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Frank Petrillo was a detective who had been with the department for more years than Miranda. Recently divorced and the father of two kids, he didn’t see as much as he wanted to, he’d been asking Miranda out for the past three months. So far, they’d only shared a pizza after working late one night. That was as involved as Miranda wanted to be. She didn’t date anyone she worked with. It was her personal, unwritten but never-broken law.
“I just don’t understand why he doesn’t leave his name or number—why he keeps missing me.” Her desk was still messy, a few files piled on one corner, reference books open near her computer monitor, a half-full cup of coffee gone cold where she’d left it near her calendar.
“You ever thought he’s one of those stalkers?”
Of course she had. “He’s too close. Taking too many risks.”
“Fits a stalker’s M.O., if you ask me.”
Miranda plucked her raincoat from a hook on the back of the door and slung the coat over one arm. “Tell me about him.”
“This is the third time he’s been in.” Louise held up three slim fingers. “He was here yesterday and the day before. Won’t leave his name, and when I suggest he talk to someone else, he seems to disappear.”
“What’s he look like?” She’d never asked before; hadn’t had the time or the interest, but the man was starting to get on her nerves—worry her a little.
“That’s the kicker,” Louise said, showing off even white teeth in her first smile of the afternoon. “He looks like he could have stepped off the pages of a Marlboro ad. You know the kind. Rugged, not polished, black hair, gray eyes that don’t smile much. Intense. Six feet, maybe six-one or -two, lean and always dressed in jeans and a shirt—no tie, just some kind of leather jacket that’s seen better years.”
“So he doesn’t scare you?”
“Not really, but then I don’t scare easily,” Louise said, her smile fading. Miranda thought about Louise’s ex-husband, a man who had battered her, threatening her life for several years, before Louise had found the strength to get out and walk away from a violent marriage. “But there’s something about him I don’t trust. When he couldn’t get past me, he stopped by Debbie’s desk, leaned his hips against it, smiled, and turned on the charm.”
“He had some?” Miranda asked.
“Yeah—a little. If you like men who can turn it on at will—crooked smile, dimple, all at once Mr. Hard-As-Nails is the Boy Next Door. That’s what’s scary about him, if you ask me. Anyway, he started asking Debbie all sorts of questions. About you. Personal questions. She couldn’t answer ’em, of course, was practically tongue-tied around the man, and when I strolled over, he made a quick exit.”
“Maybe he’s a reporter.” Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, Miranda hauled her briefcase from the desk.
“Then why not leave a card? A phone number? Make a damned appointment? H
uh? I’m telling you, girl, there’s something not right about this guy. He’s not on the up-and-up.”
“We get a lot of those around here.”
Louise shook her head. Black curls glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights. “No, we don’t, honey, not in the DA’s office, and even though the guy doesn’t look like a crazy with a gun, you can’t be too careful these days.”
“Petrillo’s checking him out, though, right?”
Louise lifted a shoulder. “Trying to.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Miranda said, pausing at the door. “I’ve got a few days off. Maybe whoever he is, he’ll give up and crawl back under the rock he calls home.”
“Like Ronnie Klug did.”
The muscles in the back of Miranda’s neck tightened, and she nearly missed a step. Inadvertently, she touched her throat, felt the tiny trace of a scar, then let her hand drop.
“I don’t think—”
“This could be another guy you sent to prison, Randa. You’ve been at this job long enough that some of those boys are getting out now.”
“The man who was here is an ex-con?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t look like it, but you can’t ever tell. Remember Ted Bundy? Good-looking. Charming. A real lady-killer.”
Couldn’t argue with that kind of logic. “Point well taken.”
“Okay. So Petrillo’s looking through mug shots of every guy or boyfriend of a woman you sent away. Trouble is, the list is pretty long.”
“Besides, you can always reach me on my cell phone or e-mail.”
