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“Give it back to me.” She reached for the pad, but he took a step backward so she couldn’t reach it, still studying it.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” He briefly shook the pad in his hand.
That she’d lost her ability to draw?
“Look, it’s difficult to explain...”
“Really? What’s so difficult about saying, ‘I’m a forensic artist. Maybe I can help with the situation’?”
He turned the sketch pad around so what she had drawn was facing her. Sherry was already cringing, preparing to explain, until she got a glimpse of the drawing.
She had drawn Detective Hatton in almost perfect likeness.
Chapter Five (#ulink_1d96b476-96e7-5d6d-9a9f-425212962ac0)
“I guess I’m flattered,” Jon continued, holding the sketch pad.
Sherry just stood there, looking at the drawing. It wasn’t her greatest work, by any means. Really it was just in the preliminary stages—rough lines and edges—but it was definitely him. It was the first work she’d done that wasn’t just absolute crap in weeks.
She’d drawn it subconsciously. Not only was it not bad, but she hadn’t gotten any chills when she did it. As a matter of fact, now that she was out from under the protection of the umbrella, she was downright hot. She took off her shirt and tied it around her waist. The sun on her back and shoulders felt wonderful.
But she wasn’t quite sure exactly what conversation she was having with Jon Hatton.
“Why are you here?” she asked him.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were a forensic artist yesterday at the hospital?”
“Believe it or not, I don’t generally make those the first words out of my mouth when I’m talking to a complete stranger.” She grabbed the sketch pad out of his hand.
“You saw what was going on with that woman yesterday, how poorly Frank Spangler was handling the interview for the composite drawing, and you did nothing. You ran away.”
Sherry’s mouth fell open before she closed it again. What was she supposed to say? It had been all she could do yesterday to just keep it together. The last thing on her mind had been to offer to help.
Yes, she had run away. She wouldn’t have been any use to anyone anyway. She’d been shaking so hard she’d hardly been able to get her keys in the car door to unlock it.
But, damn, if she had to explain any of that to him. Jerk.
“Believe it or not, I don’t walk around hospitals offering my services to everyone. I was there to pick up my friend. I just happened upon your situation accidentally.”
She could tell right away that wasn’t going to appease him.
“You were so busy with dinner plans that you couldn’t help a woman who had just been through the most traumatic event of her life?”
“You know what, Detective Hatton? There was nothing I could’ve done yesterday. By the time you got in there and got your man out, the damage had already been done. That poor woman wasn’t going to talk to anyone, no matter who the artist was.”
“He’s not my man,” Hatton replied.
“Whatever. He’s on your police force. Your team.”
“No, I’m—”
Sherry held up a hand to cut him off. She wasn’t really interested in discussing the idiot who’d further traumatized that woman. As far as she could tell, everyone employed in law enforcement in Corpus Christi was a jerk.
“Who told you I was a forensic artist? Caroline?” Sherry didn’t think her friend would say anything, but maybe she had done so.
“No.” He shook his head. “I knew we needed a different forensic artist since Spangler has been taken off the case, so I made a call.”
“I’m glad to hear that Detective Spangler won’t be doing any more damage.”
“Me, too. He has no business being around any victims, as far as I’m concerned.”
That made Sherry feel a little better. At least Hatton didn’t defend Spangler. Sherry turned away and began loading up her beach stuff to take back to the house. She knew she wouldn’t be sitting out here anymore today.
“I’m sorry you came all the way to the beach, Detective, if it wasn’t to enjoy the sunshine. Because I can’t help you. For the next two weeks I’m just a tourist not a forensic artist.”
It sounded uncaring and cold even to her own ears. But what could she do about it? Except for the rough outline of Hatton’s features—which really didn’t count because, first, she hadn’t been actually trying to draw him, her fingers had just taken over, and, second, there wasn’t enough detail in it to be of any use for any police work anyway—she hadn’t been able to draw a face in weeks.
She wasn’t trying to be unfeeling; she just couldn’t help Detective Hatton. She couldn’t even help herself.
* * *
JON SWALLOWED HIS ANGER. Just a tourist for the next two weeks? That might possibly be the most selfish thing he’d ever heard. Sherry Mitchell might be drop-dead gorgeous in that red bikini top she was wearing, but it was obvious her beauty was only skin-deep.
If it even reached that far. Such a damn shame.
Jon had read in her file that both her parents owned separate successful businesses. Ms. Mitchell had obviously grown up spoiled, and those tendencies had remained when she became an adult.
Normally, Jon didn’t mind spoiling the woman he was with. Enjoyed all the slightly crazy nuances that made women the mind-bogglingly lovely creatures that they were. He loved the mental acuity it required to discover what it was they really wanted.
But not in this case. Jon was pissed off at how the woman in front of him categorically refused to assist in a situation where she could really help. Now she was just folding up her chair and umbrella as if it were just another day at the beach. Which evidently it was to her.
No, what really made Jon mad was that he was still attracted to her despite her actions. He might think she was completely spoiled, but he knew that, given the chance, he would be kissing every inch of those shoulders and back she’d exposed when she tied that long-sleeved shirt around her waist.
Jon took a deep, cleansing breath. Neither focusing on Sherry’s selfishness nor her beauty was getting him anywhere.
He needed to focus on how he could talk her into coming to the hospital and doing her magic as a forensic artist.
Jon had considerable people skills. That was one of the things that made him so good at his job at Omega. He kept a level head. He saw things others missed. He could read people, manipulate them when necessary.
It was time to put his distaste away and focus on getting Ms. Mitchell to do her job.
“It’s ‘agent.’”
She looked over her shoulder from where she was packing up her beach items. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m Agent Hatton, not Detective Hatton.”
“Agent as in FBI? You don’t work for the Corpus Christi Police Department?”
So much for thinking she hadn’t wanted to help him because he wasn’t a local cop. She’d had no idea. That made him feel a little less hostile. “No, I don’t work for the local PD or the Bureau. I work for Omega Sector in the Critical Response Division.”
Sherry nodded. “Okay. I’ve heard a few people at the FBI field office talk about Omega. Sorry I called you ‘detective.’”
“Why don’t we just alleviate the problem altogether by you calling me Jon?” He gave her his most charming smile. The one that had always worked on his mom to get him out of trouble.
Sherry paused for just a moment, then nodded. “Okay, Jon. I’m Sherry. But you already knew that, I guess.”
Jon kept his smile up. “I did.”
“I guess that guy, Spangler, or whatever that moron’s name is, really wasn’t part of your team if you’re not local PD, so please accept my apologies for that statement.”
Jon shrugged. “No apologies necessary, but let me assure you that no one like Spangler would ever be on my team, much less be anywhere near a victim.”
He could see her relax just the slightest bit and knew he was on the right track with what she needed to hear: that Spangler’s actions were inexcusable.
No contest, as far as Jon was concerned.
He walked over and helped her lower the umbrella, which had reopened when she’d turned to talk to him. “Look, I’m sorry if I came across too strong a minute ago. But if you could take a few minutes out of your vacation to talk to Jasmine Houze, the victim, and see if there is anything you can help her remember, that would really be helpful.”
Sherry looked at him and then quickly looked away. “Caroline told me none of the women had really gotten a look at the attacker. Is Ms. Houze any different?”
Jon grimaced. “Based on preliminary reports and what she told the doctors, no. It doesn’t look like she got a good look at the rapist’s face.”
Sherry began stuffing all her beach items into a large bag. “Then you don’t really need me. I can’t help you.”
Jon tamped his irritation down again. “All I’m asking is for you to try. You’ve got an excellent track record with cases like these, and you’re a woman, which might make Ms. Houze more comfortable. Maybe she didn’t see her attacker’s face, but she might remember something. You’re our best shot.”
She looked as though she was going to say something but then stopped. Jon frowned as she took the long-sleeved shirt from around her waist and put it on as if she were chilly.
That would be fine if it wasn’t ninety degrees outside right now. Jon was already wiping sweat from his face, and he was in a short-sleeved shirt. She was actually buttoning hers up.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Um, yeah. I just caught a little chill, that’s all.”
Okay, that was odd. She’d been shivering yesterday at the hospital, too. Interesting. An illness?
“Are you sick? Running a fever?”
“No. I just...” She shrugged one delicate shoulder not hidden under her long shirt. “I just get cold sometimes.”
Jon wanted to pursue it further, but now was the time to push about the interview, while her defenses were weakened.
“Sherry, Ms. Houze needs you. There is no one else because of the licensing laws in Nueces County. If you don’t try, Frank Spangler is the next best option.”
Jon didn’t say that there was no way that was going to happen, not with him here. But revealing that wouldn’t help his argument with Sherry.
“I really can’t help you.” She huddled farther into her shirt.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“I’m just asking you to try. An hour of your time? If you can’t help after that, at least you tried. You didn’t sit here doing nothing.”
There was a long pause as she looked at him. She seemed to huddle down farther into her shirt.
“Okay, when?” she finally asked.
“Right now would be best.” He didn’t want to give her a chance to change her mind or to decide to make other plans.
She looked at him for another long, silent moment. “Fine, Agent Hatton. I will go and talk to the victim. I wouldn’t expect anything to come of it, if I were you.”
Jon nodded. “Just try. That’s all I ask.”
Chapter Six (#ulink_ef3565ac-ee10-55b9-95fe-43307ffc613a)
This was not going to be pretty, in any sense of the word. Sherry dropped all her beach items in the screened-in porch attached to the back of the house. She would worry about the beach stuff later. Right now she needed to take a quick shower and change.
She was meeting Jon at the hospital. He’d offered her a ride, but after his pinball attitude toward her on the beach, Sherry knew driving herself was a better plan.
Once he saw she wasn’t capable of drawing, she might be stranded in town if she rode with him.
He was pretty much a jerk. Handsome, with cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them, but still a jerk. And if he thought she didn’t know that he’d just handled her out there—pouring on his considerable charm and bright smile once the intimidation factor didn’t work—then he was well mistaken. She knew she’d been managed; it had happened enough times with her parents for her to recognize the pattern.
The thing was, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to help out Jon or Jasmine Houze—what kind of unfeeling wretch would she be if that was the case?—but she didn’t even think she was capable.
She would try. That was all she could do. All Agent Hatton had asked her to do. They’d see if he still felt that way when the pencil wouldn’t move because of her shivering.
The thought brought on a bout of cold, despite the fact that she didn’t have the air-conditioning running anywhere in the house. Sherry headed to the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, turning the water as hot as it could get without scalding her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stay in there long enough to really get warm—that would take so long, Jon would be in here managing her again—but at least it took a little of the edge off, warming the outside of her body if not the inside.
After her shower she dried her hair, which because of its thickness and length took a long time, but she knew better than to go out with it wet in a situation like this: if she got a chill, damp hair would just exacerbate it. She slipped on black jeans and a long-sleeved dark plum sweater and then pulled on her boots. After a touch of makeup—she wanted to look professional, for Jasmine Houze, not Jon Hatton—she grabbed her sketch pad and a set of pencils, and was out the door.
The drive to the hospital went faster than Sherry would’ve liked. She focused on a number of different things: the traffic, the scenery, the number of pickup trucks she could count, anything to keep her from thinking about what was coming up. She didn’t want to be a shivering mess before she even set foot in the hospital.
Sherry had made it through her last two cases with the cold seeming to permeate her. She could make it through questioning one woman who they suspected hadn’t seen anything. But, honestly, whether Jasmine had seen anything would be beside the point. Because either way, Sherry was going to have to walk with the poor woman through the worst day in her entire life.
She sighed as a chill rushed through her. Count pickups now. She’d be dealing with monsters soon enough.
As she found a parking place at the hospital, already having to grit her teeth to keep them from chattering, Sherry’s resolve was firm. She saw Jon standing by the door and she told him, with no holds barred, what was on her mind.
“This one time, Agent Hatton,” she said. “I will talk to Ms. Houze today, but that’s it. I don’t want any further details about the case or the women involved, or anything. You’re going to need to find someone else.”
His eyes narrowed the slightest bit, but then he nodded. “Call me Jon. And I understand. You’re on vacation.”
She was pretty sure he didn’t understand anything. That he thought she was a spoiled brat who didn’t care about anybody but herself. She could admit that bugged her, but she knew she had to take care of herself. Knew she had to find a way of getting past this coldness if she ever hoped to really work as a forensic artist again. Or at this point, to even be able to draw again ever.
Not having her art in her life was not an acceptable compromise.
