Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (free ebook reader txt) 📗

He jumped back when she covered him in fine mist. “What the hell are you doing?”

Sniffing again, Kim nodded her approval before preceding him down the final flight and out the door.  And spotting Clay’s SUV in the relative shade of a palmetto, headed in that direction.  “Making it tolerable for me to ride with you,” she informed him over her shoulder.  “Now stop acting like a baby and unlock the door.”

He stood, arms akimbo, and plotted vile things as he hit his keyless entry.  “At least the beer smell was something the folks at the sheriff’s department could relate to. Now I smell like a freaking Gerbera daisy.”

“I like daisies.”

Clay grimaced as he took a tentative sniff, thinking of Josh Harding’s expertly groomed face.  The dude would probably laugh his ass off.

Ah, well.  He hadn’t spent the night in Tate’s bed, now had he?

Fancy after-shave-smelling son of a bitch.

Feeling entirely more amenable, Clay climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.  The air conditioning blasted with a satisfying whirr.  He caught the look on Kim’s face as he backed out.

“What?” he asked, because she was definitely smiling.  That smug little female smile that drove him nuts.

“Despite your aromatic contribution, you’re giving off all kinds of interesting vibes.  You fell into more last night than a bottle of whiskey.”

It hadn’t been phrased as a question, but she obviously expected an answer.   So like any good game player, he executed evasive maneuvers.   “Oh yeah?  And what’s that supposed to mean?”

I see your innuendo, and I raise you a question.

“Met any girls on your vacation?  Seen any action?  Gotten laid?”

He wasn’t ready to talk about Tate, not yet, and definitely not that way.  So he reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a bald-faced lie.

“Like I’ve had the time?”

When the phone vibrated in his pocket, he held up a finger to indicate a conversational pause.

And ruined his bald-faced lie by pulling out a condom.

A used condom, stuffed into his pocket after the couch episode last night.

And currently stuck, like dried glue, to his actively vibrating cell phone.

Having no prayer that Kim hadn’t seen it, he pried it off his phone’s face.  Then stuffed the damning prophylactic into the door’s side pocket while he took the call.

“Copeland.”  Clay could feel the heat of embarrassment steam out of his pores.  “Oh, hey Tate.  No, you’re not interrupting anything all that important.  You found my badge under your bed?”  Shit, it must have fallen out of his pocket.  He did a quick pat, came up empty.  “Oh no, that’s okay sugar.  I think I can get by without it.  Luckily the officers I’m working with already know that I’m legit.  But thank you.  I’ll pick it up tonight.”

He sent a quick glance in Kim’s direction, noted that she was watching him with unabashed glee.  “Uh-huh.  Tell Max that McDonald’s is fine, if he really has his heart set on it.  But if you can talk him into it, see if you might steer him in a different direction.  Something with more emphasis on the ‘food’, as opposed to the ‘fast.’  I’m not sure my stomach can take another greasy hamburger…  I know.  It’s my own fault for trying to outguess your cousin.  I’ve learned never to trust an Irishman when it comes to whiskey or women.”

He chuckled, a sound full of private meaning.  “Uh-huh, I guess you’re right.  I’ll have to thank him the next time I see him.  Take care, sugar, and tell Max I’ll see him later.”

He hung up, rather slowly, making a production out of pocketing his phone.  The longer he could draw out that simple task, the closer they got to the station.  And the closer they got to the station, the less time Kim had to grill him.

When it became glaringly obvious what he was doing, Kim shocked the hell out of him by laying a hand on his arm.  “Whatever it is, I think it’s wonderful.”

Luckily, he didn’t have time to respond to that, because they’d arrived at the Bentonville sheriff’s.

“IT could be him.”

Clay leaned back in his chair, studying the image of the muscle-bound asshole beating the life out of a teenage girl.  The balaclava hood he wore made facial recognition impossible, but the body was certainly similar to the man he’d seen at the carnival, and the behavioral profile fit.

Something had gotten away from his control during the assault, and he’d lashed out in blind fury.  In the case of the girl on the screen, it was his own body that had defied him. With the victim they’d found in the woods it was the girl herself.  Regardless, the man’s obsessive need for control mixed with the predictable effects of the steroids served to form a potent combination which had turned deadly.

“Are you sure?” Sheriff Callahan asked from the edge of his desk.

“With his face covered that way, it’s impossible to make a positive ID.  You know that.”  Clay swiveled his chair toward the sheriff.  Kim was seated in a chair to his right, and Deputies Jones and Harding stood behind him.  Blinds closed tight against the sunlight, the only thing that stirred the air was an uncomfortable silence, as each of them processed the horror they’d seen.  “But I can say, with absolute conviction, that the man who we just watched on this tape is more than capable of killing our second vic, and also of taking Casey Rodriguez.  This is a business for him, but make no mistake, he likes doing things to the girls.  He’s what we call a power reassurance rapist, and hurting them isn’t his usual agenda.  Both from a financial standpoint – it’s not good business to kill the merchandise – and regarding his psycho-sexual needs.”

Clay looked around to make sure everyone was following.  “In other words, he’s not a sadist, nor could we classify him as a serial killer, despite the fact that we suspect he’s killed at