Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

absolutely floored her? After combing the city for Solares and coming up empty, their quarry had walked into the SPD precinct about—Angela checked her watch—oh, about half an hour ago.
    “Are they out of their flipping minds?” Solares muttered.
    Probably, Angela thought as she glanced at her notes on Solares. The stats read like a rap sheet without the criminal element: twenty-eight years old, lived alone, a landscape architect with a shoe fetish.
    Okay, so she’d made up the shoe thing, but…really. It didn’t take a brainiac to figure it out. Solares was more than just fashion forward. The brunette was a force of nature. A one-woman wrecking crew in her pinstriped pencil skirt, button-down top, and black stiletto boots.
    Gucci, most likely.
    Angela stole another look at the gorgeous footwear. Yeah, definitely. That leather looked butter soft.
    So did Mac. At least, in the head.
    She caught a glimpse of her partner’s expression from the corner of her eye. No doubt about it. His killer instinct was nowhere near killer at the moment.
    Angela stifled a snort. The guy was practically drooling. Had been since the gorgeous Ms. Solares walked her curvaceous body into their less-than-elegant office. Under normal circumstances, Angela would’ve found his reaction to the brunette funny.
    Not today.
    Right now, she wanted answers, not a testosterone-induced stupor. She didn’t have time to screw around. Four women were dead. A baby was missing. And with their prime suspect still at large? Yeah, Mac needed to get with the program. Because, like it or not, the BFF would be talking to them. Dishing all she knew on the mysterious Myst Munroe.
    Snapping the leather-bound notepad closed, Angela headed for the door. She bumped Mac on the way out, brushing his shoulder with hers. “You gonna keep it together in there, Irish? Or am I doing this alone?”
    “I’m good.” A sheepish look on his face, he followed her out the door. “You’re leading, though.”
    Her mouth tipped up at the corners. Yeah, like there’d been any doubt of that. With his trademark cool-guy demeanor out of commission, Mac was more liability than asset in the interview process. Still, she wanted him with her. Mac’s skill at picking up cues—interpreting subtle shifts in body language—made psychic ability look like child’s play.
    Cranking the knob, Angela pushed the door wide and stepped into IR one. Stale air peppered with the smell of spearmint greeted her as Solares spun on three-inch heels. A grim look on her face, the brunette plopped her Versace handbag on the scarred tabletop. Snapping her gum, she drilled Angela with her dark brown eyes.
    “What’s going on?”
    “You’re a hard woman to find, Ms. Solares.” Angela met the brunette’s gaze head-on, giving as good as she got. “Where’ve you been all day?”
    “Around.” Solares crossed her arms over her chest.
    Hmm…and wasn’t her body language interesting? Defensive and nervous. Maybe even a little guilt-laden.
    Good.
    Uncomfortable was exactly how Angela wanted her.
    Hard-ass wasn’t really her style. Mac always handled the rough-edged interviews, but that didn’t mean Angela wasn’t good at it. Putting the thumb screws to a suspect was part of the job. As necessary a weapon as the Glock holstered at the small of her back.
    “Detective Keen, Homicide.” Brushing the bottom edge of her leather coat aside, she flashed the badge clipped to her belt before tipping her chin in Mac’s direction. “My partner, Detective MacCord.”
    Solares frowned. “Homicide?”
    Walking toward the table set in the center of the room, Angela paused beside a plastic chair. She glanced at the monstrous handbag now crowding her interview real estate. The big-ticket item suited the woman. Solares was high profile and higher maintenance. Normally, not a problem for Angela. This one, though, was whipcord smart. Intelligent in the way a knife was sharp. And as Solares’s eyes cut to where she stood, Angela felt the sting.
    Which pissed her off enough to pull her bad cop routine.
    “Have a seat, Ms. Solares,” she said, her voice a lethal combination of I’m-not-playing and don’t-mess-with-me as she pulled out a chair.
    Boots rooted to the pitted floor, Solares’ eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you tell what this is about first?”
    With the one-way mirror behind her, Angela set her notebook down beside the Versace and pointed to the chair opposite her. “Sit.”
    “Holy cr—do