Brody & Hannigan 02 - Grand Theft Lotto (8 page)

Damn it.
"So call me when you get home."

"It might be late."

He bent and gave her a hard, swift kiss full of promise. "I'll wait up."

Chapter Eigh
t

Ruby Nell Hannigan was not a woman prone to crying fits, so finding her mother red-nosed and damp-eyed when she arrived at her mother's house sent Hannigan's gut into a hard knot. "Mom?"

Her mother waved her hand, managing a watery smile. "I'm okay, honey. Just feeling a bit blue."

"Because of Dwayne?"

Ruby shrugged, wiping her eyes with a crumpled tissue clutched in one hand as they made their way to the warm, roomy kitchen at the back of the house. "Not so much Dwayne, I guess—I can't say I was close to him at all, more's the pity—but Marie is just such a mess, it hurts my heart."

Hannigan frowned, remembering Marie's strange calm when she and Brody had broken the news about Dwayne's death. She supposed grief had finally caught up with the poor woman. "Is someone staying with her?"

"Becky was there when I called. I think Nan's driving down from Huntsville tonight or tomorrow."

Hannigan gave her mother a swift hug. "I hate that what should have been a happy thing for you has turned so rotten."

Ruby gave her a fierce squeeze. "I'm just glad you're not mad at me for buying the ticket."

"It's not like you make a habit of gambling away your money." She leaned back and looked at her mother. "Right?"

Ruby gave her arm a light slap. "Of course not! Who do you think raised you, young lady?"

"I hate to tell you, we haven't made any progress on finding out who stole your ticket."

Ruby shook her head. "It's not even important anymore. I'd have traded every penny if it could have kept Dwayne from getting killed."

"We haven't found any sign that what happened to Dwayne is connected in any way to your missing ticket," Hannigan said quickly. Looking for a change of subject, she sniffed the fragrant air.  "What's cooking?

"Turnip greens, cornbread, pinto beans with smoked pork loin and banana pudding for dessert." Ruby lifted the lid of the pot of beans and let Hannigan take a long sniff.

So much for wearing skimpy lingerie anytime soon,
she thought, her mouth watering so much she thought she might have to grab a napkin to wipe up the drool. "Smells amazing."

"You should have asked Lee to join us," Ruby said, slanting a speculative look at Hannigan.

She'd actually considered it, but there was no way she and her partner could have hidden their attraction from her mother. Ruby already suspected there was something going on as it was. Hannigan supposed if she and Brody managed to make it all the way into the bedroom next time, she'd have to tell her mother about the change in their relationship.

But so far, making it all the way to the bedroom had been proving almost as difficult as finding a missing Lotto ticket.

"I think he had plans," she said casually, not mentioning that his plans had included taking Hannigan to bed. Some things just weren't appropriate topics of conversations with a girl's mother.

"Oh." Ruby sounded both surprised and disappointed. "I didn't know he was seeing anyone."

"Mother, you just met him this morning. Of course you don't know whether or not he's seeing anyone."

"I just haven't ever heard you mention a girlfriend."

She took pity on her mother, as much to prepare her for the potential change in Hannigan's relationship with her partner as to wipe the mildly disappointed look off her face. "Actually, I don't think he's seeing anyone at the moment. His plans aren't date-related."

At least, she amended mentally, not related to a date with a woman not named Stella Hannigan.

"He's very handsome."

"He is indeed," she agreed readily.

"And kind. He was a real sweetheart, helping me out when I asked him to." Ruby stirred the beans, slanting a quick glance at Hannigan over her shoulder. "It's not that often you find a man who's both kind-hearted and drop-dead gorgeous."

My mother just called my partner drop-dead gorgeous
, she thought, stifling a grin.

"He's not gay is he?"

Hannigan froze. "No. Definitely not gay."

"I'm not one of those people who judges."

"I know you're not. But Brody's not gay."
Trust me
, she added silently, remembering the earlier grope-session in the front seat of Brody's car.

"You look a little flushed." Ruby reached out and pressed the back of her hand to Hannigan's forehead. "You're not coming down with something, are you?"

Hannigan ducked under her mother's touch. "No, I'm fine. Just did a lot of walking outside today—guess I didn't put on enough sunscreen." She waved her hand. "What do you need me to do? Set the table?"

"Actually—"

The trill of Hannigan's cell phone interrupted her mother. Making an apologetic face, Hannigan checked the number. Brody, she noted with surprise. "Sorry mom, I have to get this."

She walked out of the room and answered in a low tone. "Brody?"

"Sorry to call you in the middle of your dinner with your mother, but I miss you." His voice was warm and sexy enough to melt her bones.

"You're a bad, bad boy," she murmured, making him laugh on the other end of the call.

"You're counting on that, aren't you, Hannigan?"

Heat rocketed through her, straight to her sadly under-used woman parts. "You want me to race through dinner, don't you?"

"Would you?"

"But it's turnip greens, cornbread, pinto beans with pork loin and banana pudding for dessert."

"I could be there in ten minutes."

She smiled at the phone. "Actually, she wanted to know why I didn't invite you to dinner."

"What did you tell her?"

"That you had other plans."

"I assume you didn't mention that what I was planning to do tonight was you?"

She almost giggled. And she rarely giggled. "I did not. But she did ask if you were gay."

He did laugh. "Yeah, no."

"That's what I said."

"You'll hurry over, right? I mean, I know she's your mother and it's been a rough couple of days, but—"

"I'll hurry, I promise." Anticipation sang in her blood. "I might even break some speed laws, but that'll be our little secret."

There was a ringing sound. "That's my home phone," Brody said. "Call me when you're on the way."

"Okay." With a sigh, Hannigan hung up the phone and turned to find her mother standing in the doorway from the kitchen.

"Dinner's ready." Ruby said with a slight smile, making Hannigan wonder just how much she'd overheard.

In the kitchen, her mother had already set the table, put ice in the tea glasses and filled the plates. As Hannigan pulled out her chair, Ruby went to the refrigerator and pulled a large pitcher of tea from inside. She poured tea for them both and sat across from Hannigan, unfolding a napkin and dropping it on her lap before she spoke.

"So." Her gaze met Hannigan's with frank curiosity. "Who, exactly, are you willing to break speed laws for?"

Before Hannigan could work out a safe response, her cell phone rang. She looked at the display. Brody. "Sorry, Mom—I have to take this." She swiped the screen to answer. "Hey, what's up?"

"That was the station on the other line," he told her briskly. From the sound of it, he was in his car, on the move. "There's been a break-in at The Body Shop. Anton Jones is dead."

Hannigan tightened her grip on the phone. "When?"

"Sometime after the gym closed at seven. I'm headed down there now."

"I'll meet you there."

"I can handle it if you want to finish dinner with your mother."

Hannigan glanced across the table, not missing the still-curious gleam in her mother's eyes. "I want to be there. This could be connected to Dwayne's murder."

"Oh, I think we can be fairly sure of that," Brody said grimly.

"Yeah? Why?"

"Because a witness saw a black Kawasaki Ninja tearing down the road just a few minutes before he stumbled onto the body in the alley behind the gym," Brody answered.

Hannigan's stomach tensed. "Cause of death?"

Brody's voice was bone dry. "Garbage spike shoved through his throat."

Chapter Nine

"This is crazy." Hannigan paced in quick, tight circles a few feet away from the crime scene, as if the whole gruesome mess offended her personal sense of logic.

Brody watched her go, secretly enjoying the sight of his partner doing what she did best—worrying the hell out of a problem with all the ferocious intensity of a cat toying with his prey. "It is," he agreed.

She stopped mid-stride and turned to look at him. "Where did he find a garbage spike?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think he brought it with him?"

"I don't know that, either."

She shot him a frown of pure frustration and started pacing again. "We have two men, both associated with this gym, murdered by impalement. We have a black Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle seen fleeing both scenes. I might suggest we're dealing with a serial killer. But that makes no sense at all. Of all the crazy-ass ways to kill a person—"

"I know."

She paced over to him, stuck her pugnacious little chin out and glared. "Stop humoring me."

He smiled a little at that. "Sorry."

She dug her fingers through her hair, shoving the thick, dark bob away from her face. "No, I'm sorry. This is just so—"

"Crazy," he finished. "I know."

"What are we missing?"

"Well, we've got an APB out on the bike. Odds are, he's already changed the license plate from last time—we didn't get a full plate number this time, but what we did get doesn't match the last one."

"You don't think it could be two different bikes?" she asked, her brow furrowing again.

"If the COD were different, maybe. But how many times is your cause of death 'impalement by a metal rod'? And add to that the fact that Dwayne and Anton were acquainted—"

"Just barely," she reminded him. "Anton said he didn't come around here so much after the previous manager left."

"The implication being that Dwayne might have been mixed up in that steroid investigation mess." Brody eyed the gym. "You know, technically, the gym is a potential crime scene. Anton worked there, and for all we know, the attack on him may have started in there."

"Nobody's been inside?" she asked, surprised.

"They concentrated on where the body was found. The door was locked when they arrived, so they figured Anton must have locked it behind him before he was attacked out here in the alley."

"How did they know to call us in?" she asked.

"Anton had my card in his pocket. The responding officers found it and called me."

"I'd really like to take a look inside that gym," she commented. "Would we be within our bounds, legally?"

"We can't be sure Anton was the last person out," Brody pointed out. "When we left, there were others in the gym. What if someone is inside, injured or worse?"

"Let's take the chance," she said, already heading over to the taped-off crime scene area. She returned a moment later with a set of keys, carefully held in her gloved hand. "This key looks the newest," she said, pointing to a brass key that was still shiny and crisp-edged. "He said he hadn't been the manager here for long, right?"

She tried the key in the back door. The deadbolt groaned a little but opened when she turned the key. She and Brody reached for their weapons at the same time and, with cautious care, entered the back of the gym.

There were no windows in this part of the building. A pinpoint of illumination pierced the darkness—Hannigan's trusty little penlight, Brody saw—as she played the narrow beam across the cinderblock walls of the back room. It was largely unfinished, with a simple concrete floor grimy with age and use, and unpainted metal shelf units lining the walls, holding a hodgepodge of gym cast-offs—dinged-up free weights and dumbbells, twisted or bent weight bars, broken benches and ripped-up heavy bags.

"Oh, look, it's where old gym equipment goes to die," Brody murmured, earning a sharply arched eyebrow from his partner.

She shifted the penlight beam to the wall behind them, settling on a light switch. Brody reached out and flicked it on. Muddy light poured down on the storage area from a grimy bulb about fifteen feet overhead.

"That door should lead into the gym," Hannigan said, nodding toward a large steel door set into the wall directly in front of them. She looked to her right. "Reckon where that leads?"

Following her gaze, Brody spotted a second door in the wall at the far end of the storage area. "Let's go see."

There was a lock plate on the door in question. Hannigan tried the main key without any luck. Flipping keys, she came to another one that looked fairly new. It slid into the lock and turned with a low creak of metal on metal.

"Careful," Brody warned as she started to turn the doorknob.

She eased the door open, her fingers flexing as she tightened her hold on the grip of her Smith & Wesson M&P compact .40. She entered quick and low, weapon extended, the penlight flashing across the cinderblock walls as she swept the place in search of intruders.

Brody, right behind her, lowered his weapon when it became clear there was nobody else in the room. "What is this place?"

Hannigan flicked a light switch, and fluorescent bulbs overhead lit the small room. It wasn't much larger than a walk-in closet, with narrow shelves lining the walls, much like the room they'd just left behind. But in here, the shelves held dozens of file boxes.

Lifting the lid of the nearest box, Hannigan peered inside. Whatever she saw made her dark eyebrows shoot skyward. She looked at Brody, nodding for him to join her.

Acutely aware of her small, curvy body pressed close to his, he looked into the box. Inside, stacked halfway up the box, were hundreds of photographs of people having sex in a surprising variety of positions.

"Oh my," Brody murmured. "But a whole room to store porn?"

"Look closer," Hannigan said, her voice subdued.

Brody scanned the visible photos again and realized that most of the people depicted would never be candidates for porn. Too heavy, too thin, too saggy or unattractive…

Suddenly, one of the photos drew his attention. The gray-haired man on his knees with his ass in the air, taking a spanking from a leather-clad redhead, looked awfully familiar. "Oh, my God. That's the mayor, isn't it?"

"In the flesh," Hannigan murmured.

"What the hell is this?"

"At first guess," she answered drily, "I'd say it's evidence of blackmail."

"You went in without a warrant." Lieutenant Crane's expression was somewhere between troubled and grim.

"We were looking for other possible victims," Brody answered calmly. He and Hannigan had agreed he'd do the talking. He was better at schmoozing upper management.

Crane shot him a skeptical look but didn't challenge the assertion, except to say, "You thought you'd find someone injured and hiding in a file box?"

Brody didn't respond. Hannigan sneaked a quick look at him and saw he really didn't know how to respond.

"That's my fault, sir," she spoke up. "I opened the box. Brody had nothing to do with it."

"I didn't try to stop her." Brody shot her a look of consternation.

"I suppose you might have been looking for signs of a struggle," Crane said with a sigh. "You do realize that what you uncovered is incredibly sensitive information, well beyond your scope as detectives."

Brody nodded. "Of course."

He didn't add that they'd seen enough photographs in the one box they'd examined to know the dirty laundry of several political and social bigwigs in a three-county area. Hannigan had insisted on at least sorting through the photos in the open box, since they might pose a pretty damned good motive for murder.

Crane released a long, gusty sigh. "I've applied for a search warrant for the gym, and I think we have a good chance of getting it, but I'm not going to expect the two of you to stay up all night going through the place. I've posted uniforms to protect the building. If anything happens, they'll call me and I'll call you. Go write up your report and then go home. Get some rest."

Brody's dark eyes slanted to meet Hannigan's. "Yes, sir."

They left the office together, trying not to look as if they were hurrying to get out from under the lieutenant's thumb. He was pretty flexible about letting them run their investigations without interference, as a rule, but he didn't like insubordination. It was a fine line to tread.

Only one other detective was in the communal office when they entered—Jase Berry, who worked the night shift mostly alone and liked it that way. His wife was a nurse who also worked the night shift, and they didn't have any kids, so the hours suited them.

"I heard the motorcycle killer struck again," Berry said, leaning back in his chair to watch them settle behind their own desks.

"Could be," Hannigan said noncommittally.

"What I can't figure out is why half the upper brass is here so late?"

Hannigan glanced at Brody. He wore a neutral mask, not giving anything away. She hoped she was as successful at keeping her thoughts to herself.

Because it was pretty damned hard not to think about the photos they'd seen that night. Beyond the intensely intimate nature of the snapshots, there was the fact that, given the small size of Weatherly, Alabama, odds had been good that they would see people they knew in that box of photographs.

And they had. The mayor, of course, and a deputy chief in the police department. Hannigan had spotted a shot of a guy she'd dated for a couple of weeks dressed in women's underwear, which, come to think of it, explained a lot about most of their dates.

She drove those images out of her head by concentrating on the report. She was a better typist than Brody, so she usually handled the reports. Not because he thought typing was woman's work or anything stupid like that; he'd tried, for a while, to share the duties equally, but Hannigan quickly lost patience with his slow, two-fingered typing and had made him a deal: she'd handle typing up the reports if he'd handle dealing with the brass.

Brody sat at his desk, tapping a pencil on the blotter as he waited for her to finish the report. After several minutes of silence, he spoke in a deceptively nonchalant tone. "Hey, Hannigan. You know that thing we were going to do tonight before we got the call?"

She looked up from the typewriter and spoke in a half-whisper, aware of Jase Berry sitting idly only a few feet away. "You're really bringing that up now?"

He shrugged, as if it had been an offhand question. "Just wondering."

She bit back a smile. "I don't want to make any promises. The evening has not exactly gone as planned."

"It never does," he grumbled.

She typed in the last line on her report and sent it to print. While she closed out the file report program, Brody went to the printer to retrieve the pages and took them to the lieutenant's office. He caught up with her at the front exit.

"About what I said before—we don't have to do anything tonight. But I think I'd still like to spend it with you." The look he gave her was remarkably needy for a man who looked like a movie star and came from enough money and social standing to make him a prized catch among debutantes and their matchmaking mamas alike.

What he wanted with a freckle-faced hillbilly like her, she wasn't sure she'd ever understand, and maybe that had been a big part of her hesitation. It felt as if she was in the middle of some cosmic practical joke that would leave her standing under a metaphorical bucket of fake blood in the middle of the prom.

Which was stupid, if she looked at things logically. She trusted Brody to have her back when bullets were flying. If she could trust him in that sort of life-and-death situation, why not trust him with her heart?

"Okay," she said as they came to a stop in the parking lot where they'd parked side by side. "I'll meet you at your place. I need to run home first. Gotta pick up my jammies and my Teddy bear."

He grinned at her over the top of his car. "Our first sleepover. Are we going to play truth or dare?"

"Maybe." Waggling her eyebrows, she slid behind the steering wheel and closed herself safely inside. Squelching the urge to look over to his car, she pulled her Chevy out of the parking slot and onto Grayson Boulevard, one of three main thoroughfares through the city. Her bungalow on Rosedale Drive was normally ten minutes away, but she made it in seven, trying to tell herself that it was the sparse traffic that late at night and not her jittery nervous energy that had made the drive home pass so quickly.

What on earth should she pack? Her trip to the lingerie store a couple of days ago hadn't been a fit of whimsy. Her sleeping attire consisted almost entirely of cotton running shorts and tees in the summer and thermal tops and tights for winter. She had a rather pretty nightgown left over from her last serious relationship, but she didn't think Brody would appreciate her recycling her nighties from her affair with Greg Kowalski.