He’s dark, moody and sexy as hell. That her physical impression of the man was the first thing to pop into her head had Carrie struggling against a nagging unease. Then there was her over-the-top response to his touch that had alarm bells shrilling in her head.
“Reilly’s thorough,” she began. “He has the undercover op we start tomorrow night totally mapped out. He insisted we go over the concept today at least five times. We’ll do that again tomorrow. I doubt the man leaves anything to chance.”
“Neither does the Avenger,” Scott murmured. “How did he react when Gaines delivered the message about the Tulsa murder?”
Carrie paused, considered things. The instant Gaines walked in, she had felt the weight of tension in the room. She sensed Linc stiffen; Gaines had stood as rigid as a flagpole. Some sort of conflict existed between the men, she was sure. Since she had no idea what had caused it, she decided to keep the observation to herself for the time being.
“Reilly didn’t outwardly react when Gaines told him about the murder,” Carrie responded. “I tried to get him talking about it after Gaines left. He wouldn’t. If Reilly’s the Avenger, he won’t be tripped up. And the last thing he’ll ever do is confess. The only way to nail him is to catch him in the act.”
“That’s why you’re assigned to work with him. Get close to him.”
“I’ll only get so close,” Carrie blurted.
Scott studied her while silence stretched. “If you’re informing me you won’t sleep with Sergeant Reilly, I never intended for you to,” she finally said.
“Just wanted to make that clear.” Carrie pressed her lips together. She knew sleeping with Reilly wasn’t in her job description. So where the hell had her comment come from?
“Glad that’s settled.” Scott opened the armrest between the seats, pulled out a small metal box and handed it to Carrie.
In the weak beam from a far-off light, Carrie saw the brand name of a well-known throat lozenge printed across its top. “You think I have a sore throat?”
Scott smiled. “That’s what someone will think if they spot that in your purse. There’s clay inside to make impressions of keys. You get Reilly’s house key, press both sides of it into the clay.”
Carrie stared at the box. “Once I get the impression, how do I get the key made?”
“Bring the box to me. I know a vice officer who has a connection who will make the key overnight. Discreetly.”
“Are you sure my going into Reilly’s house is legal?”
“This makes it legal,” Scott said, handing her an envelope. “It’s a covert entry warrant for your search. It authorizes you to hunt for certain evidence. If you find anything linking Reilly to the murders, photograph it, then leave. Write a report detailing what you saw and where it’s located.”
“What about notice? Doesn’t Reilly have to be notified that a search has occurred?”
“For this type of warrant, the courts have a procedure for delaying notification up to seven days after the search.”
Carrie closed her eyes. “I don’t like the idea of going into another cop’s house. What if Reilly isn’t the Avenger?”
“What if he is? At some point an innocent person is going to get hurt. We’ve got to find the Avenger, McCall. If it isn’t Reilly, fine, but we have to know.”
Carrie’s cop brain told her what she was doing was right. Still, in her heart she felt a tug of guilt, a ripple of unease.
“Reilly’s house is alarmed,” Scott continued. “We could send in a guy to disable it and do the search, but there’s a chance Reilly has some fail-safe measure to alert him if someone screws with the system. Plus, he lives in an older housing addition so neighbors are home during the day. Some guy messing around outside the house will get noticed.”
“I can’t exactly ask Reilly his alarm code.”
“True.” Scott reached into the pocket of her coat. “If you wind up at his place and he has to enter the alarm code, use this.”
Carrie studied the small recorder Scott handed her. “How do I get his code with a tape recorder?”
“That’s a high-power recorder. Keep it in your pocket and activate it when Reilly enters his alarm code. The recorder will pick up the tones. One of the department’s tech guru’s will translate the beeps into the code.”
“Slick,” Carrie murmured.
“Once you have the key and the code, you drop by Reilly’s house when you know he’s tied up somewhere else. If you find anything that connects him to these homicides, we take him down. End of story.”
“Just like that.”
A few moments later Carrie slid back into her MG. She started the engine, let it idle while the taillights of Scott’s black van disappeared into the night.
Instead of driving away, Carrie shifted her thoughts back to that afternoon. She wished she hadn’t seen the flash of grief in Linc’s eyes when she mentioned his wife. The man who had kidnapped her, then raped her over a span of days before killing her was still free. A man who was as evil as seven others who no longer presented a threat to innocent citizens.
Carrie figured half the people in the city would cheer the Avenger if they knew he had prevented hundreds of violent crimes. Saved the lives of uncountable decent people. Hell, a part of her cheered him!
She clenched her gloved fingers around the steering wheel. No, she thought. She carried a badge, she wasn’t allowed to think like that. Murder was murder.
She’d been ordered to take down a killer. That’s what she intended to do. If Linc Reilly was that killer, so be it.
Chapter 3
The following evening, Linc watched his new partner slide into the passenger seat of the hunter-green SUV he’d checked out from OCPD’s asset forfeiture inventory. Firing up the engine, he noted with relief she’d forgone her come-and-get-me perfume for their first visit to The Hideaway. All he could smell on the crisp November air was the aroma of soap and skin.
A half hour later, he decided the warm, natural scent of woman that slid around him—into him—was far more enticing than anything bottled. Damn near erotic, he amended as he whipped the SUV into The Hideaway’s parking lot, gravel crunching beneath its wheels.
“What is it about macho guys and pickup trucks?” Carrie asked while scanning the vehicles crowding the lot. “Clue me in, Reilly. Do guys believe that driving a pickup enhances testosterone production?”
Linc took a measured breath, which failed dismally at easing the tightness in his gut. “The macho drug dealer who owned this SUV must not have thought so.” He killed the powerful engine, then gazed out the windshield through the frozen twilight. In the yellowish glow of the sodium-vapor lights that illuminated the lot, he counted about ten pickup trucks to every car. “Neither do I,” he added. “My personal vehicle is a Cadillac Allanté.”
“Cops don’t count,” she said, flicking down her visor and popping open the cover of the vanity mirror. She fluffed her dense, wild hair, the mirror’s bright light enhancing the gold and fiery-red accents. Studying her, Linc noted she’d used a heavy hand tonight when applying her makeup. Instead of giving her a cheap look, however, the smoky eyeshadow, dark liner and emergency-exit-red lipstick enhanced the smoldering, alluring mystique she must have been born with.
He scowled, annoyed he felt a glimmer of curiosity over her last comment. “Why doesn’t the kind of vehicle a cop drives count?”
“They’re armed. On the macho scale, a cop packing a gun is equal to some redneck civilian driving a pickup truck.”
“McCall,