hours of purposeless sniffing and romping—had brought them to a place where they were a smooth, efficient working team. And it was time to do that work.
He stepped across the threshold, a now eager Flash at his side. He didn’t bother to have him sniff the officers who had already been inside so he could tell him to ignore those scents; he knew Flash had already done that. Dante wasn’t sure how the dog processed it, but he knew which scents to ignore.
When he gave the command to search, the dog set off instantly. Dante watched, thinking as he often did that if he mapped out the dog’s travels, there would be no pattern. And yet to Flash, the paths were as clear as a well-lit interstate. And every inch of those paths must be sniffed at length. In such an enclosed space, Dante supposed it took more time to sort out the trails. He knew the animal’s incredible nose could track a scent hundreds of hours old, but the suspect had been in this place not even three hours ago, so it should be hot and fresh.
But as he watched, a different sort of pattern emerged. As if he’d been here to observe, he saw a model of life here in this small apartment emerge. Saw the most frequent paths walked—couch across from the flat screen to the kitchen and back, and almost never to the narrow table in the eating nook. Couch to the bathroom and back. Bathroom to the bedroom in the back, which had been enough to make even the casual-living Dante’s nose wrinkle. Did the guy never do laundry? Poor Flash, he thought. Although he supposed to the dog the stronger the smell, the headier it was, no matter that to a human it was nearly gagworthy.
He wished there was a way to train the dog to go for the faintest scents first, but he knew that was counter to Flash’s every instinct. And so he’d settled into the routine, letting the dog do it his way, because he almost never failed. And if he did fail to find something, it was because there was nothing to find.
Dante watched the dog work in the kitchen now—this was the only time Dante didn’t have to worry about the animal’s impressive counter-surfing skills, as he never strayed when working—wondering not for the first time if a negative result of a bloodhound’s scent work would be as acceptable in court as a positive. If he didn’t find something, was that proof in reverse? Would there come a case when a bloodhound’s nose would be used in court to prove someone’s innocence rather than guilt? He supposed it was only a matter of time, if it hadn’t happened already. He should look that up—it was always good to keep on top of things like that so—
Flash pawed at a cupboard door. Dante went still. And then it came—the dog’s look back over his shoulder that told him he’d found something. He crossed over to the dog, gave him a pat. He gloved up then crouched and pulled open the door. Bare seconds later he’d shoved aside a saucepan that looked like it had once bounced down three flights of stairs. Then he pulled out the only other thing in the cupboard. And stared as Flash proudly nudged it with that nose.
A five-pound sack of flour.
“Seriously, dog?”
Flash gave him a mournful look. But then, he always looked mournful. Others called it solemn, others dignified, but to Dante it was always mournful. And just now it was as if the dog was hurt Dante didn’t trust him.
“All right, all right.”
He picked up the bag, straightened up and put it on the counter. Pondered. What the hell would a guy who didn’t have even a saltshaker in his kitchen, and nothing in his fridge but beer and leftover pizza, be doing with a bag of flour? Cutting drugs? That made no sense—the stuff was entirely the wrong texture. It looked practically full, anyway.
Collins made a smart-ass comment from the living room about whether they were searching or baking cookies. Dante flipped him a hand gesture. They both laughed.
He studied the bag for a moment longer, then unrolled the haphazardly folded top. Hesitantly—even with the gloves, he was a little wary of what might be in there, judging by the state of the microwave alone, let alone the rest of the kitchen. He was hardly manic about housecleaning, but this was a cut below.
He was glad not to see anything moving, although there were a couple of suspect dark specks amid the white. He bent again, picking up the battered saucepan. Then he pulled out one of the plastic evidence bags he always carried and used it to line the pan. Finally he picked up the flour and started to pour it into the bag-lined saucepan.
“Sarge’s car just pulled up,” Duke called out.
Dante grunted an acknowledgment, his attention on going slowly. By the time a third of the bag was emptied, he was beginning to get antsy. He trusted Flash implicitly, but—
Something fell out of the bag, sending up a puff of white flour. Dante leaned over to look. And went very still.
It was a phone. A cheap throwaway phone. A burner.
He was almost afraid to breathe. He reached out to touch it with a fingertip, half-afraid he was seeing things. It shifted slightly in the flour. He picked it up.
“Damn,” Duke muttered, crossing the room now. He joined Dante, staring down at the phone. “He really is that good.”
“Yeah. He is.”
* * *
He couldn’t mean it, Gemma thought. Dev couldn’t really be breaking up with her.
“But—” she began.
He shook his head. “I’m going to give you that chance to find that guy,” he said again.
Gemma frowned. He sounded as if he were giving her some great gift, not destroying their life together. And somewhere deep inside, where she was the woman who knew her place in this world, she felt a spark of anger.
“That’s big of you,” she said sharply. “So, what, you’re just going to walk away from me? From us?”
“Yes.”
“And just what,” she asked imperiously, “do you think you’re going to find with someone else that I don’t have? Just what is it you think I’m lacking, Devlin Harrington?”
Dev looked almost sad. “An ounce of maternal instinct,” he said.
Maternal instinct? Her brow furrowed. What on earth did that have to do with anything? Then a memory struck her.
“Is this about your cousin and her baby?”
She found it hard to believe one awkward moment with a tiny, squalling, squirming infant could have brought them to this. Sure, it had been clear she didn’t know the first thing about babies, but why would she? She was Gemma Colton, daughter of Fenwick Colton—not to be confused with her distant cousin with the same name, who had had to deal with that awful virus a few years ago in Dead River, Wyoming, the best reason she’d ever heard for not becoming a nurse—and any children she might ever have would be safely ensconced with a nanny.
“That was just the demonstration of what I already knew,” Dev said. And now he was sounding sad. “Gemma, keeping Harrington Incorporated in the family is my responsibility. And that requires children.”
She might not know much about kids, but that seemed a rather cold-blooded way of thinking about them, even to her. But she loved Dev, and so she plowed on. “So? I want kids...someday.” She shoved aside the doubt. “And they’ll have a good life,” she declared. “The best schools, the best care, a dozen nannies if that’s what it takes to find the right one.”
“Exactly.”
Gemma blinked. “What?”
“I want a woman who will be hands-on with our children. Who will be a great mom. Like mine. She never turned us over to a nanny. Never abdicated her responsibility.”
“Abdicated her responsibility? You make it sound like giving up a crown—” She cut off her own words when she heard how snarky she sounded. Secretly, she thought Dev probably had a rose-colored-glasses view of the mother who had died. Kind of like her father did of his first wife, Layla’s mother.
Layla.