Steal Me (8 page)

T
here were thousands of damn good cops in the NYPD. Men and women who were proud to serve one of the best law enforcement agencies in the country.

But only a handful of them ever went on to be a captain, or even take the captain’s test.

Anthony had never understood that. He’d never been able to figure out why so many exceptionally skilled officers didn’t have the interest in even trying for the higher rank.

But now, over three months into his time as Captain Moretti, he was starting to get it.

For starters, there was the lack of overtime. He got a salary, and the salary stayed the same no matter how many hours he worked. And it was good money…plenty of money for Anth’s lifestyle.

But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the surge of gratification after working long hours and knowing it would result in a higher paycheck.

Now, he worked the long hours…but the paycheck stayed the same.

Still, even that didn’t bother him. Much. He wasn’t in it for the money.

And then there was the tricky leadership aspect. It was hard enough to work in law enforcement in New York City and take care of
yourself
, much less feel responsible for an entire team of people.

But this aspect of the job, he was learning. Enjoying, even. Must be the big brother in him, because Anthony sort of loved bossing people around.

But there was one aspect of Captain that was really starting to piss him off: bureaucracy. The politics were
killing
him.

He’d known it was coming, of course. His father had warned him that the higher you went, the more ass-kissing, the more red tape, and the more seemingly pointless meetings and paperwork awaited.

But what his father hadn’t warned him was just how
thick
the bullshit level was. There were times when meeting with the higher-ups felt a lot less
protect and serve
and a lot more
whose dick is bigger
.

Today’s meeting was made worse by its spontaneity. Anthony’s direct supervisor, while overall a stand-up guy, had a penchant for making “unannounced drop-bys.”

Initially Anth had figured this was a leadership approach…always keep the subordinates on their toes.

But the more he got to know Ray Mandela, the more Anthony realized that these little impromptu meetings were more about Ray’s penchant for hearing himself talk than anything else.

Not that the man was all bluster; he had a good head on his shoulders, was fair and surprisingly patient. But if there was a point that could be expressed in eight words, the deputy chief would find a way to explain it in fifty.

“So anyway, I guess you could say that we’ll be sitting in the back of the church until Ana grows up!” Ray finished with a chuckle.

Anthony forced a laugh in return, although truthfully, he had no idea what the hell his boss was talking about.

He’d tuned out somewhere between the story about Ray Junior’s soccer practice and how expensive Tessa’s ballet costume was. Which one was Ana? His youngest? Or his oldest? He could never keep all of Ray’s kids straight.

“Things are good with you?” Ray asked, leaning forward and resting his arms on his legs as he studied Anthony.

Anth knew that he shouldn’t feel ill at ease.

Ray was in
Anth
’s office, sitting in
Anth
’s guest chair.

It was Anthony’s domain, and normally the people who came into this office knew it. But with Ray looking at him with that shrewd gaze of his, Anthony resisted the urge to squirm.

Ray couldn’t have been more than five years older than Anthony—maybe early forties at the most—but he had a quiet command about him.

“Things are good,” Anth said cautiously.

I mean, minus the fact that I haven’t caught Smiley, the one woman I’ve been even remotely interested in in months may or may not be avoiding me, and I haven’t eaten my leftover lasagna for lunch yet because you’ve been running your mouth for forty-five minutes.

“Good, good,” Ray said, oblivious to Anth’s inner rant. “I hate to ask, but you know I’ve got to…any update on Smiley? I know it’s a run-of-the-mill burglar, but ever since the press picked it up, the bosses have picked it up, all the way to the very top.”

Anthony was careful not to show a shred of emotion at mention of the current commissioner. He knew he was biased, but Tony Moretti’s successor was a grandstanding asshole who cared a lot more about looking good on TV than he did about the people of the city.

“We’ve got a lead,” Anthony said. “A good one.”

“Right, the wife.”

“Ex-wife,” Anthony corrected.

“Remind me how she came into the picture?”

Anthony stayed resolutely relaxed in his chair. “She’s a waitress at the Darby Diner. I was doing some off-hours work there and she saw the sketch.”

He was braced for the deputy chief to ride his ass for taking potentially sensitive documents out of the precinct, but luckily Ray was more about results than he was strict adherence to the rules.

“Lucky break,” Ray said, leaning back and tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair. “You trust her? Or think she’s looking for attention?”

“She provided a handful of pictures of Eddie Hansen. The resemblance is there. If anyone’s off base here, it’s the witness who provided the description of our guy. If that’s even our guy.”

“Hell of a thing,” Ray said. “A criminal savvy or lucky enough to evade us a half dozen times, and he doesn’t even take anything worth stealing.”

“He takes people’s sense of privacy…their right to safety,” Anthony said, barely managing to keep the lecture out of his mouth.

“Right, right,” Ray said distractedly. “Well, I guess this wife…”

“Ex-wife.”

“Ex-wife,” Ray continued, “won’t be much use if she’s not in touch with the guy. You said in your last report they hadn’t had any contact?”

Anthony shook his head. “No. Since then she thinks she might have seen him outside the diner where she works, but she won’t swear it’s him, and I can’t justify putting a watch on the place based on a hesitant
maybe
.”

Ray pursed his lips. “What if—”

There was a loud knock on Anthony’s door, but it opened before he could utter his usual gruff
come in.

Vincent stormed in. “Anth, for God’s sake, would you answer your motherfucking—
Oh
. You’ve got company.”

Anthony inhaled. Leave it to his clueless brother to refer to Anthony’s superior as
company
, complete with a dark scowl.

“Vin, this is Deputy Chief Mandela.”

He waited for his brother to show some sort of deference, but Vin merely jerked his chin in greeting. “Hey.”

Luckily, Ray seemed more amused than he did offended, although he did look at Anthony for an explanation as to why uninvited visitors were barging into his office.

“Sir, this is Detective Moretti.”

“Ah, the other brother,” Ray said, standing and extending a hand. “I’ve met Luca a handful of times, but I don’t think you and I have met in person. Homicide, right?”

“Yup,” Vin said before turning back to Anth. “Dude, seriously, you haven’t been answering your phone.”

“Because I turn it off when I’m in a meeting,” Anthony said.
To avoid interruptions like this.

But his irritation faded quickly into a sliver of fear as he realized that his younger brother wasn’t often disposed toward phone calls, much less drop-bys.

“Is everything okay?” Anthony was already pulling his phone out of the desk drawer where he’d placed it after Ray had shown up. “Mom, Dad—”

“They’re fine. It’s Maggie.”

Anth’s head shot up, his eyes pinning his brother with a lethal stare. “What’s wrong? Is she okay? What—”

Vin held up a hand, his eyes narrowing slightly, perhaps in puzzlement over Anthony’s fiercer than usual reaction.

“She’s okay.”

Anthony blew out a breath of relief.

“Who’s Maggie?” Ray asked.

“Smiley’s ex-wife,” Anthony muttered.

Upon realizing this was police business, and not family business, Ray’s gaze sharpened on Vincent. “There’s been a development?”

Vin nodded once, then held up a plastic bag containing a single envelope.

Anth held out his hand.

There was no return address. There rarely was, not when you actually wished for one.

“Margaret Hansen,” he read aloud. His eyes lifted to Vin. “Maggie.”

His brother’s expression was grim. “Keep reading.”

Anthony did and saw a name even more familiar, “c/o Captain Moretti.”

“What the hell,” he muttered.

“It came to my home address,” Vincent said. “Either the guy got the wrong Moretti or he’s fucking with us in an even bigger way; letting us know he knows about our little family cop legacy. I dunno.”

“How do you know it has anything to do with Smiley?” Ray asked.

Vin jerked his chin in the direction of the bag, just as Anthony flipped the envelope over. Sealing the envelope was a single, simple, yellow smiley-face sticker.

“What is wrong with this fucker?” Ray asked. “What’s with the creepy sticker? I used to get one of those on the top of my long division homework.”

“Could be a copycat,” Vin said.

“Could be,” Anthony said as Ray gave a halfhearted shrug. The silence in the room spoke volumes though…nobody thought it was a copycat. Copycats rarely cared this much unless money was at stake. This wasn’t about money. It was personal.

It was about
Margaret
.

“Why not just send it straight to her?” Ray asked.

“Maybe he doesn’t know where she lives,” Vin added.

Anthony gave him a look. “He’s gone through the trouble of finding
your
address. Best we can tell, he figured out where she works. He could have followed her home.”

The men were silent again. If Smiley—
Eddie
—had gone this far, he probably had followed her home. The thought made Anthony’s stomach turn, not just with anger, but with something far worse:
fear
.

Smiley hadn’t proved dangerous, but Eddie Hansen very well could be if he wasn’t over his ex-wife. Even the most harmless of men could turn lethal over a woman. The stats about your spouse being the most likely to kill you were sadly true.

Anthony rubbed a hand over his face. “You brought this straight here?”

Vin nodded.

“We’ll need to send it to evidence, but anything going through the postal system…”

“We’ll find dozens of prints,” Ray concluded. “What about the postmark?”

“Eighty-third and Columbus,” Vin said. “I checked.”

“Think he lives around there, or think he’s sticking with the same neighborhood where his hits are?”

“Probably the latter,” Anthony said, opening his desk drawer and pulling out a pair of gloves so he could handle the letter without adding his own prints to the mix.

He carefully opened the bag and pulled out the letter, mentally willing it to give up any clues as to what the hell sort of game Smiley was playing.

“We’ll need Ms. Walker to open it,” Ray said, sounding annoyed. “The bastard sent it first-class, which means we can’t open the damn thing without a warrant.”

“I can go get her,” Vin volunteered.

Ray shook his head. “She might be skittish. A letter from her ex-husband who’s also the prime suspect in a string of burglaries—”

Vin pinned Anthony’s boss with a bland look. “Do I not look sensitive to you?”

Anth glanced up. “Vin.”

His brother rolled his eyes. “I’ll bring Jill. She’s the hugging, cry-on-my-shoulder type if it comes to that.”

“I don’t doubt that Jill’s good at delivering bad news, but you two are homicide detectives. You shouldn’t even be involved.”

“The letter was sent to
my
house,” Vin said. “I’d say I’m pretty damn involved.”

“
My
name is on the envelope,” Anth shot back.

Ray held up a hand. “Boys.”

Anthony gritted his teeth, irritated his boss had caught him in what was practically a sibling playground squabble over a girl.

“Detective Moretti, we appreciate you bringing this to our immediate attention. I trust you’ll deliver any other letters as promptly,” Ray said, the sharpening of his tone indicating that he was clearly pulling his rank.

Vincent, being no dummy, caught the edge in the man’s voice and nodded reluctantly.

Ray turned to Anth. “Captain, you take the letter to Ms. Walker. If your name’s on there, this shithead may have a message for us. And I doubt we’re going to like it.”

The deputy chief moved toward the door, giving Vincent no choice but to back out as well.

Anthony stopped his boss before he could exit. “I’ve changed my mind about police protection. I’d like to put a couple officers outside Mag— Ms. Walker’s house. See if we can’t catch Eddie trying to pay her a visit.”

Ray Mandela shrugged. “You’re in charge. Whatever you think.”

Anthony nodded, ignoring the knowing smirk Vincent shot him before disappearing.

Anth knew his brother was thinking that the officers outside Maggie’s house had more to do with Anthony’s peace of mind than it did the off chance that Eddie Hansen would be dumb enough to show up.

His brother was absolutely right.

O
ne thing a girl didn’t expect to see through her peephole just minutes after getting home from a particularly crappy day at work: a six-foot-four police captain wearing a suit and a scowl.

“
Down
,” she muttered to Duchess as she unlocked the chain. Although she honestly wasn’t entirely sure if the command was to her overexcited dog or the butterflies in her stomach.

It was the first time she’d seen him after their flirtatious text exchange, and she expected him to look different somehow.

He didn’t. Same frown. Same serious brown eyes.

Except he was
here
.

At her home.

“Hi,” she said quietly. What she really wanted to ask, quite desperately, was,
Are you here as Anthony or as Captain Moretti?

“Hi,” he said back. Just for a second, his eyes seemed to warm as they held hers, a silent communication passing between them.

“You’re wearing a suit,” she said.

He glanced down. “We do that, occasionally.”

“Oh.”
You look ridiculously good. Please don’t torture me like this.

He cleared his throat. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” Maggie said, stepping aside. “I hope you don’t mind dogs.”

He stared down at the dog who was now panting frantically, having rolled onto her back and giving him an awkward side-eye, which Maggie knew was doggie-code for
I’ll die if you don’t pet my belly
.

Moretti glanced back up at her, and for a horrible moment she thought he was going to either tell her to move the dog or simply step over Duchess.

Then he knelt down, slowly crouching until he could lay a big hand against the dog’s stomach. Duchess’s little tail went crazy, and so did Maggie’s heart.

“Aren’t you a pretty girl?” he said in a soft voice she’d never heard from him before.

“How did you know she was a girl?”

He glanced up at her with a knowing, crooked smile, and Maggie flushed. “Right,” she muttered. “Her lady parts are rather on display, aren’t they?”

He moved his big hand up over Duchess to her chest, scratching the sides of her face slightly before standing back up. Duchess got the hint and sprang to her feet, clearing the way for Moretti to enter her home.

“Guess you figured out the magic passcode,” she said as he moved into her apartment.

He glanced down at her. “Does that work for you too? The belly rub?”

She froze in the process of closing the door, her eyes flying to his, watching as they crinkled slightly at the corners. “Relax, Ms. Walker. I’m kidding.”

“Too bad,” she deadpanned. “We modern girls so enjoy a good belly rub.”

The hint of a smile dropped from his face, and this time she definitely didn’t imagine the warmth in his eyes, or the way they moved over her. “Is that so?”

Maggie licked her lips and closed the door. “So, um…”

“What am I doing here?” he asked.

“Yes, that,” she said with a little laugh.

His expression turned serious once more, and he glanced around her apartment. Maggie did the same, seeing it through his eyes. It was crowded even when it was just her and Duchess. But with Anthony Moretti’s broad shoulders and commanding presence, her studio felt positively tiny.

His eyes locked on her tiny kitchen table. “Can we sit?”

“Oh boy,” she said. “I’m pretty sure no good news has ever come following those words. But sure. Let’s sit.”

He moved toward the table.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “Water, tea, coffee, beer…I probably have some wine somewhere…”

“I’m fine.”

“What about something to eat?” she asked, opening the fridge. “I don’t have much but I could make some—”

“Maggie.” The word was a quiet command.

She swallowed and joined him at the table, noticing the way he dwarfed her chairs with his long legs. Duchess, having no manners and even less shame, hopped up onto his lap uninvited.

Maggie immediately reached to remove her dog, but he held up a hand to stop her before laying the hand on the dog’s head. “It’s okay. I like dogs, truly.”

“But your suit…”

He smiled. “You do an awful lot of worrying about my clothes. I told you that night in the rain, it’s not like it’s Armani.”

“I never think of police officers as wearing suits,” she mused. “I always figured it was a lot of polyester…”

“It is, early on,” he said. “But past a certain rank, it’s more or less a desk job, and the suit occasionally makes an appearance.”

“And you like it?” she asked curiously. “You don’t miss…walking the beat, or whatever?”

He raised his eyebrows at her use of the lingo, and she shrugged. “Luc and Lopez come in a lot after their shift.”

“Ah. And yes, I do miss it,” he said, his hand stroking over Duchess’s rough fur. “Sometimes. But there are rewards on both sides.”

“Such as?”

It was none of her business, but she found herself wanting to know him. To understand what made him tick.

He looked surprised, as though nobody ever asked him about his job. Then he shrugged. “There’s something heroic about wearing the uniform. I mean, actually
wearing
the uniform. Your contribution is so tangible.”

“And it’s not while you’re wearing the suit?”

He rubbed Duchess’s ears and the dog looked ready to pass out from pleasure. Lucky dog.

“It’s what I’ve always wanted,” he said quietly.

“Being captain?”

He looked up. “And beyond.”

Maggie put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Like
all
the way beyond?”

“All the way,” he said.

She whistled. “So like father like son, huh? Police Commissioner Moretti the Second?”

He gave a small smile. “That’s the plan.”

Maggie opened her mouth, then shut it just as quickly, biting her lip to keep from asking even more things that weren’t her business.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he said, his voice teasing.

She took a breath and asked, “Is that what
you
want? Or what your dad wants?”

They were bold questions. Prying, even. But he didn’t even flinch.

“Both,” he said without hesitation. “I know the movie version of this story is the father pushing his own goals onto the son, and the son realizes too late that it’s not what he wants, but…”

“But you
do
want it,” Maggie said, searching his face.

He nodded. “More than anything.”

More than
anything
?

Maggie couldn’t imagine wanting a promotion more than
anything
.

She wanted to get her book published, rather desperately. Wanted to never have to fill another ketchup bottle for the rest of her days. She wanted to wake up and have her biggest problem be whether or not her characters did what her outline said they were supposed to do.

But she didn’t want to publish a book more than
anything
.

Not as a stand-in for relationships. Not as a replacement for love.

Says the girl who can count her friends on one hand, who shares her pillow every night with a dog, and who can’t even manage to flirt over text much less in person.

She was so not in the place to ask Captain Moretti where his personal life fit into those lofty career goals. She was pretty sure the answer would depress her.

“Ms. Walker—”

She sensed the mood shift abruptly, knowing that she was about to find out the reason he was here. And it wasn’t to talk about his dreams and pet her dog.

As though reading her mind, he set Duchess gently on the floor.

“There’s something you need to see,” he said, reaching into his inside suit pocket and pulling out an envelope wrapped in a plastic bag.

She immediately tensed. She’d seen the TV shows. Whenever stuff was put in plastic, it was evidence, which generally translated to
bad news
.

He slid it across the table, and if the plastic baggie hadn’t already alarmed her, the unexpected gentleness on his face did. If Captain Moretti was being gentle, she definitely wasn’t going to like this piece of paper.

She started to reach for it, then hesitated, her hand hovering. “Can I touch it?”

He nodded. “We’ve already checked it for prints. Nothing usable.”

She pulled it all the way toward her.

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised to see her name written there. Why else would he be here?

But it had
his
name too. Which made no sense. And the mailing address was in Queens. She knew Anthony lived on the Upper West Side with his grandmother and Luc, so how had an envelope addressed to her, care of
him
, ended up in Astoria?

He was watching her carefully. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”

Maggie picked up the envelope to look more closely. She knew what he was really asking.
Is this Eddie’s?

She licked her lip. “It…could be.”

He sighed.

“I’m sorry,” she said automatically. “Eddie didn’t…I took care of things like the bills and grocery lists, Christmas cards. I’ve seen his handwriting, obviously, but not often, and it’s been a long time…”

“Nothing you may have kept? No photos with writings on the back, no love letters?”

She gave him a look and he shrugged.

“No, nothing,” she said. “I could maybe recognize his signature, but this looks nothing like it. This is careful printing, whereas his signature was more or less a squiggle.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll have the handwriting compared with the notes Smiley left on the scene, and that will tell us plenty.”

She glanced up. “So you still think Eddie and Smiley are one and the same?”

His expression was grim. “Turn it over.”

She did and saw a garish, unmistakable yellow face smiling back at her.

“So odd,” she said, touching a finger to the plastic-covered sticker. “It seems far too eccentric for Eddie. But then, he also considers himself wildly clever. The mocking nature of this suits him.”

Moretti nodded. “You ready to open it?”

She sucked in a breath. “I wish I didn’t have to. I intentionally put this part of my life behind me, you know? I mean I
moved
. I cut ties with all our mutual friends. I changed my phone number…”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, not at all prepared for the firm warmth of his fingers when they touched the back of her hand.

“I can open it for you.”

She looked at where his big fingers rested lightly on the back of her much smaller hand. She wanted to flip her hand over so they were palm to palm. Wanted to twine her fingers with his…

“Maggie,” he said. “Shall I open it?”

She glanced up. “I’ll do it.”

Maggie felt slightly ill at the prospect, but she wasn’t going to sit here and let him think she was so spineless she couldn’t even open a freaking envelope.

She pulled the envelope out of the bag, surprised at how much revulsion she felt at touching something that Eddie had handled.
Especially
if Eddie was doing what they said he was—breaking into people’s homes, taking what wasn’t his, and then having the depraved cockiness to leave a note bragging about it.

“Careful,” he muttered as her hands went to the flap.

Maggie glared. “Oh, so I shouldn’t just tear it open with my teeth and use it as a coaster? Give me a break, Moretti. I may not be a cop, but I’m not an idiot.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter opener. “Open it along the top. Preserve the Smiley sticker. Please.” Then he half smiled. “Has anyone ever told you that you go from docile and abiding to sassy and difficult in the span of a couple seconds?”

“No,” she muttered grumpily. “Because that’s not typical. Only around you.”

“Is that so?” he said mildly.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you flirting? Trying to distract me from the letter?”

“Is it working?”

“You fluster me,” she said, making quick work of the letter opener.

“Is that why you didn’t respond to my last text?”

Maggie froze. “You
really
want to talk about that now?”

His eyes dropped to the letter in her hands, and then he gave his head a little shake. “No. That’s not why I’m here.”

Of course not,
she thought.
Because you want to move up in your career “more than anything.”

She tugged the letter out of the envelope, and abruptly her mind shifted from the man sitting across the table to the man who’d written the letter.

She may not know Eddie’s handwriting as well as she should, but she knew him. And she could all but hear his voice as she read his brief note.

Maggie huffed out a sigh of disgust as she dropped the note on the table.

Moretti was watching her. “May I?”

She waved a hand, giving him permission.

His expression didn’t change from its stony impassiveness as he read the note.

“Well?” she asked.

Moretti’s eyes were still on the brief words. “He’s cocky.”

“He always was.”

Moretti glanced up. “That’s good. His self-confidence is justified thus far—he’s eluded us—but it will work in our favor if he gets too smug. He’ll get careless.”

“So what’s the plan?” she asked, putting her elbows on the table and leaning forward so her head was in her hands. “What’s our next move?”

“
Our
next move?”

She gave him a tired look. “My name’s on that envelope. I can’t just sit and do nothing.”

Her voice broke a little at the end, and Duchess, who’d been writhing her little body against Captain Moretti’s calf for the past ten minutes, immediately remembered her loyalties and came to curl up on Maggie’s foot.

Anthony searched her face. “This isn’t your problem, Maggie. You know that, right? Not your problem to solve.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked, feeling unusually snappy.

His smile indicated he was enjoying her waspishness. Strange man. “We couldn’t open the envelope without a warrant. Which we could have gotten given the circumstances, but making the drive out to Brooklyn was a hell of a lot easier.”