She'd often wondered if there was something wrong with her, especially as she watched couples walk by on the street hand in hand. Most people her age were dating wildly, trying to find altar material. Not her. She just hadn't had any burn-ing desire to be with a man, and had even considered the possibility that she was a lesbian. Trouble was, she wasn't attracted to women.
So last night had been a revelation.
She stretched, a delicious tightness coiled in her thighs. Closing her eyes, she felt him inside of her, his thickness surging and retreating until that final moment when his body had convulsed into hers with a powerful rush, his arms crushing her against him.
Her body arched involuntarily, the fantasy strong enough to have her throbbing between her legs. Echoes of those orgasms made her bite her lip.
With a groan she got to her feet and headed for the bathroom. When she saw the shirt he'd ripped off his chest in the wastebasket, she picked it up and held it to her nose. The black fabric smelled like him.
The throbbing got worse.
How did he and Butch know each other?
Was he on the force? She'd never seen him before, but there were a number of them she didn't know.
Vice, she thought. He must be a vice cop. Or maybe a SWAT team leader.
Because he was definitely the kind of man who looked for trouble and served asses up on a plate when he found it.
Feeling as if she were sixteen, she shoved the shirt under her pillow. And then saw the bra he'd taken off her on the floor. Good lord, the front had been cut apart, sliced by something sharp.
Weird.
After a quick shower, and a faster breakfast of two oatmeal cookies, a handful of Pepperidge Farm goldfish, and a juice box, she walked down to the office. She'd been in her cube staring at her screen saver for a half hour when her phone rang. It was Jose.
"We had another busy night," he said, yawning.
"Bomb?"
"Nope. Dead body. Prostitute was found with her throat cut over on Third and Trade. If you come down to the station you can see the pictures, read the reports. Off the record, of course."
She was out on the street two minutes after she'd hung up the phone. She figured she'd hit the station first and then head over to the Wallace Avenue address.
She couldn't pretend she wasn't aching to see her midnight visitor again.
As she walked to the precinct house, the morning sun was unmercifully bright, and she dug into her purse for her shades. When they weren't enough to cut the sting, she shielded her eyes with her hand. It was a relief to get inside the cool, dim police station.
Jose wasn't in his office, but she found Butch coming out of his.
He smiled at her dryly, the corners of his hazel eyes wrinkling. "We have to stop meeting like this."
"Heard you have a new case."
"I'm sure you have."
"Care to comment, Detective?"
"We issued a statement this morning."
"Which no doubt said absolutely nothing. Come on, can't you spare a few words for me?"
"Not if we're on the record."
"How about off?"
He took a piece of gum out of his pocket and methodically unwrapped it, folding the pale slice into his mouth and biting down. She seemed to remember him smoking at some point, but hadn't seen him lighting up recently. Which probably explained all that Wrigley's.
"Off the record, O'Neal," she prompted. "I swear."
He nodded his head over his shoulder. "We need a closed door then."
His office was about the size of her cubicle at the paper, but at least it had a door and a window. His furniture was not as good as hers, though. His desk was an old wooden one that looked as if it had been used as a carpenter's workbench. There were hunks out of the top, and the varnish was so scratched it absorbed the fluorescent light as if thirsty.
He tossed a file at her before sitting down. "She was found behind a bunch of trash cans. Most of her blood ended up in the sewer, but the coroner thinks he found traces of heroin in her system. She'd had sex that evening, but that's not exactly news."
"Oh, my God, this is Mary," Beth said, looking at a gruesome picture and sinking into a chair.
"Twenty-one years old." Butch cursed under his breath. "What a fucking waste."
"I know her."
"From the station?"
"Growing up. We were in the same foster home for a little while. Afterward, I'd run into her sometimes. Usually here."
Mary Mulcahy had been a beautiful little girl. She'd been in the home with Beth for only about a year before she'd been sent back to her birth mother. Two years later she was back in state custody after having been left alone for a week at the age of seven. She'd said she'd lived on raw flour after the rest of the food had run out.
"I'd heard you'd been in the system," Butch said, getting thoughtful as he looked at her. "Mind if I ask why?"