Deadly Heat (Deadly #2)(74)

Kenton took a deep breath and shoved the image of tear-filled golden eyes from his mind. Focus. Control. He’d seen Monica do this dozens of time. Bring on the ice. Think about the case. Ignore the emotion.

Sometimes, it was so damn hard to put on the mask.

Kenton cleared his throat. “So our vics,” except for the firefighters, “were criminals.” Maybe not convicted, but the perp had still known. How? That was question one. How had the guy known the people were guilty?

The door closed behind him with a soft click. He glanced at the faces around him. No emotion showed on Monica’s calm face, but Sam appeared to be teetering on the edge, struggling to hold her calm. Luke… ah, that guy was a puzzle. Sometimes he seemed wild on the outside, almost careless, but his real problem was that he cared too much.

Maybe it was a good thing that Lora was gone. He wouldn’t have been able to tell her this part anyway.

“I think we all know,” he said quietly, “that some cops can go bad.”

Sam flinched.

“The arresting officer,” for those who had been arrested, “I want his name. I want the names of all the officers involved in these cases.” Someone wanting justice? Yeah, that sure sounded like a cop to him. If the system fails, sometimes, you have to take justice into your own hands.

“Th-there’s one name that came up a few times.” Sam’s voice was soft, but clear. “He was on the scene of Skofield’s drunk-driving accident, and he arrested Tom Hatchen.”

“Who.”

“Peter Malone.”

Malone? Fuck. “He was right here.” In this very room. “When I questioned Larry Powell, he was right here.” And wasn’t it damn easy to eliminate a witness when you knew everything about the guy?

Three connections.

“Malone also busted Jerome a few years back, when he was working Vice.”

Four.

And they’d assigned the guy the task of digging into the victims’ lives. They’d wanted Malone to find the connection between them—when he was the f*cking connection.

Kenton’s fingers slowly unclenched. “Let’s get him in here.” It was time for the cop to sit on the other side of the table.

? ? ?

They stopped at the old wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. Lora hated this place. When she’d been younger, her mother had brought her here for every holiday. They’d come with red roses and her mother had put them on her father’s grave even as the tears trickled down her cheeks.

Christmas. Valentine’s. Birthdays.

“You can watch me from the car.” She killed the engine. “But don’t even think about following me any closer.”

Ramirez didn’t say anything as she jumped out and slammed the door behind her.

It was hot in Virginia at this time of the year, so why were goosebumps rising on her arms? She hurried past the gate and heard the groan of the iron when her shoulder brushed against the metal.

In moments, she was beneath the big oak and sheltered under its wide branches. She stopped there and stared down at him.

Carter smiled back at her. He was dressed in his uniform and a wide grin curved his lips. Frozen forever in that picture, he looked perfect, young, happy.

The stupid tears came back, and she hated crying. Tears didn’t change anything. Never would.

“I’m sorry, Carter.” Her whisper came on a sigh. He’d been her best friend. From the day she’d walked into station number eleven, he’d been there with his easygoing grin and laughing blue eyes. They’d been friends for so long, then slipped into being lovers. She’d loved him. No, the feelings hadn’t been wild and desperate, but there had been love. He knew it. He’d died knowing it.

But now, when she closed her eyes, she didn’t see Carter anymore.

She saw Kenton.

And that scared the hell out of her.

Because it forced her to accept that Carter was gone. It had taken some time, some long nights, but her heart was finally realizing that fact.

“We’re going to stop him, Carter. We’re going to catch the bastard, and he won’t hurt anyone else.” A teardrop fell onto her clenched hands. “I–I miss you.”

Silence.

The rustle of leaves.

Nothing more.

Lora realized that there wasn’t anything else to say.

Her shoulders straightened as she headed back to the vehicle. Ramirez watched her through his window.

“No questions.” She climbed in beside him.

His fingers drummed on the dashboard.

Lora cranked the engine and shot the car into reverse.

“Once upon a time…” His voice came, without inflection, easy as you please. “The woman I loved went into a bank. When she came out, a man had a knife at her throat.”

She slammed on the brakes and stared at him.

He didn’t look at her.

“He’d robbed the bank, but I bet you figured that.” His fingers drummed again. “I was the sniper. They—they put me on the roof, with orders to take him out. I looked through my scope, I saw her, and I hesitated.”

“Jon…”

“I could have taken the shot and blown the *’s brains right out, but I wasn’t expecting her.” There was still no inflection in his voice. “I hesitated, and he slit her throat. Her mouth was open, I saw her lips move—she said my name. The last thing she ever said was my name.”