"Criminal Minds" is copyrighted by The Mark Gordon Company and/or CBS Television Studios, I'm not dead certain which. The song "Yesterday" was written by Paul McCartney, but I'm not sure who has the official copyright. Anyway, for sure not me in either case. Alas.
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Hotchner knew it was a fascinating case, if only because Reid kept saying, "This is fascinating!"
The serial killer may have been doing the world's greatest drag act, but the witnesses and the profile all indicated that she was definitely female. She homed in on middle-aged white males at high-end hotel bars who flashed a lot of cash. Even if they were with co-workers or buddies, she managed to make her interest clear enough that the others would sheer off and leave the guy with his conquest. Waitresses described a white female of about 35 with a long chin and one of a variety of wigs, her clothes a little too tight and a little too young, not so much as to make her wildly noticeable or grotesque, but enough to convince a drunken good-time Charlie that he'd hit the jackpot. The co-workers and buddies remembered pink, a wig color, and a mole, possibly drawn, on an ample display of bosom.
Not for the first time, Hotch considered giving male-only classes in observation of women.
Once the couple was in a hotel room, the woman would shoot the man dead. She must have had gloves in her purse as well as a firearm, because she accomplished the rest without leaving a fingerprint: She would strip the victim, fold his clothes carefully and put them in a bureau drawer, tuck him into bed with such care that two maids had backed out of the room thinking that they'd walked in on someone sleeping late, take the victim's cash and nothing else, and leave. By the time the body was discovered, everything in the bar that the killer might have touched had been washed.
So yes, it was that hen's-teeth case of a female serial murderer with some unique elements, and Hotch wished he could find it fascinating, but he found it only depressing. Reid thought that the stripping-and-tucking-into-bed aspect indicated a thwarted or misplaced motherliness. To Hotch, it was as much an assertion of brutal power as a rapist forcing his victim to say she liked it.
To their knowledge, this killer had struck twice in Memphis, twice in Kansas City, twice in Albuquerque and once in San Diego. Which explained why Hotchner was sitting at a table in a San Diego hotel bar loudly making bets on a televised Chargers game with Morgan, paying him off in fifties slapped carelessly on the table and beckoning the waitress with wide sweeps of his arm and a tipsy-sounding "Hey beautiful!"
Actually, just the fact that the unsub was in San Diego didn't completely explain Hotch's presence at the bar. Garcia's and Rossi's narrowing of possible hunting grounds partly explained it, Hotchner's being a middle-aged white male partly explained it, and Rossi saying, "Let's flip a quarter. No let's not. You do it," put the cap on the explanation.
The waitress came over to their table with a smile. "Actually, Beautiful is my middle name," she said. "My first name is Cynthia."
"Aw well that's in the wrong order," Hotch said. "It should be Beautiful Cynthia. Another round for Mr. Lucky and me."
Derek grinned and stood. "I'll be back in a couple minutes to help whittle down that roll some more."
"Tide's about to turn, my friend!" Hotch called after him.
"Are you – " Cynthia began, and stopped.
Her face was a little concerned. Hotch gave her a broad smile, with an odd feeling that he was working unused muscles. "Am I what?"
"Are you a guest in the hotel?" she asked. "I just, I mean, I'm not, I was just – " She stopped herself, took a breath. "I don't want to pry. But do you have a way of getting home, um, without – "
Hotch took pity on her. "Without driving? Have no fear. I'm a guest. Won't be driving anywhere tonight."
"I'm sorry to seem – "
" – concerned for the public welfare? Shouldn't be sorry about that."
"Well. Thanks. I'll be right back with your drinks," and Cynthia headed for the bar. The bartender had an assistant tonight, a skinny kid whose sole duties were keeping the bar clear, refilling snack bowls, and pouring Hotch's and Morgan's drinks from liquor bottles full of colored water. Only hotel management, and the bartender himself, knew that the skinny kid was an FBI agent with almost as many college degrees as fingers.
Hotchner openly watched the waitress walk away, a little surprised at how much he enjoyed that part of the act.
Someone slid onto Morgan's chair. "Mind if I keep his seat warm?"
They'd spotted her the minute she'd walked in, of course. Reid had damn near dropped a glass, and Hotch knew that Morgan was seriously looking forward to giving him grief for that later on. She'd sat at a corner table where she could observe the whole room, nursing a strawberry daiquiri. White female about 35, five-six, one-forty, with an almost invisible scar at one corner of her cerise mouth. She was wearing a low-cut deep pink top with flutter sleeves (and sure enough, that mole was cosmetically applied) and a tight white skirt.
"Honey, you can warm up anything you want to," Hotch said with a grin.
She smiled back at him. "You know what my problem is?"
"What?"
With a little-girl pout, "I finished my drink."
"Well let's fix that!" Cynthia was headed their way with his and Morgan's next round. "What're you drinking?"
"Strawberry daiquiri with whipped cream."
Years of work in law enforcement came to his aid as he successfully repressed a shudder and gave the order to Cynthia, who showed no surprise at all about the table's new occupant – also doubtless due to years of professional experience.
"What's your name, Cookie?"
"Cookie," she said, and giggled. "No, really it's Debbie. What's yours?"
"Darren."
She giggled again. "Darren and Debbie. We sound like a '50s movie."
"Now what would you know about '50s movies? Those were way before your time."
"I know they were better than the crap they're putting out now." The voice was still girlish. "You could watch 'em on TV and no matter what else was happening, they'd make you feel like the world could be pretty. When was the last time a movie made you feel like that?"
Hotch gave it a moment. "I honestly don't remember."
"See? Oh, goody!"
Her drink was approaching. Hotch paid Cynthia and watched as Debbie took a deep sip through a straw and then stirred the straw slowly in the glass. "When did you get into town?"
"What makes you think I don't live here?" he asked with a smile, and took a pull on his own drink.
"Oh, please. You hang out in a hotel bar for an hour and a half? I think you've got nowhere better to be. I mean, if you were having a thing with the football player, at least you'd be happy about being here."
He let his eyes drift to her cleavage and back. "I am plenty happy, honey."
"Well. Hello!"
Morgan was back, looking at Debbie and Hotch with amused admiration.
"Eric, this is Debbie. Debbie, Eric."
"Hi," Debbie said, and leaned over just enough for her arm to brush Hotch's.
"Well," Morgan said again. "Been a long day. I'm gonna go get some sleep. In my lonely room."
Hotch beckoned him back. "Oh, come on, you can stay, Debbie doesn't mind."
Morgan grinned. "No, really. I've gotta get up early tomorrow, prep for the presentation. Meet at the restaurant at 8:30?"
Hotch wrinkled his nose. "Nine. The presentation's not till eleven."
"Well, OK then. I'll, uh, I'll see you tomorrow." He reached down to the table, chugged half his drink, reacted a little to it as if he'd actually gulped a couple of big swallows of alcohol, gave Hotch another grin. "Thanks for the drink. Nice meeting you, Debbie!" And as he took off, Morgan gave a quick thumb-up to Hotch with his left hand – subtly, but not so subtly that Debbie wouldn't see it.
"What business are you in?"
"Wholesale paper products for institutions. Hospitals, prisons, like that."
She gave him a one-sided smile. "Well, that sounds interesting."
Hotchner laughed. The sound startled him. He put an arm around the woman. "What do you do, honey? No, wait, don't tell me. I bet you're a model, aren't you?"
She giggled. "I'm way too short for modeling. I'm an artist."
"OK, now that is interesting."
She looked a little guilty. "I don't really sell very much. But it's OK. My daddy took good care of us. Our family has a lot of prestige in the San Diego area. We have a big house right on the ocean."
"Sounds great."
"Yeah, when I was in school, I could never make friends, you know? Because they were jealous. It's bad when you're in high school and lonely."
"It's bad for anyone to be lonely," Hotch said, and felt a tick of impatience with himself. That sounded like he was trying to turn the conversation to himself, and he was trying to keep it focused on her.
Sure enough, she looked at him as she sipped her drink and then said, "Why are you lonely? You're a good-looking guy, you've got – you know – paper products – "
Hotch laughed for the second time in that conversation – and the second time that week, a new personal best.
"You're a pretty amazing woman," he said. "You're beautiful, you're an artist, and you're funny."
She looked at him while she took another sip through her straw. Then she said, "Want to know what else I can do?"
"What?"
"Well – we'd have to be alone for me to show you."
Hotch grinned like a fool. "Well – my room's right upstairs."
"Well – let's go."
Hotch left a fifty on the table for the last round of drinks; if Accounting wanted to quibble about a 50% tip for Cynthia he'd reimburse them. Debbie slung the spindly metal chain of her sparkly silver bag over her shoulder and took a final sip of her drink as they left the table.
The moment that the elevator doors closed, she slid her left arm around his waist and leaned against him, kissing him. It startled him for a moment, the warm burst of sensation, stimulation of mouth and face, warm breath on his neck.
He snapped back to attention. Her arm being around his waist was fine: Unless her hand went further up she wouldn't feel the wire, unless it went way further down she wouldn't feel the ankle holster.
He held her arm against his waist and leaned into the kiss. Her fragrance was heavy and heady, her mouth warm but modest.
Then there was a click and something hard pushed into his ribcage. Debbie giggled, "Is that a gun in my pocket or am I just happy to see you?"
"OK. OK," he said in the tone of someone whose alcohol-fuzzed brain was trying to catch up. "OK. You don't need that. My wallet's in my back right pocket."
She backed away from him, aiming the gun at his chest. "Oh, now. What fun would that be?"
"Is this a kinky thing? This is a kinky thing, isn't it? I bet that gun's not even loaded."
"It is." She aimed it at his face. "You want me to test it?"
"No."
The elevator dinged and she asked, "Which way do we turn getting off?"
"Left."
As the doors opened, she slid her gun hand under his jacket, the barrel poking into his side, but hidden under the jacket and by her body leaning against his. Her left hand rested affectionately on his chest.
"Don't make a sound," she told him as they got off the elevator. "People need to sleep. Just keep quiet."
They were three steps away from the elevator when Hotch felt Debbie jolt to a stop, her left hand doubling, clutching his tie.
"FBI," Prentiss' voice said calmly behind them. "Put your weapon on the ground carefully, get on your knees, hands on your head."
By the time she'd finished Morgan had stepped out of a room across the hall with a firearm and there were clicks of other weapons behind them. Hotchner stepped away from Debbie, pulling his tie from her hand. She seemed petrified with disbelief, but by the time the local PD was Mirandizing her she had grasped the situation enough that she was crying and saying, "It's not fair!"
The plane wasn't leaving until next morning. Morgan and Reid both wanted to be in on the interrogation (in Reid's case, "wanted" meaning "was champing at the bit"). Prentiss was exhausted, was going back to the hotel where they were actually staying, and, with a warm smile, told everyone how very very good it would be for their health if her cell phone remained silent until after dawn. Rossi, Jareau and Garcia were back in Quantico working up another case.
Hotchner gave a statement to police on the spot; they already knew that he'd send them a copy of his report. He got rid of the wire, too.
After that, he had hours to himself. Even discounting time for sleeping and packing, he had a few hours.
He should get started on the report. But he felt an unexpected surge of rebellion go through him. Maybe Darren, the good-time paper salesman, had got under his skin.
Or maybe he really couldn't take one more night of dozing off alone in a hotel room and waking up suddenly thinking that Haley needed him.
He went back down to the bar, ordered an honest-to-God real Scotch from the bartender, and took it over to one of the many tables with a view of the TV sets, which were now playing a soccer game from some other place, maybe some other time.
He took a sip of the Scotch and let the warmth slide down. It reminded him for some reason of Debbie's warmth pressing against his chest, his mouth.
Not that he was desperate for company, or anything.
He had no excuse for loneliness. He had Jack; Haley's sister was steady and supportive; his team was probably closer to being family than they should be.
As for the rest . . .
Emotional involvement was not a good idea in his life at this time. Any woman who was with him for long enough would be dealing with the Haley dreams. With a man who, even now, if there was an unexpected bang, braced like a bomb had gone off. And those were on top of the inability to talk about his work and the absences that had driven Haley away in the first place.
True, healthy sexuality was an important component of a healthy human psyche. But that didn't mean it was urgent. Maybe in a year or so he would have recovered a little and could allow himself to experience some other aspects of life – recreation, the company of people who'd seldom if ever dealt with sociopathy, indulgence of his libido, relaxation.
Yeah, that sounded like Aaron Hotchner.
The corner of his mouth twitched, and he took another drink.
"Oh – hello!"
People of the BAU don't have trouble identifying someone who's merely changed out of a uniform into street clothing. "Hello, Cynthia."
"I guess – I thought you were gone for the evening."
How this woman remained employed, with her capacity for blurting things out, was a bit of a mystery, but Hotch had to admit he liked her for it. What he didn't like was having to explain where Debbie had gone. It wasn't like the bartender wouldn't be regaling everyone with his role in it after the news broke. At the moment, Hotchner just did not feel like talking about death and deception and a malevolent narcissist in handcuffs sobbing with self-pity.
"Ah – " He waved his hand. "She just wanted a shoulder to cry on, so I let her cry. I got a good-night kiss out of it."
"Well, that was nice. A lot of guys wouldn't – you know – just listen. Like that."
He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment of the compliment, looking her over. She was wearing a clingy black low-cut dress, and held her black purse low in front of her as though trying to extend the hemline an inch or two. Her simply arranged light brown hair was decorated with a crystal-covered clip. Her makeup was in dramatic shades of plum, although one cheek was darker than the other, as though she weren't used to working with vivid-colored blush. "That's a pretty outfit."
She glanced down at her strappy shoes, shifting her weight, as she said, "Oh. Thanks. It's not really me. But – " she looked directly at him – "do you ever just want to not be yourself for a little while?"
"Uh."
That was literally the sound he made. It started as a sentence and suddenly emotion locked his throat.
He swallowed, blinked. "Do you think – a change of clothes can do that?"
"For a little while, maybe. I mean – wearing this, I don't feel like an insurance company clerk who slings drinks at night. I feel - "
Her head dropped suddenly, and when she looked up again her eyes were visibly wet even in the dim light of the bar. "Anyway, different. So listen, have a good evening."
She turned and he heard himself saying, "Wait a minute. Have a seat."
"I really can't hang out with the customers."
He'd already noticed the bartender shooting her a look. Obviously the thing to do now was to let her join her friends at – wherever she was headed, finish his drink, and go up to his room.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
She thought about it for a moment, and he almost found himself saying, "Keeping in mind the fact that meeting a strange man anywhere isn't a good idea."
"Well, I was going to Belo, but it's a little noisy." She took a breath. "The Point, down the street, it's better for talking. If you can stand talking anymore tonight."
"That depends. Are you a good conversationalist?"
She giggled. "I'm a great conversationalist."
"I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes," he said quietly, and then raised his voice for the bartender's benefit. "Have a good evening!"
"You too!" she said with a smile, and he would swear she was giving her hips a little extra sway for him as she left.
Hotchner sipped his drink, staring at the soccer game on the TV, pondering two questions. The first was, how long should he allow to walk to the Point? He knew what she was talking about; they'd noticed it driving to the hotel, a nice place in a very nice neighborhood, not more than three minutes if you went out the side door of the hotel. The second question was –
What the hell was he doing?
Having a drink with a pretty girl. Last I knew, this wasn't a death penalty offense.
He closed his eyes, trying to focus, to talk himself out of this silliness, but now he was feeling again the warmth and softness of a woman pressing against him, kissing him.
His eyes popped open. You do realize, he told himself, that the best way to shut down your libido forever is to associate sexuality with a serial murderer?
Of course I do, he argued back. That's why it's much better to associate it with a sweet hard-working girl who could use a good time.
He didn't know whether to groan out loud or laugh out loud. That's me, a guy who can give a girl a good time.
"Do you ever just want to not be yourself for a little while?"
Darren could give a girl a good time. He was sure of it.
He flinched, pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep drink. A character he'd made up had, oh yes, got into his head thoroughly. He'd heard of this happening with undercover officers after a few months. He'd never known you could do it to yourself in a couple of hours.
Although, if Darren was an aspect of himself that had been caged for years, it made sense that once he was out of his cage it would be damn hard to stick him back in.
He looked at his watch, finished his drink, stood, waved good-night to the bartender, and walked to the front desk.
He rented a room for the night, headed toward the hotel's side door, clenched his jaw and stopped.
The phone was answered on the first ring. "Morgan."
"I've decided to stay here tonight, at the hotel. I'll meet all of you at the airport at eight o'clock."
"Hotch, you OK? I can come pick you up if – "
"I'm fine. I've just had enough of the cut-rate places the Bureau will pay for. They serve actual breakfast here, and I'm a lot less likely to find used porn under the bed."
Morgan chuckled. "That only happened once. What about your stuff?"
"Stuff?"
"Luggage. Clothes. You know, stuff."
"Right." Damn it. Being spontaneous is hard. "I'll just – I'll swing by in a cab and pick it up. So I'll meet you at the hotel at seven-thirty."
"You sure you're OK?"
"As a general rule, wanting to stay in a nice hotel doesn't indicate psychological dissolution. Did you ask Reid about his attack of butterfingers?"
"Claims it didn't happen."
"Of course he does. I'll see you at seven-thirty."
There was a drugstore near the hotel, where he stopped and bought some condoms. He stashed them in a pocket and walked the rest of the way to The Point.
Cynthia looked almost amazed when she saw him, and smiled. He slid into the booth opposite her and said, "You have a nice smile. Did you think I'd be dumb enough to pass up having a drink with you?"
"Oh, I just – you know."
"Part of the reason you don't want to be yourself for awhile? Men take you for granted?"
"It's – well." She shrugged. "Kind of an anniversary today, thought I'd observe it by – doing something different."
"How long have you been divorced?"
She looked at him sharply, and he kicked himself mentally. "How did you know it was my divorce?"
"Oh – " Well, you shot your mouth off, Darren, tell the woman – "The look on your face when I came in. You've been taken for granted by a man or men. You feel a little awkward in a sexy outfit and you don't flirt with the customers, you're rather conservative, so you didn't bounce around from man to man being disappointed – it was a specific man, important to you. Reinforced by the fact that you sat in a booth facing the door so I'd see you as soon as I came in, wouldn't have to go looking for you – you're not a game player. There was one important man. And you ordered your own drink because you expected me not to show. You got married to the guy and were disillusioned."
"Or he was disillusioned in me."
"You think that's what happened?"
"I think he got bored. I kept thinking – if we had more money for doing interesting things, so I started waiting tables. Or, if I was sexier, so I dyed my hair. Or, if we had children, but that's a lousy reason to have children. I always thought. Now I wonder. I mean, if we'd had a baby, at least I'd have a family – "
She covered her eyes. "Damn it."
At this point, of course, the waitress came over to the table. "Have you had a look at our martini menu?"
"Oh. No, thanks. Just soda water with lime, please."
Cynthia took her hand from her eyes as the waitress left. "See, this is exactly what I wasn't going to do. Sit around crying and feel sorry for myself. I was going to find a fun guy and just – tell lies about myself and go wild." She made a funny little face. "Woo-hoo. You win."
Woo-hoo, he thought, you win the least fun guy in America. But he said, "You underestimate how much men enjoy a chase. I only win if I'm good enough for a hottie like you."
She laughed outright, extended her hand across the table. "Hi, I'm Cynthia. I'm a nightclub singer and I break hearts all the time."
"Pleased to meet you." He took her hand and, leaning over the table a little, kissed it. He heard her suck in a tiny breath, and had to congratulate himself. "I'm Darren. I'm a pilot."
"Ooh, that's exciting! What's your favorite place to fly to?"
"Oh, let's see. Vancouver, for the beauty. Boston, for the history. The Blue Ridge Mountains, for the quiet."
She leaned her chin on her hand. "I know it sounds dumb, but I've always wanted to go to Chicago."
"Chicago's a great town. A lot of different things to do, like LA, but on a more reasonable scale. Gotta get there in the spring or summer, though. Colder than hell in the winter."
"That wouldn't be a problem. I'd just wear one of my many fur coats."
He smiled, again with that sense of startling his face muscles. "You must be a very successful nightclub singer."
"Well – I don't like to brag – "
"What's your favorite kind of music to sing?"
"Ballads. Sad love songs. Something fun and up-tempo, sometimes. But the songs I really love are the ones that bring tears to your eyes. 'The Man I Love.' 'Yesterday.' Like that."
"Gershwin and the Beatles. Can't fault your taste. Where are you from originally?"
Don't interrogate her. But he was curious to see if her desire to be someone different stretched back to her childhood.
"Council Bluffs, Iowa." True, and there didn't seem to be any stress associated with it. "I moved here – well."
With her husband, who thought he deserved better than Council Bluffs, but couldn't hack the commitment to working that it took to live in an expensive area. "Because of all the nightclubs needing good singers," Hotch said.
She flashed a smile. "Yeah, exactly."
She took a drink as the waitress brought his soda water and he paid her.
Cynthia put her drink on the table. "It's kind of interesting. Someone like you, who seems like the life of the party, picking your favorite places because they're quiet and historical."
He damn near choked on his drink. "Busted," he said, enjoying the foreignness of the slang. "I should've known better than to try to fake out a cocktail waitress."
"You just seem kind of thoughtful. For all that, y'know, betting and flirting you were doing."
He opened his mouth, closed it. Then, "Do you ever want to not be yourself for a little while?"
"Oh, I wouldn't know about that. What with my fabulous career and all my interesting activities."
"And all those hearts you break."
"Yeah," she said quietly, and reached across the table to stroke his hand.
Haley had stroked his hand like that, trying to reach him when he was so far inside himself that he was almost –
No. He stopped himself right there. He was slipping into someone else's skin tonight, and that guy wasn't haunted, he was focused on Cynthia.
"Are you OK?" she asked.
"I'm great. So, do you get to the beach much? Or are you too busy?"
"Oh, I get there sometimes."
"Are you an outdoorswoman?"
"Not really. When I go to the beach I usually just wade in up to my knees and then run back out. I love to watch the waves, though. Listen to them."
"It's very relaxing."
"It is. What do you do for relaxation?"
The question so obviously caught him flat-footed that she laughed again. "Not much, huh?"
"Well. The only thing I could think of was being with my son."
"You have a son!" He'd been afraid that would depress her, but her eyes lit up. "How old?"
"Almost six."
"That's such a cute age. I'm the oldest in my family, and I remember when my sister Sarah was six. She was a little ball of fire."
"Did you get stuck with baby-sitting duties a lot?"
"Not too much. I was in a couple of singing groups in school, and it kept me pretty busy."
"Student government, here. I want you to know: I led the charge to have condom machines put in the boys' bathroom."
"You're kidding."
"You know, in my righteous teenage mind, I considered this a forward-thinking practical step in the fight against AIDS. This was when the general public had just become aware of what a threat it was. I'm not sure that was the motivation of some of my supporters. But I went into a school board meeting and discussions with the principal and even a local paper wielding my health statistics and quotes from the Surgeon General, and I think I startled some of them."
"So did you get the machines?"
"God, no. Shot down in flames. The guys appreciated it, though. One of them said, 'If anyone could've changed their minds, it would've been you, you're clean-cut.'"
"Meaning virginal," Cynthia said with a grin.
"In retrospect, yes. Yes, I'm afraid that was the gist of that sentence."
"Me, too. The thing the troublemakers never get is that if you seem wholesome, you can get away with murder."
"Ah," Hotch said. "Did you get away with murder?"
She leaned across the table as if confiding a state secret, and Hotch tried not to stare at her cleavage. "I used to skip study hall to go to a restaurant nearby and have a non-school lunch while reading romance novels."
The skin between his eyebrows wrinkled a bit. "I have to tell you, in the history of high-school misbehavior, skipping study hall is – "
"Lame. Really lame. I know. But I got away with it! That's the important part!"
She took a drink and so did he, looking around the bar. It was a throwback to a quieter time – more wood than plastic, no TVs, and – to his sudden delight – a jukebox in one corner.
"Think I'll see what they've got on the jukebox. Want to come?"
"You bet!" Cynthia stashed her purse on the floor and came with him. He was pleased to note faux blond-wood panels on the floor by the jukebox, establishing a dinky dance floor, for which they had no competition.
The jukebox was not a throwback. Hotch felt suddenly antique at the dollar-a-song charge; the last time he'd played a jukebox it'd been three songs for a dollar. He felt slightly better when, as they perused the album offerings, Cynthia murmured, "Man, I hardly know any of these."
"There we go." Hotch spotted it before she did – the Beatles' "1" album. With a little smile he put in a dollar and selected "Yesterday."
Cynthia looked up at him with a blissful expression. He put his arms around her waist and she looped her over his shoulders.
Hotch knew he wasn't the world's greatest dancer, but he also knew it didn't matter. With rare exceptions, women were pleased by a man who (a) was willing to dance at all and (b) didn't step on them.
They stepped and turned slowly, clinging together. His right hand smoothed up along her back and he felt her give a small shuddering sigh. Her fragrance was very subtle, more herbal than floral, and perfect for her.
"Sing it for me," he murmured.
Her lips brushed his ear and she sang quietly. Her voice didn't have the richness of a professional singer's, but was sweet and true.
"Why he had to go, I don't know
"He didn't say.
"I said something wrong, now I long
"For yesterday."
They kept dancing as she sang, warm and close. The song was too short; he'd been thinking he'd give her a round of applause when it was over, but he found himself just holding her for a moment more and murmuring, "That was beautiful."
They found two more dance-worthy songs on the jukebox. At the end of the second one she brushed her lips against his ear again to say, "Let's go. Let's go to your room."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
There was no awkwardness as they walked back to the hotel; he asked her what she thought the most interesting spots in San Diego were and she told him. She pulled him around to the side entrance of the hotel and clung to his side, nervous but also laughing breathlessly at the chance of being recognized by one of her fellow employees.
The door to the room closed and she attacked, her hands under his jacket, her mouth intent on his. He returned the favor, but was suddenly horribly aware of the badge in his back pocket and his ankle holster. Something would have to be done about those.
But not right this very minute, he thought as she nestled her breasts against his chest and tickled his tongue with hers.
He brushed her hair aside and kissed down the side of her face to her neck, sucking and nibbling lightly.
"Mm," she said. "That. More. Hey. Where's your stuff?"
He looked up. The closet door was open and of course absolutely empty, every surface clear except for hotel-furnished items. It was obvious that he hadn't set foot in there before.
"Ah," he said. "In the other room. With Eric."
"Your business partner? I mean," with a sideways smile, "your co-pilot?"
"Yes."
"You rented a whole separate room just so we could be alone together?"
"Sure."
She gave him a mischievous grin. "But what if I'd said no?"
"Well, then, I guess, I'd have had a nice quiet place to come and heal my broken heart."
She started working on his neck. "You knew – I wouldn't. No one – could say no to you."
He almost laughed but didn't really have that much breath. She began backing him up and he let her, sitting when he felt the backs of his legs hit the mattress.
She moved forward another step, standing between his legs, smiling down at him as she undid the knot of his tie and pulled it off.
OK, now, Darren. Before things go any further. Nothing to ruin the mood like discovering concealed weaponry on your one-night stand.
"This is a bad time to admit this," he said, pointing at the bathroom, "but I need to leave for a minute."
She stepped away from him. "I'm not goin' anywhere."
"Better not," he said, closing the door. "It's bad when a grown man cries."
He actually did take advantage of the facilities, thinking meanwhile. His badge would fit in an inside jacket pocket. The gun was small enough to fit in an outside pocket, although it would look a little bulky. The holster, oddly enough, was the big problem. It was stiff and oddly shaped, although light. But by folding the coat over his arm – and inside out, as if carelessly – he could conceal both outside pockets and drop the jacket on a chair, where it would be ignored.
Unless he fell asleep and she went through his pockets.
In which case, no harm done, except that she'd know who he really was. And be in possession of an FBI badge and a loaded weapon.
Feeling idiotic, he took the bullets out of the gun, put it in his jacket pocket, removed his badge from the jacket, and took the cover off the facial-tissue dispenser built into the side of the bathroom counter. He wedged the badge into the tissue box behind the tissues, dropped the bullets in there too, smoothed out the tissues and put the box back in the dispenser.
And as he did this it struck him: We got the wrong woman.
Debbie was some kind of pathetic copycat. Cynthia was the real killer, and would be waiting for him with a loaded weapon as soon as he opened the door.
Nonsense. Debbie fit the description. More than that, Debbie fit the profile. There was nothing about Cynthia that sent up any red flags.
Of course not. Not for a bereaved lonely horny guy who let himself get sloppy just once.
Well, obviously he couldn't stay in here all night. He had two options: Dig the damn bullets back out, reload the gun, and walk out carrying it under his jacket, ready to fire; or go with the original plan and hope that his instincts and the surface facts were in his favor.
It's been a long time since I doubted my ability to read people. Why now?
It couldn't have anything to do with a sense that he was being unfaithful to Haley.
Could it?
Well, of course, it would save him from a lot of conflict and stress. If he mentally accused every woman he was emotionally or sexually drawn to of being a murderous sociopath. It would also guarantee that he wouldn't feel anything for any woman who might be blown up just feet from him.
He kept the unloaded gun in the jacket. He swallowed, took a breath, opened the bathroom door.
Then he stopped dead, a little puff of air rushing out of his gut.
Cynthia had pushed down the bedcovers and top sheet, and was sitting curled up on the mattress, her back straight. She was wearing Hotch's tie around her neck, the ends dangling over her breasts. And that was all she was wearing.
She giggled breathlessly. "Hi."
"Hello."
"I was thinking of creative uses for a tie."
"I like that one."
She beckoned and without a thought – without one thought! – he was standing beside her, over her, pulling her up as they kissed passionately, his body reacting, his skin coming alive in ways he'd forgotten it could. She pulled on him as she lay down and he came down beside her, holding her with one hand as they kissed, clawing clumsily at his shirt buttons with the other.
She laughed, wrapped her legs around his, began undoing his shirt buttons patiently, then the fastenings of his pants, slipping her hand inside to move over the underwear covering his rapidly stiffening shaft. He jerked spasmodically, instinctually, in her hand, then gasped, "OK. Give me a moment here."
He sat up, got rid of the shoes and socks. When he pulled off his pants he folded them and hung them over the chair – realizing for the first time that this was where he'd dropped his jacket – and she laughed as he did so.
"What?" he said. "You hung up your dress neatly."
"How do you know?"
"Closet door closed," he said, pulling off his shirt and dropping it over the pants. "Dress nowhere in sight. Don't think you threw it out the window."
"Maybe I put it in one of the dresser drawers."
"Then why close the closet door? Anyway, the drawers are for underwear, as far as you're concerned." He pulled open the top drawer to discover a small heap of pale lacy nylon.
It was an unexpectedly domestic sight. He paused for a moment, pulling in a breath. Then he shook himself out of it, pulling off his T-shirt and shorts and putting them in there too.
"Um – I think it's important – "
He looked up as she spoke. She'd reached into her purse, on the nightstand, and was holding up a condom.
Well, just as well one of them still had a functioning brain. He'd forgotten the condoms he'd bought, along with everything else, at the sight of her naked body.
He grinned, closing the dresser drawer. "Well, if you think it's important, you should put it on."
She looked a bit confused.
"On me, I mean. Put it on me."
Cynthia laughed. He moved to her and began kissing her again, cupping her face in his hands, reclining with her. They rolled to the center of the bed. He almost gasped at the sensation of her body pressed full-length against his, letting go, letting instinct take over, letting Darren take over.
After that it was just sensation. His mouth on her, her hands on her penis, his tongue tasting her neck, her thighs caressing his. The feel of her small round breasts in his palms, muscles rippling under her smooth skin as she wrapped around him, undulating. He was quiet, his breath coming in rough pants, but she was vocal enough for them both, praising and demanding.
When he began thrusting she tightened her legs' grip, moving them up along his sides, her pelvis' motion pulling, speeding him. Then suddenly she went limp form the waist up, melting in his hands, and a surge of power shot through him, blood and adrenaline. They moved together hard, fast, both needing, both wringing the last ounce of pleasure from each other.
He didn't want to relax his full weight on top of her, but she wouldn't let him go, clutching and pulsing around even his very relaxed cock. She gave a slow rolling sensual writhe beneath him. "Oh. You. Feel. So. Good."
He pulled in a gasping breath. "At Darren Airways – we aim to please."
They talked, sampled the small bottle of wine in the refrigerator, dozed. He was wakened by her fingers thrumming along his penis. They started off taking it more slowly this time, but ended in the same desperate carnal fever, mouths hot and moist, bodies hot and moist, strands of her hair pulling along his sweaty face.
He awoke from his second doze when she got out of bed and opened the dresser drawer, taking out her underwear.
"You sure?" he said.
"I'm sure," she said regretfully.
"How are you getting home?"
"My car's here."
He rolled out of bed. "I'll walk you to it."
"You don't need to."
"Yes. I need to."
He was guessing a five-year-old Camry; it was a six-year-old Accord. He was glad he'd insisted on accompanying her, because at this hour she'd have been utterly alone in the garage.
When she unlocked her car door he gave her a long kiss, which she returned with warmth.
"Do you want to know – "
"No," she said. "I mean, in a way, yes. But you know, there's a reason people are alone. If I got to know you better, I'd know what it is about you. If you knew me better you'd know what it is about me. I'd rather just leave it like it is. Perfect."
In his case, he couldn't deny she had a point, but he felt a slight twinge. In her case, however –
"I want to tell you something," he said. "My actual job involves knowing a lot about people. You think that some personal flaw of yours is the reason you're alone. That's not correct – or actually, it's correct in the wrong way. The flaw is the defeatism that assumes you can't be loved. If you genuinely want a husband and family, there's no reason why effort on your part won't make you successful. You're not alone because you're flawed; the flaw causes you to perpetuate your aloneness."
She looked at him for a moment, brushed a tear from her face. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you're right about you, too."
Defeatist? No, not him.
Not usually.
Not in any matter involving –
"Possibly," he said.
They kissed a last time and she got into the car. She started it up, then rolled down the window. "Professor?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your real job. Are you a professor? You sounded like a completely different person just now."
"For better or worse, a completely different person is what I am."
She made a funny little face. "I don't know. Darren the pilot seemed pretty real to me. Maybe you're really a fun guy and you just don't know it."
With the straightest possible face and his most businesslike tone, he said, "I am an incredibly fun guy."
She laughed, back out of her parking space, waved goodbye, and drove off. Standing perfectly still, he watched her go.
After a moment, he gave a little sigh.
Well. He had enough time to dig his badge and bullets out of the tissue dispenser, check out, and have an honest-to-God bacon-and-eggs breakfast before he joined Morgan and the others at the Tiny Cereal Box Buffet motel.
His team would pretty well know, of course. Morgan might even grill him for details. He had no intention of telling anyone anything. This had been his own night – his and Darren's – and no business of anyone else.
And it wasn't like there was anything to give anyone else clues about it. There was just the remembrance of pleasure and joy, a new meaning to a Beatles song. There were no souvenirs, no written documents.
Not even Cynthia's license plate number. That was carefully preserved only in his memory.
.
.
THE END