The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [9]
Vail pulled herself out of the chair and tried to bring her mind back into a state capable of socializing. She reached the doorway in time to see Manette’s reaction to Melanie Hoffman’s demise.
“How you doing, Mannie?” Bledsoe gave her a quick hug. Vail had not seen Manette since the task force had been suspended—and judging by their reactions, she figured Bledsoe hadn’t either.
“How’s my favorite dick hanging?” Manette asked Bledsoe.
Vail cringed. She was no prude, but after a while, the sexual innuendoes wore thin.
“Divorce is in the books,” Bledsoe said. “Trying to move on.”
“You deserve better, Blood. You do.” She grabbed a hunk of Bledsoe’s ample cheek and squeezed. “Maybe a fine thing like me would consider taking on a work like you.”
Bledsoe turned a bit crimson and rolled his eyes.
Manette threw a hand up to her chest in mock surprise at seeing Vail. “Kari! My least favorite shrink. Still lookin’ for that trapdoor that’ll take you into the killer’s mind?”
Vail turned away, preferring not to get into it with Manette. “I’ll be back in five,” she said to Bledsoe. She walked out of the house, moving beyond the crime scene tape to clear her mind and regain her concentration. The smell of death was rank, even with Mentholatum on her lip, and stealing some brisk, moist air of a misty winter day provided a needed respite.
Lacking a caffeine-laced soft drink, Vail bummed a Marlboro from a nearby technician and lit it. She had given up the awful habit when she left Deacon—considering it part of his curse—and hadn’t smoked since. She tugged on the end and sucked in her fix of stimulant. After blowing a few rings in the air and snubbing out the barely smoked cigarette, she saw a car pull up across the street, behind two parked police cruisers. Acura, late model, navy blue. Too pricey for an unmarked, unless it was left over from a search and seizure.
The driver leaned forward and Vail got a clear view of the man, despite the high gray sky reflecting off the tinted glass. She stormed back into the house and sought out Bledsoe.
“What the hell is Hancock doing here?”
Bledsoe twisted away from Manette. “Hancock?”
“Chase Hancock. Arrogant, pain-in-the-ass SOB.”
“Don’t hold back, Kari. Tell us what you really think of him.”
Vail opened her mouth to respond, but the electronic tone of Beethoven’s Fifth interrupted her.
Bledsoe rooted a cell phone from his jacket pocket and answered the call. He shook his head, walked a few feet away, and appeared to put up a mild protest. Seconds later, he disconnected the call, then threw a furrowed look at Vail.
“Well, well, well. Karen Vail, Paul Bledsoe, and . . . who is this lovely creature I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting?” Trim but thick, with a mound of slicked back blond hair, sky blue eyes, and a divot of a dimple in a square chin, Chase Hancock was all smiles. His extended right hand hung in the air in front of Manette.
Manette looked Hancock over and nodded her approval, but she did not offer her hand in acknowledgment—thus making her assessment known: she did not care for anything else other than the physical package.
“Interesting name, Hancock,” Manette mused. “Kind of sounds like—”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Vail asked.
“He’s here on order of Chief Thurston.”
Vail’s frown shifted toward Bledsoe. “What?”
Bledsoe looked away. “Hancock’s been named to the task force. Just got the call,” he said, holding up his cell phone.
With Vail’s fisted hands turning white, Bledsoe led her out to the