Silent Confessions. Джулия Кеннер

caffeine.”

      “You call this surviving?” Irving swept his arm to encompass the office. “The animals in Central Park got better digs than we do.”

      Jack grinned and lifted his coffee cup. “But we got a much better menu.”

      The lieutenant flipped a wooden chair around, straddled it, and Jack pushed a photocopy of Mrs. Crawley’s pillow greeting his way. “What do you make of that?”

      Irving picked up the copy, held it farther and then even farther away as though he were doing a little trombone number, then ended up holding it at arm’s length. Jack bit back a chuckle. The lieutenant refused to give in and buy reading glasses, but if his eyes kept going south, he was going to need longer arms.

      “Don’t be frightened, darling.” Irving frowned. “A threat. But there’s something else. Something about the language. It’s stilted.”

      “That’s what I think, too.”

      “The Crawley case?”

      Jack nodded. “Third incident. This one, the perp actually got into their bedroom. Needless to say, Mr. and Mrs. Crawley aren’t too happy.” He took the paper back, frowning at the neatly typed words. “It’s...odd. Our perp seems to be quoting something, and it might be important.”

      “So figure out what he’s quoting.”

      “Already on it.” Jack grinned. “Or rather, Donovan is.”

      Irving chuckled. “What are you up to, Parker?”

      “Just doing my job. I called my partner about six-thirty this morning. Said I needed him to track us down a literature professor.”

      “Don’t suppose Donovan’s girl of the week took that too well.”

      “Don’t guess she did.” Jack stifled a smile, remembering the girl’s clear annoyance when she’d answered the phone. He grinned. “Well, if you can’t stand the hours, don’t date a cop.”

      Considering Jack had spent the entire night buried under boxes of evidence, while Donovan had spent the night under—or on top of—something much more entertaining, Jack couldn’t feel too guilty about the wake-up call. And the fact was, he really did need to find someone who could source that quote—assuming it really was a quote. In the absence of any physical evidence, it was the best lead they had. Hell, it was the only lead.

      “So how’d you pull this assignment?” Irving asked. “Sex crimes division going after scraps of paper now?”

      Jack shook his head. “Our perp’s got a thing for erotica. Book passages and some pretty graphic nudie postcards.”

      Irving pulled out a doughnut, then passed the bag to Jack before standing. “Pass a nudie postcard my way and we’ll call it even.”

      Jack laughed, and when his stomach growled he realized he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch. He grabbed an apple fritter and devoured half of it before Irving crossed the squad room.

      Jack was wiping crumbs off his desk when Donovan appeared and dropped into the chair Irving had abandoned.

      “You realize you owe me one,” Donovan said.

      Jack nodded. “Story of my life. Find anyone?”

      Donovan shifted smoothly into professional mode. “A tenured professor of world literature. No summer classes. Family was in the book business for years. Should be in to see you around nine.”

      “Good. I’ve got to be in court on the Bleeker case at eleven, so that’s perfect.”

      “I live to serve.” Donovan leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t forget the vest,” he added.

      “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack said. The Bleeker matter had taken a nasty turn, child pornography, mob connections, all sorts of shit. And the word on the street was that Darian Bleeker intended to simply get rid of the witnesses. Kevlar had become de rigueur for the fashionable detective. Jack hated the vest, but he sucked it up and wore it on the days he was testifying. The damn thing was miserable in the summer heat, but certainly preferable to getting blown away.

      Donovan helped himself to a corner of Jack’s fritter. “So I’m guessing you were here all night. Come up with anything else?”

      “Nothing definitive.”

      “Fingerprints?”

      “Lab says no.”

      “What about the paper?”

      Jack shook his head, the lack of any serious leads eating at his gut. “Doubtful. Looks to be pretty common notepaper. But this...” He slid the photocopy across the desk again. “See anything odd?”

      Donovan shrugged. “Should I?”

      “The e rises a bit. One of the forensic guys noticed.”

      “A typewriter? What? Our perp’s not computer literate?”

      “Could be a lead—but only if we track down the match.”

      Donovan grimaced. “Great. Thousands of typewriters in the greater Manhattan area. I’ll start combing junk shops,” he scoffed.

      “I’m hoping your professor can give us some more concrete help,” Jack said.

      “I guess you are.” Donovan looked at his watch. “In the meantime, I’ll go to the lab and see if anyone’s hobby is typewriters.”

      Jack downed some coffee. “Have fun.”

      As Donovan headed off, Jack pulled out the evidence he’d been reviewing all night—the pillow note, two pages ripped from Lady Chatterley’s Lover, a postcard of a half-naked woman, and three postcards showing men and women in positions that, if the right woman came along, Jack might be tempted to try.

      “I was hoping to talk to him now. I’m in kind of a hurry.” At the distinctly female voice, Jack looked up, automatically covering the risqué postcards with a manila folder. Near the main doors, a tall woman with a mass of deep brown curls and lips to die for was having an animated conversation with the officer on duty. She looked at her watch, frowned and turned back to the officer. “I’d like to be back at the bookstore by ten.”

      Bookstore. Thank God she’d arrived early. He had a ton of questions. Jack jumped to his feet and half ran to the front of the room, stopping across the counter from her and sticking out his hand.

      “Detective Parker. I think you’re here to see me.”

      Carla, the officer on duty, raised an eyebrow, but he waved her down. The woman shifted her purse and took his hand, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity dancing across his fingertips.

      “Veronica Archer.” She glanced from Carla to him and back again. Her eyes widened behind the wire frames of her glasses and she held his gaze for the briefest moment before she looked away, color rising on her cheeks. “I...I’m supposed to talk to you?”

      “That’s right,” he said, thankful for small favors. He opened the gate and ushered her through, appreciating the way her hips moved under the clingy knit skirt.

      For a brief moment he wondered if Donovan had deliberately picked the sexiest professor on campus to entice him, then dismissed the idea. Off duty, his partner might throw women at him. On the job, Donovan was the consummate professional. Which meant this woman knew her stuff. “I overheard you say that you were in a hurry. Detective Donovan’s down at the lab right now.”

      “Oh.” Her easy smile affected him in ways that were hardly professional. With effort, he forced himself to concentrate on her words. “In that case,” she added, “thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”

      Her smile broadened, and he found himself returning it. He cleared his throat. “Right. Well, Donovan and I work together.” Jack gestured to a chair, then sat behind his desk. He was grateful