Skin Deep (Station Seventeen #1)(100)

Kellan crossed the floorboards, leaning in to slide a sweet and sinful kiss over her mouth, and oh God, she was totally stupid for this man. “I like how you think. But we should probably eat dinner first.”

“You want to wait?”

“No. I want to lay you down and fuck you senseless. But it’s late and I know you better than to think you actually took a break for lunch today. Plus, that chicken casserole Kylie brought over has been in your oven for twenty minutes, and I can’t lie. It’s starting to smell insane.”

Isabella laughed, although her happiness was short-lived. “Okay, okay. So you’re not wrong about work.” She followed him down the hall to the living room, her brain still trying to get on board with the sight of the new furniture that had been delivered just a few hours ago. “But we’re behind the eight ball now more than ever. DuPree has been underground for a whole week. Not only do we have no new leads, but we can’t even confirm for certain that the scumbag is in Remington.”

“Is there anything the Feds can do?” Kellan asked, and a fresh shot of frustration spread out beneath her skin.

“No. Sinclair has tried to interview DuPree every day this week. He gets the same stonewall every time. No answer at the Metropolitan, no joy at DuPree’s office. Without sufficient evidence to suspect him, we can’t get a warrant to get any farther than the lobby of either place. Not even the FBI can get around that.”

Isabella flopped down on the couch, jamming a hand through her hair. Her tension had been steadily building all week, and as hard as intelligence was working, nothing was working.

She said, “We can’t get anywhere because DuPree has covered his tracks so well, and meanwhile, he’s got a bunch of women holed up in some shitty flophouse somewhere in North Point, having God-only-knows-what done to them by Franco and Rampage. We need a break, and we’re not getting anywhere by waiting.”

Realization flickered, chilling Kellan’s stare to an icy blue. “You’re not thinking of going down there instead of Sinclair.”

“Why not?” Okay, so she hadn’t meant to just pop off with the words, but come on. Nothing else was working.

Of course, she should’ve known the suggestion would bring Kellan’s defensive side out to play. “Ah, let’s see. Because DuPree is crazy.” He lifted a finger, keeping count. “He trashed your apartment and threatened you.” Another finger. Check. “And because Sinclair would never okay it, and you promised to work with the rest of your unit as a team.”

Isabella’s brain knew he had a point. But her gut? Not such an easy sell. “You’re exactly right. DuPree is crazy, which is why he needs to be stopped. Kellan, he killed Angel and Danny Marcus, and he’s doing despicable things to these other girls. So what if there’s a little risk involved in taking him down?”

Kellan didn’t budge. If anything, his expression only grew more fierce. “You confronting him isn’t a little risk.”

“I know,” she said, because in truth, she did. The full report from their profiler had sent chills down her spine, and that was just based on the abstract. Knowing DuPree, the reality was likely worse. “I’m just frustrated. I want to catch this guy.”

“I know you do, and you will.” Kellan slid over the couch cushions to press a kiss to her forehead.

“Easier said than done,” Isabella grumbled.

“Tell you what. Let’s have some dinner and I’ll help you go over the case files. Maybe you’ll catch something new by talking out the details.”

She exhaled, but gave up a nod. “Okay, yeah. It can’t hurt.”

“Great. Just let me call Devon and Kylie to check in, and by then dinner should be done.”

Kellan kissed her one more time before standing up to unearth his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans and head toward the kitchen. The strains of his conversation with Kylie floated into the living room, so easygoing and relaxed that Isabella had to smile. Maybe Kellan was right. Maybe they’d get their break by looking at all the facts again.

But God, she’d already done that a thousand times. Today.

Her cell phone vibrated from her back pocket, sending a ribbon of hope uncurling through her belly. Capelli had been sifting through DuPree’s business transactions when she’d left the precinct. Maybe he’d gotten a hit on something.

Unknown caller.

The hairs on the back of Isabella’s neck stood on end as she stared at her cell phone. Trying—and failing—to steady her hands, she tapped the icon to take the call and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Moreno.”

“Hello, Detective. I hope you’re having a lovely evening so far.” DuPree’s melodic voice hit her with all the force of an anvil, and for a second, her answer wedged in her throat.

“Mr. DuPree,” she said, her thoughts going from zero to a million and sixty as she fast-tracked her way into her bedroom to grab a pen and a piece of paper. The phone company might be able to pull the call details later, but DuPree was slicker than snot. Who knew how long he’d stay on the line?

As if he could read her mind, he said, “I’ve been assured this line is secure. Try as you might, you won’t be able to trace this call.”

God damn that hacker! “What do you want?”

“To put it bluntly, I want you, Detective.”