Skin Deep (Station Seventeen #1)(64)
Speaking of which… “Make certain when the nine-one-one call is placed that Mr. Walker’s home station is routed to the scene. I also want Detective Moreno notified, anonymously, of course. But first things first. I’ll need that word with Angel. And Vaughn?” Julian waited to be sure they held eye contact before continuing. “Do tell Franco I hope he’s saved some energy. He can fuck the truth out of her any way he likes, just so long as she talks.”
Julian would find out what Isabella Moreno knew. And then he would silence her in the most painful way possible.
16
Isabella sat back against the corner booth at the Fork in the Road, scanning the busy diner around her even though she’d memorized the description and location of every last occupant fifteen minutes ago. The layout of the place itself was already a gimme. She knew the diner’s bright blue high-backed booths, silver-flecked white Formica counter, and fifties-style checkerboard floor tiles as well as she knew her own apartment.
The Fork was as standard a hangout as the Crooked Angel for the cops at the Thirty-Third, although Isabella had known the place by heart far before her first day at the academy. The throwback diner had been Marisol’s favorite place to eat—besides Isabella’s family’s home in south Remington, anyway.
She glanced at the chrome-and-vinyl bar stools lining the front counter, her mind giving up the image of a girl caught firmly in adolescence, with long dark braids and a trusting smile and quarters for the jukebox in the corner. God, Marisol had loved that jukebox, poring over song after song to make sure she’d considered them all before making her selections, then the two of them would sing along with the words, laughing as if they’d had all the time in the world.
Oh, Mari. I miss you.
Isabella straightened, rubbing one hand over the center of her black and gray top to snuff out the bone-deep ache blooming there. Yeah, the thought might be true, just as it had been yesterday, and the day before, and for the last eleven years before that. But she didn’t have time to go skipping through her memories. Angel would be here in five minutes, and Isabella was going to need every last ounce of her focus to take the girl’s statement and figure out the best plan of attack from there.
She needed to clear her head. To breathe. To relax, just as she had when she’d fallen asleep in Kellan’s arms last night, then again when she’d had out-of-body-experience sex with him this morning.
Annnnnd just like that, Isabella’s thoughts leaped right from the frying pan to the firefighter.
Oh, come on, she thought, taking a sip of the tea in front of her even though it was lukewarm at best. So she’d had sex with Kellan (really, really good sex. Holy hell, the man’s stamina and attention to detail were practically awe-inspiring) and taken a four-hour power nap on his couch. So what? She hadn’t exactly been virgin material, and anyway, he’d been clear that their night together had been no big deal, just like she’d wanted.
Except now, sitting here with the bright morning-after sunlight pouring into her booth through the window beside her, all Isabella could think of was that what she really wanted once this meet-up was said and done was to sleep with Kellan again.
She returned her teacup to its saucer with an ungainly clink. She had a job to do, for God’s sake. A woman in peril, who had promised to meet her and give a statement that would have the FBI crawling up every last one of DuPree’s orifices by sunset. Isabella needed to channel all her energy into keeping Angel safe.
Provided the woman showed up.
A minute ticked by, then another, before Isabella checked the time stamp on her iPhone. Okay, so Angel was two minutes late. She’d said getting through her window might take some doing, and Isabella would rather Angel be cautious and late than get caught slipping out.
Her chest constricted as if it had been wrapped in steel bands, but she forced herself to inhale. No. Angel hadn’t gotten caught, and she hadn’t backed out. She was coming. Isabella had sworn to keep her safe.
You worry too much, Marisol. It’s twelve blocks, not twelve miles! Just walk over here. If I come pick you up, I won’t have enough time to take a shower before we go to this party, and Connor Washington is supposed to be there. Come on, please? I promise you’ll be safe…
Isabella slid her clammy palms over her denim-clad thighs, slapping the memory from her brain. But the two minutes turned into four, then became a full ten, and come on, come on. Where the hell—
Isabella’s phone buzzed a good three inches across the Formica at her elbow, sending her pulse rocketing through the stratosphere. But intelligence wasn’t on call this weekend, and she could count the number of personal calls she’d gotten this month on one hand, minus five fingers.
Unknown caller.
Her throat went dry and tight, the combination doing nothing for her calm. Under any other circumstances, she’d send the call to voicemail with a muttered curse about stupid telemarketers. But Angel was now eleven—she checked her watch—no, twelve minutes late.
Oh God. She’d promised to protect her. She needed Angel safe.
Isabella needed her here. Now.
She flicked the phone to life, making her way to the alcove by the restrooms in the back of the diner for better privacy. “Moreno.”
“Detective Moreno.” The voice was male and unfamiliar, and the air in the narrow hallway seemed to grow thicker.