Quinn - Iris Johansen [5]
Translated that meant go to hell, Joe thought, as he watched her walk away. She had a nice ass. Should he change his mind and go after her? He was always more attracted when there was a challenge involved. That was why he had come to work at the FBI. Life had been too flat after his service in the SEALs.
No, curb that recklessness for once. He’d find enough of a challenge in Atlanta. Probably not physical, but definitely mental.
He turned back to the folder on his desk and flipped it open.
Bonnie Duncan.
230 Morningside Drive
Atlanta, Georgia
IT WAS A NICE LITTLE HOUSE in a nice little neighborhood, Joe thought as he got out of the rental car. Inexpensive, but clean and freshly painted. It had a wide front porch, and red-orange geraniums were overflowing from a hanging straw basket.
A car was in the driveway, a gray Ford at least seven or eight years old. It appeared as clean and well taken care of as the house. Every detail of the house and automobile spoke of meager funds but a determination by the occupants to make the best of what they had.
But in Joe’s experience, the obvious didn’t always end up to be the truth.
He rang the doorbell.
No answer.
He waited and rang it again.
No answer.
There were reasons why Eve Duncan would not answer the bell, but he still felt a little annoyed. How the hell could he help her if she shut herself away from him like this? Overcome it. Do your job, he told himself. He had to do the interview before he could dismiss Eve Duncan from his mind and get down to the business of finding her daughter’s killer.
He went around the house to the steps leading to the kitchen screen door. Through the screen, he could see a woman at the stove with her back to him. He wanted to pound impatiently but instead knocked discreetly.
“Ms. Duncan. FBI. I rang the front doorbell, but no one answered. May I come in?”
She looked at him and turned back to the stove. “Yes, I suppose you may.”
He opened the door and entered the kitchen. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to answer the door. I hear the media has been harassing you. I’m Special Agent Joe Quinn. FBI. I wonder if I could have a few words with you.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Questions? I’ve answered millions of questions. It’s all in the ATLPD records. Go ask them.”
He stiffened as he gazed at her. She wasn’t what he had expected. Eve Duncan was tall and slim, with shoulder-length red-brown hair and hazel eyes. The high cheekbones of her face made it more fascinating than pretty. His report said she was only twenty-three, but she could have been any age. She was … extraordinary.
Usually when meeting a woman, his first impression was of beauty or ugliness, not intelligence and personality. That came later, along with an evaluation of whether he wanted to go to bed with her. But gazing at Eve Duncan, he couldn’t think of single aspects but the woman as a whole being. He was only aware of the tension, the painful restraint, the burning vitality of her. Why couldn’t he look away from her?
Get a grip. What had she said? ATLPD. “I have to make my own report.”
“Red tape. Procedures.” She scooped up the omelet and put it on a plate. “Why didn’t they send someone right after it happened?”
It had only been two weeks, but it had probably seemed a lifetime to her. “We had to wait for a request from the local police.”
“You should have been here. Everyone should have come right away.” Her hand was shaking as she picked up the plate and put it on a tray. “I suppose I’ll have to talk to you. But I have to take this omelet to my mother. She hasn’t gotten out of bed since Bonnie disappeared. I can’t get her to eat.”
“I’ll take it,” he said impulsively as he reached out and took the tray. “Which room?”
“First door at the top of the stairs.”
What was he doing? Joe wondered as he started up the stairs. So much for his philosophy of noninvolvement. He had practically jerked that tray out of her hands. Why?
To help her, ease her, make all that pain go away.
Crazy. He had seen