Incarnate Page 20

  “Hell yes, I do,” Sullivan said. “Means people shouldn’t judge what they don’t understand. People are sheep, that’s what I think.”

  “Sheep?” Kim took a chance and looked over at Zack, who was busy writing notes.

  “Look at you,” Sullivan said. “Society tells you that you have to act all stuck-up and snooty, just because you’re a damn doctor. But I bet your panties are soaking wet for the detective under those polyester pants. I bet you wish you could climb right on his lap, don’t you?”

  Kim felt the blood rush to her face in anger and embarrassment. But she wouldn’t let Sullivan get to her. She’d trained for this; had spent many hours with patients with psychoses just as troubling as Sullivan’s. She’d worked at professional detachment harder than anyone she knew—but then, she had more to detach from than most.

  She wasn’t about to let him win.

  “My sexual tastes are not the issue here, but I’ll tell you what, Albert—if you tell me what you like, if you tell us all about it, and answer all the detective’s questions, I’ll tell you mine.”

  Sullivan laughed, leaning back in his chair. His eyes were bright with delight. “Heh, so that’s how it’s going to be, eh? Okay, you’re on. I do like ’em young. I like how soft their skin is. I like it when they smell good and clean, like baby powder. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

  Kim kept her body rigid and her expression neutral. “Go on.”

  And he did, Zack scribbling furiously, as Kim prodded Sullivan to describe in more and more detail the twisted fantasies and perversions he’d been harboring. It was clear a part of him wanted to talk about this, relished confiding in them. Girls, boys, he liked both—the younger the better. He described acts he fantasized about in such detail that she had to swallow down her nausea, and even Zack looked like he was having difficulty keeping his emotions in check—but the one thing Sullivan did not do was admit having ever acted on these fantasies.

  And when Zack took over, supplementing Kim’s guidance with questions about specific dates and times, Sullivan clammed up entirely. “Uh-uh, buddy boy,” he said, smirking. “Ain’t no law against thinking all these things. But I never have done more than think. Not once in my seventy-six years.”

  “But you knew Henry Beaumont,” Zack prodded.

  “Yeah, I remember him. Used to pull this little wagon to the park with his mom. Liked to fill it up with sand. But that’s all I know. I never touched him, never went to his house, never grabbed him out of his bed.”

  He turned to Kim, winking slyly. “Your turn, Doc. I told you mine. You promised, now you got to tell me yours.”

  Zack gave her a look of frustration, but Kim felt triumphant, having caught Sullivan’s mention of Henry being taken from his bed. As far as Kim was concerned, Sullivan had as good as admitted that she’d killed Henry. She hoped that Zack would be able to use the recording they were making to prosecute, though she suspected she’d need more than that. But it would at least be enough for them to get a search warrant for his house, wouldn’t it? And she knew that offenders like Albert Sullivan liked to keep trophies of their crimes, to help them relive the transgressions in their imaginations.

  “Okay,” she said, standing. “It’s a little sick, though. What I’m into? What gets me really, really hot? What I’m imagining right now, in fact?” She closed her eyes and pantomimed a little shudder of excitement. Then she opened them and stared directly into his face. Zack reached out and turned off the recording device, giving her an inscrutable look. “Tying you up to a pole, Albert. Naked as the day you were born. I’m picturing a flock of hungry buzzards coming down and taking one look at you—all that old, sagging flesh—and starting to attack. First they’d go for your little pecker. One snap of those powerful beaks—sliced clean through. Next would be your eyes. Stabbing through the membranes, right into your brain. But not enough to kill you. No, you’d die while they sliced open your stomach and dragged your entrails out on the ground. You’d be screaming for your life, even as it drained from your fouled, ruined body.”

  She smiled at him. “That’s what turns me on, Albert. Like I said . . . it’s all context.”

  Then she walked out of the room, shaking all over, wondering what the review board would make of her now.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Back at her apartment, Kim uncorked a good bottle of red wine. Good, that was, in the sense that it cost more than ten dollars and had an appealing label, which was pretty much the extent of Kim’s knowledge and resources.

  As she showered and changed into a pair of old, faded jeans and a simple scoop-necked top, she couldn’t help hoping that Zack felt equally celebratory. The quick conversation she’d had with him an hour ago, when he’d called her to tell her that they needed more to charge Sullivan, had only slightly dampened her spirits. Zack relayed that he and Holt were hopeful that this new information, coupled with a follow-up investigation of the many complaints against Sullivan, would give them enough to make a real case against him. They’d continue holding him until the full forty-eight hours were up, in hopes they’d have the proof they needed by then. Kim felt sure they’d find what they needed—after all, this was definitely their man. They’d solved the case—and all because of Scarlett.

  What’s more, Zack had finally confirmed that Scarlett was off their radar. At least for now, he said he no longer suspected that Scarlett had been working with Henry’s killer, nor did he suspect her, at this point, for Izzi’s murder. She’d even admitted that Scarlett didn’t seem to be faking her condition, although he wouldn’t go so far as to accept the dead-soul theory. Still, it felt like progress, finally.

  Not to mention that now that she had a better grasp of what Scarlett’s alters needed to move on, Kim hoped the girl might eventually be rid of all the restless souls she harbored.

  And once that happened—once Kim’s treatment of Scarlett was proved to be effective in helping the girl deal with the alters—she might not just get her job and her professional standing back, but maybe she could convince the hospital to devote resources to alternative therapeutic techniques, like the hypnosis that had been so effective in treating Scarlett. Lawsuits involving hypnotherapy were usually brought against hucksters preying on the weak, or psychiatrists who didn’t understand how to perform the technique.

  It was the most hopeful Kim had felt since her suspension, and she felt like celebrating. Since she and Zack had come through the last of the investigation together, it was only natural to invite him to join her. It wasn’t hard to find his cell number on her phone’s call history; after all, he was the only one she’d called for two days.

  He picked up, after one ring, with a curt, “Trainor.”

  “Hey. It’s me. Your new partner.” Even the long pause he responded with couldn’t dampen her mood. “Listen, I was thinking, maybe we could meet over at the gun range; I could show you my new gat.”

  “Gat? Have you been watching ’twenties gangster movies?” Zack asked.

  “They don’t use that term anymore? How about beanshooter? Pocket rocket? Fire stick?”

  “I’m a little busy right now. What can I do for you, Dr. Patterson?”

  “If you’d rather not meet me at the gun range to see my Glock, I was hoping you’d let me repay you for making me dinner the other night.”

  There was another long pause on the other end. She decided to let it ride. Finally, he responded, “I guess I gotta eat.”

  Not quite the answer she was looking for, but she took it.

  * * *

  SHE’D TAKEN A LITTLE extra care getting dressed, feeling embarrassed as she checked herself in the mirror. After all, this wasn’t a date. Though when the doorbell rang, her heart pounded with a sense of anticipation that was hardly professional.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Patterson,” Kim muttered to herself. Then she opened the door and tried not to stare at the six feet two inches of perfection on her stoop.

  “Hi,” Zack said, handing over a bottle of wine that sh
e suspected was far superior to the one she’d picked out.

  “Come on in,” she said a little breathlessly. “Welcome to my, uh, place.”

  He walked into her living room and looked around, taking in the rental furniture, the moving boxes doubling as end tables and a TV stand, the bare walls with no ornamentation except a hand-woven prayer mat that had been a “new job” gift from her parents. On the small dinette table were a pair of place mats so new they were still creased from the wrapper, the plain white plates that came with the place, and the only glassware Kim owned: two drinking glasses and two wineglasses.

  Zack walked straight into her kitchen and started opening cabinets. “This is a crime,” he said, staring at the paltry contents.

  “Come on, it’s not that bad,” Kim said. She was standing two feet away from him, a bunch of green onions in her hands. Earlier, in the grocery store, she had thought they might be nice in a salad. Now, with the ingredients laid out on the counter, she wasn’t so sure.

  “Do you have cumin?”

  “That’s a spice, right?” Before he was able to respond, she followed up, “A joke. I know what cumin is. Although I couldn’t tell you what it tastes like. I’m more of a salt and pepper girl. Garlic powder when I’m feeling really crazy.” He stared at her, a smile threatening to break out on his lips. “I have allspice. I think that has cumin in it. At least I’m guessing it does from its name. If it doesn’t, it’s false advertising.”

  He poked around in her practically empty cabinets for another moment, and then gave her an incredulous look, as though she’d been storing cat carcasses up there. “Get out of my way, or we’ll starve to death before you get anything on the table.”

  For the next half hour Kim watched in wonderment as he grabbed things from her cabinets and fridge. He sliced, sautéed, sprinkled, chopped, and finally slid a pan into the oven. “Ten minutes should do it,” he said.

  “Okay . . . should I open the wine?”

  He picked up the bottle she’d purchased and gave it a suspicious look. “Is this the wine you cook with?”

  She gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah . . . I mean, you think I’d drink that stuff?”

  He backpedaled. “I’m sure it’s great, but maybe we open the Pinot instead?” Then he twisted up the cork with the ease of a professional and poured them each a glass.

  Conversation was so stilted and awkward during much of the cooking, she was half expecting him to bring up the weather. But when Zack took the pan from the oven and slid the contents onto plates mounded with pasta, Kim stopped worrying about what to talk about and focused on eating.

  “This is amazing,” she said with her mouth full. “I take back every bad thing I ever said about you.”

  Zack was picking at his food, regarding her with an inscrutable expression. When she’d eaten the last bite on her plate, he set down his own fork. “Kim, I’m not really sure why you invited me here.”

  “I felt like celebrating. I mean, who else would I call but my partner?”

  “I don’t know, maybe . . . Dr. Berman.” The name hung in the air. Then he said, “Kyle.” As if she wouldn’t know who Dr. Berman was.

  Kim stared at Zack for a long moment. “I’m pretty sure Dr. Berman wouldn’t have taken my call. We’re not exactly . . . seeing each other at the moment.” If Zack was relieved to hear this new detail, he wasn’t letting on. “But maybe you already knew that, I mean, with you being a detective and all.”

  Zack turned his attention to his half-eaten meal. “I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that.” She held back a smile. “But I have an early morning.”

  “But—but we just ate. I haven’t even given you the tour of the apartment yet.”

  He looked around the living room. The door to the bedroom was open, the brightly colored quilt visible on the bed. “No offense, but I think I should probably stay here in the East Wing. I’ll get the tour next time.”

  As he pushed his plate away, she leaned forward. “Thank you for coming. I just wanted to . . . talk.” The electric current she felt whenever she was with him was back in full force—and they weren’t even locked in violent disagreement. “I’ve really wanted to thank you for letting me help with Albert. And for giving Scarlett a chance . . . for suspending your doubts long enough to see for yourself what it’s like for her.”

  Zack lifted one eyebrow. “If this is some misbegotten effort on your part to apologize for being such a pain in the ass, you can really let it drop.”

  “No, it’s not that.” She picked up her napkin and started tearing little pieces off it. “I mean, yeah, sorry. Sort of. But I kept you from putting an innocent girl in jail, at least for now, and helped you solve a cold case, so shouldn’t you be thanking me?”

  He pushed back his chair. “Right. You’re right. Because I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Kim stood, too. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You kinda just did, Dr. Patterson.”

  “You can call me Kim.”

  “I was given implicit instructions, by you, to call you Dr. Patterson.”

  “Well, now I’m giving you instructions to call me Kim. And why are you always mad at me?”

  “Is that a serious question?”

  “Um, I think so.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I mean, usually people don’t just— Well, okay, some people seem to take an instant dislike to me, but I was actually trying . . . trying . . .”

  “To be my friend?” Zack’s tone was gentle. He reached out and pushed the same lock of hair behind her ear. It fell forward again. “You’re an unusual woman, Kim. Do you hear that a lot?”

  “Mmm. No. Maybe.” She could feel her cheeks flaming. “I’ve been told that I’m not a ‘people pleaser.’ ”

  “I find that hard to believe.” Zack’s voice, already in the low registers, thundered lower.

  “And I don’t have a lot of friends.”

  “Harder still.”

  “No, I mean, like—you know—I have the basics down. And I’m really, really good at first impressions . . . if I want to be. It’s the second impressions. And third. And all the ones after those, that are the bitch.”

  “Could it be because every time someone suggests you turn right, you go left? Or because every time you see an off-limits sign you have to drive right over it—then back up and do it again?”

  Kim stared at him, at a loss for how to convince him that this time she wasn’t trying to be contrary—she just sincerely wanted to thank him for being on her side. How had this all gotten so complicated? She thought of and abandoned a half-dozen retorts.

  “Are we talking about our jobs here?” she finally settled on. “Because I’ve always done only what I thought was best for my patient.”

  “And I’ve done only what I thought was in the interest of justice. The difference is that everything I do is in my job description. From what I can tell, you do your best to ignore the rules. Now, you want to do that to your own career, that’s your business. But you’ll forgive me if I get a little uncomfortable when you come in my patch and stir things up.”

  Before she could respond, he picked up her hand and pressed her knuckles to his lips. The gesture was almost chaste—but it made Kim feel like she was melting on the inside. “I get it—you care deeply for your patients. Maybe too deeply, if you ask me. There’s a place for professional distance. But it’s one of the things I like about you, too. Your . . . fearlessness.”

  “You think I’m fearless?”

  “I do. As well as stubborn, willful, and infuriating.” He brushed her knuckles against his cheek, which was both soft and stubbly, the line of his jaw hard. “You’ve done your best to provoke, annoy, and confound me ever since the moment we met.”

  “I have not! Not on purpose, anyway.” Kim couldn’t help but be amused at how much of her behavior Zack thought was motivated by him.

  “You know what I think? I think you’re scared.”

  “I’m not,” Kim said, instantly on the defe
nsive. For as much time as she spent analyzing the people around her, it made her intensely uncomfortable when the roles were reversed. “Not of you, anyway.”

  “Yeah? Prove it.” Then he kissed her.

  As kisses went, it was relatively brief—just the softest brush of his lips on hers—but it was also very, very deliberate. He kissed her with his eyes open, and then he watched her react. Or, not react—because she was completely frozen.

  Until he did it again.

  For a moment, his lips—warm, soft, so inviting—lingered against hers, but then he put his heart into the kiss, moving his hands down her back to pull her closer against him. It was every bit as hot and delicious as Kim had imagined it would be.

  After that, things moved in the proper direction with very little hesitation. When Zack picked Kim up and took her to her room as though she was no heavier than a bag of groceries, she made one last effort to do the right thing. “I’m not very good at relationships,” she gasped, as his lips grazed her collarbone.

  “I’ve noticed. Let’s see if you’re good at anything else.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  An hour later, when things finally seemed to have come to a stop, or at least a rest, Zack lay panting on the edge of Kim’s bed while she went in search of snacks.

  Now that she was out of the room, no longer distracting him from his better judgment, a nagging sense of misgiving reared its ugly head. Kim was, despite all his efforts to prevent it, a part of an active case. Sure, he was starting to believe she was right about Scarlett’s multiple personalities, or alters, or whatever they were called—especially since they had a solid lead in Albert Sullivan—but he wouldn’t be ready to rule out any suspect entirely until they had Izzi’s killer behind bars.

  Zack hadn’t expected this evening to turn out the way it had, though he had certainly entertained the idea. Hoped, even, if he was being honest. If Holt found out . . . but he would never let Holt find out. Zack was good at keeping his private life private—at least at work. Brielle was another matter. He’d bet fifty bucks that she’d taken note of his departure from the house earlier . . . and his twin sister was awfully resourceful when it came to keeping tabs on his social life.