Jill Sorenson: Crash Into Me

“You didn’t hear it from me,” she said, pulling herself to her feet. This time, he let her help him up.

“Thanks for the tip, cutie.” He knocked her lightly on the chin.

She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t push it.”

“Do you want to know who likes you?” He scanned the room for a man who wasn’t more afraid of her than attracted to her.

“No.”

“Why not?” He smirked. “Oh, I get it.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the openly gay female cadet Stacy was sparring with. “Is she more your style?”

“You wish,” she said, shrugging away from him. “Do I need to kick your ass twice?”

“Yeah. Show me how to do that temple thing.”

She shook her head. “You’re too strong to use it for immobilization. You can only do it with lethal intent.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Goody.”

Sonny took a deep breath before she entered Grant’s office.

Although the summons ordered her to come right away, she’d taken the time to shower and make herself presentable. Contrary to popular belief, Sonora Vasquez was a woman, and sometimes she liked to look like one.

She knew her appearance added to her formidable reputation, so she usually didn’t bother to accentuate her femininity. Her features were too strong to be called pretty, her eyes too fierce to put a man at ease, her mouth more appropriate for biting than kissing. For a blue-eyed blonde, her complexion was dark, giving her the unusual appearance of a dusky waif or a washed-out gypsy, and her hair was an unremarkable champagne motley. It was thick and unruly, so she kept it cropped short, which pleased her, not any man she’d ever met.

She’d always been a tomboy-by chance, if not choice, having been forced to wear her brother’s hand-me-downs throughout childhood. She still couldn’t afford designer clothes, expensive makeup, or sexy shoes, but she worked well with what she had: good bone structure, great instincts, and a killer bod.

The pride she took in her figure was mostly professional. She was a lean, mean, fighting machine, and few men wanted to tangle with her, in or out of the bedroom.

Special Agent in Charge Leland Grant was the only man, besides her brother, she’d ever trusted enough to get close to, but there were no sparks between them. Perhaps because he was happily married, and old enough to be the father she’d never had.

She knocked on the frosted glass office door before she entered, just to be polite, knowing he could see her more clearly than she him. Grant was on the phone, raising a “just another minute” finger in her direction, a gesture that had been annoying people for decades and didn’t fail to elicit the same reaction in her.

Sonny slumped into a chair across from his desk, going for a posture somewhere between apathetic and insolent.

His lips curved as he watched her, and she knew she’d succeeded only in amusing him, so she let out the breath she was holding and sat up straight. This was her boss, not her best friend, and it would behoove her to act that way.

“Going somewhere?” he asked as he replaced the receiver.

She looked down at the slim-fitting jeans, high-heeled half boots, and snug sweater she was wearing. Why did everyone have to comment when she wasn’t dressed like a slob? “The movies,” she decided.

“With Mitchell?”

She frowned. “Hell, no.”

“I saw you two training.”

She wasn’t surprised. The gym had a two-way mirror, which intimidated the cadets to no end, because they never knew when superiors were spying on them. It had been awhile since anyone had judged Sonny’s performance, however. She’d been active for more than five years, and proven herself resourceful and adept on many occasions.

“For a second there, you froze.”

Her spine stiffened, and she had to force herself to relax. “I didn’t freeze, I considered. He’s cute.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she dared him to dispute her.

Grant didn’t bother to. “It can’t happen in the field.”

She knew what he meant. He didn’t give a damn if she screwed every agent on the payroll as long as she didn’t turn into a helpless female at an inopportune moment. His concern was not for her safety, although such a mistake could cost her her life, but for the success of the team he led. He wanted to catch bad guys, and if she panicked during physical contact, she was more of a liability than an asset.

She gave him a cold stare that had withered lesser men.

Undaunted, he leaned back in his chair. “I have an assignment for you.”

Her mood shifted. “Yeah?”

“It’s a mother.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He handed her a slick three-ring binder containing pages of glossy photos behind clear page protectors.

The man in the pictures was the most recognizable professional surfer on the planet. “Ben Fortune? You’ve got to be joking.”

Grant was on the phone again, so he didn’t answer her. She flipped through the file, studying a copy of Fortune’s driver’s license and memorizing much of his personal information at a glance. With his dark good looks and tall, muscular physique, the man was very easy on the eyes. In the not-so-distant past, his likeness had been used to sell everything from deodorant to men’s sportswear. The candid shots, featuring him in a body-hugging wetsuit, low-slung boardshorts, or just plain old jeans and a T-shirt, ran like an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog.

There was one full-length photo, obviously taken from a distance, that was particularly striking. Fortune was standing alone on a rock-strewn beach, looking out at the ocean, surfboard wedged under one arm. It must have been taken in the early morning, because the picture had a grainy, grayish cast, like a fine coat of mist coated its surface.

Sonny associated surfing with crowded beaches and fun in the sun, but neither element was present here. The sky was overcast and the mood somber, even solitary.

This was not a picture that would have sold toothpaste.

After she finished perusing the file, with more attention to detail than was probably necessary, Grant handed her another, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder.

It contained pictures of women. Like Fortune’s, their faces were familiar, but not for world-class surfing or lucrative corporate sponsorships. They were victims of a serial killer who had been hunting off the coast of Southern California for the past two years. The bodies had been found along a relatively small stretch of land north of San Diego, in a ritzy, bohemian community known as Torrey Pines.

Sonny knew the area and its people well. Before attending the FBI Academy and accepting a job at VICAP, the most prestigious criminal apprehension program in the country, she used to live there.

Torrey Pines was a prime section of real estate, encompassing a couple of beachside neighborhoods just outside of San Diego’s busy metropolis. La Jolla, the jewel, boasted a breathtaking coastline, shallow tide pools, and some of the best surfing beaches in California. In contrast, Torrey Harbor was quiet and low-key. It purported to be a quaint fishing village, although these days more of its residents made their living as artisans than on the sea.

Both communities had lost one of its local girls to a killer.

Hanging up the phone, Grant leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, awaiting her reaction.

“You think the SoCal Strangler is a surfer?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s a lead.”

“Based on what?”

“Trace evidence.” Picking up a list from the top of his desk, he read, “Titanium, neoprene, petroleum jelly, and sand.” At her puzzled expression, he went on to explain. “Most wetsuits are made of neoprene, a synthetic, water-resistant material. The water is cold in California, and many surfers wear them year-round.”