Chapter 2

Now, with his job finally done, he rose to his feet, took one last look at the victim, and knew he was lying to himself. He did feel something, but it wasn’t sadness, grief, distress, or regret as one might suspect, but anger, rage, fury, and a deep desire to find the monster who did this and tear him from limb to limb. To calm himself, he took a few deep breaths, wiped his hand along his swarthy jawline that was covered with a five o’clock shadow, and then made his way through the uniforms to find the OIC. When Eddie found the man, he revealed what he’d uncovered, helped the others canvass the area one last time for anything missed or unseen, and then secured the crime scene. When the forensics unit finally arrived, he gave them what he had, and then conducted a grand tour that was every bit as professional as the tour guide at Kennedy Center.

With his job done, Eddie couldn’t get away fast enough.

He quickly slammed into his car, turned the ignition on, and felt the welcome purr of the engine. With a lead foot he revved it up over and over, his anger showing. The moment he got the car in motion he maneuvered it out of the parking spot, and gradually gained speed until he felt the wind slapping at his face from the open window. He longed for a wind that was clean and crisp for once, but as usual, he was hit in the face by the sickening odor of blood that quickly got lost among other disgusting odors. Drugs, alcohol, immorality, rape, corruption, muggings, perversion—all a colorless, ghostly, and intoxicating danger that drifted through the city streets like an invisible giant. Eddie looked from left to right, and even behind him, an eye out not only for other traffic, but undesirables.

The ugly criminal types.

The guilty ones.

The ones, who, if they even moved, he’d be down on them in a New York minute.

So, with deadly black eyes, and a dark trench coat covering his back, Eddie drove along these busted up streets of New York like it was the bed he slept on—when he was able to sleep.

Once Eddie got back to the precinct, he learned they had already nabbed a suspect, so he had just enough time to drink a cup of cold coffee in lieu of a stiff whiskey sour, wolf down a cold sandwich in lieu of a hot meal at the diner, and knock back several swigs of water, still trying to get the stinking taste of the street out of his mouth. Finally, he crushed the disposable cup in his hand like it was the neck of public enemy number one, and threw it into the wastebasket.

Now it began.

He walked toward the dull, drab, scratched up door with the word Interrogation Roomstretched across the top panel like it was an invitation to hell.

Oh, joy.

The moment Eddie opened the door, he was hit in the face by cigarette smoke mixed with sweat. The room had personality. Every sicko perp that had ever been in there left some kind of odor to float around in the air. It was the only room in the precinct that could, along with Baskin-Robbins, boast of over thirty-nine flavors—or was it thirty-one? Thirty-five? Hell, did it matter? No chocolate or strawberry here, only the smell of tension, hate, and fear, along with the tiniest stench that told him that this room had been used for something other than interrogation.

Hundreds of angry, killing, grappling hands had fisted and splayed on that rickety, scarred up old table that looked as if it had been found in a dumpster somewhere. Rage you could almost taste hung in the air, giving the room a one-of-a-kind persona that was so real it could almost stand up and fight back.

He was deep in these ugly thoughts when suddenly he stopped short.

Sitting there at the little scarred up interrogation table wasn’t the blood-covered, black-eyed monster he’d expected, but an innocent looking, blond-haired baby.

Not baby in the sense that he was young, but baby like in, oh, baby!

Eddie’s years of experience told him this wasn’t the freak they were after. This was a hot little number that must have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Eddie’s eyes lowered, beginning at his leather-clad feet and red flashy socks, and traveled up along his muscled frame to a net muscle shirt. Eddie almost laughed out loud when he noticed his red shirt matched his red socks. Sitting there all muscled and tattooed, Eddie wondered what he did for a living.

A model, an actor, or something much worse—a street walker.

He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of smell would linger after this man left the room. Maybe a bit of the spicy cologne he could smell wafting off the guy from where he stood. Too bad it would be eaten up by the nastier scents.