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  Almost as if she’d summoned him, he strode in the door near the front of the room. He’d changed into the fatigues of the SWAT team.

  Captain Boyd Franks followed him. Neither appeared happy.

  “I wonder—” Skye said to Ron but immediately grew quiet as the captain took his place at the podium up front.

  “Just a few announcements before you all run off,” he said.

  Unsurprisingly, Trevor found a seat with the rest of his SWAT unit, not sparing a glance in Skye’s direction.

  “First off, I want to welcome SWAT officer Trevor Owens back to active duty,” the captain said, the last of his words drowned out by the cheering. “He’s had an amazing recovery,” the captain finally continued, “and we’re proud of him. Next thing—a report and a warning.”

  Skye was appalled to hear that, as Trevor had feared, Edinger had been found not guilty.

  “We’ll hold review classes on probable cause for searches without a warrant,” Captain Franks said grimly. “In my opinion, the detectives investigating Edinger made a judgment call that wasn’t all bad, but after argument by the damned…er, the lawyers, the judge was convinced there wasn’t probable cause or even exigent circumstances. We simply can’t have that.”

  The room swelled with grumbling until the captain shushed them.

  “On a brighter note,” he said, “we received the report from the Force Investigation Division on our officer-involved shooting. Other than a reprimand for failing to apprehend the suspect on the spot, we’re looking good. And on that subject—” He paused as if for dramatic effect. “We got what sounds like a good lead on Marinaro. A team’s in the field even as we speak.”

  Skye was relieved. She wouldn’t have to act upon Trevor’s suggestion that he join forces with her and Bella to find the guy.

  “I’m through here. Anybody else have something?”

  No one did, and the captain dismissed them.

  Despite herself, Skye was a little disappointed when Trevor, apparently engrossed in conversation with Greg Blanding, didn’t even look in her direction as they filed out.

  The hell with Owens. Her brief, intense acquaintance with the sexy SWAT officer was over. They were back to barely acknowledging each other’s existence, which was fine with her.

  What was it about that woman? When Trevor passed her, he thought he could smell her light yet intoxicating scent, even in this room filled with sweaty cops and a couple of dogs.

  “So you’re actually ready to go out in the field?” Greg asked, shaking his head. “You’re really something. Superman, right? Or Spider-Man. Whatever, some kind of super guy who heals damned fast.”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” Trevor snorted derisively, but he knew what Greg was saying. He hadn’t stopped wondering about it himself. He’d been so close to dying, had even given up. And now he was back on duty, a little sore, sure. Well, a lot sore. But definitely ready. He amazed even himself.

  The vision of Skye Rydell bending over him when he was nearly gone—it just wouldn’t leave his mind.

  Maybe he was just experiencing a touch of wishful thinking. He’d imagined himself with her in bed. Often. And out of bed. Against the wall. Wherever.

  Even more now, when he felt so much better.

  “Too bad about that Edinger trial,” Greg grumbled as they walked through the crowded hall. “And now we have to go through more stuff on probable cause. As if we haven’t already had more lessons on it than I can stand.”

  “Yeah,” Trevor said, his mind back on reality at last. SWAT guys were at their best in the field. The book stuff like probable cause—other people should make sure it was okay before his teams were called in.

  But it didn’t always work like that.

  SWAT hadn’t been involved directly with the Edinger arrest, but Trevor had heard enough about it and seen enough of the evidence to know the guy was guilty of two really heinous murders. He’d ostensibly gone to do some landscaping at a high-end mansion that was on the market. He stole a lot of valuables and then murdered the real estate agent and home owner. Afterward, he’d hidden his cache in the trunk of his car and sped away.

  The bodies had been found. A BOLO—Be On the Lookout—had been radioed, but the car and its driver hadn’t been described. The neighborhood patrol cops had stopped him on a minor infraction and, acting on a hunch, checked his trunk. But the hunch was not sufficient legal justification.

  A similar crime had occurred in another Angeles Beach neighborhood a few months before this one, and another in the same area a year before that. Edinger’s work? Probably. And now he could do it again.

  Or so he’d believe.

  “Maybe we can be out in the field somewhere when those next classes are given,” Greg said as they walked into the SWAT office.

  “We can certainly try,” Trevor said. He would definitely be out in the field a lot in the near future—especially while off duty. He knew right where he would be.

  Right in Edinger’s ugly, murdering face.

  Chapter 8

  A while after the roll call meeting ended, the K-9 unit received orders to respond to a burglary at a drugstore in an upscale area of Angeles Beach. Someone had broken in during the night and was tidy enough that the missing narcotics weren’t discovered until an hour after the store opened.

  An inside job? The detectives hoped that suspect-sniffing K-9s could help. Skye wondered if Ron would be sent out on this one. He’d want to help apprehend a suspect in a drug-related crime, but since he was a rookie his possible assignments at the scene would be limited.

  “See you there in a few,” Tritt told Skye as he raced out the door with his partner, Storm.

  Skye quickly gathered her field equipment and clipped on Bella’s leash. Her dog bounded eagerly beside her, obviously ready to go to work.

  But their way was blocked by Trevor. A shiver of pleasure dashed through Skye, but she curbed her absurd reaction.

  “You heard?” he said.

  “Heard what?”

  “Marinaro apparently struck again. Grabbed a coed in broad daylight as she drove onto the Angeles Beach University campus, but no one saw it, or at least no one paid attention and called it in. He forced his way into her car, and made her drive to the parking lot, where he assaulted and shot her. Pretty much his M.O. Only this one survived and, despite the severity of her injuries, she was able to call 911 and describe her assailant. SWAT’s been called out in case he’s still around, and K-9s are also about to—”

  Captain Franks’s graying head appeared over Trevor’s shoulder. “You the only K-9 officer here now?”

  She described the drugstore burglary offhandedly, hoping the captain would send her to the assault site instead.

  “You’ll do. See what you can do to trace Marinaro.”

  She forced herself not to smile in relief.

  By the time Skye arrived at the scene, the three-story parking structure from which the victim had called had been emptied of civilians.

  The victim had been transported to a hospital. There was no way for Skye to assess her condition—no way to help her at all, except to try to find the miserable SOB who’d harmed her.

  The SWAT team swarmed the floor where the victim had been found. When they’d cleared it, Skye and Bella were brought in.

  In case the suspect was still around, Bella had to do her stuff before the crime scene techs could enter to sift any evidence in the vehicle. The door to the sporty red SUV was forced open, and Skye gave her partner the command to follow the scent of whoever had sat in the driver’s seat.

  Once again, though, the trail ended quickly along the concrete floor, perhaps where another car, now stolen, had once been parked.

  “Damn,” Skye whispered to herself, then praised Bella aloud for doing a good job.

  One of the suited detectives on the case brought her a bagged piece of clothing, which was taken from the car they believed to be Marinaro’s. Skye had Bella sniff it. The K-9 appeared to equate the two scents, s
melling the shirt, then putting her nose down to the scent trail she had been following. This might help them in accusing Marinaro of both crimes, but Bella’s “testimony” was not likely to be used to convict him.

  Skye headed to the parking lot elevator with Bella.

  “I know it was him, the bastard,” Trevor muttered. She turned to look at him. He was in bulky gear that emphasized his physique and held his helmet along with his weapon. “That’s what he does—although at least this time the victim may recover.”

  “What’s her condition?” Skye hid her relief that her special abilities weren’t required.

  “Critical.” She saw the pain on Trevor’s face—as if he took personally the fact that his nemesis had struck again. She wanted to reach out to him. Soothe him somehow.

  But she stayed still, motioning for Bella to do the same. If only she didn’t work at the same station with Trevor. She’d feel a lot less pressure if she didn’t have to be anywhere near him.

  “Bad situation,” she said levelly, treating Trevor as the professional colleague he was. “I hope the guy’s apprehended fast. His hits are closer together now, aren’t they? He’s bound to make a mistake.”

  “Yeah, and I want to be there when he does.”

  “Looks like that won’t happen today.” She pushed the button for the elevator.

  “How about grabbing dinner with me sometime soon?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so, but thanks.”

  “I want to discuss my idea of combining forces in an unofficial capacity. Tracking down Marinaro on our own—with Bella’s help.” He knelt to pat the dog, and Bella responded with wriggled pleasure. He looked up. “See, she votes yes.”

  Good thing none of their fellow officers was nearby. Fraternizing wasn’t encouraged, although commanding officers were realistic. Men and women who worked together in intense, sometimes life-threatening situations often needed emotional release and camaraderie. But sexual fraternization was frowned on. It could lead to awkward moments, especially when an affair went bad.

  Not that Skye considered this impulsive request a prelude to having sex with Trevor.

  Of course she, of all people, understood why it was important to him to apprehend the man who had killed his superior officer and nearly ended his life, too. Plus, standard procedures had not, as yet, proven successful.

  Could Bella and she really improve the odds? She wouldn’t know unless they tried. She was, after all, a cop, not just a Valkyrie. She had taken on this career because she believed in helping people and saving lives.

  “All right,” she said, wondering if she would regret the decision. “When would you like to get together?”

  “Tomorrow night? There’s something I need to do this evening.” Whatever it was, Skye was sure, from the grim set to Trevor’s well-defined features, that it wasn’t going to be fun.

  “Fine,” she said. “Tomorrow night.”

  Too bad it couldn’t have been tonight, Trevor thought with regret as he left the parking structure to catch up with the rest of his team. But what he intended to do this evening couldn’t wait.

  He got back to the station, showered and changed clothes, then started his official report of his participation in the search for Marinaro at the parking lot. He sat at his desk briefly, speeding through his report even as he planned his evening.

  He hadn’t been entirely surprised that Edinger was exonerated on a technicality. Justice was a fluid concept. On one hand, there was the official legal system. It decreed that a suspect was innocent until guilt was proven beyond a reasonable doubt and then created all sorts of ways to weasel around the facts so that doubt was practically a given. On the other hand, there was evidence. Facts. Reality.

  Sure, sometimes they meshed. The guilty were actually found guilty now and then. And sometimes, innocent folks were convicted of crimes they did not commit. A shame? Sure. But what really got to Trevor was when those clearly guilty of really nasty crimes got off scot-free and were able to become repeat offenders who suffered no consequences.

  He couldn’t prevent that in all situations. No one could. But, one suspect at a time, he stopped as many as he was able.

  He finished his report and sent it by e-mail to Carl Shavinsky, the acting team leader now that Wes Danver was gone. Then he left the station. His SUV was in the parking lot. He had changed into civilian clothes, so he didn’t have to go home first.

  He’d obtained copies of all the department’s records on Edinger. He knew where the SOB lived and which landscaping service he worked for.

  Edinger would know when a house’s grounds were being spruced up for a sale and when the real estate broker was likely to be showing it to possible buyers. That was probably how he’d determined which home to rob. It would be open and there would be at least one person for Edinger to murder.

  Trevor drove to where Edinger lived—a seedy residential area filled with crowded apartment buildings. Edinger rented a street-level flat at the front of one of the structures.

  Trevor parked and walked up the broken pathway to the front of the building. There was no security system, so he continued through to the center courtyard, which looked surprisingly well maintained. Maybe the SOB tended it as partial payment of his rent.

  Trevor heard a baby crying as he passed one apartment and an argument in a language he didn’t recognize as he walked by another. Having scoped out the area, he finally reached Edinger’s flat and knocked on the door. No answer. He tried again.

  The guy either wasn’t home or chose not to answer his door.

  But just in case he hadn’t yet returned from work, Trevor hurried back to his vehicle and headed for the office of the landscaping business, which was on a commercial street near downtown Angeles Beach. Trevor had checked. Edinger had kept his job while out on bail and was probably still employed now that he’d been found not guilty.

  When he arrived, he recognized the black, seven-year-old cheap sedan from the description of Edinger’s vehicle. The license plate matched, too.

  Trevor parked and went inside.

  Edinger was there, all right. He was surrounded by other guys in tattered work clothes and laughing his ass off. As he talked, he waved a can of beer. The others, too, were drinking.

  “Yeah, I was worried.” Edinger was obviously telling his story to his coworkers. “Who wouldn’t be? I was out on bail, but I’d been in jail for a coupla nights getting processed and it was hell. I sure didn’t want to go to prison. Thing is, you can’t trust the damned lawyers, though mine seemed an okay guy. But—”

  “But you got off, didn’t you, Eddy?” Trevor asked in his most pleasant voice as he stopped in the doorway with arms folded. “A lucky thing, wasn’t it?”

  Confusion shrouded Edinger’s rodentlike features. He had a big nose, buck teeth and a lot of scruffy brown hair. “Luck, hell,” he finally crowed. “I got off ’cause I wasn’t guilty. You’re a cop, ain’t you? I saw you in court, right?”

  “Right, Eddy. And, yep, you weren’t guilty in the eyes of the law. The evidence against you didn’t stick. But we know all about real guilt versus real innocence. One of these days you’ll slip up and I’ll be there to kick your ass.”

  “Hey, you threatening me? I’m innocent, and no one can make me go to trial again on those supposed murders.”

  The other people in the room, obviously his friends, appeared ready to rally around Edinger.

  “Gee, you know the law, Eddy. Very good. But, see, there have been other unsolved robberies combined with homicides that seem damned similar to the one you just got off from. Maybe you can help me figure them out while you fix up my yard.” Now Trevor could truthfully state, if ever asked, that he had a quasi-legitimate reason for being at this landscaping company.

  “I ain’t helping no damned cop,” Edinger said belligerently. “Any of you guys going to help him?”

  His friends clearly wouldn’t and were ready to rush Trevor, if Edinger gave the word.

  “Fine.�
� Trevor raised his hands as if in capitulation. “I’ll leave you all to your celebration this evening. Enjoy it while you can. See you soon. Real soon. Count on it.”

  And then, with a nasty smile on his face, Trevor left.

  The game was afoot.

  And he knew already how it would play out.

  Although the dinner tomorrow night was strictly business, the idea of it kept shooting the strangest, most heated sensations through Skye’s body.

  She needed to keep her mind off it, so she’d gotten together with Hayley and Ron for drinks and salads on the outdoor patio of a beachfront restaurant. Kara was on duty tonight, so she couldn’t come.

  “You seemed distracted this evening, Skye,” Hayley said as she munched on her last carrot stick. The resident trauma surgeon’s ice-blond hair blew in the wind, wisping around a lovely face with prominent cheekbones and a petite nose. Her patients—the male ones at least—must believe they were being treated by an angel.

  And they were, in a way, since Hayley, like Skye, had a special ability to deal with the dying.

  “Distracted?”

  “Yeah, thinking about Marinaro,” Ron asserted. “That latest tip about Marinaro didn’t pay off.” He took his last swig of beer, thumping the glass down on the metal-mounted glass top of the table. Bella, who’d been sleeping beneath it, sat up and whined at Skye, who patted her head. “That damned cop killer is still out there somewhere.”

  “You got it,” Skye agreed. “Everyone in the department is on full-time alert over that guy.”

  “We’ll get him,” Ron said. He wore a frayed U.S. Marines T-shirt, which was snug enough to show that he remained in well-honed physical condition. His hair was too short to be tossed up in the breeze, but Skye’s, like Hayley’s, kept blowing into her face.

  “We sure will,” Skye agreed even as her mind, inevitably, returned to Trevor Owens.

  “Anyway, got to run,” Hayley said. “I’m on early morning duty at the hospital and need my beauty sleep.”