Silent Confessions. Julie Kenner

      “Crawley’s shipping the kids off to his parents’,” Donovan said, pulling Jack from his memories. “Wants the wife to go, too, but she says no. And they’re gonna have the locks changed and the security system upgraded.” He shook his head. “How the hell did the bastard get in? We’re twenty floors up. This place has more security than Fort Knox.”

      “I’m more concerned that he wanted in at all.” Jack fumbled in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, then remembered he’d quit a year ago. “Our Casanova’s turning dangerous.”

      “No kidding. But it doesn’t make sense. For three weeks he’s been stuffing their mailbox with nudie postcards and pages ripped out of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Then suddenly he decides it’s time to sneak into her apartment and leave a little present on her pillow? Why now?”

      Donovan was right. It didn’t make sense. And the real kick in the pants—the reason Jack had been spending twenty hours a day following dead-end leads—was that they weren’t any closer to finding their perp than they’d been three weeks ago.

      He clenched his fist, fighting back rage. Damn it all to hell. What were they missing?

      “And why Mrs. Crawley?” Donovan added. “We’ve been over her life with a fine-tooth comb and can’t find one person who’d do this to her.”

      “Then we haven’t looked hard enough.”

      Donovan opened his mouth as if to argue, but shut it quickly enough. After two years as partners, he’d learned when not to argue. Instead he nodded. “Okay. Maybe. But could be it’s just random. Carson Crawley’s face is all over the six o’clock news. Maybe our guy’s just fixated on the celebrity’s wife. Could be he’s just a weirdo.”

      “Great. A celebrity stalker who has no fingerprints and leaves no trace.” Irritated, Jack ran his fingers through his hair and headed through the open front door and into the plush hallway. The scene was under control, and he thought better when he was walking. “What aren’t we seeing?”

      “Hell if I know.” Donovan jammed the elevator button with his thumb. “But we’re not gonna figure it out tonight. It’s two in the morning. And I left a very naked, very willing woman in my bed.”

      “That explains why you look so tired.” Since his divorce nine months ago, Donovan had pretty much joined the babe-of-the-month club.

      “Not tired. Refreshed.” Donovan grinned. “She’s got a sister if you’re interested.”

      The elevator opened and they stepped on. “They’ve all got sisters. Does your lady have a name?”

      “Mindy, Cindy. Something like that.”

      “You’re a sick man, Detective Donovan.”

      “Not sick. Robust.”

      Jack flashed his bad-cop scowl, the one he usually reserved for interrogation rooms.

      “All right, all right,” said Donovan, his hands held up in surrender. “Her name’s Cindy, this is date number four, and she really does have a sister.”

      He followed Jack off the elevator, and they stepped outside. Automatically, Jack reached for his tie and loosened the knot at his throat.

      Donovan shoved a hand in his pocket, then pulled out a paperclip. “So how about it?” he asked, twisting the clip. “Let’s give her a buzz. Go grab breakfast somewhere.”

      “Why would I want to go out with a woman so desperate she’d agree to a date at two in the morning?”

      “She’s a nurse. End of shift. Cindy’ll call her, she’ll meet us, we’ll have a little party.”

      “No.” Maybe the girl wasn’t a total loser, but no.

      “You gotta take a break from the case sometime, man. It’ll still be there in the morning.”

      Jack flashed Donovan a withering look. “And that pretty much goes to the heart of the problem.”

      “There’s more to life than nailing the bad guys, Jack. You gotta nail some women, too.”

      Groaning, Jack rolled his eyes. “You are one sick puppy.”

      “Yeah, but at least I’m out there, not holed up behind a desk licking my wounds.”

      Jack bristled. “You’re treading on thin ice, Donovan.”

      “I’m just worried about you.”

      “Nothing to worry about. I’m not licking any wounds. I’m the one who broke it off with Kelly, remember?”

      “That’s my point. You broke it off with her so you could focus on your career.”

      True enough. Kelly had wanted three things—a ring, Jack’s love and Jack’s time. But the truth was, all he was capable of giving her was the first one. Money could buy a ring. But he couldn’t manufacture love no matter how hard he tried. And he didn’t want to cut back on his job. Not for Kelly. Hell, maybe not for anybody.

      “But you’re not a monk, man,” Donovan said, punctuating his point. “And twenty-hour days are going to kill you. You need to get laid.”

      “Dr. Donovan’s prescription for success?”

      “Shit, yeah.”

      “I can find my own women,” Jack said. “I don’t need you pimping for me.”

      Donovan snorted out a laugh. “Too bad. I’ve got great taste.” Donovan stopped alongside his beat-up Jeep, parked in front of a fire hydrant. “Come on. Cindy’s sister might be the woman for you. You could be missing out on the lay of a lifetime.”

      It was Jack’s turn to laugh. “I’ll risk it,” he said. “Right now I just want to go home and get some sleep.”

      “Sleep?” Donovan asked, doubt lacing his voice.

      “That’s what I said.” And that’s exactly what he intended to do. Right after he swung by the precinct and took another look at the file.

      * * *

      The summer heat taunted her, denying her sleep. In front of her, photocopied pages from The Pearl and The Boudoir were strewn haphazardly across the sturdy oak door she’d converted into a desktop. Ronnie picked up a page at random, needing to work, but not in the mood. Instead of analyzing the words as a proper academic should, Ronnie lost herself in the prose, her pulse quickening as she skimmed the text.

      There, on the page, the fictional Monsieur lifted his lover’s skirts, revealing her stockings...her garters...her sex. With reverence, he urged her thighs apart, then knelt in front of her, his tongue laving her intimately.

      With a low moan, Ronnie closed her eyes, imagining it was her, and not the fictional Bertha, who was the subject of the Monsieur’s attentions. Arching her neck, she trailed her fingers down the front of her thin cotton nightshirt. Her body shuddered as she ran her hands over the swell of her breasts, letting her fingers linger on her nipples, which hardened under her touch.

      Lord, she was frustrated.

      And pitiful.

      She pulled her hands away and sat straight in her chair, her elbows on her desk. Across the room, the window air conditioner spit out cool air at random, barely making a dent in the oppressive heat.

      What kind of academic got all hot and bothered while trying to study? Well, that was easy. An academic who was stupid enough to pick a research topic related to erotic literature, and then dumb enough to go and read source material way past her bedtime. And The Boudoir, no less.

      Not that the research wasn’t...fascinating. At the rate she was going, she’d need to invest in industrial-strength air-conditioning. As if on cue, the ancient window unit shuddered and gasped, finally belching out one last burst of tepid air before dying completely.

      Considering the