“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You want to arrest me again.”

  Ian drew in a sharp breath. “I know you have some great resources at your disposal, and I was hoping you would work with me in finding Junior’s killer.”

  “Work with you?” Malone gaped at him. “You arrest me for murder, let me spend a night in jail, try to get charges brought against me, and then you want me to help you out? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I had to arrest you.” He stated the words in an even tone, but his nostrils flared. “It’s my job.”

  She looked up at the man she’d once imagined herself in love with. One-sided infatuation, yeah, but love nonetheless. Even if he had been doing his job, a long night in jail wouldn’t let her find any reason right now why she might even like him. Sure, he was good-looking. Totally good-looking, but she wasn’t shallow enough to fall for a man because of his looks alone.

  And yet, he was right about her arrest. As a lawyer, she knew he had no choice. He’d said his lieutenant had brought the charges to the DA, but that didn’t mean Ian agreed. Maybe he’d even been instrumental in getting the DA to hold off on charging her.

  “Tell me one thing,” she said, keeping her gaze pinned to him so she could evaluate the truth of his answers from his expression.

  “I will if I can.”

  “Did you recommend that the DA file charges against me?”

  He worked the muscle in his jaw. “I did.”

  “Now that’s even richer.” She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t have to do that, did you? Sure, you had to arrest me. Your job demanded it, but there’s no law compelling you to push for charges to be filed against me.”

  “Just the fact that I swore an oath to do my best for all victims. Even ones I don’t particularly like. Which means, when the evidence points to someone’s guilt, I arrest them and ask to have charges brought against them no matter who they are. No matter if they have friends in high places. No matter if I don’t believe they’re guilty.”

  He was looking at her through narrowed eyes. He was right. Someone went to bat for her. She was thankful for that, but right now all she could see was his judgment over her special treatment, and she didn’t like it. Made her feel guilty when she was anything but.

  She lifted her shoulders. “As you said, I have great resources at my disposal, and I need to get together with the Veritas and Nighthawk teams and get started looking for Junior’s killer.”

  Ian drew a business card from his jacket pocket and held it out. “Take this. Just in case you change your mind about helping me or if you need me.”

  She wasn’t a fool. She would need to talk to him again before her investigation was over. That was inevitable. She settled his card into her evening bag without looking at it and started to walk away.

  “Be careful, Malone,” Ian called. “As you said, you’re looking for a killer. I wouldn’t want you to be his next victim.”

  Sal tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “He’s right, you know. This isn’t one of your wayward teens needing their life investigated so you can try to reunite them with their parents. This is something different altogether. This is murder.”

  “Reed will make sure I take care.” She glanced back at Ian then forced herself to look away.

  “Reed will do his best,” Sal said. “But, honey, you’re known for ignoring him.”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  “I know I told you to stay away from Detective Blair,” Sal continued. “But there’s one thing you need to remember. You and your crack team at Veritas can investigate and prod and probe, but at some point you’ll need police assistance. When that happens, it could be a life-or-death situation, and you don’t want to be on the outs with this detective.”

  Attending autopsies. One of the most difficult requirements of Ian’s job, and they never got easier. He usually made it through them by thinking of other things and places. Like today. He slipped his foot into the Tyvek suit the medical examiner left for him, his mind on Malone and her rejection.

  He’d made a professional request to partner with her, but her rejection felt personal. He wasn’t surprised she’d said no. She was a strong, independent woman, and she had the Veritas Center professionals behind her. She could easily have them investigate Junior’s murder. They wouldn’t need Ian unless they required access to law enforcement databases. But his gut told him that the shooter had planned to set Malone up. She was the key to finding Junior’s killer, and Ian had to find a way to persuade her to work with him.

  He zipped up the suit, put on a face mask and shield, and entered the autopsy suite. Three stainless steel tables sat in the center of the room that had large stainless steel sinks, refrigerators, and freezers along the walls.

  Junior lay on the closest table, face up, eyes wide and wearing a blank stare. His chest had been sliced open. Dr. Albertson stood over him. She was slender, medium height, with a short bob of gray hair and plenty of wrinkles, which were covered by a clear face shield.

  She looked at him. “I got an early start on the day and began without you. Nothing to report here regarding the cause of death. Just what we expected. Two gunshot wounds to the chest, one piercing the aorta. He would’ve dropped immediately. I didn’t find any signs of defensive wounds or skin cells under his nails, which we didn’t expect to find.”

  “Gunshot wounds were inflicted from a distance?” he asked.

  “Definitely not up close. There’s no stippling around the wounds or gunpowder on the shirt.”

  Exactly like Malone reported.

  “This is pretty cut and dried as far as a homicide goes.”

  “I guess I didn’t need to take the time to be here.”

  “Not so fast,” she said, a glint in her eyes. “You should know, if the victim hadn’t been shot, he probably wouldn’t have lived much longer.”

  Ian’s interest perked up. “Why’s that?”

  She pointed to an odd shaped organ that looked like a narrow cornucopia you’d see on a Thanksgiving table. It was located near his ribs, and a large discolored area took up two-thirds of the organ.

  “An advanced tumor of the pancreas,” she said.

  “He had pancreatic cancer?”

  She pointed at a small mass. “It’s spread to his lymph nodes and blood vessels. Stage three.”

  “Do you think he knew?”

  “No signs of radiation or chemo, so maybe not.”

  “Wouldn’t he have symptoms?”

  “Most assuredly at this stage, but men, and young men in particular, often ignore symptoms, which is why pancreatic cancer is called the silent killer.”

  Ian didn’t know if her news was important at all. Especially if Junior didn’t know about the cancer. If he did, and if he knew he didn’t have long to live, would it have made him want to make things right? Was that why he needed to tell Malone about her parents’ car accident? But how would he even know about the accident, and how was it related to Junior?

  Ian needed to get moving on answering those questions. “Anything else?”

  “No,” Dr. Albertson said. “His bag of belongings are by the sink, and you can expect my official report later in the week.”

  “Thank you.” Ian hurried to grab Junior’s belongings and leave the autopsy suite.

  In the outer room, he stripped out of his protective gear but left his latex gloves on. He looked through the plastic bag at car keys, a wallet, small pocket knife, and breath spray. He took out the wallet and found a thick wad of twenty-dollar bills, a driver’s license, one credit card, an insurance card, and a worn photo of his parents, who Ian met at Junior’s death notification visit. No receipts, notes, pictures, or anything that could lead Ian to find the killer.

  Frustrated, Ian closed the bag and discarded his gloves. He dug out his phone to type a message for Londyn.

  Junior had stage 3 pancreatic cancer. Request his medical records. We’ll see if he knew about it and if it motivated any of his actions.

  Malone thought about Sal’s comment for the entire drive home and during her shower, where she stayed until her fingers resembled wrinkled prunes. By the time she was dressed in her favorite jeans paired with a warm fleece top and had watched the online church service for the day, she changed her mind about Ian. She had to set aside her emotions and do what was best to find Junior’s killer. His parents deserved that. Which meant she needed to call Ian to see what he had in mind when he’d asked her to partner with him.

  She dumped out her evening bag on the kitchen counter to reveal his card and settled on a barstool to make the call. She expected to get voicemail and mentally prepared her message.

  He answered on the second ring, and she stumbled to think of what to say. “It’s Malone. I…I want to hear what you meant by us working together.”

  He didn’t respond, and the silence stretched. Uncomfortable, she opened her mouth to say something else, but what? How could she be so wishy-washy around him when she was usually a take-charge person?

  “Would it be okay if we talked in person?” he finally asked.

  She let out a silent breath. “When?”

  “The sooner, the better.”

  Did she want that? Want to see him? She had to, she supposed, if she was to work with him. “I guess you could come by my place.”

  Now, why did she suggest a private place instead of a public spot? She couldn’t take it back now.

  “Great.” His enthusiasm surprised her. “I can get your address from your arrest record.”

  “I just bought my childhood home. The place where we lived before our parents died.” Another thing she hadn’t needed to tell him, so she quickly gave him the address.

  “I can be there in thirty minutes.”

  “See you then.” She hung up and ran her fingers through her wet hair. She might be fine with letting it dry on its own if she weren’t going anywhere or wasn’t seeing anyone, but she would dry and style it for a visit from Ian.

  In the bathroom with the eighties’ glass block shower, she picked up the dryer and brush and went to work. With each pull of the bristles, she wished she wasn’t so concerned with appearances—a product of losing her parents. She’d lived in three foster homes. The first two for fewer than six months. Neither were the best of situations, but the third home was wonderful. She and Reed had had two loving, caring, Christian parents to guide them.

  Still, every moment of every day, she’d known her living situation was temporary. Things could change in a heartbeat. She could come home from school one day to be told she and Reed were being placed elsewhere. She had to be prepared at all times to make a good impression for that new family. Plus, if she took care of her hygiene and appearance, did well in school, followed the rules, and did everything she was asked, she wouldn’t give her foster family any reason to split her up from Reed. That would’ve been just as hard to handle as losing their parents.

  Years later, she couldn’t seem to shed the need to appear put together. A shrink would likely have a field day with her insecurity.

  She applied her makeup and took a last look in the mirror. Satisfied, she went to the bedroom and grabbed a professional blouse and a clean pair of jeans before going to the family room to pace and wait. She took long steps through the living room in the large craftsman house.

  She’d only moved in a month before, but immediately she’d started to try to return the home to what she remembered. She’d stripped the paint from the woodwork on the banister, all the trim, and the built-ins. At the rate she was working, it would take her years to complete the house, but she didn’t care. She felt close to her parents here, and that was all that mattered.

  A car pulled up outside, and she stopped at the large picture window on the way to the front door. The same drab blue sedan Ian had been leaning on outside the Justice Center parked in the drive. No way Ian would be caught dead driving such a sedan in his personal life. She figured him for a motorcycle or pickup kind of guy. This must be his police-issued vehicle.

  The doorbell rang, but she waited a few seconds before answering. She didn’t want him to think she was standing around waiting for him, when that was exactly what she’d been doing.

  She opened the door, and he held up two bags of takeout from a local restaurant that she loved. “I figured we could have lunch while we talk.”

  “Bribery?”

  His eyes narrowed. “No bribe. Just thought I could help.”

  “I appreciate your kindness.” She stepped back. “Excuse the mess. I started remodeling the place to return it to what I remember from when I was little.”

  “I’m surprised you can remember much.”

  “I vividly remember walking through the house the day we left, memorizing each little detail down to my dad’s slippers sitting by the door over there.” A night without sleep meant tears she could often control threatened to break free, and she took a breath to extinguish them. “This way to the kitchen.”

  She led him through a small dining room with garish flower wallpaper to an equally brash kitchen with cranberry countertops and black cabinets.

  “Oh, wow.” He looked around and set the bags on the counter and started removing containers of Mexican food. “This looks recently remodeled.”

  “Is that your diplomatic way of asking if I’m responsible for this?”

  “You caught me.” An easy smile that drew her closer spread across his mouth.

  Their gazes connected, but the lighthearted moment quickly changed, the air charged, and she had to take a deep breath to keep from moving closer. She whipped her attention to a cupboard and got down plates to set them next to the bags. “There’s enough food here for a family for a week.”

  “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got an assortment of tacos and wraps. I figure that will give both of us leftovers.” He handed her the receipt. “Take a look at what I got and choose what you want.”

  She read down the long receipt and searched the bag for a street corn chicken taco, adding it along with spicy rice and avocados to her plate. She cut a fiesta wrap in half and slid it beside the rest of her food. The tangy scent had her stomach rumbling. “Don’t judge me for the quantity of food. I haven’t gotten food from here since I moved back to this side of town, and I can’t wait.”

  “No judgment as long as you return the favor.” He piled his plate with two wraps and two steak-and-queso tacos.

  “Let’s head to the dining room.” Sitting next to him on counter stools would be too close. She grabbed a bottle of water from a bag and led the way. She sat at the head of the table so he would sit at the side so she could face him as they talked.

  She offered a prayer for the food then dug in. The minute the spicy flavor hit her taste buds, she forgot all about the night in jail and Ian’s reason for being there.

  “So good.” She took another huge bite of the taco, and an explosion of flavor burst in her mouth.

  “You look like you were hungry.” He polished off half a taco in one bite.

  She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I didn’t realize how much. Thank you for thinking of it.”

  He took a long pull of his water bottle. “My pleasure.”

  She could almost pretend they were on the date she’d always imagined they would take in high school. She’d imagined dating him back in the day, when she’d thought he’d have taken her to a dive with great food and maybe people who were different than she was, people who went with his bad-boy vibe.

  He set down his bottle and turned it in circles. “I couldn’t help but notice your Mustang out front.”

  She smiled. “A ’64, just like the one my dad owned. I loved riding in that car as a kid and always told him I would own one just like it. I bought it a year ago.”

  “Is it your everyday car?”

  She nodded. “Why?”

  “Not the safest vehicle to be driving on a regular basis. No shoulder belt. No airbags. And it wasn’t made to withstand a crash like today’s cars are.”

  Crash. Right. Like her parents’ accident. “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

  “I saw a lot of crashes when I was a patrol officer. Makes me think about the vehicles people drive.” He shook his head. “But I’m not here to lecture you on car safety. Tell me more about the guy who shot Junior.”

  She flashed her gaze to him. “You sound like you believe me.”

  “I do.”

  “But you—”

  “I couldn’t share my opinion in front of uniforms. I had to act impartial in front of them.”

  She shook her head. “And here I thought you didn’t believe me.”

  “I don’t know you that well, Malone, but I do know that I am drawn to you. Have been since we were in high school. I’d like to think I couldn’t be attracted to a murderer, but my experience as a detective says it’s possible.”

  “I…well, I guess that’s an interesting way to look at it.” She didn’t know what else to say. Not when something she’d always longed for had happened. He’d admitted he was attracted to her.

  She took a bite of spicy rice mixed with cool avocado to keep her mind off thoughts that didn’t help move the investigation forward. “I can’t tell you anything more about the guy than I’ve already told you.”

  “What about smell? Did he have a scent at all?”

  She closed her eyes and ignored the food to think. “No. Nothing.”

  “His clothing? Expensive or bargain quality.”

  She kept her eyes closed and brought the man to mind, seeing his clothing vividly. She opened her eyes. “Expensive. The shirt had a label at the hem. It was an expensive brand Reed likes to wear. And his boots were leather. Worn but stylish.”

  “Okay, so we have a man who has money to blow on clothes.”

  “Yes.” Excitement had her reaching out for his hand. “This is a start, right?”

  He nodded, gaze flicking to her hand resting on his.

  Suddenly self-conscious, she let go, picked up her taco, and took a bite, the sweet corn melting on her tongue.

  “And your level of detail helps reinforce that he does exist. You can’t just pull such detail out of the air unless you’re a practiced liar. A vibe I don’t get from you.”