise would be a colossal waste of time and manpower.
CJ had refused to make eye contact with him when she’d finally emerged from the bathroom wearing a big, fluffy white robe he recognized as one of Shelley’s.
She’d stayed in the kitchen since. He had smelled the coffee brewing but didn’t dare invade her space.
As much as he would have loved a cup of coffee, it wasn’t worth the backlash that was surely coming.
She already despised him. He doubted she liked him any better now, no matter how amazing the quick and dirty sex.
He took a breath. He could still smell her scent on his skin . . . on his clothes.
No matter what he wanted to feel, he recognized what had just happened for what it was: a serious mistake.
“All done,” Greg Day, the evidence tech, announced as he descended the stairs. “I’ll try to have something for you on the blood by noon. The prints”—he shot Braddock one of those looks—“will take some time.”
“I appreciate the priority status.” If that blood was human, Braddock wanted to know ASAP. “If the blood turns out to be human, compare it to Shelley Patterson’s.”
No one messes with me.
This had to be Nash’s work. Bastard.
Day gave him a salute and headed for the door.
“You’ll call me when you get the lab results?”
“Definitely,” Day called over his shoulder as he exited. Braddock turned to find CJ lingering in the doorway leading into the kitchen. A rap on the front door waylaid what he needed to say. He held up a hand for CJ to hold on.
He’d called in backup. Braddock wanted to make the necessary introductions and get the hell out of here before he said or did something else stupid.
“Sorry to drag you out of bed,” he said to the newest detective on his team.
Jenkins was a good man. A little young, fresh off the beat, but a damned quick study and ambitious as hell.
Braddock was reasonably sure after what happened that CJ wouldn’t want him hanging around here tonight.
“Dr. Patterson”—he kept the introductions formal—“this is Detective Wesley Jenkins. He’ll be right outside the rest of the night if you need him.”
“Detective Braddock gave me your cell number, ma’am,” Jenkins offered. “I’ll put through a call to your cell so my number would be handy. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions or if you hear or see anything you feel isn’t right.”
“Thank you, Detective,” she said.
A but was coming. Braddock could feel it.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine now.” She lifted her chin in defiance of what she likely knew Braddock was thinking. “The doors and windows will be locked. I can slide the bureau in front of the broken window.”
No, he wasn’t the one out of his mind. She was.
“Thank you, Jenkins,” Braddock said, dismissing the detective. “I’ll check in with you on my way out.”
Jenkins gave CJ a nod and made his exit before the shit hit the fan.
“You listen to me,” Braddock said before she could hurl whatever explanation she’d concocted at him.
“This is no game.” He pointed to the stairs.
“Just because the guy who broke in didn’t gut you or slice your throat doesn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
That writing on the wall”—he stabbed his finger toward the stairs again—“is a warning. Tyrone Nash knows you’re here and he’s watching you.
Trust me, that is a dangerous position to be in. ”
CJ looked him straight in the eye. “Just because I fell apart and let you inside me doesn’t mean you know me.”
The words were so cold, so emotionless, he flinched.
“I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing that for a very long time. So don’t go all martial law on me.” She pointed at the door, mimicking his gesture. “You can leave now. I’m finished with you.”
The rational argument he’d planned to throw at her, the hard-ass cop attitude he’d been prepared to exhibit, fled for parts unknown.
He’d expected her to be pissed. To yell, maybe stomp her feet. But he hadn’t expected a total stone-cold lack of emotion.
Months of frustration and anger mounted. No matter how many times he’d tried, no amount of apologies got through to her. He was wasting his time.
“Well, all right, then.” He strode to the door, anger building with each step. He hesitated, turned back to her. “Jenkins will be right outside. You can throw me out, but the street is public domain. He isn’t going anywhere.”
He didn’t wait for her comeback. He walked out. The door slammed behind him. He listened for her to engage the lock before walking away.
She wasn’t going to make any of this easy. And he was going above and beyond the call to screw it up even further.
He gave Jenkins strict orders not to move unless she did. As he walked to his SUV, his cell vibrated, and he almost hated to check it. Knowing CJ, she could very well have called the chief already to report his indiscretion and his overbearing tactics.
Thankfully, it was his partner. “Braddock.”
“Our boy got a late-night visitor,” Cooper reported.
When Braddock and Cooper had parted ways, he was to check on the Patterson house and CJ while his partner tailed Banks.
“Nash paid him a visit, did he?” No surprise there. The question was, how had old Ricky boy held up under the interrogation?
“He did,” Cooper confirmed. “Nash must’ve pissed him off good. Banks roared off in that shitty Charger as soon as Nash was out of there. I followed him to that shack they call a cantina on Drake. Maybe if he gets drunk enough I can extract a little information.”
Braddock knew full well that Cooper could take care of herself, but some of those joints in what was fondly referred to as Little Mexico were damned dangerous for a woman. “I could use a beer myself.” That was a hell of an understatement.
“No way, man. He won’t talk to me if you’re around. Go home, get some sleep. I’ve got this covered.”
He could argue, but it wouldn’t do any good. Cooper was as hardheaded as she was smart.
“All right, but don’t take any unnecessary risks. I kind of like what we have too.”
Cooper laughed before ending the call.
Braddock exhaled a lungful of frustration. Sleep would be impossible. But a shower was absolutely essential. He had to wash CJ off his skin. He couldn’t let anything, not even her, distract him from getting the job done.
And he damned sure didn’t want to be responsible for any more pain in her life.
He’d already caused more than enough.