Split Second - Catherine Coulter [111]
“What about the dead man, Coop?”
“Forensics got a hit on his partial fingerprints, and then matched some tattoos on his neck to the same man’s mug shots. His name was Ben Eddy Dukes; he’d been in jail for attempted murder, so why not step up to first-degree? He was thirty-seven, on parole out of Briarwood State Prison for a couple of years, and had been suspected of a spate of robberies in upscale neighborhoods in cities all over Maryland.
“Savich is getting his photo over to Welling to confirm he was one of the men who bought the van. It sure looks like they were hired to kill you. Ben Eddy Dukes was a real badass professional. As for the other man, they’re trying to get a description of him from Minsk.”
Lucy said, “Yeah, we knew that was the case. It will be harder to find out who hired them. It’s progress, though.”
His eyes were fixed on her face. He reached out his palm and lightly cupped her bruised jaw. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair down before last night. I like all the cool shades. No more bandages on your head. You almost can’t see those little butterflies covering the wound, and the bruise on your jaw looks like it might be fading. I think you look good to go, Lucy.”
He dropped his hand, turned, and said over his shoulder, “Here’s your coffee, no cream, no sugar.” He waited until she took a sip, and asked, “How are all your sore spots doing this morning?”
Sore spots? You voodooed them right out of me. “A little sore here and there. Better, though. Ah, the coffee’s delicious, maybe as good as Dillon’s.”
“I worked at Starbucks when I was a teenager, got my addiction there. You’ve got to taste the mean nonfat mocha latte with just a touch of cinnamon I learned how to brew. My parents assure me it classifies as ambrosia.”
Who cared about tasting fricking nonfat mocha latte—with cinnamon—when he was standing not five feet away from her, and she could cover that distance with a nice long jump and end up with her legs wrapped around his waist?
He turned away to put two slices of wheat bread into the toaster. “I’m making scrambled eggs. I only use half the yolk, so your arteries won’t clog.”
You want to eat? “That’d be good.”
She drank some more coffee, sat down at the kitchen table where he’d already set out plates and silverware. The kitchen was large and bright, even in the dismal gray morning light.
“You’ve got lots of gadgets. Do you use them all?”
He said over his shoulder, “Not really. My parents are the real cooks and like to give me these things. The panini press is their latest gift. I haven’t used it yet. Maybe if we’re here at lunch, we can give it a try.”
“Coop?”
“Yes?” He didn’t turn away from his skillet. She smelled frying bacon.
“Did Dillon want anything else?”
“Yeah,” he said. “He’d like to see your grandfather’s letter. So would I, for that matter. We can stop at your grandmother’s house after breakfast, take it with us to the CAU.”
As he spoke, Coop walked over to her, slipped his hand into her blouse, and pulled up the chain holding her ring. Lucy froze. He said quietly, “I saw you take it off last night. I remember you said you had no clue what these symbols mean. And this single word—how do you pronounce it?”
Her heart nearly stopped when he whispered the word closely enough.
“SEFYLL.”
She waited to see a reaction, just as she’d waited, frozen, when Dillon had said the word, but she already knew nothing would happen when Coop said it. She was right; everything continued as it was supposed to.
She lifted his fingers from the ring and put it back inside her shirt.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how anyone knew I even had this.”
He turned to face her, looking very serious. “Before I made the unforgettable decision to see if you were okay last night when I heard you moving around, I was lying awake in bed, asking