Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [25]
“Maybe Elaine’s wrong,” he said. “Maybe she let your name slip. Maybe this bastard knows more about you than I do.”
I glanced at the hand that gripped my arm with mind-imploding arrogance. “That wouldn’t take much.”
“Yeah? I know you’re wearing leopard print underwear.”
“I …” I screwed up my face at him, but truth to tell, I was kind of impressed. My skirt was high-waisted. “How did you know that?”
“I’m a cop,” he said. “And you’re staying here.”
“The hell I am.”
He drew a careful breath as if that would keep planet Earth from tumbling into chaos. “I’m asking you to stay here.”
“And I’m telling you no.”
He ground his teeth. Pretty soon he was going to be edentate. Which would make him decidedly less sexy. Damnit! Why do I find irritating men sexy? “Maybe you don’t realize how dangerous these domestic cases are, McMullen.”
“I’m a licensed psychologist.”
He canted his head. “Was that a psychologist or a psychotic?”
“Huh!” I chortled, then yanked my arm out of his grasp, turned away, and marched through the airport like a storm trooper.
I heard Rivera swear again, then, “Damnit, McMullen, why can’t you be just a little bit—”
“If domestic cases are as dangerous as you say—you being the lauded police lieutenant—then we don’t have much time to waste.”
“You don’t even know if she’s really here.”
“Good thing I have eyes.”
“You going to wave a sign? ‘Abused Wife of Asshole Oilman, Over Here’?”
“I think the burka might give her away,” I said, but when we reached the baggage claim there wasn’t a respectable face veil in sight. Just your average mix of bad taste.
There was a baker’s dozen of white folk as pale as myself, all dressed as if they were going slumming; a trio of black women heatedly discussing something obviously near and dear to their hearts, and an olive-skinned boy with low-slung jeans bobbing to the beat of the iPod plugged into his ears. His baseball cap was frayed and said I NY.
“You sure this is the right place?” Rivera asked.
“She said United—” I stopped talking as two men in turbans turned left into the area. They were tall and lean, with hungry eyes and handsome hooked noses.
“Wow,” I said. I can’t help it, there’s something about those haughty Middle Eastern men that makes the animal in me want to take a bite out of their dark-meat flanks.
The taller of the two shifted his sexy dusk gaze toward me and my breath caught in my throat. He stood very straight, shoulders drawn back, somber mouth even.
“Looking to be wife number six?” Rivera asked, and I snapped myself back in line, silently reprimanding the lazy-ass feminist in me.
“Do you think they’re looking for her?” I asked, and turned my gaze casually away, but Rivera was still glaring at me.
“Are you looking for them?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and skimmed the growing crowd.
“You look like a hyena in a herd of wildebeest.”
I gave up my perusal. “Maybe you could be jealous and insecure later,” I said, and he snorted.
The boy with the New York cap adjusted his backpack, then touched a finger to his iPod, and in that moment I noticed something odd. I scowled and turned toward Rivera, not wanting to seem conspicuous.
“Don’t they usually light up?”
“Would it be too much to ask you to make sense?”
“iPods,” I said, frustrated. Laney would have understood my question, and had an interesting TV-related anecdote seconds ago. “Don’t they light up when you touch them?”
“Do I look like Sean Diddy?”
“Just the attitude,” I said, and turned momentarily back to the boy. His eyes were large, dark, lipid, and gorgeous. His black hair was cut short. In a second he looked away and tugged his tattered baseball cap lower over his forehead. His backpack looked heavy and his wrist was bruised.
Our eyes met, and in that moment he lowered his arm, letting the sleeve of his jersey fall back in place, but it was already too late.
I had found Aalia. Unfortunately, there was no reason