LITMIR.BIZ

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His presence brought up memories she’d shoved so far into the past she hadn’t thought about them in years.

       Or tried not to think about them. Tried like hell not to think about them.

       Until tonight.

       Coming upon that murder scene in the alley tonight and seeing Dante had stolen every breath in her lungs, had made her legs go weak. Her first instinct had been to turn around and walk away—no, run away. She’d almost called another detective in to take the scene, but she refused. This was her job. There’d be no excuse for walking. Plus, Dante, Roman and Gabe had been there and she’d needed to know why.

       She didn’t like it. It had all been too much like twelve years ago, the night humid and smelling like recent rain, the asphalt streets slick and mirrorlike as she’d driven onto the scene. She’d seen plenty of dead bodies and people standing over dead bodies since she’d been on the force, had worked plenty of crime scenes with Roman. It wasn’t until she’d spotted Dante and Gabe that the shock of awareness had hit her. The familiarity had cloaked her in heavy memories she still hadn’t been able to break free from, clouding her thoughts and jumbling her normally stellar police process. She was organized and relentless in pursuit of a case. Was this fate getting back at her for her part in what happened twelve years ago?

       Fate was awfully fucked up sometimes.

       “Well?”

       She lifted her head, found Dante staring at her.

       Losing herself in thought wasn’t like her, either.

       “Well, what? I said I was busy.”

       “I asked you to have a cup of coffee with me.”

       “I’m on duty, Dante.”

       “Later.”

       “I won’t be finished for a while.”

       “I’ll meet you in the morning.”

       She sighed, feeling suddenly tired. “Why?”

       “Because I want to talk to you.”

       “Why?” She knew it was juvenile to repeat the question. She was stalling.

       “Have coffee with me in the morning and I’ll tell you why.”

       And so, apparently, was he. She should say no, walk away. Maybe then he’d go and leave her alone, leave the memories alone.

       But for some reason, she couldn’t let it alone. Curiosity, maybe. And maybe he had some information on George’s death. A cup of coffee and some conversation could yield some info.

       “Fine. Meet me at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House at seven-thirty.”

       “See you then.”

       She didn’t exhale until he walked away from her and got into his car.

       She climbed into hers and drove to the precinct, her body on autopilot while her mind tried to process everything that had happened tonight.

       A body in the alley, killed just like the guys had killed Tony Maclin. Beaten to death. And not just any body, but George Clemons, the boys’ foster father.

       A connection.

       Then the heart carving, just like hers.

       Shoving the thoughts aside, she drove into the parking lot of the Metro police station, turned the engine off and sat there, needing a minute or two to collect her thoughts and just breathe.

       What did it all mean? And why did it happen just as Dante came to town?

       Was he the connection?

       The station was always quiet at night, she thought as she walked in. She could use a little quiet right now, some time to think about the events of the night. She sat down at her desk and picked up the now-cold coffee, grimacing at the bitterness. She dumped it in the trash and went to the machine for a soda, then stared out the window at the few cars that passed by this time of night, wondering where they were going and what they were doing. Going to work, getting off work, leaving the bars?

       Where was Dante right now?

       Not that it mattered.

       She still couldn’t believe he was back after all these years, after all this time and finally having reconciled herself to never seeing him again. She didn’t know whether to be angry or curious or how to feel about the ache inside her chest that had settled there ever since she’d seen him tonight.

       There’d been too much to process at the crime scene. Being in the alley again. Seeing the guys there. The body and how George was killed.

       Dante.

       And she’d still had to do her job.

       This was a nightmare.

       She took the drink back to her desk and stared at her computer monitor, knowing she had a report to file, and knowing she wouldn’t fill in the background information of what she knew had happened twelve years before.

       But the past had just collided with the present, hadn’t it?

       She didn’t like mysteries like this. And she definitely didn’t like questions without answers.

       She rubbed that spot on her chest that always hurt on rainy nights, then opened a new investigation file to make some notes.

       She looked at her watch: 3:00 a.m. and damn if she wasn’t already anticipating that breakfast.

      Four

      Anna was an hour and a half late, figured Dante wouldn’t hang around and wait for her, or maybe wouldn’t show up at all.

       She hoped he wouldn’t be there. One less thing she’d have to deal with. She was tired and she wanted to go home, take a shower and forget the night had happened.

       She walked in and took a look around. He was easy to spot since it was past the breakfast rush hour. There were only two other tables occupied. Dante sat in a booth at the rear of the restaurant, his back to the wall.

       Interesting.

       She told the hostess she was meeting someone and headed toward where Dante sat nursing a cup of coffee, two menus sitting on the edge of the table.

       “You waited.” She slid into the booth.

       He lifted his head, smiled at her. “Yeah.”

       “Sorry I’m late. Paperwork had to be done.”

       He shrugged. “If you didn’t show, I’d head out.”

       “So you ate already?”

       “I got hungry after an hour or so, figured you’d chickened out.”

       She bristled. “I don’t chicken out.”

       He didn’t reply, so she poured coffee from the carafe on the table. “You sleep yet?”

       “No. I’ll sleep later.”

       “Where are you staying?”

       He shrugged. “Don’t know yet.”

       “So maybe you’re not staying?”

       He lifted the cup to his lips, then smiled. “Trying to run me out of town, Detective?”

       He was saved from her biting retort by the waitress, who took her breakfast order—actually her dinner order.

       “You look tired. Long night?”

       She nodded.

       “Why the night shift?”

       She took a long swallow of coffee. “More crime happens at night. Less time spent sitting at a desk. We’re out on the streets and that’s where I like it. Besides, I don’t have a shift. People don’t die on shifts. I work when I work.”

      

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