Blind Rage by Terri Persons Page B

still feel it.”
    “What do you mean? What do you feel? What was he doing to her? Did he hit her? Choke her?”
    “No, but…it was rough,” she panted. “He was rough.”
    “Can you describe the woman or where they were? Their surroundings?”
    Garcia sounded desperate, and she wanted to help him, but nothing she had seen could immediately lead them to a particular person or place. “I don’t have specifics…I’m sorry.”
    “Can you give me anything we can use? Is there something I should be calling in right away?”
    “No,” she snapped. “I’m sorry. You know how this works.” She scrambled to her feet and stumbled backward against the wall. “This was nothing but a waste of time. God, what if another one turns up dead tomorrow!”
    “Take it easy,” said Garcia, grabbing her by the shoulder to steady her.
    “I’m fine.” She pushed his hand down. In the next instant, she wanted to throw herself against him.
    He took a step back. “What’s wrong with you?”
    She opened her mouth to retort and quickly closed it. The murderer’s mood had become her own, and she had to regain control. “I need a second,” she said, leaning her back against the wall.
    “You’ve got it,” he said.
    Closing her eyes and concentrating, she worked to moderate her breathing and cool her temper. She inhaled deeply and released the air slowly. In and out. She was having a harder time clearing her system of the lust. Her genuine desire for Garcia was fueling the residual passion of the killer. Perhaps leaving the basement and putting some space between herself and her boss would help. Opening her eyes, she said, “Let’s get out of here, Tony.”
    “Fine by me.”
    She felt something under her feet. She’d been standing on his coat. “I’m sorry,” she said, and stepped off it.
    Garcia retrieved the scarf and slipped it back inside the plastic bag. He picked up his trench, gave it a snap, and draped it over his arm. “I’m sure you got something we can use. Maybe if you sit down and think about it. Tell me what you saw.”
    “First let’s crawl out of this sewer,” she said, and headed for the stairs. She was light-headed and paused before placing her foot on the first step.
    Garcia put his hand in the middle of her back. “You okay?”
    His touch sent a hot, dizzying rush through her body, and she gripped the rail for support. “I’m good,” she croaked, and started up.
    Garcia thumped up the steps next to her, sniffing his coat as he went. “Should we just head to your loft?”
    “Sounds like a plan,” she said, while thinking it would be a huge mistake.
    “I’m starving. How about you talk while I fry those steaks you promised me?”
    She was famished, too. It had to be the killer’s hunger. Watching through his eyes had roused more than one sort of appetite inside her. She pushed open the door to the first-floor hallway. “Steak sounds great.”

 
     
    Chapter 13

     
    WHILE GARCIA FRIED THE STEAKS, SHE SAT AT THE KITCHEN table with a Post-it pad in front of her and a glass of Chianti in her hand. She’d hoped to organize her thoughts before recounting what she’d seen, but she was too unsettled to sort through it. Taking a sip of Chianti, she stole a peek at the chef. He was a big reason she remained flustered. He’d peeled off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. She set down the wine, picked up a pen, and clicked it repeatedly.
    Fork in one fist and a beer in the other, Garcia turned around and eyed the yellow pad on the table. “Not that goofy shit again. I don’t know anyone else in the bureau who does it that way.”
    “Good. That means I’m special.” She glanced over at the stove. “Getting a little smoky in here, Emeril.”
    He took a sip of beer and pointed the bottle at her. “You look like hell.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her face in her palms. “Fuck,” she said through her