Текст книги "An Easeful Death"
Автор книги: Felicity Young
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6
The killer’s hunting ground will most likely be located within his own comfort zone, either near where he lives or in another area he is familiar with.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
A tinny bell sounded as Wayne and Barry stepped over the threshold of Sherman the German’s Hobbies and Collectables.
Barry spoke through the side of his mouth to Wayne. ‘You’d think our guy would have chosen one of the bigger chain stores for his purchase, somewhere he’d be more anonymous.’
‘Nah. You have to be registered and show ID to buy spray paint in the bigger outlets these days. It hampers the graffiti artists.’
They lapsed into silence as they took in their surroundings. Shelves bulging with untidy contents seemed to undulate up from the floor. A carefully placed electric fan made the model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling rock languidly. On the walls, ocean liners and battleships sailed side by side on glassy seas. Whichever way you looked the effect was one of rippling movement. Wayne loosened his collar and closed his eyes for a moment, battling against a rising tide of motion sickness.
Barry seemed to have no such problem. He pointed to a display of sci-fi figures. ‘Hey, look! An original Star Wars Admiral Akbar!’ In two strides he was bending over the display and steaming up the glass of the cabinet with his breath.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Wayne looked to the heavens and wiped his sweaty palms over the thighs of his polyester bellbottoms. He turned when a man with unkempt shoulder-length hair and a beard clacked through a back entrance of glass beads.
The man pushed a pair of thick-rimmed glasses up the greasy bridge of his nose. His face fell when he realised who they were.
‘You must be the cops. Sherman said you might be coming round.’ His voice had the same watery grey tone as his T-shirt.
Wayne put out his hand, ‘Mr Thompson? I’m DS Wayne Pickering and this is DS Barry Snow.’ He tilted his head in Barry’s direction. Still absorbed in the Star Wars figures, Barry waved a greeting without looking up.
‘I spoke with Mr Sherman on the phone last night. Apparently you sold a large quantity of spray-on bronze fabric paint last Friday.’
Thompson responded with a nod and a grunt, giving Wayne the impression that if it hadn’t been for the conscientious Tom Sherman, they would never have got this lead in the first place.
Thompson hefted a cardboard box onto a space he’d cleared on the counter top and began sorting through boxes of model aeroplanes. Another blasé witness who watched too many TV cop shows, Wayne thought. If you had to talk to the cops at all, you had to be cool and impassive, and if possible carry on with your business while you were being questioned.
Wayne said, ‘Can you describe the man you sold the paint to?’
‘Tallish.’
‘Fat, thin?’
‘Kinda medium to tall build.’
‘Old, young?’
‘Middling, twenty to forty.’
‘Eyes?’
‘Sunglasses.’
‘Hair colour?’
‘Dunno. He was wearing a baseball cap.’
‘What colour hat? Did it have a logo?’
Thompson gave a shrug.
Jeez, this was like speaking to a pile of bricks. Wayne took a deep breath. Thompson turned around and began arranging the boxes on the shelf behind the counter. Wayne raised his voice, trying to penetrate the man’s back.
‘Can you describe what he was wearing?’
Thompson shrugged and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Jeans, I guess.’
Barry ambled over from the display cabinet to join them at the counter. He pointed to one of the aeroplane kits in Sherman’s hand. ‘I made that very Lancaster when I was a kid. You could hardly see it for glue, the props wouldn’t even turn.’
Thompson turned from the shelves and said to Wayne, ‘A yellow Eagles windcheater.’ Then to Barry he said, ‘It’s a difficult model for a young kid. You should have got your dad to help.’
‘Didn’t have one.’ Barry never ceased to surprise Wayne. Only the other day he was complaining about his miserly arsehole of a father.
‘That’s too bad,’ Thompson said.
‘Maybe I’ll have another go at it.’ Barry took out his wallet and handed over a twenty.
Thompson gave him the box and some change. ‘There’s glue in the box. Come back when you’re done and I’ll fix you up with some paint,’ he said.
Barry beamed back; it was the kind of smile a twelve-year-old would use to wangle money from his unsuspecting grandmother.
When they began to discuss the differences between the old Airfix models and the newer equivalent, Wayne wandered off to inspect a model train set.
On a structure that looked like four joined ping-pong tables, a complicated system of rails carved their way through alpine scenery and bucolic European farmland. This is more like it, Wayne thought. Three red buttons he assumed were there to be pressed, controlled the model railway. He tried to work out which one would send the old steam loco across the bridge spanning the thick painted river. Lured by the middle button, his hand reached for it, only to be beaten to it by a cane held in the hand of an old man of eighty, if he was a day.
He watched as the model train nipped around the track like a zip fastener and he grew dizzy: so much for trying to keep his interests on terra firma. He nodded to the old man and swayed his way back to the counter just as Thompson was handing Barry a can of bronze spray paint.
‘Take this, too. It’s from the same batch I sold to the guy. And this is the kind of wooden dowel I sell.’ Thompson gave Barry a dowel and an affable grin; the change in the man was amazing. Wayne could only look at his younger partner and marvel.
‘Hey, you didn’t see what kind of car the bloke drove off in did you?’ Barry asked.
‘Yeah, I did. A new-looking blue Commodore. He parked it right outside the shop. Sorry but I didn’t get a look at the plate,’ Thompson said.
Barry handed him his card, said it was okay, that he was being a big help anyway. ‘If you think of anything else you can reach me on this number.’
Thompson called out as they were heading for the door.
‘Hey, I don’t know if it helps, but he bought a dozen each of gold and silver paint, too.’
***
The killer was going to strike again. Wayne broke the news to Monty from the car. There was no need for him to hold the phone out for Barry to hear the explosive reaction. When Monty had calmed down, he gave him the details of the Thompson interview and received, in turn, a list of further instructions. Wayne pocketed his phone and wiped his brow with a mustard-yellow handkerchief. ‘It’s going to be a long day,’ he said, ‘we’ll need inner strength to get through this.’
Soon they were pushing their way through the lunchtime crowd of their favourite watering hole. The pub in James Street was a popular soaking spot for a heavy cop clientele. Barry went to get their drinks and was still getting them by the time Wayne had completed two more phone calls. Given Barry’s propensity to stop and banter with every person at every table in passing, Wayne wondered just how cold the beer would be when it finally arrived.
Rule of thumb: a dead body will cool to the surrounding temperature at approximately one degree per hour. It stands to reason, therefore, that a cold beer will warm to its environment at the same rate. To kill time, Wayne reached for his pen and notebook and began scratching calculations.
‘Have you organised the artist for the composite sketch?’ Barry asked, interrupting Wayne’s train of thought. He sat down at the table and pushed a glass of beer towards his partner. Some of it slopped over the side and a pattern of foaming threads trickled onto the plastic table.
‘Yeah.’ Wayne slicked his fingers through the drips and made a point of rubbing them on his sleeve. ‘No wedges?’
‘They’re coming.’
Wayne took a gulp of beer and gazed around the room, checking out the patrons with the mug shots he’d lined up in his mind. This habit used to annoy the hell out of his wife, though her complaints about him never being off duty were usually accompanied by an understanding smile. The woman had put up with a lot.
Oh shit. A familiar face he did not wish to see. He slid further down his seat.
Noticing his reaction, Barry followed his gaze, squinting through the smoke haze. ‘Who’s that then?’
‘Tyrone Davis,’ Wayne said. ‘Before your time, probably. Stop staring. If he sees you he’ll see me, and be over here in a flash.’
‘What’s the problem?’
Wayne spoke from the side of his mouth. ‘Nothing, except the man’s a crystal-dicked fuckwit with about as much conscience as a box jellyfish.’
A pause. ‘You don’t like him?’
Wayne snorted.
‘Crossed swords, did you?’ Barry persisted.
‘No, not exactly, I just don’t like hanging out with bent coppers.’
‘Tye Davis, Tye Davis,’ Barry repeated. ‘The name’s familiar.’
‘He’s the guy who knocked Stevie up. They were shacked up for a while until she threw him out. She blew the whistle on him for taking bribes when he was in Vice. There was an enquiry, he was dismissed.’
Barry blew out his cheeks. ‘That would’ve taken guts.’
‘She’s a tough chick.’
‘Then how come you’re always stirring her pot?’ Barry took a long draught of beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.
Wayne sighed. ‘I stir the pot because she expects me to stir the pot. I don’t like to disappoint.’ He wagged a disapproving finger at Barry. ‘And you got too carried away today. Subtlety, son, you got to learn subtlety.’
‘You self-righteous prick.’
Wayne’s mouth twitched into his first smile in hours. ‘She’s a good cop, but she’d be even better if she’d let go of some of the energy she uses to hold that chip on her shoulder and put it into her work.’
A kick in the shin from Barry alerted him to Tye’s approach. Wayne’s first instinct was to leave, then his curiosity got the better of him; he’d hang around for a moment, see what Tye wanted.
Tye slopped a jug of beer onto their table. ‘I thought you boys looked thirsty,’ he said, even though Wayne and Barry’s glasses were still half full. He pulled up a chair and sat down. He was a cocky bastard, with looks that could have graced the cover of a romance novel—or so Wayne had been told. He wouldn’t know a romance novel if it bit him on the backside. People also said that Tye and Stevie had been a good-looking couple. Wayne had never put that much faith in appearances.
A barmaid placed a bowl of wedges in front of them. Tye gave her an appraising glance before turning back to Wayne. ‘So, how’re you doing? I thought you might’ve retired by now.’ He popped a steaming wedge into his mouth.
Barry winked at Tye. ‘He’s younger than he looks.’
Wayne took Tye’s hand without smiling and introduced Barry. Tye’s gaze returned to Wayne. He scanned the older man’s torso before making a big deal of looking under the table at his legs. ‘Still fashionably retro I see.’
‘Fashionable?’ Barry snorted. ‘He just hasn’t bothered to buy any new clothes since the seventies.’
Wayne gave Tye a blank look. ‘Happy days,’ he said.
Tye was not to be put off. ‘You know who you remind me of, Wayne? That pommy secret agent, the one who says “Shagadelick baby” and all that shit.’
‘More like Eeyore if you ask me,’ Barry said, pushing the basket of wedges across the table. Wayne didn’t touch them, he’d suddenly lost his appetite.
Tye slammed his fist on the table and grinned. ‘Fuckin’ oath.’
Wayne’s patience was wearing thin. He knew Tye was playing the redneck for Barry’s benefit, making himself out to be one of the boys, a talent that had gained him a fair degree of support from his colleagues at the time of his dismissal. While Stevie was proved technically to be the ‘good guy,’ it was Tye who had won the sympathy vote.
Tye shifted in his seat. Maybe he’d got the message and was thinking about leaving. But then Barry blew it; sometimes the kid just couldn’t help himself.
‘So, what’s your story then?’
‘Working on the mines, Baz, three weeks on and one off. Haven’t been down to the big smoke for a couple of months, only arrived yesterday. Figured I’d catch up with a few mates, visit my kid.’
‘I suppose the restraining order’s well past its use-by date now.’ Wayne couldn’t resist the jab.
Tye’s face reddened and Wayne caught a glimpse of the violence that simmered just under the handsome surface. ‘It was a temporary order, only for a couple of months. Just a misunderstanding.’ He took a slug of beer then turned to Barry, clearly the more malleable member of the partnership. ‘I hear Stevie’s joined you blokes at the SCS. I can’t see it being a wise move, but here’s to her anyway.’ He lifted his glass for a toast and scanned their faces, leaving the bait dangling.
Barry took a nibble. ‘What’s the problem with Stevie joining the SCS?’
‘I would have thought that was obvious. Frankly I’m surprised her application was taken seriously,’ Tye said.
Wayne sighed. ‘C’mon, Barry, drink up. We’ve got places to go and people to see.’
‘What with the history between her and Monty, I can’t see how his being her boss could lead to anything but a conflict of interest,’ Tye continued.
Barry was hooked. He put his hand out to stop Wayne from leaving the table. ‘Wait a tick, let me just hear this out.’
Tye ignored Wayne’s impatient huffing. ‘Monty’s an old pal of the Hooper family, at school with her big brother...’
‘I’ll be in the car,’ Wayne said.
And he left them to it, along with the beer Tye had bought him, untouched on the table. He might have a moral obligation to stir Stevie’s pot, but gossiping about her behind her back was not a part of his agenda.
7
The investigating officer has to be able to think like the killer in order to pre-empt him. It is an unpalatable talent that few are able to master and still fewer able to adjust to without some form of adverse physical or behavioural effect.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
The sun was a distant pearl in the leaden sky, the city streets still black and slick with rain. Stevie sat in the parked car and watched the profiler retrace Royce’s last walk down Wellington Street. In order to put himself into the mindset of the murderer, De Vakey had explained, he needed to be alone. That suited Stevie; the man was still having an unnerving effect on her and she was glad of the break.
She rubbed a clear patch in the mist on the car window with the sleeve of her jacket and took advantage of the opportunity to sit back and think.
Her role in the investigation had broadened to include liaising between De Vakey and the primary investigating officers. At first she was pleased; it meant Monty thought she had sufficient grasp of the case to relay information accurately between both parties. Upon further reflection though, she could see how the others might read it as a sign of Monty’s favouritism, and could only hope the team would remember the shit jobs he usually allocated to her.
She’d had several triumphant moments collaring criminals in her career, top grades in her sergeant’s exams, near-perfect scores in her firearm proficiency tests—but nothing notable since joining the SCS six months ago. Maybe this would be the case in which she could prove herself; show pricks like Wayne she was as capable as any of them. In order to succeed though, she would have to keep her personal feelings in check.
It didn’t help that communication with De Vakey was proving to be more difficult than she’d imagined. He might consider his skill an art, but he handled the evidence with the empiricism of a scientist, reluctant to formulate any theories without proof. He had been studying the case notes and watching the videos all night: she felt he must have reached some conclusions by now. But when she asked him questions he dodged like a politician. When she put forward her own ideas, he shot down her theories with the flamboyance of a TV prosecutor. One minute he seemed eager to make a connection with her, the next minute he would cut himself off and withdraw, his sparkling eyes becoming nothing but empty grey holes.
Stevie was a detective; she was paid to be curious. She spent most of her days and many of her nights seeking answers and solving puzzles. With a strange sense of unease she realised she was being drawn into the mystery of the profiler as much as the mystery of the case itself.
She watched as he pulled at his billowing overcoat, doing up the buttons as he walked from the photographer’s studio towards the bus stop. He came to a sudden stop and pivoted to his right, peering at something that looked like a bottle lying in a wall alcove. He produced a miniature cassette recorder from his coat pocket and started to speak into it. What was he saying? He put the recorder away and stooped. With his pen inserted into the neck he picked up the bottle, still clad in the brown paper bag in which it was sold. What was its significance? Could the killer have been standing in the alcove drinking, then grabbed Linda as she passed by?
De Vakey acknowledged Stevie with a heavy wave and approached the car with the bottle still on the end of his pen. He was pale and seemed sapped of energy. Despite the cold, a light sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead.
‘What day’s rubbish collection here?’ he asked as she buzzed the car window down.
‘Tuesday.’
‘Street sweeping?’
‘Tuesday evening.’
‘Did SOCO search the scene?’
‘Of course.’
De Vakey nodded to the bottle. ‘This was in the wall alcove, tucked to the side. It could easily have been missed by SOCO, and the garbos.’
‘You’re a detective too?’
Undeterred, he continued to hold the bottle out to her.
It was her turn to play devil’s advocate. ‘Then again it could have been missed by the garbos for weeks in a row, or it could have been left there yesterday.’
‘True, but the light coating of dust and the absence of any insect life suggest it’s only been here a few days. Humour me?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
She shrugged. ‘I guess there’s no harm examining it for prints.’
‘My feelings exactly.’
Stevie extracted an evidence bag from the glovebox and De Vakey dropped the bottle into it. She twisted around to place it in the back while he got into the passenger seat. He stretched the seatbelt across him then leaned forward and rested his head in his hands.
‘Are you okay, would you like some water?’ she asked him.
He sighed. ‘I’m fine, drive on.’
This sudden show of vulnerability surprised her and she paused before putting the key in the ignition. Bugger me, she thought. Perhaps he is human, after all.
***
Again Stevie was left in the car to observe as De Vakey walked the pristine courtyard fronting the bank where Linda’s body had been discovered. The stone tables and benches with their trendy conical umbrellas made this a lunchtime magnet for office staff in summertime, but now it was almost deserted. An old woman pushed a shopping trolley past De Vakey, head bent against the wind, her limbs struggling as if walking through mud. Behind the woman a silent curtain of water shimmered down from a ledge in the decorative wall without even making a splash. A group of straw-haired surfer youths entered the bank through the revolving doors, laughing. Monday’s horror was already forgotten.
Stevie watched as De Vakey craned his neck to look up the length of the tall building. Then he took the crime scene photos from the file he’d been clasping. They flapped in his hand as the wind threatened to tear them away. She resisted her instinct to rush out and help; again he’d made it quite clear that she wasn’t wanted.
He squatted and rested the photos on his knee, tapping at the top one with a finger. After identifying the bench on which the body had been posed, he straightened and walked towards it, stopped and stared at it for a moment, his lips moving in silent monologue as he stood where the killer had stood.
She shivered, not only from the cold that cut at her through the open window. As he made his way back from the bank and into the street where she was parked, he surveyed the parking bays and clearways.
‘What now?’ Stevie asked, noticing his returning pallor.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands as if he trying to erase unpleasant images. ‘Now, we go and get some lunch,’ he said.
She waited for more. When he remained silent, she shrugged and turned the key in the ignition.
***
They sat in a faux English pub, at a table close to a roaring wood fire. He’d slid off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair. He was dressed less formally than yesterday, but his grey cord trousers and fine-knit turtleneck still spoke of understated elegance. Stevie regretted removing her bomber jacket, even though she was wearing her favourite blouse. She liked the casual look, but this was so casual it could qualify as comatose. Izzy had a habit of sitting on her knee and picking away at the bright appliqué designs and one was now peeling like old wallpaper.
She saw De Vakey looking at it and folded her arms, diverting his attention with a barrage of questions about the case, all of which he skilfully circumnavigated. It soon became evident that he would impart his information when, and only when, he was ready.
‘You’ve got a pretty small team working on such a high-profile case,’ he said. It seemed as if he was keener to discuss the team sent to catch the killer than the killer himself.
‘The people whose notes you read are just the primaries. We have access to other detectives and uniforms when the need arises.’
‘An elite team, no one under the rank of detective sergeant.’
She nodded, not sure where he was going with this.
‘I notice that you are often partnered with Angus Wong. What’s he like?’
‘Angus is a great guy and an excellent investigator. He told me once that his mother always wanted him to be a concert pianist—he’s very good, I’ve heard him play. She didn’t speak to him for years when he joined the force.’ She smiled; she liked Angus. There seemed no end to his patience, to his kindness, to his ability to accept people for what they were without prejudice. He never seemed to feel the need to prove himself to those who sought to find fault with him.
‘He’s a musician,’ De Vakey said. ‘That might explain his intuition. His character profile of the victim has been most helpful. The other two, Wayne Pickering and Barry Snow, also strike me as being very thorough. Pickering is obviously the dominant member of the partnership, not that Snow is a toady, he can clearly think for himself. I thought they were a bit heavy handed with their interview of the photographer, though.’
Funny, that came as no surprise. ‘You watched the video tape?’
‘Correct.’
‘What do you think? Could the photographer have done it? His wife backed him up, but in my experience you can never trust spouses.’
James De Vakey shook his head. ‘Too timid; we’re dealing with someone who is supremely confident, someone who is intelligent, who enjoys playing games and someone who, above, all needs to be in control.’
She felt herself flush, as if something in her subconscious had been pricked. She picked up her glass of water and took several gulps, seeing De Vakey’s wavy image through the water.
‘Is something bothering you, Stevie?’ he asked softly.
She put down her glass and bit at her bottom lip. Knowing her lies would be as transparent as the water she’d been looking through, she settled for the truth; some of it.
‘I find this case disturbing. I’ve never handled a murder like this before.’ There, she’d said it, and it had been surprisingly easy.
He looked back at her with an understanding that provoked in her a sudden urge to pour it all out. She clamped her jaw to stop herself.
‘Can that be because you see yourself as the victim?’ he asked.
Shit shit shit, she’d gone too far. This meeting was supposed to be about the case, not her. She scanned the table looking for a distraction, but the waiter hadn’t even left a menu for her to peruse. She cleared her throat, wishing she could erase that moment of honesty. ‘I’m sure any woman would. Hell, I’ve seen male detectives double up at the sight of assault victims with their balls kicked into their throats.’
He winced, but not without humour. Touché.
‘You were talking about the photographer,’ she reminded him.
Serious again, he hesitated before he answered, his intense grey eyes fixed on her face as if still dwelling upon what she’d said earlier. He’d let it drop this time, but she knew he’d stored it away for future use.
He said, ‘The fact that the photographer has to rely on his wife to pick him up from work is enough to eliminate him as a suspect, not to mention his nervous disposition.’
Stevie forced herself to think back to the small, grey photographer and his nervous twitch. ‘That makes sense.’ And then, ‘Did you watch the interviews with the bank security guards? What do you think of them?’
De Vakey thought for a moment. ‘I take it the surveillance footage has been analysed?’
‘The AV guys say that the cameras in the bank’s front lobby didn’t show anything unusual. Cameras are positioned at all the exits. If the guards had left the bank that night it would have been on tape. The camera on the outside is a different story. It doesn’t cover the bench where the body was found, but someone approaching it would have been caught on screen. It appears to have been covered up with something. There’s about five minutes of blank footage, where they think a cloth was thrown over the camera. Then there’s another glitch a couple of hours later. We think that must be when he came back to remove the props from her stiffened body.’
‘Have you considered polygraphing the guards?’
‘Should we still be regarding them as suspects?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Explain, please.’
‘Before you leave, I’ll give you a rough list of what I have so far, but I want to point out that nothing is canon, my profiling is still only at its most preliminary stage. I’d like you to discuss my list with Monty and maybe it will give you something to get started with.’ He paused and turned towards the fire, looking pensive.
Stevie braced herself, hoping this wasn’t leading back to her again. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m not usually called in this early in an investigation. My specialty is serial killers. The police tend to call me in after a series of similar crimes.’ He looked back at her. ‘Is there something about this case I haven’t been told?’
She felt flustered, more for Monty than herself this time. ‘Well, it’s really not my place...’
‘Monty feels that this killer has struck before, doesn’t he? At the press conference I heard mention of the Kings Park murders. I followed them closely at the time, was surprised not to be called in. I’d like to know what’s going on.’
Stevie let out a breath. ‘Politics, I’m afraid.’
‘I see,’ he nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll arrange a meeting with Monty tomorrow. It’s important I’m told everything.’
She agreed, glad to pass the buck. ‘It’s something you really need to hear from him.’ She climbed to her feet. ‘What’ll you have to drink?’
‘Very convenient, I was just getting on to you and Monty.’ The tease that had been absent for most of the morning was back in his voice.
‘You have to get your drinks from the bar here. I’m getting an orange juice. What can I get for you?’
De Vakey smiled. ‘I’ll have champagne, but allow me.’ He moved for his wallet. Stevie stopped him with a raised hand. ‘I like to buy my share of the drinks, thanks all the same.’
She returned to find the lunch they’d ordered had arrived. De Vakey said he didn’t wish to discuss the case when he was eating, it interfered with his digestion.
Shit, they were going to be here all day.
She watched him prepare his meal for eating. First he put the napkin on his knee, then helped himself to salt and pepper after offering it to her first. Then he turned his plate until the meal was balanced to its aesthetic, symmetrical best. Each bite was slowly savoured and alternated with sips of iced champagne.
She shovelled down a mouthful of local snapper and salad, risking a glance at her watch as she chewed.
‘I’m sorry, am I keeping you?’ he said.
‘Oh no, I still have plenty of time. I promised my daughter I’d be home early today, that’s all.’
‘And what time does her father get home?’ he said, carving off a piece of bleu steak.
Now she was trapped. The rare meat quivered on his fork as if its synapses were still firing. Deciding that the truth would give him less to work with than a hedge, she said, ‘Actually, her father and I split up not long after I discovered I was pregnant.’
‘I’m sorry. It must be hard for you.’
She shrugged off the unwanted sympathy. ‘My mother lives down the road. She’s a big help and has a lot of time on her hands since my dad died.’
‘And, of course, you have Monty.’
The warmth spread from her neck and heated up her words. ‘If you’re trying to imply that Monty and I are anything other than old friends, you obviously aren’t as good at reading people as you like to think.’
De Vakey raised his hands in surrender, but the butterflies in her stomach told her it was she who’d lost the battle.
