His head came up as she eased to the side of the bed. “You don’t think so?”
“I don’t know. Tonight was the best sex I’ve ever had, so maybe I’m getting better.”
Beau laughed. “If you get any better, honey, you’re liable to kill me.”
She smiled at that, seemed to relax. “I could umm . . . really use a shower.”
He closed his eyes to block the image. “Good idea. It’s been a helluva day.” Beau waited till he heard the shower go on, heard Cassidy open and close the glass door, then followed her into the bathroom.
If that was the best sex Cassidy Jones had ever had, Beau figured she was in for some really nice surprises.
Chapter Thirteen
Beau stirred at a sound in the darkness and awoke from the depths of the most restful sleep he’d had since his father had been murdered. The familiar ring of his cell phone dragged him fully awake and he reached toward the nightstand to quiet it before Cassidy awoke.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:00 A.M. He checked the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. Slipping out of bed, he padded naked into the living room. “Reese.”
“You want to know who killed your father?”
His hand tightened around the phone. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“Drive to 516 Brookdale Road. Go in through the back door. You’ve got twenty minutes. No police and you’d better be alone.”
“Tell me who this is.”
The line went dead. Beau glanced toward the bedroom. After a third round of incredible sex, Cassidy was deeply asleep. Which was probably good since he had been warned to come alone.
Quietly returning to the bedroom, he grabbed his jeansand a long-sleeved T-shirt out of his go-bag, grabbed his sneakers and went back into the living room to put them on.
Cassidy’s car keys sat on the table in the entry. Driving the Lambo didn’t seem like a good idea, so he picked up her keys and slipped outside, quietly closing the door behind him. He headed for the Honda, slid inside and started the engine, then punched the address he had been given into the nav system in the dash, a necessity, he imagined, for a detective.
The map showed the house was on the south side of town. Driving the speed limit, careful to stop at all the lights, he still made his destination in eighteen minutes.
No lights on in the single-story redbrick house. Clouds covered the moon, making it a pitch-dark night. He headed around to the back of the house and walked up on the patio. No movement inside, no lamps went on.
Reaching for the doorknob, he turned it, found the door unlocked, opened it and slipped inside. He owned a gun, kept it in his home for protection, had learned how to handle a weapon in his bad-boy days. If Cassidy’s little pistol had been handy, he would have brought it, wished he had it now.
He tried to see through the darkness, caught the gleam of a stainless dishwasher next to the sink in the kitchen. He’d taken a couple of steps before he noticed something sticky on the floor.
“Anybody home?” he called out.
No answer. There was an odd smell in the air, coppery and dense. His pulse hammered. A trickle of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades. A bad feeling crept over him, warning him to beware. “Anybody here?”
No answer, nothing but the lingering smell and the darkness. He had two choices. Turn on the lights or turn aroundand leave as quietly as he had come. Leave without the answers he had been promised.
“I’m leaving!” he called out.
Still no answer. He turned, started to retrace his steps when the back door flew open and the kitchen light went on. Two uniformed patrolmen, guns drawn and aimed at his chest, stood in the doorway. “Don’t move!” one of the officers called out. “Put your hands in the air!”
Cautiously they stepped into the kitchen. Beau’s gaze shot from the policemen to the thick pool of blood spreading over the kitchen floor. His stomach heaved when he spotted the man’s lifeless body. His eyes were open, a neat hole in the side of his head.
“It’s not what you think,” Beau said. “I got a phone call. I was told to come to this address.”
“Move away from the body and get down on your knees,” ordered the cop. “Keep your hands in the air.”
“I didn’t kill him. I don’t even know who he is.” Keeping his hands raised, he got down on his knees at the edge of the pool of blood, which was beginning to congeal. The second officer, younger, fresh faced and pink cheeked, rushed toward him, grabbed one of his wrists and twisted it behind his back. Beau could have stopped him with a single movement. Instead he felt the click of metal around first one wrist then the other.
“You’re Reese, aren’t you?” the first cop said. “Beau Reese?”
