It had begun when he’d visited her home, he realized. When she’d joked with him about their “doing it.” And his respect for her had been growing by leaps and bounds ever since.
Fortunately, before he could think about it too long, a call came through on his radio. He listened to the dispatcher’s communication with the patrol officer. Then he switched lanes. “We’ve got our first call,” he said abruptly.
* * *
SITTING AT HIS DESK, DeMarco was supposed to be working some leads in a carjacking case but he was growing more and more frustrated with each minute that passed. He’d felt fine when he’d been talking to Simon and his doctor friend, but now for some reason his mind kept wandering. And not to Nina Whitaker, the woman who’d just walked outside with Simon. Hell, that would have been understandable. She was a damn good-looking woman. Smart, too. If he was merely thinking that or about getting her in bed, he wouldn’t be worried. Distracted, but not worried.
Instead, DeMarco kept thinking about the murder of that homeless man, Louis Cann, and how he and Simon must have missed something even though he knew damn well they hadn’t. And what was worse, DeMarco kept thinking that the Cann case file was calling out to him.
He didn’t mean that his instincts were urging him to look at the file.
He meant the file was literally calling out to him from the file cabinet across the room.
“Hey, DeMarco,” it was saying in a voice eerily reminiscent of Bill Cosby. “Come and get me. Open me up and I’ll show you what you’re missing.”
DeMarco gritted his teeth and willed the voice to go away. Instead, it continued calling to him. He felt a fine sheen of sweat break out on his body.
Abruptly, he whirled around, wondering if Jase Tyler, their resident jokester, was messing with him. Jase was at his desk all right, but he was talking to Carrie. They both looked up at his sudden movement.
Jase raised a brow. “Hey. You okay, DeMarco?”
DeMarco swallowed hard. “What? Yeah, of course I am.”
He turned back to his desk. Blinked rapidly and tried to focus on the papers he’d been reading. The letters were all swirling around. And that damn voice was still calling to him.
Get the fucking file, he told himself. Then the damn voice will shut up.
Slowly, DeMarco stood and made his way to the file cabinet. Acutely aware that Jase and Carrie were watching him, he opened the right drawer, found the file and reached for it. His hand hovered over the file almost fearfully, as if he expected the damn thing to leap out and bite him. He forced himself to pick it up.
A sudden clanging across the room made him jump. He whirled around and shouted, “What the fuck?” Automatically, he reached for his sidepiece.
“Whoa, DeMarco,” Carrie said, holding up her hands. “I just tossed my soda can in the trash.”
“Jesus, Carrie. You startled me.”
When she and Jase just stared at him, he shook his head.
“Damn it, I’m sorry. I think—I think I should go home for a little while. I’m not feeling well.”
“You want me to drive you?” Jase asked.
DeMarco shook his head. “No. But thanks. I’ll be fine.”
But even as he said it, DeMarco knew he was lying. Because he was holding the Cann file now. And it was still calling to him. This time, however, it wasn’t taunting him about a dead homeless man named Louis Cann.
It was taunting him about Billy Dahl, the teenage boy DeMarco had shot six years ago in New Orleans.
* * *
WHEN SIMON AND NINA arrived at the modest little house off of Mission Street, the patrol car was already parked outside. Simon explained that he’d assess the situation first and would return for her only if he determined it was safe. Even so, he said, “Stay here,” before exiting the car and entering the residence. To her surprise, he returned a few minutes later and got back in the car. Silently, he started the engine and reached to put the car in gear. She stayed him with a hand on his arm.
“What’s going on? Is the situation already over?”
He gave a curt shake of his head. “Officer Harrison has it under control. At least, he will.”
“But you don’t want me to go in,” she confirmed. “Who’s the suspect? Is he exhibiting signs of mental illness like the dispatcher thought?”
“It’s a she. And yes, there may be a mental health