In the Arms of the Wind (7 page)

Malone dragged a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Are you sure? One hundred percent sure it was Danny Gallagher?”

“As sure as we can be, sir,” O’Malley answered. “There were no witnesses. They took everybody out.”

“Including the servants,” Shannon stressed.

“What about the security guards? Have you questioned them?”

“Not yet but we will. One of them let Gallagher and his partner in so I’m thinking at least one of the two is on their payroll.”

“I want that thumb drive and I want to know who got Gerring,” Malone ordered. “Is that clear?”

“As a bell, sir.”

“If you find out it was Danny Gallagher, I want him brought to me. Alive. If it was someone else, a hired gun from out of state—whatever—take ’em out on the spot. But if it’s Danny…” He let the words linger in the air like a foul smell.

“We got you, sir,” Shannon agreed.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” Malone said again, and reached for another decanter of brandy. This time he filled the remaining snifter and chugalugged a mouthful, wincing as the fiery liquor burned its way down his throat.

Chapter Three

Kaycee took a cautious sip of the drink her date had ordered and was pleasantly surprised. She took another.

“Like it?”

She nodded and swept her tongue over her upper lip. “Very much. What makes this different from an ordinary Bloody Mary?”

“It’s made with tequila instead of vodka,” Danny replied. “There’s extra lime and a hefty shot of hot sauce added for zing.” He took a swig of his own then sat forward, elbows on the table as they waited for their order of hot wings, celery with ranch dressing and side orders of fried jalapeño poppers and stuffed mushrooms. “When I make them at home, I add a splash of the juice from Spanish olives, more celery salt, Worcestershire sauce and a stalk of pickled asparagus.”

“Pickled asparagus,” she mused. “Now that would make it deadly.”

His brows came together. “You don’t like asparagus?”

“On the contrary. I love asparagus but I’ve never had it pickled.”

“You’ll love it,” he predicted, and rolled the ice around in his glass. “I’ll even throw in a big pot of stew, a loaf of sourdough bread and a lemon meringue pie for dessert. How’s that?”

She tilted her head to one side. “That implies a second date.”

“And a third and a fourth and a fifth,” he said with a reckless grin. “I draw the line at six dates before we even start talking about marriage though.”

Kaycee’s eyebrows shot up. “Marriage?”

“Well, I can’t bed you, rock your world, and then not make a decent woman of you, lass,” he said with a straight face. “Wouldn’t be proper and my mother would have my hide.” He took a sip of his drink, caught an ice cube between his teeth and began chomping loudly.

She leaned back in her chair. “You’ve got this all planned out, huh?”

He grinned. “First date is a light peck on the cheek, respectfully placed.”

“That would be proper.”

“Second date is a very soft kiss on the lips but no tongue.”

“Positively not,” she agreed.

“On the third you get the tongue and on the fourth you get…” He winked.

Kaycee laughed. “You are wicked, Danny Gallagher.”

“I’m horny, Kaycee Connor,” he admitted with a smile. “I’ve never had a good woman in my bed.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said. “I imagine women flock to you like seagulls to bread crumbs.”

“I didn’t say my bed had been empty, Kaycee. I said I’ve never had a good woman in it.” The smile left his face and he took another sip of the Bloody Maria. “And that goes for my ex-wife.”

Kaycee felt a stab of jealousy run through her. She rocked her glass from side to side on the table. “How long were you married?”

“Ten very long, very miserable years,” he admitted.

“It wasn’t a good marriage, I take it.”

“It was a marriage conceived by the devil and I was in hell the entire ten years.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

He lifted his arm, looked down at his watch. “Two years, three weeks, four days, twelve hours and seventeen minutes, but who’s counting?”

“That’s cold,” she said.

“Yes, she was.” He drained his drink and looked around for the waitress. “Should have ordered that pitcher, I guess.”

“Did you have any children?”

“No, thank God. At least we spared a new generation the screaming and slapping and kicking,” he told her. “I’ve still got bruises on my shins left over from her damned pointy-toed high heels.” He looked up, saw her expression and shook his head. “I swear on my father’s grave I never laid a hand on that woman. The slapping and kicking and scratching all came from her. Spousal abuse it’s called.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “That must have been rough.”

“Feces occur, sweetie. You live, you learn.”

She wanted to reach out and put her hand on his arm but he sat back, turning his head from side to side in search of the waitress. That concerned her. He was of Irish heritage and Irish men did like their liquor a bit too much and too often. Couldn’t hold it very well, but they liked it nevertheless. He was also a cop and all the stories she’d ever heard of hard-drinking, carousing, misbehaving policemen came to mind.

“Are you originally from Sigourney?”

He looked around. “Born and raised, and you were born in Colquitt but raised in Albany.”

She nodded. “And I went to college at…”

“In Pensacola and got your degree in fine arts. I hear you had a showing of your paintings at the Blaisdel Gallery last summer.”

“A rather dismal showing, but I can boast of at least one,” she acknowledged with a sigh.

“Dragons, wasn’t it? Medieval castles and knights with swords?”

“All things pedestrian and trite according to Mr. Blaisdel who did not sell even one painting that day.”

“Ouch,” he said. “Where are they now?”

“Wrapped up in my spare bedroom, facing the wall.”

“Can I take a look?”

“Only after the requisite fourth date,” she teased, “when I’ve had my evil way with you.”

“And I’m lying there drained and at your mercy.”

She nodded. “Then I’ll drag out those awful paintings and make you say nice things about them.”

“Oh, you intend that I will still have breath with which to speak?” he countered. “I was hoping we’d be gasping for breath, our worlds rocked off orbit.”

“I’ll give you a chance to regain your strength,” she teased.

“That’s mighty white of you, Kaycee.”

The waitress came with their meal and Danny surprised her by ordering a pitcher of Pepsis instead of Blood Marias. When she gave him a searching look, he cocked one shoulder.

“I’m a detective, sweetie. I saw the look you gave me when I was jonesing for more booze.” He flicked open his paper napkin and laid it in his lap. “I’m not an alcoholic but I will admit I’m borderline.” He picked up a stalk of celery and dredged it through the bowl of ranch dressing. “All I need is a good woman to beat me back in shape.” He took a big chomp out of the celery, leaving a smear of dressing on his upper lip.

Kaycee leaned over and wiped the smear away with the pad of her thumb. “Consider your drill sergeant having arrived, soldier.”

He caught her hand before she could draw it back and brought it to his mouth, flicked out his tongue, licking away the dressing. “You’re on, baby,” he said before releasing her.

A tremor rippled through Kaycee’s belly at the touch of his warm tongue. She could imagine that wicked piece of flesh slipping between her lips to devour her mouth and had to clench her hands together.

“I’m bad,” he said, seeming to know the effect his action had caused.

“You’re going to hell for sure,” she said, swallowing.

“Hell’s already full of my branch of the Gallaghers, sweetie. They’d just send me back.” He wagged his eyebrows at her and picked up a hot wing.

She watched him tear into the flesh of the mini drumstick, his teeth very white against the slightly charred edge of the meat. His amber eyes were staring into hers and there was a merry twinkle there that said he was enjoying himself. That look was doing funny things to her insides and she looked down at the table.

“How long have you been with the Sigourney police?” she asked as she brought a jalapeño popper to her lips.

“Fifteen years,” he responded. “Fresh out of college and onto the force like my uncle before me and his father before him and his before him. I’m a fourth generation idjut as my mother so lovingly puts it.” He leaned toward her and whispered the information that his mother had been born and raised in Ireland. “In Connemara.”

“That would make you thirty-seven?” she asked, looking up.

“Thirty-eight actually. My birthday is in November so I started school late.”

“Bummer.”

“My thought exactly.”

They ate for a few minutes, enjoying the spicy wings, cold, crisp celery and the bite of the poppers and sweetness of the cheese-stuffed mushrooms. He was making quick work of his portion of the wings.

“I’m a growing boy,” he defended his hunger.

“Did you eat anything at all today?” she asked, shaking her head to the last two wings on the platter, smiling indulgently when he grabbed them.

“Does a stick of gum count?”

“Hardly.”

“Then no.” He stripped the meat off the wing with quick little nibbles.

She picked up her napkin and blotted her lips, wiped her hands then sat back in the chair. “You think this will hold you over until after the movie?”

“If I get a super-jumbo barrel of buttered popcorn, some Sweet Tarts and a mega-Pepsi.”

“Good Lord, you’re kidding!” she laughed.

“I never kid about super-jumbo barrels of buttered popcorn, woman. You can’t sit there and watch a movie without it. It’s against the law.”

“Really?” she drawled.

“Penal code 678, section 4, bisection 9, paragraph P-2.”

“It’s very convenient that you remember the exact statute.”

“I have a pornographic memory,” he told her.

“I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

The waitress took that moment to come over with a tired smile and her recitation of the dessert menu. When dessert was declined, she placed the check beside Danny’s plate and wished them a good evening.

“She looks beat,” Kaycee observed as the waitress walked away.

“Hard way to make a living,” he replied. “I bussed tables in college and hated every freaking minute I was doing it. At least the waitresses got tips.”

They scooted out of the booth at the same time and he picked up the check, opened his wallet and left a ten-dollar bill on the table. That impressed Kaycee but she didn’t think impressing her had been the reason he’d given the woman so much.

Outside the restaurant, lightning flashed across the heavens. The air was humid with still another approaching storm. He had left the top down on the convertible but once he’d opened her door and ushered her inside went about putting the top in place. It would no doubt be raining before the evening was over.

When they were seated at the theater—with his precious popcorn settled on his lap and an oversized cup of Pepsi in the holder between them—she heard him sigh heavily.

“What’s wrong?”

He glanced at her as the lights began to dim. “I didn’t think about not being able to put my arm around you when I got the popcorn.”

“Gimme the popcorn, soldier,” she ordered.

Beaming like an adolescent boy, he handed over the tub and then casually draped his arm over the back of her seat.

“Satisfied?”

He nodded. “Yep. I feel like I’m fifteen again but without the acne and having to measure my pee-pee every morning to see if it had grown any,” he observed as the previews began playing on the wide screen.

Kaycee laughed, utterly charmed by his humor.

With the popcorn in her lap now, he leaned closer and swiped fistfuls of the greasy snack, leaning down from time to time to take a slurp of the soft drink. During the entire evening, she watched him more than she did the movie. His left hand was curled around her shoulder, and during some of the more romantic scenes in the movie he would idly stroke his fingers gently along her forearm. When the movie was over and credits began to roll, he remained seated, staring as intently at the screen as he had during the movie’s showing. All around them, the other patrons were leaving, a few teenage girls giving him long, steady stares that made Kaycee’s heart swell with pride.

“You are being appreciated,” she said as two girls gave him overt waves and a toss of their long, unbound hair.

“Jail bait,” he mumbled as one walked past him and deliberately brushed his arm with her thigh. He looked up at the offender and frowned.

“Do you ever get that when you’re on the job?” Kaycee asked. “From women you’re questioning?”

“Hookers and crack heads, yeah,” he said. “Those who are looking for an easy way out of the jam they’ve put themselves in.” He took the nearly empty tub from her hands and disposed of it. “They know most cops will let them slide if they flirt with him. She offers her body, he takes her up on it, she walks. That game is as old as time.” He slurped the last of the Pepsi and put it under the seat as well. “That’s why there is so much divorce among cops.”