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  None of which explained why he was still sitting here in the dark on a Saturday night, when he would normally have been out on the town, contemplating the reflection of the lights on the water of the marina outside his window. Not that he hadn't done this before—more often lately, it seemed—but it had never been with this vague sense of dissatisfaction. Somehow the sight of row upon row of boats, from small runabouts to luxurious yachts that cost more to keep up than he earned in a year, was more than just an ironic comment on people's priorities. He kept thinking of the wall at the Neutral Zone. All those faces, kids who would never have kids of their own. Kids the people who owned these boats would look at warily, and no doubt lock their doors against.

  He could have been one of them. Easily. Had his mother not possessed an unquenchable courage and determination, he could have been one of them. But she'd worked long hours, ruled her children with an iron hand, and made certain every one of them got an education, which she saw as a fighting chance to make it.

  And she'd done it alone for the past twenty-nine years.

  He took a sip from the still-full shot glass of tequila he held; it burned all the way down his throat. That was an old, worn pathway that he refused to tread right now. He had enough to think about without dwelling on useless, galling things he could do nothing about.

  He had to think about Eddie, and what he was going to do. He'd put out some careful feelers to some people on the street today, knowing he was walking a fine line; technically, the department couldn't control what he did on his off time, but when it came to disobeying a direct order, they did more than frown. He'd be up on insubordination charges faster than he could write down the word.

  But he couldn't just walk away. If Gage had still been handling the case, Quisto might have let it go and trusted him to do the job right. Even if Trinity West's much-vaunted felony unit had landed the case, he might have left well enough alone; Cruz Gregerson seemed sharp enough to deserve the reputation his unit had earned throughout the county. But something was happening with this case, something odd, and it gave him that twitchy feeling he'd learned early on in his career never to ignore.

  With a disgusted sigh, he stood up. He yanked the drapes closed, shutting out the view of the marina. He picked up his glass and walked to the bar, dumping what was left down the aluminum sink. Even his favorite tequila had lost its appeal.

  He went to bed still disgruntled, trying to write his uncharacteristic mood off to what was—or wasn't—going on with Eddie's murder, but feeling it was more than that. And wondering where all this questioning of his own feelings had come from; he'd never been much given to a great deal of introspection.

  Surprisingly, he slept. Fitfully, but more than he had for the past couple of nights. And when the phone rang just after dawn, he was so soundly asleep it took him several fumbling moments to find the thing.

  '"Lo?"

  "Quisto?"

  His grogginess vanished at the sound of her voice, at the undertone that made every nerve, every trained instinct, go instantly on alert. "Caitlin?"

  "Yes. I…"

  He sat up straight, wide awake now. "What's wrong?"

  "I'm sorry, I know it's early—"

  "Caitlin, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

  "No, no, I'm not… It's just… I found…" He heard her take a deep, shaky breath before going on. "Could you … come over here? To the Zone?"

  What was she doing there on Sunday morning? She didn't even open on Sundays. He opened his mouth to ask, and to demand that she tell him what had her so shaken, but suddenly the phone was a remote, distant thing. She'd said she wasn't hurt, but he wanted to see for himself.

  "I'll be right there."

  He was grateful for the lack of traffic so early on a Sunday morning; thanks to the deserted streets, he was there in less than fifteen minutes. He hadn't bothered to shave, eat or even grab a cup of badly needed coffee, and he'd combed his hair with his fingers as he drove; nothing seemed more important than getting to her.

  When he arrived, he nearly sprained his wrist yanking at the back door. It was locked. And the fact that she had at last taken his advice scared him even more than the sound of her voice had. He pounded loudly, calling her name.

  She was there quickly, pulling the heavy door open. He took one look at her face, at her wide, horror-filled blue eyes, and pulled her, none too gently, into his arms.

  "God, what is it? What happened? Is somebody hurt?"

  She sagged against him, and he heard her make a gulping noise that sounded as if she were fighting back tears. She seemed, as she'd said, unhurt, but he wasn't sure seeing the dauntless Caitlin Murphy like this, frightened and shaking, wasn't worse than a physical injury he knew how to deal with.

  "Caitlin, honey, what's wrong?"

  The endearment, one in English that he couldn't ever remember using before, slipped out without his thinking about it, but she didn't seem to notice. He heard her take a deep breath, and felt her draw herself up straight, steadying herself with an effort that was visible. She turned out of his hold, and walked into the Neutral Zone and across to the front door.

  Mutely she gestured toward the door, seemingly beyond words. He looked, but saw nothing unusual. He noticed that the key was in the lock; she'd apparently already had it open this morning. He reached out and turned the knob. The door swung inward.

  The smell of blood hit his nose in the instant after his eyes registered the viscous red-brown puddle on her doorstep. And on the door itself, in large, bloody letters was scrawled the word curiosity.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  "'Curiosity killed the cat,'" Caitlin said. "I suppose that's the message?"

  "The Pack has never been known for its subtlety." Quisto felt her tremble. They were sitting on the couch in her office, Caitlin with her knees drawn up in front of her, leaning against his side as he kept his arm around her. She seemed to take comfort from it, and was calm now, but he knew the bloody mess he'd just cleaned off her doorstep was still vivid in her mind. It was in his, and he was a lot more used to such things than she was.

  Then she looked up at him, her wide blue eyes troubled. "I'm sorry I bothered you, but—"

  "That doesn't matter now. Just tell me what happened."

  "I know you think I should have called the police, but … I'm already fighting with the city to stay open, and if they got hold of this… The cops are always very nice about it, but I know they'd rather see me gone…"

  She let her voice trail off with a helpless shrug. He refrained from pointing out that she had, in essence, called the police. Or that she had put him in a difficult position; he should report this to the locals himself. They needed to know what kind of trouble was possibly brewing on their doorstep. But he already knew he wasn't going to do it. She'd trusted him, and he wasn't going to let her down.

  "Never mind that, either, right now," he said. "What happened?"

  "I heard a noise at the main door, just after daylight. I got up, went out … and found just what you saw."

  "What kind of noise?"

  "I … don't know, really. A thump or something." He let out a relieved breath. She hadn't heard them kill the animal, then; judging from the amount of blood, he had to assume it had been done right there at her door, but he certainly wasn't about to point that out to her, either.

  Then something she'd said struck him. "You got up?"

  She nodded slightly; he felt, more than saw, the movement.

  "Got up, as in … woke up?" he asked carefully. The tiny movement came again. Quisto nearly bit his tongue in his effort to keep his voice even. "You slept here?"

  "This couch folds out into a bed. It's comfortable, really, and—"

  "Caitlin, are you out of your mind? Sleeping here?"

  "I've done it before, lots of times. Sometimes I'm just too tired to drive home."

  "Lots of times," he echoed, groaning. He tried to rein in his temper, but his roiling stomach wasn't
making the task particularly easy. "Tell me you at least lock the back door then?"

  "Of course I do. That's why it was locked when you got here."

  Somewhat mollified, he felt his stomach go back to merely being a large, painful knot.

  "So you couldn't resist poking around, could you?"

  She wrapped her arms around her upraised knees. "I told you, I couldn't just let it go," she said.

  "Caitlin, I know how you feel, I really do, but you're in way over your head. You know that now, don't you?"

  She looked up at him again, puzzlement clear on her face this time. "That's what I don't understand," she said. "I didn't find out anything. None of the kids knew anything, not really."

  "Not really?"

  "One of the girls said I should stop asking questions about the Pack, when I hadn't even mentioned them at all. So I think she knows it was them, but we already know it was, so that wasn't worth much. And Sandra never would have told anyone I was asking. She warned me, in fact, just like you did, about asking questions."

  "And you listened to her just as well as you listened to me," Quisto said dryly.

  "I know you're angry, and I suppose you have every right to be, after I woke you up so early on a Sunday."

  "Caitlin, I told you, it's all right."

  She took a deep breath then let it out in a sigh. "Thank you for … cleaning that up. And scrubbing the door. You didn't have to do that."

  "No point in leaving it for the world to see. Although I'm sure the Pack would have preferred it that way."

  "Why?" she asked. "Why bother? It only gave them away, because if they didn't kill Eddie, why would they care if I was asking questions about him?"

  "Because they don't like anybody asking questions about anything to do with them."

  "But I didn't find out anything. So why warn me?"

  "You may know your kids, Caitlin, but you have a lot to learn about the mentality of the Pack. If they let you get away with poking around, they've lost some of their power to intimidate. And that's what their power base is built on."

  "Well, they certainly have Steele Street

  intimidated. No one would even talk to me. They just laughed."

  Quisto froze. "What?"

  "They laughed. They didn't even bother to threaten me, just laughed and walked away."

  "You went to Steele Street

  ?" It took everything he had not to shout it.

  "I just wanted to—"

  "You went to Steele Street

  ?" he repeated, his grip on his rage slipping by the second.

  "Well, that's where they found Eddie, and I thought if—"

  "You thought?" He lost his battle abruptly. He leaped to his feet, turning to stare down at her. "Like hell, you thought! My God, Caitlin, are you crazy? I know you're not stupid, so you have to be just plain out of your mind!"

  She winced, but she met his gaze. "Okay, maybe it wasn't the smartest thing—"

  "Maybe? You go poking around in the Pack's turf, practically hammering on their front door, and maybe it wasn't the smartest thing?"

  She stood up then. "I had to do something! Eddie's dead, and nobody's doing anything, and—" She stopped, blinking rapidly, and Quisto saw the moisture pooling in her eyes. She bit her lower lip so fiercely, he was amazed it didn't bleed. And he was more amazed at the fact that he almost felt the pain himself.

  "Caitlin—"

  "Somebody has to care," she said, her voice a hoarse, strained whisper, as she lowered her brimming eyes. And she was shaking. Not over what had been done to her, he knew, not over the gruesome discovery she had made, but over the simple fact that a boy had been murdered and, from what she could see, no one seemed to care. Her efforts were useless, and she had to know it, deep down, but she was fighting anyway. The only way she knew how.

  His anger evaporated as something hot and painful and vaguely familiar stirred inside him. He felt the way he had as a child, when his big brother had crawled home bloody and beaten by the very street gang he'd refused to join. Or when his so-strong sister had quietly wept after losing out on a promotion simply because there was an equally but not better qualified candidate who had the advantage of being male.

  He didn't stop to analyze the feeling; he wanted only one thing right now—Caitlin out of here.

  "Get your things," he said gruffly. Her head came up. "What?"

  "Get your things together. We're getting out of here."

  "What?" she repeated, staring at him.

  "You heard me."

  "But I have things to do—"

  "Not here, and not now. You have other clothes here?"

  "Yes, some. Why—"

  "Good. Change. You've got blood on those."

  "I need a shower—"

  "You'll get one. How about a toothbrush?"

  "In the bathroom, but—"

  "I'll get it. Change. Grab anything you want to take. You've got five minutes," he said.

  "Quisto, I appreciate your help—"

  "Then show it. For once, just do as I ask and don't argue, will you?"

  He turned on his heel and strode out of the office, walked through the main room, hearing his footsteps echo in the high-ceilinged emptiness. He went into the small bathroom, saw a toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste on the sink and a hair dryer and hairbrush on the tiny counter, along with a small cosmetics bag. He saw a plastic grocery bag looped over the door handle, and lifted it free. He grabbed everything and dumped it into the bag, then walked quickly back to the office, wondering if she was going to cooperate or be stubborn about this.

  To his surprise, she had already changed into fresh jeans and a silky-looking black shirt that made her hair look like a summer sunset at its most brilliant moment.

  "Thank you," he said, relieved that he wasn't going to have to fight her.

  "For once," she said.

  He looked at her, puzzled. "What?"

  "You said for once do as you said without arguing. Okay, I will, because I'm sorry I dragged you out here so early. I'm just reminding you this is only for once."

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he stopped it; he didn't think she'd appreciate it. And he could never explain that he was smiling not because he found her funny, but because he found her … what? Admirable? Brave? Courageously honest? Or simply dangerously attractive?

  All of the above, he muttered silently. "And after this it's back to fighting me tooth and nail every step of the way?"

  "If necessary."

  Quisto let out a sigh, but inwardly he was acknowledging that he'd expected nothing less. Caitlin Murphy was not a woman who gave up. Ever. Even if it meant putting herself at risk.

  Which meant it was up to him to keep her out of harm's way. The question was, where? Under normal circumstances, he would have had any number of options, any number of places he could take her. But now he was running alone, and if he used any of his usual resources, he would only make things worse if things caved in on him.

  If Chance had been around, he would have called for help, but he and Shea weren't due back until tomorrow. They were probably still lounging in the sun somewhere right now; Chance had been more than a little secretive about where they were going. So it was more likely, Quisto thought wryly, knowing those two, that they were still making mad, passionate love somewhere, and hadn't even seen the sun yet.

  Caitlin moved, picking up her purse and leaning over to switch on the answering machine. The silky blouse clung to her, and the nipped-in waist of her jeans set off the soft, feminine curve of her hip. Heat blasted through Quisto, a barrage of sensation that nearly staggered him. Barely able to breathe, he stared as she tidied a few things on the desk, wondering what on earth had hit him.

  He knew what physical attraction felt like, had on more than one occasion been hit by—and sometimes acted upon—a bolt of pure, unadulterated lust. But this … this was something different. This wasn't a tickle that made him think of scratching, but a demand, fierce and seet
hing and beyond anything he'd ever known, that made all his experience seem useless. He felt like a man in what he thought was a familiar place who finds that all the road signs have been changed.

  She straightened and turned to look at him, and he made a desperate effort to pull himself together. He was going to have to move that attention to his libido up on the priority list, he thought ruefully, if this was what a woman so far from his usual type, a woman who didn't even like him much, did to him just by moving a certain way. He'd get Caitlin settled, and then he'd attend to that.

  The question was, get Caitlin settled where? He had no more choices now than he'd had before he was hit by that freight train of hot, clawing need. Her place, which she'd told him was only a few blocks away, was far too close to the center of this hurricane she'd stirred up. Even his place was too close, and besides, despite her seeming compliance, he didn't trust her to stay put for very long if he left her alone while he did what he had to do.

  There was only one place he could think of. And as he led her out to his car, past her worse-for-wear compact, he winced at the thought. He put the bag with her things in the back seat, then held the door for her, contemplating all the while. He knew what would happen, knew what taking her there would mean, the heat he would take afterward, but he had no choice right now. He was on his own, out-of-bounds as far as the department was concerned. Which meant he had nobody to depend on except the people he had always depended on.

  With a sigh, he got into the driver's seat.

  * * *

  After about twenty minutes, they left Marina Heights for the county area that bordered it. Quisto made several turns, and they entered an older but well-kept neighborhood of small stucco houses, most of them coolly shaded by large trees. Caitlin thought it peacefully inviting, but wondered where they were headed; Quisto hadn't said much since they'd left the Neutral Zone.

  Quisto slowed as they turned first onto a narrow side street, then into a short cul-de-sac. He slowed further when they saw a group of children playing some sort of combination of soccer and hockey with a soccer ball and some sticks. Caitlin heard the slap of wood on the leather ball, and the shrill yelling and laughter of childish voices. It all seemed so very normal, and the ugliness of this morning seemed to recede a little.