Flirting with Disaster. Victoria Dahl

think? It’s been a year. I told you not to report it.”

      Tom grabbed a cookie and shot Mary a look, noticing that she was chewing on her thumbnail. She did that only when she was tired enough to forget. “He called you a dyke. In front of me.”

      “It’s not the worst I’ve heard.”

      “Then he chose the wrong place to say it. And you’re chewing your nail again.”

      “Shit,” she muttered, clenching her hand into a fist and forcing it to her side.

      “He’ll get over it,” Tom repeated. “And he won’t disrespect you or anyone else on the team again.”

      Mary was forty-five, but she looked a lot younger. Couple that with her small frame, curly blond hair and heart-shaped face, and she sometimes had trouble commanding respect. Actually, that wasn’t true. She commanded respect. Her men followed her orders to a T. But there were always a few holdouts on other teams who considered her authority an insult to their testicles.

      She made it a policy never to show weakness in front of those assholes, and she hated giving away that she might be stressed.

      “I already read the day’s report,” he said as he polished off a second cookie. “Everything’s in place for the trial?”

      “Yes. You still think we’ll hear from the brother again?”

      “I hope not,” Tom said, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension. “But I’ve got a bad feeling. And the judge? How is he handling the detail?”

      Mary shrugged. “He seems entirely comfortable with an entourage. Like he was born to it.”

      Tom snorted. That was no big surprise. The judge was a blowhard and pretty damn impressed with his position in the community.

      “He actually calls Wes his ‘driver.’”

      Tom guffawed at how much that must chap Wes’s hide. “I’ve got to see that myself.”

      Mary grinned. “It’s pretty awesome.”

      They both turned toward the stairway when the door to the first floor opened, expecting Wes to head down, but these footsteps were soft and light.

      A young woman Tom recognized as Veronica Chandler stuck her head past the wall, her blond hair swinging. “I just wanted to check and see if you needed anything before I turn in.”

      Tom stood. “No, we’re all set up down here. Thank you for the cookies.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “Do you know Jill Washington up the road? She’s an amazing baker.”

      The woman smiled. “No, my father only bought this house two years ago, and I was living in New York then. And these cookies went straight from the tube to the oven.”

      “The perfect recipe,” Mary said.

      “I’ll see you in the morning,” Veronica called as she headed back upstairs. She looked happy enough to be here. Tom suspected she was relieved. She’d spent two of the past three evenings here already. What was the point in driving home in the dark to sleep?

      It was the same reason Tom was in the basement, after all.

      “I’m heading out,” Mary said.

      “You can take the cot, if you want. I’ll sleep here. It’s a fold-out couch.”

      “Thanks, but no thanks. If I wanted to wake up to obnoxious men, I’d change my dating habits.”

      “Are you calling me obnoxious?”

      “No comment.” She eased her feet into the heels she wore on duty to add a couple more inches to her height.

      Tom cleared his throat. “So what’s your age range?”

      “For what?”

      “Dating.”

      She frowned at him and grabbed her coat. “That’s a weird question.”

      “I’m just making conversation.”

      “Bullshit. You know somebody? Is it that new girl in Intake? She’s only twenty-one. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

      “It’s no one,” he said. “Forget I said anything.”

      “Stop trying to take care of me. I’m not one of your lost causes.” She tugged a knit hat over her blond curls and glared at him for a moment before heading toward the staircase. “Ten years on either side,” she tossed back without slowing down.

      “Good to know,” Tom responded, not bothering to hide his smile.

      But as soon as Mary’s footsteps hit the first floor and the door closed behind her, Tom was left alone with his thoughts. And those thoughts were not on Jill anymore; they were on her freaky-ass neighbor. What the hell was up with Isabelle West?

      He closed his email program and opened his browser to try her name again, but there were still no good clues, so he searched for anatomical art instead. He clicked around for a good half an hour, learning what he could about it. What he saw was pretty on par with what he’d glimpsed at her house. He didn’t like one bit of it.

      He could handle seeing dead bodies on the job. It was rarely a complete surprise. He usually had the chance to brace himself against the sight so he wasn’t snapped back to that long-ago moment when he’d found his brother. But tonight had sneaked up on him.

      He took a deep breath and cleared the search window then tried a new one for “medical paintings” and her name. He got back garbage. That was weird. She obviously did well for herself. She must have a legitimate career. So why was she missing online?

      Tom sat back in his chair and tapped a pen to his chin for a minute then thought of the other painting he’d seen in her home. The vivid realism of it. The beauty. And the very short signature in the corner.

      He typed in “I. West” and “anatomical painting” and hit the mother lode.

      “Bingo,” he breathed. Here was her career. She’d been telling the truth.

      There wasn’t much to get from the search results, other than that confirmation. Her work wasn’t meant for private buyers. The hits were all sites where posters and textbooks could be purchased. There was no author biography anywhere. No pictures or stories about her.

      Still, the morbidity of the whole thing niggled at his brain. Combined with her initial hostility, Tom decided he couldn’t ignore that prickling he’d felt on the back of his neck earlier.

      He signed in to the National Crime Information Center to do a quick check on her background. Two hours later, he was even more confused. Isabelle West didn’t seem to be a criminal. There were no warrants, no arrests, not even a traffic ticket as far as he could tell. So she wasn’t a criminal. But she also hadn’t existed before 2002.

CHAPTER FOUR

      “GOOD GOD, ISABELLE, you have got to be kidding me!”

      Isabelle stared in confusion at her friend. Lauren was standing on the front porch, wearing a tight red dress and heels, and she was glaring daggers.

      “What?” Isabelle asked.

      “It’s Sunday! I texted you this morning!”

      “It’s Sunday?”

      “Yes!”

      “Are you sure you sent a text?” She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, trying to angle the paintbrush in her fingers so that she didn’t get cadmium green in her hair. “I didn’t get it.”

      Lauren sighed. “Have you been anywhere near your phone today? Is it charged?”

      Isabelle