Wolf Hunger Page 8

  “Your father didn’t touch you?” Max prompted.

  The kid shook his head, refusing to look at Max.

  Biting back a curse, Max reached out and gently pressed two fingers against the boy’s stomach, right below the sternum. Terence winced in pain, involuntarily pulling back a little. Max moved his hand away even as the boy tried to recover and act like nothing had happened. Blows to the stomach hurt like hell, but they rarely ever left a mark. Wallace was a smart, twisted, sadistic son of a bitch. Just like Max’s father had been.

  Max glanced at the kids’ mother. She’d seen her son get beaten by the man who was supposed to love and protect him. Maybe he could plead his case with her. But there was nothing in the woman’s eyes to make him think there was any reason to bother. The woman was gazing at her husband the same way his own mother had looked at his father. Eileen Wallace was thinking her husband would finally realize how much he’d hurt their children and then everything would be better.

  But it never worked out that way. The violence would stop for a time. Maybe a few days, maybe even a few weeks. But at some point, it always started up again.

  Sighing, Max stood. On the other side of the room, Wallace gave him a smug smile. The urge to rip the man a new asshole surged inside Max, bringing fangs and claws with it. He probably would have gone at the bastard right then, but once again, Brooks stepped in front of Max. Taking Max by the arm, Brooks led him outside, blocking both Alvarez’s and Wallace’s view of Max as he did.

  Out on the front steps, Max inhaled deeply, fighting for control over his inner wolf and tamping down the desire to kill that piece of shit Wallace regardless of how stupid it might be. Zane came out a few moments later.

  “Alvarez will make sure the kid gets medical attention,” Zane said. “He’s in there right now laying into that wanker, promising to come back tomorrow to check the kid’s stitches himself.”

  “For all the good it will do the kid,” Max muttered. “His hand will heal, but what about the next time, when his father puts his head through a wall?”

  Zane didn’t say anything. There was only so much a cop could do in situations like this. SWAT cops could do even less. This wasn’t their patrol area, and it wasn’t like they’d be coming out here again anytime soon on official duty, unless it was to deal with another DV call that went even worse than this one.

  “Go talk to the neighbor who called 9-1-1,” Brooks suggested. “See if he can tell you anything.”

  Max nodded. If he stayed on the steps any longer, he was going to end up walking into the house and ripping out Wallace’s throat.

  He and Zane found the old man sitting on his porch with the patrolman, filling out paperwork.

  “This is Ernest Miller,” the officer said. “He’s the one who keeps calling us out here. He’s also the only one who cares enough to fill out the reports.”

  Ernest was a crusty-looking guy who sported shorts and a T-shirt, chilly November weather be damned. He had faded naval tattoos covering both forearms and an irritated look on his face.

  “Those poor kids okay in there?” Ernest asked, his voice coming out in a gravelly, two-pack-a-day gargle. “Or did that bastard finally kill one of them?”

  “They’re all alive…barely,” Max said. “You hear them fighting in there a lot?”

  Ernest snorted. “Three or four times a week. Normally I’m not one to put my nose into another man’s business, but I can’t stand by while that man beats up his wife and children. What kind of bastard does that and still calls himself a man?” The guy turned and spit over the side of the porch, as if just talking about his neighbor made him sick. “You going to be able to finally arrest that piece of garbage?”

  Max shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

  Ernest cursed. “If I were ten years younger, I’d take that jackass behind the woodshed and beat him within an inch of his life.”

  Max couldn’t argue with that. Next door, Brooks and Diego came out of the Wallace house. Reaching into his pocket, Max pulled out a business card, handing it to Ernest. He’d never had a reason to give anyone his card before, but this seemed like a good use of one.

  “My personal cell phone number is on there,” he said. “Call me if you hear anything from the Wallace house. Day or night.”

  Ernest assured Max he would. “Not that I imagine I’ll have to wait too long. You might have put the fear of God into that bastard for a little while, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear the screaming and hollering start up again before long.”

  Max knew the man was right, which made getting back in their SWAT vehicle to leave damn hard. But not nearly as tough as when he looked back and saw Terence gazing out the front window at them, his face a mask of anguish.

  Chapter 4

  “I can’t believe you didn’t call and tell me you were going to a party,” Miriam said, looking pointedly at Brandy. “You left me here sleeping in my bed without a clue. What kind of wingwoman are you?”

  Brandy laughed as she reached into the fridge for another round of diet soda for the three of them. Lana had stopped by her friends’ apartment hoping to catch up with them before her date with Max that night.

  “The kind that never would have tried to get you out of bed after you’d pulled a twelve-hour shift at the ER,” Brandy said, handing one of the cans to her red-haired roommate. “You would have been stumbling around like a zombie in high heels.”

  Lana smiled as her two friends continued to bicker about the fact that Brandy had gone to the SWAT cookout and spent the entire night hanging out with a team full of hunky cops without mentioning it to her roommate. It didn’t help that Brandy had taken selfies with all the hot, single guys who’d been at the SWAT compound last night—and there had definitely been a lot of them. Lana swiped through the pictures on Brandy’s phone, noticing there were quite a few of her with Diego. But as Lana got further along in the photo album, she realized there were even more pictures of Brandy with a smaller guy with dark-blond hair, a trace of stubble, and a smile that never seemed to leave his face.

  “Hey, Brandy. Who’s this guy with you in all these pictures?” she asked, holding the phone up so her friend could see it. “I thought you had the hots for Diego?”

  Brandy stopped arguing with Miriam and walked over to the couch where Lana was sitting. Setting the two cans she was holding on the coffee table, she took the phone with a smile. “Oh, I do have the hots for Diego Miguel Martinez. God, the way that name rolls off the tongue!” Still grinning, she swiped through the pictures. “But I also have the hots for Zane and Hale and Trey,” Brandy said, showing Lana pictures of each guy as she spoke.

  Lana had to admit they were all super attractive. They couldn’t compare with Max, of course, but they were nothing to turn your nose up at.

  “In fact, I have the hots for pretty much the entire SWAT team—including the ones already taken by someone else,” Brandy continued. “There’s not a man on that team I wouldn’t wrap in a tortilla and eat up like a burrito.” She stopped swiping, gazing longingly at one particular photo, her dark eyes suddenly dreamy. “But then I met Chris Hughes, one of their friends, and something funny happened.”

  Miriam pushed her curly, red hair behind her ear and leaned over Bandy’s shoulder to look at her phone. “He’s cute, but I don’t think I’d put him in the same class as the SWAT guys.”

  Brandy shrugged. “Normally, I’d say the same thing. But there’s just something about him…maybe the way he made me laugh with that Mississippi accent of his. Whatever it was, I ended up sitting at a picnic table with him until the sun came up this morning.”

  Lana lifted a brow, then looked at Miriam to see that she was just as stunned. It wasn’t that Chris wasn’t attractive—he definitely was. It was simply that Brandy had always—as in always—been a party girl. She would go for the hottest guy in the room, get what she wanted from him, and then m
ove on. She’d never been serious about a man as long as Lana had known her—and Lana knew her since middle school.

  “Wow,” Miriam said. “So I guess you’re going to see Chris again, then?”

  Brandy thought a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” Lana asked.

  Brandy shrugged. “I’m not looking to get involved with anyone seriously, so there wouldn’t be any point in seeing him again.”

  Her friend said the words lightly, but it sounded a little forced to Lana. One glance at Miriam told Lana she thought the same thing.

  Throwing up her hands, Miriam flopped down on the opposite couch, popped the top on her diet soda, and looked at Lana. “Okay, how about you? Brandy said you ran into a hunk of your own last night. Please tell me you’re smart enough to hold on to him.”

  Lana laughed. “Definitely. Max and I had an awesome time. We went out for pizza and ended up talking for hours. We didn’t get to my parents’ place until well after one o’clock.”

  Miriam jumped up and hurried around the coffee table to sit beside Lana, her green eyes bright with excitement. “Dish on the details. And don’t leave anything out.”

  Brandy sat down on the other side of Lana, a little more subdued than normal but apparently more interested in talking about Lana’s evening than her own.

  “For starters, Max is extremely attractive but doesn’t seem to know it.” Lana sat back, wrapping her arms around a throw pillow and hugging it to her chest with a smile. “He’s funny and really easy to talk to. He didn’t come close to falling asleep when I told him about my organic chemistry classes. He even gets that I’m a pescatarian.”

  Brandy sipped her soda. “If you guys hit it off that well, I’m surprised you didn’t go back to his place and make out.”

  Lana laughed. “Oh, trust me, I wanted to. But it was late, and I didn’t want to keep Max up all night, not with the kind of work he does. We did make out on the front doorstep like a couple of teenagers, though, and that was smoking hot. If my dad hadn’t jerked open the door when he did, I’m not sure we would have stopped.”

  Miriam did a double take. “Why the heck did your dad open the door? Didn’t you say it was after one in the morning? Isn’t that way past your dad’s bedtime?”

  Lana made a face. “Apparently he’s not thrilled with the idea of me dating a police officer. He acted like a complete ass in front of Max and flat-out told me to stop seeing him, like I’m sixteen years old.”

  “I hope you’re not putting up with that crap,” Brandy said hotly.

  She couldn’t help but smile at how vehement Brandy was at the thought of someone trying to stand between Lana and Max, especially when she didn’t seem interested in putting nearly that much energy into the relationship she could have with Chris.

  “No, I’m not going to put up with that crap,” Lana assured her friends. “I made no secret of the fact that I plan on seeing Max again. We’re going out tonight, actually. I asked him to pick me up here. We’re grabbing something to eat, then going dancing.”

  She was about to add that she’d asked Max to pick her up here instead of her parents’ house so she wouldn’t have to deal with her dad’s stupidity when her cell phone rang. Hopping up, she hurried over to the chair where she’d tossed her purse when she’d first come in. She hoped it wasn’t Max calling to say he had to work late.

  But Max’s name didn’t pop up on her phone. Instead, it was a number she didn’t recognize. She almost let the call go to voicemail, then changed her mind. It was a 512 area code, which meant Austin. It could be someone from the university calling.

  She thumbed the green button and put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Mason, this is Detective Gabriel Peterson, Austin Police Department. I was wondering if you could come to the station. I need to speak to you about your roommate, Denise Sullivan.”

  It took a few seconds for the words to filter through, but when they did, the first emotion that hit Lana was panic. “Oh God! Is Denise okay?”

  “This is really something I’d prefer to talk to you about in person, Ms. Mason. Would you be able to come to the station? I could meet you somewhere else if you prefer.”

  “I’m not in Austin right now,” she said. “I graduated from college a few weeks ago and I’m back home in Dallas. Please tell me Denise is okay.”

  Lana’s breathing came faster and faster, her whole body buzzing like she’d put her finger in a light socket. Even her gums were tingling.

  “Detective?” she prompted.

  Brandy and Miriam must have figured out there was something wrong because they got up and gathered around her. They looked as nervous as she felt.

  What is it? Brandy mouthed.

  Lana ignored her. She couldn’t focus on Brandy and the phone at the same time. “Detective?” she said again, almost begging this time.

  There was a pause and then a slight cough, like Peterson was clearing his throat. “Ms. Mason, your roommate was found murdered in your apartment this morning. Would it be possible for you to come to Austin so we can ask you a few questions? We could really use your help.”

  Lana heard Brandy and Miriam asking her what was wrong, and the detective asking if she was still on the line, but she was so stunned she couldn’t think of how to answer. All she could think about was the last time she’d seen Denise.

  That had been only three days ago. How could her friend possibly be dead?

  “What happened to her?” Lana asked Peterson softly.

  “It would really be best if you could come down to the station,” the detective said. “I can tell you more then.”

  Lana stuttered out that she’d be there, though she wasn’t sure how the heck she’d make the three-hour drive south on I-35. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold her phone. How could she possibly drive?

  She hung up, then somehow stumbled across the room until she found the couch and sat down. Brandy and Miriam followed, taking a seat on either side of her, each of them putting an arm around her.

  “It’s my roommate from school, Denise,” Lana murmured. “She was murdered. The police found her dead in the apartment we used to share in Austin. They want me to come down there so they can ask me some questions.”

  “There’s no way we’re letting you drive all the way down to Austin on your own,” Miriam said. “Not in the condition you’re in right now.”

  Lana nodded as her phone rang again. She sat there, too numb to answer it.

  Brandy took the phone gently out of her hand and answered it. Lana tried to listen in on the conversation, but she was too out of it to focus on anything. Instead, she leaned against Miriam, tears in her eyes.

  “Honey,” Brandy said, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. “That was Max. He’s on his way. I told him what happened and he said he’ll take you down to Austin to talk to the police. Okay, Lana?”

  Lana nodded, a little bit of the weight crushing her chest easing up at the mention of his name. Max would be here soon. He’d help her get through this.

  * * *

  “This is going to be hard for you to see, Ms. Mason,” Detective Peterson said as he placed a closed folder on the table in front of her, his hand resting on the cover as if he thought Lana would open the thing on her own. “But I need you to look at the pictures we took at your apartment and see if anything is missing or out of place, or whether there’s something there that doesn’t belong.”

  Lana nodded, trying not to hyperventilate. The long drive from Dallas with Max had helped calm her down, but the moment they’d gotten to the police station and Peterson had brought them into the small conference room, the reality of what she was doing there all came rushing back. She’d felt like she might be ill, and something told her that looking at these pictures was only going to make it worse.

  B
eside her, Max’s big hand enveloped hers. “I’m right here, Lana.”

  She gave him a small smile, thanking God he’d come with her. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to do this without him. For some crazy reason, she felt like she could take on the world when she was with him.

  Taking a deep breath, she flipped open the folder, prepared for the worst, relaxing when she saw that the first photo was a picture of the front door of the apartment she used to share with Denise. Her lips curved a little at the fall-themed welcome sign hanging from the little hook under the peephole, the one with the pumpkins she and Denise had gotten at a local flea market.

  “The door wasn’t damaged, so we thought Denise must have known her attacker and let him in,” Peterson said. “But earlier today, we had a locksmith take a look, and it’s his opinion that the lock was picked by someone who knew what they were doing.”

  Lana transferred the photo to the other side of the folder, then looked at the next picture. Any relief she’d felt at the sight of the front door disappeared as she took in the living room. The couch and matching chairs looked like someone had taken a knife to them, the coffee table had been smashed, the TV had been completely destroyed, and the built-ins that made up the entertainment center had been demolished.

  The rest of the photos were just as bad. The kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms looked like a tornado had hit them. Lana could only stare in disbelief. Who would do something like this?

  Peterson asked her one question after another. Was there anything missing? Did Denise have a boyfriend? Did she sleep around? Was there anyone Denise had problems with lately, anyone who hated her enough to want to hurt her? Was Denise doing well in her classes? Did she take drugs? Did she hang out with anyone off campus?

  Lana answered the questions the best she could, telling the detective Denise wasn’t like that. “Seriously. She was fanatically focused on her classes. If it wasn’t for the occasional times I’d drag her out to go see a movie after an exam or big project, she probably wouldn’t have left the apartment other than to go to school.”