To Touch a Thief (An Everly Gray Novella) (10 page)

She tilted her head as though listening to an inner voice, then nodded. “I need to get to a meeting, but I’ll be back in about an hour.”

“Okay. See you then.”

Stephens’s office was two floors up. The bad news: being confined in the elevator with his stink gagged me. The good news: he sat at the opposite end of the hall from Chief Hayes. It would be seriously bad timing to bump into the chief before I siphoned as many images as I could from Stephens’s office. Besides, my relationship with the chief would be a lovely surprise to spring on Stephens when they arrested him for grand larceny.

He battered me with questions that were intended to intimidate and that bored me to drowsy inattention. I kept pinching myself to stay alert and keep from saying something stupid. Within minutes, I knew Chief Hayes hadn’t hired this guy. The greenest rookie was more skilled at questioning a potential witness. I offered him my most sincere monosyllabic answers while I worked on a plan to get a few minutes alone in his office. I needed to touch things.

After fifteen minutes, I feigned agitation, stood, and paced. The movement brought his desk within reach, but it also triggered his temper. Damn. I’d have to resort to feminine wiles.

I swooned.
 

Nothing to be proud of, but I was in a tight spot and had to get Jayne out of this mess before Parker lost it.

Well-trained, most likely by late-night television, Detective Stephens hustled to get me a glass of water. He’d barely made it out the door before I turned my fingers loose on his desk. I didn’t waste time attending to the images, just stored them for future reference.

The distinctive slap of Stephens’s footsteps sounded in the hall.
 

I grabbed a single sheet of paper, stuffed it in my pocket…too late. He caught me standing behind his desk.

I stumbled, dropped into his chair, and closed my eyes. My heart beat a triple tattoo against my ribs. This was so not good.

His hand closed over my shoulder. “You’re breathing heavy, Ms. Gray. What’s going on?”

No choice but to play along, Everly. Do not screw this up.

I exaggerated a few noisy, panting breaths. “Panic attack. Tried to get to a window.”

His head swiveled, right then left. “There’s no window in here.”
 

I grabbed the glass from his hand, stood, and guzzled the water. “Have to get air.”

If Mitch or Adam had a video, they’d laugh their asses off. But only after they’d chewed me out for being so stupid as to be caught.

I ran.

THIRTEEN

Jayne Hunt
 

The thin mattress on the
holding cell cot provided little comfort for Jayne’s sore muscles. And what she wouldn’t give for a Diet Pepsi followed by a bottle of wine. Or two. She pushed the heels of her hands tight against her eyes to relieve the pressure from unshed tears.
 

Footsteps. She jumped up and angled her head to look down the hall.
 

Detective Stephens was strolling toward her, his shoulders hunched, suit rumpled, and jaw clenched.
 

He crowded next to the holding cell, pushing his belly against the bars while he unlocked the door. “You got some kind of friends, lady. Let’s go.”
 

A glimmer of hope exploded in her chest for the first time since he’d snapped the cuffs on her wrists. She followed him down the hall, relaxing for the first time in hours. She needed a shower. Desperately. Washing away the horrid smell of sweat and fear that clung to her body would be the first step in her plan to find Solomon Tarik’s killer. Because if she didn’t, they could well lock her up again. And that was not going to happen.
 

They entered the elevator, Stephens pressed a button, and the door dinged closed. She counted the dings for each floor—one for the lower level, two for the ground floor and freedom. She pushed away from where she was leaning against the interior wall of the elevator, but it kept moving. Three dings. Four. Fear squeezed the breath from her lungs. The doors slid open.
 

“Where are you taking me?” Her voice wobbled.
 

Stephens grunted, and paused in front of a conference room—a carpeted conference room. The holding cell had a cement floor. The other floors of the police department were covered in vinyl tile. No carpet. Anywhere. There were several upholstered chairs tucked along the edge of the table, the fabric was a mottled brown, obviously designed not to show spots. This was a long way from the holding cell she’d been in for most of the day. And best of all, she’d spotted a ladies room next door.

“Detective?” Her tone was sweet enough to trigger a gag reflex. “May I use the ladies room?”
 

“Yeah, go ahead. No one’s here yet, anyway.” He positioned himself outside the door, stance wide, arms crossed. Male posturing so classic it was worthy of an eye roll.

Jayne kept her eyes down, avoiding the mirrors in the restroom. She didn’t want to chance a glimpse of herself, haggard and scared, because it would probably cause a never-ending meltdown. Not something she could afford until she was safely back in her condo.

By the time Detective Stephens led her back to the conference room, there were three people seated at the table, all eyes on her.
 

Her heart thudded, skipped, then settled into a frantic beat. She only knew one person. Did that mean her first arrest, the sting operation, had worked? Maybe. Maybe not. And it didn’t account for her second arrest. The need to run sizzled through her blood.

A bald man with mahogany skin stood and stretched tall. Several inches over six feet. He eyed Stephens. “That’ll be all, Detective.”
 

The dismissal was final.

Joe Stephens scowled, turned on his heel, and marched from the room. His bitterness left a sour aftertaste in the conference room.

The tall man stepped forward and shook hands with Jayne. “Hello, Ms. Hunt.”
 

There was a long pause.
 

The breath caught in her lungs.
 

And then he smiled, and when it reached his eyes, he held is hand up for a high five. “Looks like your fake arrest has worked.”
 

Tears burned hot on her cheeks. Embarrassing. She pulled out a chair at the far end of the table, away from everyone, then ran her hands through her hair, working through the tangles. A wash of heat rushed into her cheeks, and she closed her eyes. Was it obvious to everyone that her disheveled condition was from a night of the best sex she’d ever had? Under the sweat and fear, she could still smell Parker on her skin. Healing. Soothing. She closed her eyes, shutting out the room. The shakes started in her knees, worked their way up. She wanted the scent of him to cling forever, but…“I need a shower and sleep. And what about the real arrest? For murder?”

Hayes gestured to a woman on his right, short hair that was dark enough to be called black, full cheeks, and brown eyes that didn’t miss a thing. “Soon on the shower and sleep, but there are a few things we need to get out of the way first. This is Detective Reese Bryant, our computer expert.”
 

Reese nodded toward Jayne, smiling.
 

“And this—” Chief Hayes motioned to his other side— “is Drew Smith. He’s your attorney.
 

Smith nodded in her direction. “Parker retained me on your behalf, Ms. Hunt, although it doesn’t look like you’ll be needing me.”
 

 
Did that mean she wasn’t under arrest for murder? “Why am I here? And is there any water?” Her voice was raspy from holding back the tears. And she was tired. So tired.

She really wanted to wash the stale taste of fear from her mouth, and then find out what Chief Hayes and Detective Bryant wanted to do next.
 

The chief nodded to Detective Bryant. It didn’t take more than a few heartbeats for her to leave the room and return with four bottles of water, a tense silence eating the oxygen from the conference room.
 

Detective Bryant paused as she handed a cold, condensation-covered bottle to Jayne. “All of the evidence pointed to you being our killer, Ms. Hunt.”
 

The bottle slid from Jayne’s hand and landed on the carpet with the crackle of cheap plastic. She bent to pick it up and came face-to-face with Detective Bryant’s…flip-flops? Didn’t law enforcement people wear steel-toed boots? This wasn’t going well.

She straightened, desperately wishing for underwear. Anything to help even the odds of surviving this…whatever it was. She planted the bottle of water firmly on the table. Figured there was no point trying to take the lid off until she could get her hands to stop shaking.
 

“I didn’t kill Solomon Tarik.” Jayne closed her eyes, dragged in a ragged breath and faced her attorney. “Am I talking to these people or not?” Her voice was almost steady.

Chief Hayes stood. “You have my sincere apologies, Ms. Hunt. I’m embarrassed to say that we now believe your arrest was an attempt to set you up for the murder of Emir Solomon Tarik. It wasn’t what I expected when I helped you and Parker Steele with the sting operation.”
 

Drew Smith caught her gaze, held it. “You’re no longer under arrest, so the choice is yours whether to walk out of here or listen to the chief’s proposal. My advice is to hear them out before you make any decisions.”

Chief Hayes cleared his throat. “We would appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Hunt. I’ve personally spoken with Detective Stone, who holds you in high regard, and I regret that you’ve been placed in this position. Although we need your help, I can understand if you choose otherwise.”

Jayne brushed at her damp cheeks, anger eating at her belly. “You put me through this, and you know I’m not guilty?”

Chief Hayes cleared his throat. “There was enough evidence pointing to your guilt to convince the prosecutor, Ms. Hunt. We had to follow strict protocol on this, because I couldn’t risk having it thrown out of court on a technicality, especially since it most likely involves a cop gone bad.”

Jayne bit down on her cheek to stop the flow of emotion, then opened the bottle of water and took a long swallow. “All right then, Chief Hayes, let me ask again. Why am I here?”

“Because I need your help,” Reese answered. “I’m like this with computers.” She held up crossed fingers. “Don’t know a thing about forensic accounting, but I figure together we can catch the scum who’s set you up.”

“You don’t think I did it?” Jayne asked.
 

“Nope. I Googled the crap out of you, ran you through every database I know and some I had no business searching. Nothing popped. Besides, you have a hell of a reputation. If you’d planned Tarik’s murder, you wouldn’t have left evidence lying around.”
 

Chief Hayes paced. “We’d like to put you in protective custody…”
 

He stopped, stared at Jayne. She figured he noticed her open mouth and wide-eyed stare—the cartoon caricature of someone in total shock.
 

The chief turned to Reese Bryant. “Explain the situation, Detective.”
 

“Your knowledge of forensic accounting would be invaluable in helping us trace the monies that have been misappropriated. We also have reason to believe—” her voice took on a hard edge— “that there’s a link to someone in our station. We don’t know who or how yet, but we’ll find whoever is involved. And see that they’re prosecuted.”

Jayne closed her eyes, sorting through this new data. “You think we can trace the killer through the funds that have been siphoned from Steele Management?
 

“Yes. And from analysis of the evidence against you.”

“I hope you’re right.”
 

“I often am,” Reese said, her smile showing a row of orthodontically perfect teeth.
 

“What exactly is the alleged evidence against me?”

Smith shook his head, shoving several sheets of paper toward Jayne. “Not alleged. Your fingerprints were on a vial of powder that tested for a combination of ingredients—all of them potentially lethal, and all of them tested positive from an area of contact dermatitis on Solomon Tarik’s neck.”

Jayne pushed her fingers tight against her temples. “That makes no sense. I don’t know anything about a vial of powder, and I wasn’t anywhere near Tarik’s neck.” But…her sloggy brain started to clear as scenes from the fundraiser raced through her mind.
 

Detective Bryant reached into her pocket, smiled, and pulled out a white, plastic container, offering it to Jayne.
 

Jayne’s nerves went spastic for a second, the container blurring into a lethal vial, then back to white plastic. She shook her head, reached for the bottle of ibuprophen, and downed two. “Thanks. It hasn’t been my best day.”

“Want to share what you were remembering? Had to be something important, considering your face turned the exact shade of the last cadaver I visited in the morgue.” Bryant’s brown eyes sparkled, expectant.

 
“Two things. From the back, Solomon Tarik looks, looked, like Parker. They were the same height, had the same color of hair, and the night of the fundraiser were dressed in the same cut of dinner jacket.”