The Murder That Never Was (Forensic Instincts 5)

Emma sized this jerk up in a New York minute. It took one pickpocket to recognize another.

Calmly, she waited.

Sure enough, the guy lurched forward as if he’d lost his balance from the motion of the train. He grabbed hold of the seat rail in front of him and allegedly tripped over the bag. While struggling to regain his footing, he reached down and, in one swift motion, scooped out the weird woman’s wallet. Just as swiftly, he straightened, excused himself, and continued along his way.

Emma bolted to her feet, careful to take her own belongings with her. She wriggled her way past the woman who was an unknowing victim, and marched up behind the asshole who’d just stolen her wallet.

She tapped him on the shoulder. He startled and turned around, obviously expecting to see a cop. Instead, he found himself facing an angelic young blonde with a body to die for.

“Hey,” he greeted her with a charming smile. “Can I help you—in any way?”

“Yup.” Emma nodded. She extended her hand, palm up. “You can either give me back the wallet you just lifted or I can kick you in the balls so hard they’ll come out of your mouth.” A shrug. “Your choice.”

The guy’s jaw dropped.

“Like I said, your choice,” Emma reiterated. “But I think you’ll prefer option one. I’m a hell of a balls kicker.”

He opened and closed his mouth several times, resembling an unappealing guppy. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the well-worn wallet, placing it in Emma’s extended hand. “Bitch,” he muttered.

“I’ve been called worse. Now get lost. And if you’re thinking of making any more trouble, think again. Option two is still available.”

With that, she pivoted and went back to her seat. Vaguely, she found herself wondering how much cash was in the wallet. She immediately dismissed that thought. She was a different person now. But, hell, once an addict, always an addict. The important thing was that she didn’t act on her impulses—unless they were for the benefit of Forensic Instincts.

She didn’t even bother sitting down, just grabbed hold of the nearest handle to brace herself for the remainder of the ride. She glanced down at the humming, oblivious woman.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” she said. “I think this fell out of your tote bag.” She passed her the wallet.

The weird woman blinked, seemingly coming out of her reverie for a moment. “Oh, thanks.” She stuffed the wallet in her coat pocket. “Never saw it fall.”

“No problem.” Just to be sure no further threat existed, Emma slanted her gaze quickly in the direction of where she’d accosted the pickpocket. He was nowhere to be found. She doubted she’d be seeing him again. And if she did, her knee was ready and able.

“Stupid bag,” the weird woman was muttering under her breath as she glared down at the offensive tote bag. “You’re supposed to have enough room to hold everything. You’re an asshole.”

Emma bit her lip and averted her gaze. No need to respond. The woman had resumed her under-the-breath monologue.

The train whistled and Emma glanced up. The next stop was hers. Thank God. Man, did she hate subways.

CHAPTER SIX

Casey rolled over in her bed, blinking away the early-morning sunlight. She wished she shared an iota of the sun’s energy and perseverance. But this morning? Not a chance. She was too exhausted to even think of moving, much less rising. And the chest wall of the hard, muscular man pressed against her was the reason.

She buried her face in her pillow, determined to eclipse the day for just a few short hours.

“Morning, lazy.” Hutch clearly had different ideas. His deep voice came from just above her head. And it sounded very much awake.

“Lazy?” If Casey weren’t so wiped out, she’d laugh. “You kept me up until almost four a.m. I can tell it’s barely dawn. Besides, don’t sound so smug. I topped you in stamina last night.”

A chuckle. “That’s a pipe dream, sweetheart. It’ll never happen. And you’re certainly not helping your case now. Where’s that stamina you’re boasting about?”

“Recouping.”

“You’ve had two hours to recoup. Time to resume.”

Casey groaned. Hutch was a twenty-four seven kickass guy—mentally, physically, psychologically. He’d shone in his years as a DC cop, blown through his FBI new agent training at the top of his class, excelled throughout his career at the Bureau, and was now the unspoken leader of his team at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico.

It was disgusting how productive one human being could be. People called her a dynamo who could survive on little sleep. Well then, Supervisory Special Agent Kyle “Hutch” Hutchinson was one step away from superhuman.

He was already kissing the side of her neck. “Wake up, beautiful.”