Dana played with his chest. “Did Trentington have any information?”
“No. He said the police had no idea who killed Albert Nelson, which was his real name, by the way. Besides the Clarke Wellson identity, he had several aliases. I’ll have to get to the club records to see what he put down on his application.” Wolfe kissed the top of her head in what felt like a good-bye. “The cops want to talk to anybody who was at the party.”
Well, that wasn’t good. “I used a fake name. Didn’t you?”
“Of course.”
Her body felt a little tight. “So they’re having another party on Tuesday night? Despite the murder?”
“Probably because of the murder,” Wolfe said, seeming to be miles away all of a sudden. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Trentington is working with the cops to find out who killed the man with too many names. This party will be at Trentington’s house, which is where all of the member records should be. Hopefully.”
She bit her lip. “What if there are cameras? For the police?”
“It’d be a contract breach and betrayal of the members’ privacy, so I doubt it. But, since Tuesday’s event is a costume party, we’ll find a way to hide who we are.”
Wolfe was too big to hide, but Dana didn’t say anything as she waited for him to say whatever he had to say.
“I don’t want you to be there.” Yeah, he’d said it.
“Too bad.” She wasn’t going to let Candy down. She was going to find her friend’s killer no matter how nervous she felt about going undercover, and no matter how unsettled she was after sleeping with Wolfe.
He was silent long enough that she almost fell asleep. “I’m going out for a while. I’ll make sure Malcolm is watching the house while I’m gone,” he finally said.
No cuddling into the wee hours, then. She understood his need to get away and think. “Okay.”
He stood and dressed, pausing at his doorway. The bed felt cold without him in it. “I won’t let anybody hurt you, Dana. No matter what. You have to believe me.”
She did. No outside threat would get to her with Wolfe around. But every second in his presence drew her closer to him, and if he wouldn’t let her in, she wasn’t sure her heart would recover. Ever.
And she had nobody else to blame but herself.
* * *
Wolfe was putting his life at risk every time he descended in the rickety elevator at his sorry office building. After leaving Dana, he’d decided to work instead of run, tonight. His brain didn’t need free rein after the night they’d just shared. How could he keep his distance from her? The woman was a siren to him, and he wanted nothing more than to go right back to bed with her.
The silence of the office building on Sunday night usually soothed him, but he still couldn’t calm down. He often spent weekends and even nights at the office, which was pathetic. It wasn’t that he was so dedicated to the job but rather that he didn’t have another place to go. Bars didn’t do it for him, and neither did places with, well, other people.
So here he was. Again—with a couple of lattes covered in whipped cream and sprinkles that he’d drink through the night. Now every time he saw whipped cream, he saw it covering Dana’s generous breasts. His mouth salivated.
The elevator doors opened, and the buzz of the ancient fluorescent lights provided a strange sense of comfort for him.
Then the German shepherd pranced out of the shrink’s office. Wolfe caught his breath. Not again. “Roscoe.”
The dog smiled around the shredded red high heel dangling from his mouth, his snout covered in what looked like mauve-colored paste. He snorted, dropped the shoe, and danced around in a circle, somehow shaking his butt and tail in the opposing directions.
Oh, so not good. Wolfe set the coffee cups down on his desk, stalked into Nari’s office, looked around, and slapped his head. A desk drawer had been busted open, revealing the remains of a gold-plated lipstick with bite marks on it. The colorful hue was smeared over several papers on the desk and across the white leather chair. No doubt the makeup had been expensive. “She’ll kill you.” Then he caught sight of the other damaged shoe in the far corner, which Roscoe had bitten right through. Wolfe looked up to the top of a bookcase to see everything scattered across it as if the dog had somehow jumped from the desk, hit the books and potted plant, and knocked much of it down. The shoes had probably been up there. “Why didn’t you just wear them?” The dog seemed to have a shoe fetish, both wearing and eating them.
Roscoe snorted and reclaimed the second shoe, flopping down and munching happily. He burped.
Wolfe straightened and turned, studying the pooch. “Tell me you’re sober,” he ordered.
Roscoe hiccupped.
Damn it.Wolfe dropped to his knees and lifted the dog’s head to stare into murky brown eyes. The dog had a drinking problem and had been to the vet several times, but he apparently had the liver of a ninety-year-old miner. “Booze is bad for dogs,” Wolfe murmured, patting Roscoe’s head. “I wonder if you’d be better off around people who weren’t so screwed up.”
Roscoe sneezed and sent the shoe flying.
Wolfe sighed. This wasn’t good. He stood and angled his neck toward the enclosed office in the back of the depressing space, which was situated between the two case rooms. Only silence came from the office.
