Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [223]
“Did you, at least, tell Cunningham about Rita?”
“Yes.”
When he offered nothing more, she turned to him, suddenly hopeful. She watched his face when she asked, “Does he believe it was Stucky?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
“So maybe he wants me to return to finally help on the case?”
Again, Delaney looked away, staring at the tabletop. She knew without any response that she was wrong.
“Jesus! Cunningham thinks I’m losing it, too,” she said quietly, and turned back to the window. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, hoping it would steady her nerves. Why couldn’t she just feel numb, instead of all this anger and now this sudden feeling of defeat?
After a long silence, she heard Delaney get up and start for the door.
“I already made arrangements for you. Your flight leaves a little before one this afternoon. I don’t have any sessions today, so I can drive you to the airport.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll take a cab,” she said without moving.
She heard him waiting, fidgeting. She refused to give him her eyes. And she certainly would not give him the absolution she knew Delaney would feel guilty without. Down below, cars began to fill the video-game slots, black and red and white, stopping and going.
“Maggie, we’re all just worried about you,” he said again, as if it should be enough.
“Right.” She didn’t bother to disguise the hurt and anger.
She waited for the soft slap of the door to close behind him. Then she crossed the room and turned the dead bolt. She stood with her back leaning against the door, listening to her heart pound, waiting for the anger and disappointment to leave. Why couldn’t she replace it with acceptance or, at least, complacency? She needed to go home to her new, huge Tudor house with her belongings stacked in cardboard boxes and her shiny new state-of-the-art security system. She needed to let this go, before she did slip so far over the edge there would be no return.
She waited, pressed against the door, staring at the ceiling and listening, if not for her heart to stop banging then at least for her common sense to return. Then making up her mind, she stomped to the middle of the room. She began stripping out of the clothes she had worn since yesterday morning. In minutes she was dressed in blue jeans, a sweatshirt and an old pair of Nikes. She slipped on her shoulder holster, shoved her badge into the back pocket of her jeans and wrestled into a navy FBI windbreaker.
Her forensic kit hadn’t been used in months, but she still didn’t leave home without it. She pulled out several pairs of latex gloves, some evidence bags and a surgical face mask, transferring the items to the pockets of her jacket.
It was almost 6:00 a.m. She had only six hours, but she wasn’t leaving this city until she connected Albert Stucky to Rita’s murder. And she didn’t care if that meant checking every last Dumpster and every last discarded take-out container in Westport’s market district. Suddenly feeling energized, she grabbed her room’s key card and left.
CHAPTER 24
“Hey lady. What the hell you looking for?”
Maggie looked over her shoulder but didn’t stop digging through the rubble. She was up to her knees in garbage. Her Nikes were stained with barbecue sauce, her gloved hands sticky. Her eyes stung from a smelly concoction of garlic, mothballs, spoiled food and general human crap.
“FBI,” she finally shouted through the paper face mask, and turned just enough for him to see the yellow letters on the jacket’s back.
“Shit! No kidding? Maybe I can help.”
She glanced at him again, resisting the urge to swipe at the strands of hair in her face, instead waving at the flies who regarded her as an invader of their territory. The man was young, probably in his early