The cop’s face scrunched in distaste.“From what I can tell, someone’s pissed all over the furniture.Especially the bed.But I can’t be sure.”
Cold worry thumped through Peter’s chest.“Piss?”He took a step deeper into his sister’s house.“Nothing’s been touched?”
The cop shook his head.“No.”
Peter surveyed the mess around him.Whoever had done this, had done so out of anger.There were no signs of struggle.Overturned furniture littered the room, the cushions were shredded, the curtains ripped from the windows but nothing in the chaos told him Reggie had been involved in its making.Someone angry had done this.Peter hoped to Christ they were angry because his sister had not been here.The piss could be a disgusting, infantile response to their failure, although to Peter’s farm-boy nose it smelt more animalistic than human.
You’re on your own, lizard.The words floated through his head and he gripped his gun harder.
“Detective Thomas?”
Peter started, swinging his attention back to the cop waiting beside him.“Sorry, Officer…?”
“Paterson.Detective, shall I call in a CSU?”
Peter looked around the mayhem of his sister’s normally tidy home.He highly doubted the crime scene guys would find anything but, after punching Muriciano in the face, he’d better stick to protocol.
Yeah, not a wise move back at Command.You ready to be suspended?
A dry snort burst from Peter’s nose.Muriciano wouldn’t suspend him.He’d bluster and rant and rave and pour a ton of public humiliation down on Peter, but he wouldn’t suspend him.Peter knew where Muriciano had buried the bodies—figuratively speaking.His superior wouldn’t risk the skeletons tumbling from the closet, no matter how shattered his nose and pride.
“Detective?The CSU?”
Peter nodded, re-holstering his gun.“Do that, Officer Paterson.The Bondi crew can handle it.I’m outta my jurisdiction here.”
He scanned the overturned room, trying like hell to ignore the sparks of cold fear in his chest.Jesus, what a mess.I’m coming, Reggie.Just be safe until I get there.
But where was she?
Peter’s fists clenched.He didn’t know.But he’d find out.
“Can I ask whose house this is, Detective?”
The young cop hovered beside him and Peter gave him a quick look.“Yes you can.”He crossed the room, stepping over upended side tables, shattered lamps, gutted cushions and their exposed innards on his way to the sofa.Something had caught his eye.Something…
He stopped at the overturned piece of furniture, the overpowering stench of urine almost making him gag.Which was saying something, considering he’d grown up crutching sheep.Crouching down, he ran a slow inspection over the abused sofa, feeling his chest grow tight.Reggie loved the sofa.It had been their great-grandparents’ and their father told—to their mother’s absolute dismay—quite a bawdy tale of Reggie’s conception involving the old, paisley-covered cushions and too many bottles of champagne.She’d be heartbroken to see it in such a degraded state.
Yeah, but what caught your eyes?What made you come over here?
A frown pulled at Peter’s forehead and he reached out, removing something small and soft from the armrest of the sofa.Thisis what caught his eye.Still crouching, he studied the tuft of grey fur, rubbing the soft, almost silken strands between thumb and forefinger.An animal had been laying on the sofa recently.He brought the tuft closer, eyes narrowing at the still slightly tacky, faint crimson stain coloring a few of the soft strands.A bleeding animal.He flicked his gaze to the sofa, knowing what he hoped to find wouldn’t be there.
Shit.
Either the Irishman he’d heard talking to Rex had taken the cushions or whoever destroyed Regan’s house had.Peter’s gut twisted.Something told him it was the latter.It seemed they didn’t want the cops finding the injured animal’s blood.
And yet they piss everywhere?
Peter’s frown deepened.Something very odd was going on here.And Reggie was right in the middle of?—
A gunshot shattered the air.
Peter sprang to his feet, spinning toward the direction of the report, Glock drawn.
“What the fuck was that?”The young cop screeched, aiming his weapon—waveringly, Peter was disgusted to see—at the kitchen entryway.
Gun raised, breath even, Peter crossed the room, staring hard at the opening before him.
“There it is again!”Paterson’s gun swung wide, aimed straight at Peter’s feet.
