Gone Too Far (Devlin & Falco #2) - Debra Webb Page 0,36
any given situation. Supremely uptight and no doubt completely ruthless.
Then she thought of Sadie Cross. A total contradiction to her father. So laid back she was practically in a coma. Thin to the point she could just disappear. Dressed like a street dweller. Capable of anything whether it was legal or not. The one thing the two had in common was obvious intelligence. Unlike her father, Sadie Cross expected nothing of anyone. Her resources were like her, ragged, unkempt, but incredibly smart and capable. That was the strangest part about the woman and her group of misfit resources—they were like this unexpected group of geniuses who had somehow fallen out of accepted society.
Falco pounded on the door again. Kerri jumped at the sound. “If that doesn’t get her attention, she’s either not at home or dead.”
The sound of dead bolts sliding snapped their gazes back to the door. When the door opened, Cross stared first at Falco and then at Devlin with enough irritation to blast them off the landing.
“It lives,” Falco griped.
“What time is it?” Cross asked, her voice rusty.
“Two o’clock,” Kerri said. The woman looked hungover, seriously hungover. Her hair was mussed. Her clothes the same ones she’d been wearing yesterday. Actually, it was difficult to tell about the wardrobe. Ragged jeans and tees were her usual attire. As were the well-worn sneakers.
“I need coffee.” Cross gave them her back and disappeared into her perpetually dimly lit loft.
Since she’d left the door open, Kerri and Falco followed.
“You were supposed to call me,” Falco reminded her.
Her hands shook as she attempted to pour the water from the carafe into the coffee maker. Water splashed on the counter.
“Give me that.” Falco took the carafe from her and finished the job.
While he scooped coffee grounds into the basket, Kerri said, “I met your father this morning.”
Cross’s bloodshot eyes shifted to Kerri. “Aren’t you the lucky one?”
Falco shoved the basket into the machine and started the brewing process. “He took over our case. The DEA is now lead.”
“Surprise, surprise.” Cross reached for her cigarettes and lit up. “That’s what the old man does when it serves his best interests.”
The smell of coffee drifted into the air. Would never be enough to block out the smell of cigarette smoke. Kerri got the distinct impression that Cross was trying to kill herself. In Kerri’s opinion there were far easier ways.
“What was the deal between you and Walsh?” Falco demanded. “No more beating around the bush, Cross. I want the truth. All of it.”
“Give me five minutes, and we’ll talk all you want.” She walked across the room, leaving them staring after her.
She grabbed a black tee from the pile of clothes on a dresser. Scrounged for a pair of jeans and underwear and then disappeared into the bathroom.
Kerri shook her head. “Has she always been this hell bent on killing herself?”
Falco shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.”
He’d told Kerri as much as he knew about Sadie Cross’s story. Deep cover cop. Things had gone to hell, and she’d ended up damaged goods. Apparently, she and her father were not on good terms. He didn’t approve of her lifestyle, Kerri imagined. She didn’t have to know the man to recognize he likely approved of very little. Since Cross was an only child, he had no doubt attempted to mold her into something that resembled his image.
Clearly, he had failed miserably.
Then again, Kerri wasn’t exactly the perfect parent. She had no right to judge anyone else. Except that she already disliked Mason Cross. Immensely.
While they waited, Kerri wandered around the space. There were windows facing the street. None that overlooked the alley, thus the cameras. Cross kept the blinds closed tightly. Her furnishings were sparse and had seen better days. The kitchen area was more a kitchenette with a small peninsula skirted by a couple of stools. A television. Music system. All looked to be from the previous decade. A movable whiteboard—the type on legs with wheels—she likely used for cases stood in the corner near the door. Lots of filing cabinets lined the wall, fronted by a massive wooden desk that might actually be an antique. The top was cluttered with papers and file folders. An empty whiskey bottle lay on one end. No glass or cup.
This would certainly explain the megahangover.
The bathroom door opened, and Sadie Cross emerged, dark hair wet, clothes as wrinkled as the ones she’d been wearing before her shower.