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Just the guest of honor having another anxiety attack. Nothing strange about that.
Thirty minutes until dinner. Mia propped her head up on the heel of her palms, resting her elbows on her knees, and tried not to think about the crowd. Her doctors assured her she was making progress and that her difficulty processing information wouldn’t last forever. Progress was slow. Tonight there would be swirls of colors and smells and noises that confused her senses, and she doubted she was equipped to manage this. Not yet.
Mia closed her eyes and focused on her breath, trying to resurrect the calm she’d felt on those few occasions she’d actually made it to yoga class. These days peace and solitude were indulgences that she could enjoy in only small doses before those around her became alarmed. The key was to find that sweet spot between enjoying much-needed isolation and triggering a minor manhunt. Everyone was always so concerned, and she found it exhausting. She winced when people spoke to her in ellipses. How are you holding up, Mia? You know, considering....
Was it any wonder she needed to hide?
Somewhere to the left, a toilet flushed. Mia opened her silver clutch to check her watch. The hotel ballroom was right down the hall. She could wait here for twenty-six more minutes and still have time to make the dinner.
A group of women came chattering into the restroom. It would be only a matter of time before someone curious fidgeted with the stall door, found it locked and started to wonder why she couldn’t see feet when she peered underneath. Time’s up.
Mia eased herself to the floor. She exited the stall and saw the line beginning to form. She took care washing her hands, singing “Happy Birthday” to herself twice while lathering, and then entered the fray.
The ballroom was so much louder than the muffled bliss of the women’s restroom, and her senses were instantly assaulted by a wash of colors, conversations and smells. She hovered by the back of the room, starting when someone pressed a cold glass into her hand.
“I thought you’d made a run for it.” Mark flashed his own tumbler and raised it to his lips. “Drink up. You’ll feel better.”
She doubted that very much but did as instructed. She cringed at the burn of the liquid. “Rum and Coke?”
“Diet Coke. Finish it. It’ll put some hair on your chest.”
“Not the look I was going for.” She lowered the glass to her waist, happy to at least have something besides her clutch to hold on to. Being empty-handed felt so awkward.
Mark issued a shrug that told her she could suit herself. Then he leaned forward until his breath was in her ear. “I know this isn’t easy for you. But you should at least pretend you’re enjoying yourself. Do it for Lena.”
Her gut still tensed at the mention of her sister. “Are you trying to motivate me, or make me feel guilty?”
He straightened. “Whatever works at this point. You can’t hide in the bathroom. You’re a guest of honor, and it’s undignified. People here are excited about your triumphant return to the spotlight.”
“I’ve never sought the spotlight,” she said wryly.
“But the spotlight sure found you, Dr. Perez.”
Mark Lewis would know about minor celebrity. He’d sought and found it as a young entrepreneur. Now he was a millionaire many times over, and his construction company, Eminence Corp, was poised to break ground on what would become the city’s tallest skyscraper. He lived in a penthouse at the Ritz-Carlton next to some of Boston’s athletic heroes, and he had standing invitations to the most exclusive events in the area.
All of it fascinated Mia, who had less than no desire to actually live such a life. Growing up the daughter of a father who taught high school and a mother who sold an occasional painting, she hadn’t learned a thing about high-fashion designers, crystal or silver. His was a foreign lifestyle. But since Lena’s murder, she and Mark each understood what the other felt in a way almost no one else in the world could. They’d each lost one of the people they’d loved the most, because before she’d vanished, Mark and Lena had been engaged.
Mia smoothed a clammy palm down the front of her dress before remembering how much it had cost her. Wouldn’t Lena have loved to see her older sister in a designer gown? Mia must have selected the garment in a weak moment, because when she’d put it on that evening, she’d been appalled to see how the dress she’d convinced herself was tasteful and modest was actually quite sexy. The shimmering steel-blue fabric clung to places her other clothes normally smoothed over, and the slit up the left side was much higher than she’d appreciated at first. She took another sip of her drink, and her face puckered again.
“You look beautiful,” said Mark. “Try to enjoy yourself.”
“I am enjoying myself.”
“And I’m Santa Claus.” With a flick of his wrist, he lifted the drink from her hand and helped himself to a generous gulp. “What can I give you that you’ll actually drink? I need to get you from completely frozen to thawed around the edges before your speech begins.”
She smiled. Mark wasn’t one of the people who spoke in ellipses, and she’d always appreciated that about him. She touched him lightly on the arm. “I’ll get my own drink. Can I get you a seltzer water?”
His face soured. “Is that a hint?”
“We’re both dropping them.”
She didn’t bother to wait for a response. She’d get him a seltzer with a dash of cranberry juice and a twist of lime. For herself...she didn’t much feel like drinking as she approached the bar, but then she thought of the night ahead, with all of the handshakes and pictures that would be taken. Then she thought of her sister and how there were a hundred reasons Mia would give anything to not be where she was at the moment. When the bartender asked her what she’d have to drink, Mia said, “Vodka tonic.”
While she waited, she traced her fingernails against the gleaming surface of the bar, admiring the red-and-gold flecks of the wood. Such rich colors, especially when compared to the dull yellow oak desk that sat in her office. She smiled to herself. What was it that Lena had called the desk when Mia first showed it to her? Utilitarian.
“Beautiful bar.”
Mia jumped at the masculine voice by her ear, reflexively placing a hand over her heart. Her gaze turned to the left, where Lieutenant Gray Bartlett stood watching her with slight alarm.
“Sorry,” she said, not sure what she was apologizing for.
“No, I startled you. I didn’t mean to.” The gentleness of his tone belied the edgy look of his five-o’clock shadow and slick dark hair. “I was just making conversation.”
Gray regarded her with concern, and annoyance bubbled into her chest. Everyone was so concerned all the time.
“Don’t mention it,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I was just wondering how this bar would look chopped up and reconstructed into a desk for my office.”
“Mahogany,” he mused, rubbing long fingers smoothly against the grain. “You have good taste.”
He didn’t mean it to come across as a compliment, she was sure. He was just being polite, and yet a burning flush crept into Mia’s face and momentarily consumed her breath. “Well, taste is one thing, and ability to pay is another.” She shook her head when she realized she was talking about money with a complete stranger. How tacky. “I’m a professor,” she nearly stammered in her own defense. “Associate professor. I don’t... We don’t earn enough to be able to afford mahogany.”
He rose to his full height and regarded her with dark, stormy eyes. Gray eyes. How funny that they matched his name. “I know, Dr. Perez. I have your business card, remember? And now I know all about you.”
She was sure he noticed her entire body burning under the intensity of his gaze. The bartender placed her drink in front of her, and she reached for it gratefully, hoping Gray didn’t notice the tremor in her fingers. “A lot of women might find that kind of statement creepy, you know.”
“I would think you’d be flattered that I’d bothered to read the program,” he said. “Your picture is in it. So is your biography.”
Of course they were. Because that was what happened when a prominent nonprofit honored you with an award. “Right. Well, now you know that I haven’t bothered to read the program. Don’t tell anyone.” She gripped the tumbler in one hand and wiped the other palm down the side of her dress, again forgetting that this was expensive fabric, not made for hand wiping. “I should get back to my friend.”
He turned his head to toss a glance in Mark’s direction. “Your boyfriend?”
“What? No. More like a brother. He was Lena’s fiancé.” As if being a hot cop entitled him to an explanation.
He didn’t move to the side to allow Mia to pass. “The Nelson Seaver Award,” he murmured. “That must be for your work for the Boston P.D., correct?”
The Seaver Award was given by the Boston Victims’ Rights Coalition at their annual awards night to recognize excellence in law enforcement on behalf of victims. “Yes. Like I’ve told you before, I’ve helped with quite a few cold cases.”
“Ironic that you’ve helped so many victims’ families find their justice, and no one’s helped you find yours.”
She halted, unsure of where he was going. “I don’t believe that meets the definition of irony, no.”
His mouth tightened into a small smile. “Charming. Tell me, is this how all child prodigies are? Always the smartest person in the room? Fine, then, it’s not ironic. But it’s unfortunate that you don’t have an answer.”
“These things take time,” she began cautiously. “My sister’s body hasn’t even been recovered—”
“I’m not just talking about your sister,” he said. “I’m talking about you.”
Her eyes snapped to meet his. He knew. He’d done his research. Of course he had. Her cheeks grew hot as she realized how exposed she was. “What happened to me was a random attack, that’s all. Those cases, where the victim has no connection to the assailant, can be nearly impossible to solve.”
He allowed her words to settle before speaking. “You know what I think? I think that you don’t think it was random,” he said quietly.
The statement pressed against her body as surely as if he’d pushed her. “Of course it was random. I know it was. Why...?” The words eluded her, scurrying in her mind like lab rats through a maze. “What are you suggesting?”
“A partnership, Mia. Nothing more.”
* * *
Gray loathed these events. There were too many people in the room and not enough air to breathe, and he’d had to rent this monkey suit. But when the chief told you to go to a fundraiser, you went. “It’s for the Boston Victims’ Rights Coalition,” the chief had said. “It’s important that the Boston P.D. give a show of support.”
Newsflash: The Boston Police Department supports victims’ rights.
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been slightly more interested in the event when he’d heard Mia Perez would be a guest of honor. She might be irritatingly effervescent, but she was easy on the eyes, and she’d been running through his mind ever since she’d shown up at the crime scene on the Charles. All of this was nothing more than evidence that he needed to date a little more than he had been since his divorce was finalized. A relationship was out of the question, but dating...maybe.
He wouldn’t be dating Mia, though. Not given the way she was looking at him now, her amber eyes sizing him up with a look that was one part heavy suspicion, two parts panic, as if he’d just informed her he could see through her dress. Part of him wondered what the psychologist thought of him. A larger part of him didn’t give a damn what she thought. He wasn’t at this fundraiser for psychoanalysis. He was here to do his job, and right now Mia Perez was a means to an end.
“A partnership?”
Her eyes narrowed. Gray couldn’t help but run his gaze from those eyes to her tense red-stained lips and then to the smattering of brown freckles on her olive skin. He observed the peachlike hair on her jaw and the small diamonds that sparkled in her earlobes. Dr. Perez cleaned up nicely.
The bartender pulled up against the side of the bar and pointed to Gray. “Coke with a twist of lime.” He shot Mia a glance. “I’m on duty tonight.”
“That’s too bad,” she said coolly. “All work and no play. It’s not good for the psyche.”
“You would know more about that than me. All I know is I like to work. Playing gets me in trouble.” He accepted the drink the bartender handed him and dropped a few dollars into a glass bowl. “Which personality disorder makes a person work too much?”
She could have frozen his drink with that smile. “Unlike you, I’m not on duty. I’m not diagnosing tonight.”
“Maybe another time, then.” He reached forward to touch her on the elbow. “I was hoping we could chat for a few minutes.”
“I really should be getting back to my friend,” Mia said, turning her long neck back from where she’d come.
“Ten minutes, that’s all.”
She reached a long, manicured finger to the spot where her ear met her jaw. “I don’t know....”
Behind them a quartet was playing, and a few couples were turning across the dance floor. Mia gripped her glass with white knuckles, darting her gaze around the room like a frightened animal. In his informal background search, he’d learned she’d suffered anxiety in crowds ever since the attack. It couldn’t make an event like this easy, and he needed her to focus on something other than the crowd.
He gently took her drink from her hands and set it on the bar, placing his beside it. Her eyes widened. “Hey, wait a minute—”
“You don’t even like whatever you ordered. Come with me.”
He took her by one of her cold hands. To his amazement, she went with him. “Where are we going?”
“I want to dance with you.”
He wound her through the crowd to the dance floor. “I can’t dance,” she said.
“Then I’ll teach you.”
They reached the floor and he turned to face her. She stood in place. “No. I can’t dance.”
“I’ve seen you walk. You carry yourself like a dancer, so I know you can dance. If you’re saying you don’t know the steps, I’ll teach you.” He took her hand again when she squinted at him, looking unconvinced. “Come on. Give me a cheap thrill.”
She rolled her eyes, but her facade melted just slightly into a smile. It was a start. “Fine. One dance.”
A waltz began and they fell naturally into place, chest to chest, his right arm encircling her back, her left hand draping his shoulder. She had a glint in her eyes that he didn’t comment on. He just smiled. He knew she was a dancer.
They glided across the floor as though they were sliding on glass, he leading and she following with regal grace. Gray had hoped only to relieve some of her anxiety, but now he felt her body turning with his, meeting his direction with fluid movement that left him feeling downright amateur. Not that he minded. He could hardly focus on his pride when someone like Mia was in his arms.
He dipped her back. “You lied to me,” he whispered against her ear in mock consternation. “You’re good at this.”
Her eyes didn’t leave his as they came back to standing. “I’m good at a lot of things, Gray.”
Indeed. His collar tightened.
They turned around the floor, lost in the music, and her muscles relaxed beneath his fingers. Then Mia drew closer to his ear and said, “What did you mean when you said you wanted to discuss a partnership?”
Business. It was like glass shattering. “You impressed me last week with your analysis of the murder scene at the Charles.” More than impressed him. The forensic evidence had confirmed her nearly immediate conclusion that the person who’d killed the young woman was a copycat, not Valentine. Then a concerned citizen had reported a large puddle of blood behind a row house in the South End. She’d been right about the gravel, too. Mia knew her stuff, and right now he needed someone who knew Valentine. “You obviously know your way around the Valentine files.”
“I have reason to.”
“I know. That’s why I want your help. I want you to look at the Valentine files again and tell me everything you see.”
“It would take me longer than five minutes.”
“Five min—?” He stopped. Right. He’d limited her time at the scene last week to five minutes. So she was angry with him for that? He spun her around and dipped her back again. “That was my scene. You’re lucky you even got five minutes.”
“You’re a real charmer, you know that?” She righted herself. “I told Lieutenant Mathieson everything I thought about the Valentine files, so why don’t you ask him?”
“Valentine is the key to finding out what happened to your sister, and finding out what happened to her is the key to finding out who assaulted you within an inch of your life last summer.”
Her grip tightened on his shoulder, and she looked away from him. “You keep saying the incidents are related. Why?”
“Call it a hunch. A woman disappears, and then a person investigating her crime—her sister—is attacked.” He shrugged. “Don’t think I’m in this just for your benefit. I think someone was trying to shut you up. You must know something damning about Valentine, and I want to know what it is.”
He’d struck a nerve. She chewed her lower lip. “I don’t remember much. I was in a coma for days. I can’t even tell you why I was by the Charles River that night.”
As she spoke about the attack, Gray felt her movements stiffen. She became distracted and stepped on his toes. “You think I’m right. You think you might know your attacker. And you think he still wants you dead.” The terror was evident in the way she turned her face to him. Then she stopped dancing, dropping her hands and looking away. “It’s all right,” he continued. “You don’t need to respond.”
“There’s nothing to respond to.” The proud tilt of her chin told him the shield was back up, the vulnerability concealed. “I answered Officer Langley’s call last week and came to the crime scene, but in hindsight, that was a mistake. I know it wasn’t Lena, and it wasn’t Valentine, but I haven’t slept much since then. I hope you understand if I decline to review those files. I’m too close to the case to be objective.”
Mia walked off the dance floor and he followed. Gray considered calling her out for using an excuse but then reconsidered. She’d been the victim of a crime, and if she didn’t want to revisit that time, then all the pleading and bargaining and coercion in the world wouldn’t do a damn thing. “Can’t blame me for trying,” he said.
She didn’t reply but simply nodded. “By the way, I think that officer made a mistake in speaking with that reporter last week. He said that the woman found by the Charles was a victim of a copycat killer.”
“So? That’s the truth.”
“You’re dealing with Valentine, who has a significant need to prove his power. When you suggest someone is copying him, you risk flushing him out of hiding.”
