My Killer Vacation(10)

“Okay,” she murmurs, adjusting her bikini strap. “Well, when you need the guest book, I have it in my luggage.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m half turned when I realize what she said. “Wait a second. You took the guest book from this house?”

She keeps walking, that sexy butt ticking side to side. “Let me know if you need it.”

“You can’t just take evidence from a crime scene.”

“What was that?” She cups a hand around her ear. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the ripping of caution tape.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” I growl. “I’m a professional.”

Stopping at the bottom of her porch stairs, she cocks a hip. “Neither one of us is qualified to collect evidence because we’re not police officers. Lisa said that you’re a bounty hunter, correct? And I’m a second grade teacher.”

A second grade teacher.

I was mostly right. That’s why she’s the tallest at her job.

She must know what I’m thinking, because she gives me a grudging smile.

Before I can stop myself, I smile back.

I smile back.

It drops faster than a bowling ball. “Give me the guest book, half pint.”

She’s jogging up the stairs now, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. “Only if you keep me informed of any developments,” she calls over her shoulder.

Time to face facts. I am a big, nasty motherfucker and this freckle-faced teacher couldn’t be less scared of me if she tried. “Not a chance in hell,” I shout back.

She gives me a pinky wave and shuts the door.

The absence of her is like a cloud passing over the sun and the fact that I notice her being gone so profoundly does not sit well. I’ve known her for ten minutes. She’s deliberately withholding something that might make my job easier. And most importantly, she’s not my type. She’s not even in the stratosphere of my type. Every once in a while, I take home an age-appropriate woman, usually a divorcee like me, who shares my disdain for romance, true love, happily ever after. Disney sells that shit to females from age zero and men have to cope with those expectations our entire lives. Nope. Not me. One look at that woman and it’s easy to see her expectations are on the fucking moon. Bring her flowers? Not enough. I’d probably have to plant her a garden and waltz in it with her beneath the stars. She’s the marrying type—I can guarantee that based on the fact that she’s vacationing in Cape Cod and not the Jersey Shore or Miami. She’s not a one-night roll in the hay and that’s what I like.

I’m not interested in anything else.

Doing my best to put the green-eyed menace out of my mind, I kick open the door to the house and stomp inside. The scent of decay lingers in the air, but not strong enough to require a face covering. Nice place. Not the kind of rental that would put a person on guard against peepholes or hidden cameras. First, I head to the laundry room, camera app at the ready. Blood spatter on the wall indicates the victim was shot in this location, as does the black pool of bodily substances on the ground. Perp would have likely entered through the back door of the house, so I go there next. Lock is intact, not broken, but that doesn’t mean anything. It could have been unlocked at the time of the murder. No breaking and entering required.

I make my way upstairs to the master bedroom, and irritatingly, I find myself wondering if I’m looking at the bed where she planned to sleep. Damn thing would have swallowed her up. Now if I was sleeping in it with her…

A pulse travels through my dick at the thought of it. Us in bed together. She’d have to ride me, though. I couldn’t just get on top and go for broke. Not with our size difference. I’m not gentle in bed and she’d…she’d need that. Tenderness. Wouldn’t she?

“She’s sure as shit not getting it from you,” I mutter, scrubbing at the back of my neck, unable to find the itch that’s plaguing me. I’m probably just unsettled because there is a piece of evidence I should have at my disposal and someone has stolen it. Right out from under the noses of the cops, too.

Huh.

She might come across innocent, but she’s got a rebellious streak, doesn’t she?

Don’t think about that. Don’t think about what that streak might lead her to do.

Like hook up with a rough, unmannered bounty hunter while on vacation.

“Not my type,” I rasp, raising my camera to get a shot of the peepholes— I stop. Tilt my chin and lean closer.

The woodgrain at the edges of both holes points outward, toward the bedroom The holes were drilled from inside the crawl space.

“Goddammit.”

Oscar Stanley was a big man. It would have taken serious maneuvering to drill those holes without physically being inside the crawl space. And yeah, fine, why would he need two holes unless he planned on looking through them?

I’m nowhere near abandoning the cut and dried theory that Oscar Stanley is a peeping Tom who spied on his guests, but the woodgrain is throwing me off a little. Despite wanting to wrap up this job as quickly as possible, I am not and will never be the type to leave questions unanswered or close a case with the finger pointed at the wrong suspect, all in the name of expediency.

According to Paul, the cops already spoke to the father—Judd Forrester. He denies shooting and killing Oscar Stanley. Only admits to the fistfight days before. But I need to speak with him myself to determine whether or not he’s telling the truth.