“Is there a reason you’re here on my day off? And how do you know where I live?”
I’m not trying to be a dick, but there’s no reason to beat around the bush with her. I have a lot of shit to get done and really don’t appreciate the unexpected visit.
She laughs like I said something funny. “You’re so hospitable.”
I don’t laugh or smile. In fact, now I’m kind of pissed. She noticeably didn’t answer my questions either.
“Morales,” I say as my arms cross and shoulders square.
She plops down on a turned over bucket in the middle of the room. “Dominic, you can call me Talia, it’s not like we’re at work.”
My stare narrows. I’m not going to call her Talia. “It’s Dom or Alvarez. Not Dominic.” I correct.
Only a few select people in my life call me by my full name—Ellie being one of them. It’s not for Morales to use.
Her smile strains before she reaches into her shoulder bag and produces a file folder. “I was hoping I could run a few things by you, related to the JB Stalker.”
“JB Stalker?”
She blows out a puff of air. “The Juniper Bluffs Stalker.” She says this like it should’ve been my first conclusion.
Irake a hand through my hair, exhaling a slow breath. “You gave the stalker a nickname?”
She shrugs, unfazed. “It’s catchy. Easier than saying, ‘That guy who left a bunch of creepy pictures in a duffle bag’—assuming it’s a guy. For all I know it’s a woman, not likely, but still.”
I grab a rag off the workbench and wipe my hands, stalling. She’s clearly not leaving until she gets what she wants.
“And you couldn’t have called me about this? Or, I don’t know, waited until tomorrow?”
Her lips quirk up in a grin. “Would you have answered?”
I glare. She knows the answer.
“I’ll take that as a no,” she says with a satisfied smirk, leaning back on the bucket.
“Why not go to Sergeant Vorheis about this?”
She lets out a breath, revealing a crack in her usual confidence. “Because he doesn’t respect me. I’ve been trying to get in the detective’s unit for almost two years and I’m not making any headway. He seems to like you more than me.”
Well, fuck. Talk about feeling like a dick.
I gesture vaguely at the folder. “Fine. What do you need from me?”
She flips it open and starts rifling through papers. “Just your insight. I figured your fancy LAPD job might provide a different perspective.”
“Wasn’t really that fancy,” I mutter, but I pull up another bucket and sit across from her anyway.
She’s likely being honest about Vorheis. I’m not about to question her experiences, but my gut is telling me Morales came here with intentions that have nothing to do with work. If I’m right, it’s really going to mess up our already fragile work relationship.
She spreads a few photos across the makeshift table between us. Grainy images of a man standing just beyond thelight of someone’s front porch, his face obscured by shadows. The timestamps show the photos were taken a few nights ago.
“There’s a Peeping Tom case in Coyote Creek Junction. This is the third house he’s hit this month,” Morales says, her voice dropping into a more serious tone. “Same pattern. He watches for hours, just standing there. Leaves no trace. No prints, no hair, nothing.”
I study the photos, an unease curling in my stomach. It’s the same feeling I got when I was looking through the Delmar file. The timing is too suspect.
“You think this is our guy?” I ask.
Her expression hardens. “What are the odds of a Peeping Tom case, potential stalker and missing woman all happening at the same time in our county?”
