Victoria opened the door. “You made the local news.”
Devin groaned. “And the fun just keeps on comin’.”
“Trevor’s got a special get-out-of-jail drink waiting for you
at the bar,” Victoria said, extending her arm in welcome.
As Devin headed down the hall, Victoria pulled Calla close for
a rare show of physical affection. “How ya holding up, Polly?”
“I’m still standing.”
Her light blue gaze scanned Calla’s outfit. “You sort of look
like a Stepford wife.”
“That’s how I’m holding up.”
By the time she reached the living area, Devin was holding a
crystal tumbler in his hand standing in front of the windows with his back to
the room.
Over the past few months, she’d been by often to see Shelby and
brought dates to dinner parties here, but Devin hadn’t visited since Labor Day,
when they’d all shared a barbecue to celebrate another triumph for Robin Hood
and his crew.
Was he glad to be welcomed back, or wary of being the center of
attention?
The latter, definitely.
Turning from him, she greeted her friends and got a big,
lifted-off-her-feet hug from Victoria’s boyfriend, Jared, who she hadn’t seen
since the wedding, as he’d been leading a scuba diving adventure to Maui.
“You’re tan,” she commented as he set her down.
“You look like you could use one,” he returned.
“Book me on your next tour,” she said dryly. “I could use a
little excitement in my life.”
Shelby pressed a glass of wine into her hand, and Calla relaxed
for the first time all day. With her friends by her side, there was nothing they
couldn’t do.
She received a kiss on the cheek from Trevor, who was elegantly
dressed, as always, in navy pants and a pristine white shirt.
Devin got miffed whenever Howard smiled at her. Why wasn’t he
jumping in the middle of two gorgeous men kissing and hugging her? Granted, they
were deeply in love with her two best friends, but still....
Glancing at him, she noticed he
had
noticed her, after all. The ever-present scowl was back.
“How’s the whiskey?” Trevor asked lightly, making Calla wonder
if he understood the reason for Devin’s sour expression.
After only a slight hesitation, he approached the group.
“Perfect. Thanks.”
“Do you feel like talking about the case against you?” Trevor
asked. “We’d like to help.”
“Calla tells it better,” Devin said.
So Calla told it.
Everybody agreed the frame-up was obvious to anybody who knew
Devin, but they also agreed untangling the tricked-up evidence, identifying
Jimmie’s partner and especially the
why
of it all,
was going to be challenging.
“I find it hard to believe the D.A. can bring a decent case,”
Trevor commented. “The evidence is inconsistent, and there’s absolutely no
motive. Why are they saying Devin suddenly decided to stalk and later assault a
small-time thief with a mental condition?”
“Bad cops are bad press for the NYPD,” Victoria said.
“Allegedly bad cops in this case.”
“So it’s better one of their officers is arrested?” Obviously
baffled, Trevor shook his head. “Bad strategy.”
“We’ve arrested regular people with less evidence,” Devin
pointed out.
“I’m with Trevor,” Shelby said firmly. “Officials would win
more support in the long run standing by their top cops.”
Devin set aside his glass. “My lieutenant does—as much as he
can, anyway. He thinks my arrest might make the real culprits relax.”
“Which would be great if he was running the investigation,”
Calla reminded him. “Instead, there’s stoic Colin Reid and IAB.”
“Leaving us to prove Devin’s innocence,” Jared concluded.
Victoria sipped her wine. “We have experience chasing guilty
people. Think we can reverse the procedure?”
“I don’t see why not.” Shelby rose. “For now, though, we eat.
How does everybody feel about steak?”
Devin’s eyes lit as they did when he was aroused, and Calla
felt an answering response deep in her belly. “Much better than I do about
clearing my record.”
While Shelby put the steaks on the grill, everybody else helped
in the kitchen or with setting the table. Devin’s case wasn’t mentioned the rest
of the night. He relaxed and even laughed, and Calla silently swore she’d keep
that optimism alive, no matter what she had to do.
She’d helped Shelby and Victoria with their recent troubles and
understood their need to relieve their heartache, but she hadn’t fully realized
the depths of their determination until now. She hadn’t grasped the lengths to
which they’d undoubtably been willing to go to deliver justice.
In or outside the law.
As she and Devin got into a cab in front of the apartment
building, he grasped her hand. “Will you come home with me?”
Flustered by the direct question, she managed only a nod.
“I want to check out my place,” he said after giving the cabbie
the address. “See where Reid and his boys snooped. My gun safe for one.”
“I thought you left your gun at my apartment when you went to
the station.”
“I did. Dark blue shoe box, gold lettering.”
The blood drained from her face. “The Stuart Weitzmans? How
could you—” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait. You want me in your apartment so we
can see what the NYPD poked into?”
“You have a good eye.” He trailed his finger down her throat.
“Plus I have this thing about you in my bed.”
“This thing?”
“Vision. Fantasy. Delusion, possibly,” he added quickly when
she didn’t respond.
She leaned close, stopping less than an inch from his lips.
“Fantasy works. Are there costumes, sets and scripts?”
He slid his hand around her head, tangling his fingers in her
hair. “No clothing needed, the bed works for me and you don’t have to say a word
except
yes.
”
She smiled. “The zipper on this dress sticks a bit.”
When he slammed his apartment door closed behind them, he
quickly discovered the truth of her statement. He solved the problem with quick
action, ripping the zipper down the seam, while simultaneously muttering a
promise to have it fixed.
He pushed her dress past her hips, and she tossed his T-shirt
on the floor as they crossed the threshold of the bedroom doorway. Indulging in
his pumping heat, she wrapped her arms around his neck, trailing her lips across
his skin.
His enticing scent, inviting and masculine, spun her wits and
intensified the hunger building inside. After the turmoil of the day, she craved
his touch. When his hands cupped her breasts, she let her head fall back on a
moan.
He pressed her to the bed, never ceasing his caress. He let go
of her only long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes, while she did the
same with hers, then he was hovering over her.
“I don’t deserve you, but I’m taking you, anyway,” he mumbled
against her lips.
As his mouth captured hers and their bodies became one, her
heart hammered in her chest, her need spiraled. She hooked her legs around his
hips when he surged inside.
Tingles raced down her spine, and her joy only increased as she
saw the pleasure stamped on his face. Delight built on delight, tightening her
muscles, driving her higher. His strokes quickened. Her breath caught as she
reached the peak, and pulses of satisfaction rippled through her.
As he followed her over the edge, a fission of fear spoiled her
bliss. He needed her so much now, but would he need her, and want her, when he
had his life back?
9
P
ARKED
AT
THE
CURB
IN
front of a convenience mart and a bakery on the Lower East Side, Devin stared at
the dingy apartment building out his left window. “There’s something really
wrong about sitting in a Mercedes and eating gourmet food while spying on a
low-life thief.”
“I’m not sure what,” Calla returned, holding a cracker in front
of his face. “Shelby’s curried chicken salad never disappoints.”
“It’s supposed to be bad coffee and street-corner hot dogs,” he
muttered, though he took the cracker. “My life has changed in remarkable ways
since meeting you.”
She pressed her lips to his cheek. “All in a good way.”
Good didn’t even begin to cover his life lately. Remarkable,
miraculous...perilous—those were better descriptions.
Calla was devoted to him. After the dinner party at the
Banfields’, they’d spent all night and most of the next day in his bed. She was
adventurous, interesting, curious and joyful. He’d never known anyone like
her.
“How does Jimmie afford this place?” he wondered aloud, hoping
to get his mind back on his mission. “Even a dump is out of his income
bracket.”
“Maybe he’s a better thief than you think.”
“Or maybe his partner is well financed.”
“You’re sure your friend at the station is reliable? Reid could
have told him to lie to you, trying to keep you off the case.”
“Reid doesn’t know about your gang.”
She handed him another cracker piled with chicken salad. “But I
bet he knows everything about you, so he’d realize you won’t sit around stroking
a rosary while waiting for your trial to start.”
The image of a pious him made him choke on his snack.
Calla whacked him on the back. “If you stop breathing, can I
give you mouth-to-mouth?”
Clearing his throat, he scooped her off her seat and into his
lap. “Absolutely.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Do you usually make out during
stakeouts?”
“Never.” He gave her a long, slow kiss that got his blood
pumping way more than any department operation ever had. “Especially on Sunday
night. Nothing happens on Sunday night.”
“Why not?”
He trailed his lips across her jaw. Vanilla wafted from her
hair. He threaded his fingers though the golden silk. “Bad guys take the night
off, I guess. Maybe they’re spending quality time with their rosaries. How do
you always smell so amazing?”
“One of those girly gifts. Speaking of girls, this woman from
your past, the stabbing smuggler who seduced you, what was she like?”
He stilled. “That was an interesting segue.”
“I was kind of hoping to catch you off guard and you’d blurt
something out.”
Saying nothing, he stared at her.
“Right. You’re not much of a blurter.” She traced his lips with
her finger. “Any chance of telling me, anyway?’
“She was beautiful, quick-thinking and cold.”
She tensed. “How beautiful?”
“Very. She looked like you.”
“You’re comparing me to a murderess?” she asked in
disbelief.
“Superficially.”
“Why’d you want to know?” He cocked his head. “Jealous?”
“Since she’s doing twenty-five to life, I don’t think I’ll have
to arm-wrestle her for you.”
“How about wrestling in bikinis?”
“Men are such degenerates. So the fact that she and I look
alike didn’t have anything to do with why you refused to trust me and kept me at
a snarly distance for six months?”
Years of experience kept his expression neutral.
Which didn’t fool her for a second.
Her expression froze. “You think I’m going to betray you?”
“No.”
She moved back to her seat. “Not anymore,” she corrected.
“Not ever.” He leaned over, bracketing her. “You’re the exact
opposite of her. But the fact that she fooled me is absolute proof that I have
no idea what I’m doing when it comes to personal relationships. You deserve
more.”
“So you said the other night. What’s changed?”
“Everything. Our proximity, you saving me. I couldn’t stop
myself anymore. Still can’t. And though I might not have given in to my
attraction to you before last week, I dreamed about you constantly.”
Her gaze held his. “Day and night?”
“Yes.”
“You
did
send the text.”
“Yes.”
“You said you didn’t.”
“I was wary. I was afraid admitting the truth would lead to us
getting together.”
“Which you didn’t want.”
“Which I
thought
I didn’t want. The
last two nights proved pretty conclusively that I want you very much.”
Looking wary herself, Calla licked her lips. “Do you think our
attraction has anything to do with your career and freedom being in
jeopardy?”
“It was there before all this happened. I guess it’ll be there
afterward.”
“I’m not asking for commitments or promises.”
“Especially since I could be in prison soon.”
She laid her finger over his lips. “Don’t talk like that. I
don’t want to be merely a distraction.”
She’d asked for nothing in this deal with him, but she’d given
everything. Though he didn’t express his feelings well, he had to find a way to
show her how vital her support and understanding had been. “You’re all that
gives me hope. I only know how to be a cop. If I don’t have that, I’m
nothing.”
“I don’t agree, but thanks. We’re going to get you through
this.”
He rested his forehead against hers, soaking up the comfort of
her words and her touch. “Do I get a gang nickname?”
“You can be the sheriff.”
He frowned. “I thought he was the bad guy. The corrupt lawman,
in fact.”
Her lips turned up at the corners in a sly smile. “What do you
know about Robin Hood?”
“Enough. Wasn’t there a king?”
“Richard. But he was off on a crusade or fighting a battle or
something, which is why the whole mess with the crooked sheriff happened in the
first place. You’re the star of this show, so you can’t be him.”
“Okay, then I get to be Robin.”
“I’m Robin.”
“Who says?”
“Everybody. Shelby and Victoria got to be Robin when it was
their turn. I think there was a marksman. You can be him. Luigi Greeneyes.”
“His name was Will Scarlet.”
Calla got that adamant look in her eyes, the one he used to run
from whenever he saw it aimed in his direction. “I’m the gang leader. I get to
pick the names.”
“Why Luigi?”
“It’s Italian, of course. And it means warrior, or something
like that. I’ll have to look it up.”
As she reached into her purse for her phone, he heard a noise
outside the car. “Quiet,” he ordered, reaching beneath his jacket for the pistol
holstered against his side.
Calla immediately slumped in her seat and tucked her phone,
with its glowing screen, behind her back. She said nothing, but she clenched the
door handle.
A few seconds later, a man and a woman, their arms around each
other walked under the streetlight in front of Jimmie’s building. They were
laughing and stumbling a bit. They paused at the corner and indulged in an
energetic kiss.
At least somebody’s Sunday night was eventful.
When they moved up the stairs, Devin holstered his weapon. “I
doubt either one of them is our accomplice.”
“Agreed.”
After sighting the couple, several more possible residents or
visitors entered the building. But the collection included a slow-moving elderly
couple and two sets of parents with children. No single male entered, no one who
looked furtive or out of place, and no one came back out.
Just after midnight, when they were confident their mission had
been a big waste of time, a cab stopped at the far end of the block, and a
figure emerged. Heading toward them, and Jimmie’s building, the person was
dressed in black or dark blue and moved with brisk purpose, looking left and
right as they moved.
Not suspiciously, really. Any wise-thinking New Yorker wore
dark clothes and was aware of their surroundings at night on a deserted
street.
“It’s a woman,” Devin said as the person grew closer.
“There’s definitely a hip sway when she walks,” Calla agreed.
“Could Jimmie’s partner be a woman?”
“I guess.” Though he’d assumed a man simply because of the
violent nature of the crime. Detectives should gather facts, not assume. But if
a woman had whacked both him and Jimmie, neither one of them would ever live it
down. “It’s not like I can go charging in there and ask him.”
The woman had a key to the outer door, and she managed to avoid
the light on the stoop before disappearing inside.
“I couldn’t see her face,” Calla said.
“She kept it turned away.”
“On purpose?”
He shrugged. Something about her seemed off, but he wasn’t sure
what. Could be wishful thinking—he wanted something significant to happen, so he
was putting too much emphasis on her.
A few other people went in, but still no single male appeared,
and no one else gave him a tingle at the the back of his neck.
He and Calla ate, talked and drank coffee. She dozed after a
while, arranging a pillow she’d brought, laying her head in his lap. He absently
stroked her hair and chased away the image of her visiting him from behind
bulletproof glass while he wore prison orange.
But then that would never happen.
He’d never let her see him that way.
Leaning his head against the window, he stared blankly toward
Jimmie’s building. Investigating was different when the case was personal.
Impartiality was nonexistent, the stakes were higher, and concentration was
tougher.
Fear kept him off balance. He kept wondering if his time was
limited, if he should have appreciated his badge more when he’d had it in his
pocket. He continually second-guessed himself, considering which move would sink
him, and which one might be his salvation. Since his gut instincts and
decisiveness were some of his most valuable assets, the uncertainty was a major
problem.
As he yawned, he thought about the comfort of his bed, or
Calla’s. They’d left the cat with food and his basket. She’d even convinced him
to add a heating pad beneath his blankets, so he’d feel warm and secure. Still,
Sharky had glared as they left, as if he’d known they were leaving for a long
time, like they had after the dinner party at the Banfields’.
Last night Calla had jolted upright in his bed, then dragged
them both over to her place to pick him up so Sharky wouldn’t be alone all
night. Devin expected she’d wake up any second and remind him their tiny bundle
of joy was lonely. Maybe they should buy some catnip or a toy on the way home.
At least he’d drawn the line at bringing a kitten on a stakeout....
A loud rap on the car window woke Devin from a dead sleep.
Blinking, he noted dawn was breaking and Lieutenant Meyer’s
angry face greeted him from the other side of the glass. “Out of the car,
Antonio.”
He did as ordered, easing his way out of the car, so he
hopefully wouldn’t wake up Calla. “I know I shouldn’t be here, sir,” he began,
hoping his brain would kick in a reasonable excuse for being outside Jimmie’s
apartment building. “But it’s my badge on the line, and I had to see what Jimmie
was up to. I didn’t hit him, and I’m pretty certain he didn’t hit me, so
somebody else is involved in—”
“Why are you at my crime scene?”
Devin’s attention shifted from Meyer’s fury to the area around
him. Two patrol cars, barricades, somber expressions, uniforms talking to people
milling around the apartment building. “What crime scene? What’s going on?”
“Jimmie Forrester is dead.”
* * *
“I
ABSOLUTELY
WOULDN
’
T
believe it if I hadn’t witnessed
the scene with my own eyes,” Lieutenant Meyer ranted, pacing his office as Calla
and Devin sat stiffly in the guest chairs.
Technically, Meyer couldn’t question Devin before his lawyer
arrived—though that hadn’t stopped him from ordering them inside, drawing the
blinds and yelling off his frustration at finding them smack in the middle of
Jimmie’s murder site.
An
alleged
murder, anyway.
According to the medics, Jimmie had died of a drug overdose in the early morning
hours Monday. Jimmie supposedly didn’t do recreational drugs, as he already had
several legit prescriptions to combat his mental health issues.
But since the cops had found
alleged
evidence against Devin at both the assault in the alley and
in his apartment, Calla was holding off on buying into Jimmie’s Just Say No
lifestyle.
“In a little over a week, you’re found unconscious at
two
crime scenes,” Meyer continued, his voice as
frigidly terse as Calla’s dad’s had been when he’d found out she was secretly
dating bad boy Clint Hampton in the tenth grade. “The odds are...well, there are
no odds. It’s incalculable!”
“Exactly, sir,” Devin said, his voice much stronger than
Calla’s had been her sophomore year. “That’s because I was outside Jimmie’s
place on purpose last night. I’m accused of assault. I can’t sit around and wait
for Reid to use me to get his captain’s bars.”
“Reid’s a good man,” Meyer asserted.
“But he’s wrong about me,” Devin returned.
“You were
armed.
” Meyer lifted his
hands to the ceiling, as if divine intervention might work its way down somehow.
“You can’t carry a gun in the city while you’re on suspension.”
Devin coolheadedly met his boss’s fury. “Sir, I can
explain—”
“It’s my gun,” Calla burst out. “Devin was holding it for me,”
she added lamely.
Meyer braced his hand on the back of her chair and pushed his
face inches from hers. “And how do you have a permit to carry a concealed
weapon?”
She didn’t, of course. But she was pretty handy with computer
graphics. Maybe she could forge a—