lived in this house before. One of the officers searching the scene of the crime.
Or last night’s attacker, she thought, remembering his wiry muscles.
In the kitchen, Christie dialed information and got the gym’s phone number. A friendly male voice answered on the third ring.
“Musclemen.”
“Yes, hello, ah—Could you tell me where you’re located?”
“Imperial Beach,” he said with obvious hesitation.
“What are your hours?”
“Five a.m. to eleven p.m.—but this is a men’s gym, ma’am.”
“What?”
“Men only—sorry.”
“Oh.” She paused a split second. “I’m calling…for my husband. He wanted me to contact you about his locker key. He lost it and I think I just found it,” she lied. “If I give you the number can you look it up and tell me the name—”
“Can’t do it, ma’am. Sorry.”
Why not? she wanted to demand, but afraid she’d give her deception away, she backed off and politely tried again.
“Okay. How about I come down and try it? If it fits, then obviously it’s the key, right?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” the voice said pleasantly but firmly. “Men’s gym means men’s gym. No women allowed in the locker rooms.”
“Isn’t that a little strict?” she said, barely disguising her exasperation. “I’d only be a minute.”
“The guys here pay for strict. They’re serious bodybuilders.”
Christie chewed her lip. “I see. Could I come there and give you the key and—”
“Sorry again. I don’t touch the lockers. Policy.”
“How about if I send my brother?” She sounded huffy and she knew it. Wasn’t there a discrimination law or something about this kind of thing?
“As long as he has a key, there’s no problem.”
“Okay. Well, thank you for your help.”
“Sure thing.”
Chapter Eight
A gritty breeze, armed by the scorching-hot afternoon sun, gusted through the open windows of DC’s car. This far inland, even the shade tree he’d parked under offered little sanctuary from the heat. He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his soaking shirt away from his sweaty chest. A glaze of salt and grit coated his face.
With an unobstructed view of the preschool, DC sat cleaning his nails with the tip of a neatly curved hunting knife. The action required concentration and it calmed him. He needed calm. He needed focus.
He needed to get his mind off Christie McCoy.
But he couldn’t help himself. Every woman that crossed his line of vision reminded him of her. Since the first time he’d laid eyes on Christie, he’d been consumed with thoughts of her beneath him, above him, wrapped around him.
He nicked his thumb with the knife and cursed softly. Forget Christie, he told himself. It was her mother he needed to find. He’d be much better once he caught up with Mary Jane. She had the same scent as her daughter, Christie, and when he closed his eyes, it was easy for DC to imagine that he was holding the younger version. So far, though, he hadn’t been able to find Mary Jane and it worried him. She was the only person who ever gave a shit about him.
He shifted in his seat. What if she’d left town? When he’d gone to the house that they’d shared in La Mesa, her things had all been gone. At first he’d assumed she’d moved to the new house. The house in La Jolla. But there he’d only found Christie, and with Christie, trouble.
DC leaned his head against the seat. He wasn’t going to think of Christie again. It was her fault he’d had to leave San Diego. Her fault that her mother had quit looking at him with love and started staring with disgust.
Now both of them hated him and he couldn’t leave either one of them alone.
But where was Mary Jane?
Across the street at PalmValley, parents began to arrive. In ones and sometimes twos, kids left hand in hand with their mommies and daddies.
Sheathing his knife in its leather sleeve, DC turned his attention to the preschool. He watched the girls who came out, playing a little
Or last night’s attacker, she thought, remembering his wiry muscles.
In the kitchen, Christie dialed information and got the gym’s phone number. A friendly male voice answered on the third ring.
“Musclemen.”
“Yes, hello, ah—Could you tell me where you’re located?”
“Imperial Beach,” he said with obvious hesitation.
“What are your hours?”
“Five a.m. to eleven p.m.—but this is a men’s gym, ma’am.”
“What?”
“Men only—sorry.”
“Oh.” She paused a split second. “I’m calling…for my husband. He wanted me to contact you about his locker key. He lost it and I think I just found it,” she lied. “If I give you the number can you look it up and tell me the name—”
“Can’t do it, ma’am. Sorry.”
Why not? she wanted to demand, but afraid she’d give her deception away, she backed off and politely tried again.
“Okay. How about I come down and try it? If it fits, then obviously it’s the key, right?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” the voice said pleasantly but firmly. “Men’s gym means men’s gym. No women allowed in the locker rooms.”
“Isn’t that a little strict?” she said, barely disguising her exasperation. “I’d only be a minute.”
“The guys here pay for strict. They’re serious bodybuilders.”
Christie chewed her lip. “I see. Could I come there and give you the key and—”
“Sorry again. I don’t touch the lockers. Policy.”
“How about if I send my brother?” She sounded huffy and she knew it. Wasn’t there a discrimination law or something about this kind of thing?
“As long as he has a key, there’s no problem.”
“Okay. Well, thank you for your help.”
“Sure thing.”
Chapter Eight
A gritty breeze, armed by the scorching-hot afternoon sun, gusted through the open windows of DC’s car. This far inland, even the shade tree he’d parked under offered little sanctuary from the heat. He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his soaking shirt away from his sweaty chest. A glaze of salt and grit coated his face.
With an unobstructed view of the preschool, DC sat cleaning his nails with the tip of a neatly curved hunting knife. The action required concentration and it calmed him. He needed calm. He needed focus.
He needed to get his mind off Christie McCoy.
But he couldn’t help himself. Every woman that crossed his line of vision reminded him of her. Since the first time he’d laid eyes on Christie, he’d been consumed with thoughts of her beneath him, above him, wrapped around him.
He nicked his thumb with the knife and cursed softly. Forget Christie, he told himself. It was her mother he needed to find. He’d be much better once he caught up with Mary Jane. She had the same scent as her daughter, Christie, and when he closed his eyes, it was easy for DC to imagine that he was holding the younger version. So far, though, he hadn’t been able to find Mary Jane and it worried him. She was the only person who ever gave a shit about him.
He shifted in his seat. What if she’d left town? When he’d gone to the house that they’d shared in La Mesa, her things had all been gone. At first he’d assumed she’d moved to the new house. The house in La Jolla. But there he’d only found Christie, and with Christie, trouble.
DC leaned his head against the seat. He wasn’t going to think of Christie again. It was her fault he’d had to leave San Diego. Her fault that her mother had quit looking at him with love and started staring with disgust.
Now both of them hated him and he couldn’t leave either one of them alone.
But where was Mary Jane?
Across the street at PalmValley, parents began to arrive. In ones and sometimes twos, kids left hand in hand with their mommies and daddies.
Sheathing his knife in its leather sleeve, DC turned his attention to the preschool. He watched the girls who came out, playing a little
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