Debra Webb - No Darker Place

Now here they all were back at square one. She hoped Owens could calm down the chief this go around. It was bad enough word of his overreaction would spread through the department like a new strain of summer flu. Guys like Miller would use the chief’s resolve to protect Bobbie as proof she received preferential treatment. So not true. If anything, the chief held her to a higher standard. Since there was nothing she could do about it one way or the other, she ignored office politics most of the time.

Confrontations like the one today made following that self-imposed rule difficult.

She opened the front door and stepped inside. The cool air instantly enveloped her, making her shiver. Before closing the door, she held her breath and listened for a few seconds. The incessant low hum of the air-conditioning unit underscored the silence. The blinds throughout the house were shut tightly, leaving the interior nearly black. She inhaled deeply, sorting through the lived-in house smells for anything new. Clear. She shoved the door shut with her foot as she hit the switch for the narrow entry hall’s overhead light. With a few flicks of her wrist she secured the two dead bolts.

Room by room, she moved through the house. Bedrooms and closets. Clear. Bathroom and kitchen. Clear. She turned on the rear floodlights, parted the blind on the back door and scanned the yard. Nothing to get excited about. Grass that needed to be mowed, a rickety picnic table left by previous tenants in bad need of an overhaul. Bobbie exhaled a tired breath as she shut off the floodlights and then checked the dead bolts on the back door. Time for that shower.

She hesitated, toed off her running shoes and dragged the elastic band from her ponytail. For a moment she closed her eyes and indulged in a slow massage of her scalp. The headache was long gone, but she felt the tension in her shoulders and neck gaining a second wind. She stretched her neck and groaned. The shower was going to have to work some serious magic tonight. The prospect of standing under the flow of steaming water until she emptied the water heater had her weary body moving in that direction. After the shower and a cold beer, she intended to check D-Boy’s water bowl, and then—

A solid rap on the front door derailed her train of thought. She stalled, the cold of the hardwood floor seeping through her damp socks. Why would anyone drop by at this hour? Couldn’t be about a case because she was on leave by order of the chief. Wouldn’t be her partner since he was no doubt home by now, getting some rest before the big day tomorrow.

Another round of bangs, this time hard enough to shake loose the peeling paint on her shabby door and have it drift down around her visitor’s feet like dingy gray snowflakes. Could be the cops outside, but why not call if they wanted to talk to her? She checked the screen of the cell phone strapped to her upper arm. No missed calls.

Bobbie bypassed the door, her steps silent, and eased to the living room picture window a few feet away. When she’d first moved in, she’d cut out a tiny section of one plastic slat in the cheap blind as a way to see a visitor without becoming an easy target bellied up to the door. The overhead porch light, dimmed by the hundred or so bugs that had found their way inside and died there, stayed on 24/7. The faint glow allowed her to confirm the visitor was male. Her pulse rate bumped up a few beats. Dark hair, too long to be a cop, unless he was undercover. Tall, six feet or so. Thin. Broad shouldered.

He suddenly turned his head and stared directly at her as if he’d felt her scrutiny.

She drew back. What the hell? Giving herself a mental shake, she moved toward the door. The living room was dark; he couldn’t possibly have seen her. At the door she decided to leave her backup piece in the holster strapped around her ankle for now. Considering there were two uniforms parked in front of her house, she didn’t expect she would need to use it. She leaned toward the door.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” No point beating around the bush.

“Nick Shade. We need to talk.”

Surprised and more than a little intrigued, she peered through the peephole she’d installed. So this was the guy Newt had told her about. He was younger than she’d expected. “Let’s see some ID.”

He withdrew his wallet and stuck his driver’s license in front of the hole. Nicholas Shade. Atlanta, Georgia. She harrumphed. Thirty-five. He wasn’t much older than her. Did she open the door or not? Newt’s Quantico contact hadn’t given him anything concrete on Shade other than a generic assessment that he was one of the good guys. Shade might be after nothing more than the inside scoop on the Storyteller in hopes something she knew would be useful to him. He wouldn’t be the first to show up at her door. She’d had reporters, publishers and private investigators come knocking. Just because Shade supposedly tracked down serial killers didn’t mean he wasn’t in it for the money. A man who couldn’t be hired had to be making a living somehow.

Even so, why would he appear now? As of the ten o’clock news Evans’s connection to her hadn’t been made, but that would change soon enough, and then her street would be littered with reporters once more. Any member of the media familiar with the Storyteller would give just about anything for an exclusive from his only surviving victim. If that was the reason Shade was here, he needed to get in line somewhere besides her front door. This was her hunt.

“Call your partner if you have any questions,” Shade suggested, taking her delay for uncertainty. “We’ve met.”

“Did my partner send you here?” His showing up only a couple of hours after Newt mentioned him was a little convenient.

“No one sends me anywhere.” Shade stared at the peephole as if he sensed her watching him.

Who the hell was this guy? She released the dead bolts and opened the door. “What do we have to talk about?”

Dark eyes assessed her. “May I come in?”

Not a chance. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it right where you stand.” She bracketed her hands at her waist and blocked the doorway.

He glanced over his shoulder at the cruiser on the street. “I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say in private.”

The tension that had started in her neck rushed through her chest, spreading quickly through her limbs. “Are you carrying?”

“No.” He held his arms up and turned all the way around for her to see.

The shirt and jeans hugged his body. He wasn’t carrying unless, like her, a small backup piece was strapped to his ankle. “Let’s see what kind of socks you wear, Mr. Shade.”

He lifted one foot and tugged up the pants leg, and then did the same with the other. Black socks and matching hiking boots, both of which fit too snugly to conceal a weapon. “Satisfied?”

“Fine, but make it fast. I take issue with having my time wasted.” She stepped back and allowed him inside before closing the door. “What is it you have to say?”

The weight of his gaze settled on her. When he continued to stare without speaking she fought the impulse to fidget. His eyes were more black than brown and impossible to read. He wasn’t thin as she’d first believed, more lean. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off muscled forearms. The broad shoulders she’d already noted filled out his cotton button-down shirt with no room to spare. His jeans were well-worn, as were his boots. Her attention drifted back up to his face, where those dark eyes watched her steadily. Rather than be put off by her sizing him up, he seemed to expect it. As undeniably handsome as he was, with that square jaw and classic straight nose, there was something distant about him...something untouchable and more than a little unsettling.