Deadly Obsession (A Brown and de Luca Novel Book 4) by MAGGIE SHAYNE

inside, leaving her safe, secure, and nice and cool. Then I went up to the house. It was a cream-colored ranch, with a matching one-car garage beside it. The driveway was paved, like most of the houses nearby. He had brown shutters, a white front door and a two-step concrete stoop with a tiny roof over it, supported by black iron filigree posts. There was an attached mailbox with the digits 117 on it in fake gold. And a doorbell right next to that.
    My finger moved toward the doorbell, then stopped there as another car pulled into the little driveway behind mine. A loud (in a good way, the owner had repeatedly assured me) boat-sized, black ’72 Monte Carlo that Mason called classic and I called old.
    Folding my arms over my chest, I leaned against one of the filigree pillars and watched Mason defy his doctor’s orders on his first full day out of the hospital. He got out of the Beast, closed the door and looked at me like
I
was the one doing something wrong.
    “Don’t give me that look, Detective.
You’re
the one who’s not allowed to work yet.”
    “I’m not working,” he said, palms up as he walked toward me.
    “No? What do you call it, then?”
    “Visiting?”
    “Right.”
    “And you?” he asked. “What are
you
doing here, Rache? I thought I told you to stay away from this guy.”
    “Maybe you should have asked me instead.” Not that it would have made a difference. “Besides, I’m an official police consultant.” I know it was lame. It was the best I could come up with on short notice.
    “And they’ve hired you to work on the arson case?”
    I lowered my eyes. “Not exactly.”
    “Then what—exactly?”
    He was right in front of me now, though, so when I lifted my head, there he was. Close enough to kiss. I was sorely tempted, too, but the door suddenly opened behind me, and I spun around like a guilty teenager at Make-Out Point, caught in a flashlight’s beam.
    Peter Rouse stood there, pajama bottoms, white T-shirt, coffee mug in one hand, hair looking as though he’d combed it with an egg beater, bleary eyes. “No press. Come on, my kids are sleeping.”
    Liar. Or so my NFP told me.
    “We’re not press,” Mason said, flipping his badge at the guy.
    Yeah,
sure
he wasn’t working. I’m pretty sure flashing your badge at a suspect is the definition of working. You know, for a cop.
    Rouse the Louse met Mason’s eyes, and then recognition hit. He gaped a little, then said, “Shit. Yeah, I guess you would want to talk to me.” Then he looked up. “That’s it, right? Just talk. ’Cause like I said, my kids are in bed. So if you want anything else...”
    My lie detector was blinking like a beacon.
    “Like what?” Mason asked.
    “He thinks you’re here to kick his ass. Or worse,” I clarified. “He’s not like that, Rouse.” I don’t know why I called him by his last name, but it’s just what came out. Frankly, I’m glad I didn’t slip and call him Louse. “
I’m
like that, but since he’s here to stay my angry hand, chances are you’re pretty safe.”
    Rouse thinned his lips, nodded heavily, opened the door farther and stood aside. “Come on in. Just keep it down. The kids—”
    “Are still in the hospital,” Mason said.
    So that was what he’d been lying about. The kids weren’t even home. The Louse looked alarmed, but Mason just went on.
    “They moved them over to Golisano yesterday before I was discharged. I checked on their condition just this morning. I’m glad to hear they’re doing better, by the way.”
    Guiltily, the vermin sighed and lowered his head. “Thanks to you,” he said.
    He moved aside to let us walk in, then pushed the door closed and didn’t say a word as we followed him through the living room with its beige carpet, tan sofa, and matching love seat and chair. Cheap coffee table that probably came from Walmart, and a modest 32-inch TV mounted to the wall. The dining room was stark. Dinette, chairs, a few photos of the kids on the walls. His