“Already done.”
“I also need to tell you what I’ve come up with. It won’t take
long, and then I promise to let this go until tomorrow.”
He could deny her nothing. Leaning back in his chair, he
toasted her with his wineglass. “Go ahead, Detective Hood.”
Her lips formed in a happy smirk at the new title. “So, I
definitely think a woman is involved, and here’s why...”
She proceeded to outline her reasoning for revenge and the
steps that had led to both Devin’s framing and Jimmie’s death. While part of him
thought she was bending the facts to suit her theory, the conjecture made sense.
For this woman, an unstable accomplice could blow the revenge scheme. “You
should contact somebody in Homicide who can give you the autopsy results ASAP.
What about the guy you worked with on the East River case last spring?”
“Carl Anderson. Already done.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“I hung with him and his case awhile, and he’s a sharp guy.
He’ll see the setup against me. Let’s eat.”
She glanced down at her nearly empty salad plate. “We are.”
He retrieved the insulated container of chicken and pasta,
which he dished out to both of them. “I’d hate for Shelby’s creation to get
cold.”
She undoubtably knew he was subverting the tougher questions of
homicidal women from his past, but she met his gaze and picked up her fork. “Me,
either.”
“What’s your father like?” he asked as they started on
dinner.
“Big, stern—except with me, of course—hard working,
independent. Very much a Texan.”
“Would he like me?”
“As a cop and a guy, sure.” Calla twirled pasta around her
fork. “As a male who’s touching me, no.”
Devin knew he wasn’t worthy of her, but he was bothered to hear
her say it so plainly. “Why not?”
“Because he still wants me to be five and playing with dolls,
not playing with men.”
“Ah. What about your mom?”
“
She’d
like you. You want to meet
them?”
No
was his swift, instinctive
response, though he had the sense not to voice it aloud. “You think that’s a
good idea?”
She paused with her hand around her wineglass. “Probably not.
Let’s get the assault charges dismissed first.”
“That’s a good idea. What does he think about you living in the
city?”
“He’s not crazy about it, but he knows this is where I’m
happy.”
“Think you’d ever go back home?”
“No. New York is home now. Did you grow up here?”
“Queens. I don’t want to go back there, either.”
“You must have had some good times.”
“School was okay.” Regular meals served anyway. “I liked
playing sports.”
“Which ones?”
“Baseball and football. We probably couldn’t have done much
against any teams from Texas, but we didn’t suck, either.”
“Sports are a religion in Texas,” she agreed. “Football
especially.” Leaning forward, she propped her chin on her fist. “I wouldn’t have
pegged you for a team sport. What position did you play?”
“Fullback.”
“Ah, the muscle. Now, that I can see.”
“I had some issues with aggression. Football helped me channel
my energy into something positive.”
She sipped her wine. “Is that also why you became a cop?”
“Plenty of people around me made the wrong choices. I didn’t
want to end up like them. I turned eighteen and headed straight for the
academy.”
“That’s a long time to be a cop.”
“My life.”
“Which will continue.”
Watching the candlelight flicker across her flawless skin, he
decided his singular purpose in life was overrated. “I’ll get right on that.” He
stood and held out his hand. “For now, I only want to dance with you.”
When she moved into his arms, he closed his eyes and breathed
in her warm, floral perfume. Her body brushed his as they swayed to the wail of
a saxophone, and he relished the slow build of desire coursing through him.
All day, subjected to questions about his judgement and
integrity, he’d dreamed of her touch, her devotion and hunger for him. He’d
fought side by side with the law for more than a decade, but nothing had earned
him anything as amazing as her.
He wished he could believe in the two of them together.
But with his career and freedom in jeopardy, he had no right to
dream beyond getting back what he’d had before—a badge, a gun and a distant
longing for something wonderful that always seemed out of reach.
For now, though, he and Calla were a team, and he’d learned the
merits of a gang were wildly underrated by the department.
He’d never had an intimate partner. Lovers, sure, but not a
true partner. On the force, he’d worked with different guys, but Meyer had
quickly discovered Devin liked solitude. Maybe he always would.
“Where’d you go?” Calla asked softly in his ear.
“Sorry.” He brushed his lips across her cheek. “You’re right.
It’s hard to set aside my case.”
She leaned back slightly, her eyes full of promise. “Let’s
try—for a little while, anyway.”
11
C
ALLA
WOKE
TO
BOTH
purring and pounding in her ears.
She tucked her head between Devin’s neck and shoulder.
“Sharky’s hungry,” she mumbled.
His arms slid around her while one hand moved down her bare
thigh. “He can wait.”
She pressed her lips to his throat. “And my head’s throbbing. I
don’t remember drinking that much wine.”
“We didn’t.” He rolled on top of her, his erection pressing
against her hip. “I’m throbbing, too. Wanna help me out?”
While her body involuntarily responded with
Yes, yes, I do!
, Calla flattened her palm against his
chest. “Cheesy, Devin. Really. I hear pounding.”
He cocked his head. “It’s the door. What time is it?”
“No idea.” Her gaze was glued to him. Maybe she’d been too
hasty. He was so sexy with his sleepy eyes and inky, mussed hair. She pulled him
closer. “Whoever it is will come back.”
He rolled off her, scooped a revolver off the bedside table and
pulled on his jeans. “Stay here,” he ordered.
“Guess I’ll feed the cat,” she muttered as Sharky butted his
head against hers and amped up the purring another notch.
She padded into the bathroom to brush her hair and teeth, then
looked around for something to wear.
Hearing two male voices at the end of the hall, she amended her
wardrobe of Devin’s T-shirt, which only hung to midthigh and added a pair of
sweatpants she found in his dresser. She might look sloppy, but she wasn’t
wearing her dress from last night at seven-thirty in the morning.
As she opened the bedroom door, she saw Lieutenant Reid walking
into the living room. Not exactly the way she wanted to start her day.
“I started coffee,” Devin said, moving toward her. “Take this,”
he whispered in her ear, pressing something hard against her stomach.
The gun.
Good grief. She was going to need a nice, long spa weekend when
this whole mess was over.
She exchanged the cat for the weapon and tried not to think
about the irony of the innocent and the deadly. After tucking the gun into the
nightstand drawer and grabbing a T-shirt for Devin, she headed straight for the
coffeemaker, where he was watching the final drips flow into the pot.
She handed him the shirt. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
“No idea. Reid looks like he got a lot less sleep than we did,
though.”
Together, they carried the cups into the living room. As they
settled on the sofa, Reid remained standing. The precise, well-groomed man who’d
shown up at this same apartment only days before had bloodshot eyes, wore a
stained and wrinkled tie and was pale enough to see through.
He accepted his coffee and took a sip. “Thanks. It was a long
night.”
Calla decided if she was going to be accused of being
Pollyanna, she might as well fulfill her role. “Are you here to tell us the case
against Devin has been dismissed?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Reid reached into his briefcase and pulled
out a file folder. “An informant saw the news report about Jimmie’s death and
came to the station last night, claiming he saw Devin buying heroin on Saturday
night.”
Fury blazed through Calla. “
What?
He was with me the entire—”
Reid held up his hand. “I know. After I challenged the
informant with Devin’s alibi, he became flustered. He changed his story,
claiming a woman gave him two thousand dollars in cash to go to the police with
the bogus story.”
“You believe him?” Devin asked.
Reid nodded. “He still had a wad of hundreds in his
pocket.”
“What woman?” Calla asked.
“A blonde, though the informant thinks she was wearing a wig.
And before you jump all over me, Ms. Tucker, the rest of the description doesn’t
match you. She’s attractive, but shorter and thinner. She doesn’t have your
obvious femininity.”
As Reid pushed the open file across the table, Calla wondered
if
obvious femininity
was the lieutenant’s
restrained way of telling her she had a nice rack.
While Devin and Calla studied the sketches—one of a woman’s
face partially obscured by sunglasses, the other full-bodied—Reid asked, “Do you
recognize her? Could she have been the thief you chased, Detective? Maybe she
lured you to the alley, and Jimmie knocked you out.”
“It’s possible,” Devin said, glancing up at Reid. “We’ve
actually been working with the theory that Jimmie posed as the thief and she hit
me.”
Calla glared at the lieutenant. “Devin mentioned the
possibility of an accomplice from the beginning. If you’d
listened
to your fellow cop, instead of arresting him, you could’ve
saved yourself a lot of time.”
“I never believed Devin assaulted Jimmie,” Reid said calmly. “I
don’t think he killed him, either.”
“So why’d you arrest him?” Calla asked in disbelief.
“The evidence couldn’t be ignored,” Reid explained.
Since the evidence was a mass of contradictions, that was the
dumbest, most shortsighted reason Calla had ever heard. Bureaucratic nonsense.
Still, she made an effort to rein in her temper. Anger would only cloud her
thoughts. Somebody needed to display a little sense.
But the injustice burned her up. What kind of Sherwood Forest
was the NYPD running?
His expression blank, Devin stared at Reid. “Why don’t you
think I’m guilty?”
“The assault was too candy-ass. Not your style.”
“And Jimmie was murdered?”
“The M.E. thinks so,” Reid said. “There was no sign of a
struggle on his body or in the apartment, but neither were there previous needle
marks. Also, he’d consumed a sedative an hour before his death. The pills were
found in a prescription bottle with the label peeled off, but no other evidence
of illegal drug use.”
“And if it was suicide,” Devin added, “he didn’t need the
heroin. He could’ve swallowed all the pills.”
Reid’s lips turned up in a tired smile. “Exactly.”
Calla wasn’t sure about Devin, but she wasn’t ready to be pals
with Reid. “So why are you telling us all this now?”
“I’d like your help.” Reid pulled a thick, accordion-style file
from his briefcase. “Based on your stakeout the other night, it’s obvious you’re
conducting your own investigation. We might as well combine our efforts. It’s
clear somebody’s set you up. If we figure out who’s behind the scheme, we’ll
clear your name and find Jimmie’s killer.”
“So you’re dismissing the charges,” Devin said.
Reid winced. “Not yet. As far as anybody other than us and a
few key people in the department know, you’re still on the hook for Jimmie’s
assault and suspected of his murder.”
Calla barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping. “You’re
kidding.”
“We don’t know how far the conspiracy reaches,” Reid reasoned.
“I want the killer to think he—or more likely in this case
she
—is getting away with the frame. I don’t want her making any more
moves until we have time to investigate.”
“Who are the key people?” Devin asked.
“My captain, Lieutenant Meyer and Anderson from Homicide. I
think you know him. He’s been assigned to investigate Jimmie’s murder.”
Devin looked unimpressed by Reid’s
we’re-all-on-the-same-team-but-in-secret proposal. “Why should we trust
you?”
Reid met Devin’s gaze. “I go after dirty cops. I don’t ruin
good ones.” He dropped the file on the coffee table. “That’s everything I’ve
got.”
Devin slid his hand down Calla’s back. “What do you think,
babe?”
Babe? Delight flooded Calla, both at the unexpected endearment
and the realization that he was asking her advice before committing to Reid.
“I’m not sure we can trust him, but we could use his information.”
“I agree.” Devin shifted his attention to Reid. “You’ve got a
deal.”
Reid didn’t comment on their doubt. He was probably used to
other cops treating him with suspicion.
Digging into the case file, they discovered Devin’s
fingerprints from only his right hand had been found on the pipe used to assault
Jimmie. How likely was it that he hadn’t touched the pipe at all with his other
hand? Also, the pipe had been found against the brick wall of the alley, fifteen
feet from where Jimmie and Devin fell, which explained why Devin hadn’t noticed
it when he regained consciousness.
So Devin had beat up Jimmie, knocked himself out then tossed
the pipe away?
That dog don’t hunt,
as her friends
in Texas would say.
“You see those notes about the pipe?” Devin asked her.
“Could it have rolled over there?” Calla mused, glancing at
Reid.
“Not that far,” the lieutenant answered. “You can see why I was
skeptical from the beginning.”
Like the assault, Jimmie’s murder was planned and organized,
but ultimately flawed. Was that because the killer was so focused on revenge
that she wasn’t thinking clearly, or because she simply wasn’t intelligent
enough to pull off a complicated conspiracy?
“People who think cops are stupid piss me off,” Reid added.
Reid’s frustration and exhaustion had clearly allowed him to
loosen up, and she was actually beginning to like him. “You figure she planned
on you buying Jimmie’s story and not looking too deeply into the
inconsistencies?”
“She certainly doesn’t understand cops.”
“No respect for them, either,” Calla pointed out. “If this
woman is framing Devin because he arrested her or someone she cares about, she’s
getting back at him for doing his duty. Devin’s only the instrument of the
law.”
“Unless it’s more personal.” Reid looked toward Devin. “I know
I asked you yesterday, but you’re sure there’s not an ex-girlfriend out there
who has it in for you?”
Devin looked amused. “Except for the one in prison, no.”
Calla’s hand clenched around the stack of pictures she held.
“She’s still there, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Reid’s eyes gleamed as his gaze roved her face. “And
it’s nice to see the detective’s choices have greatly improved.”
“Look all you like, Reid,” Devin said, his tone dangerously
soft. “But don’t even think about touching her.”
She belonged to Devin, all right. But for how long?
Since that wasn’t a subject she wanted to dwell on, she went
back to looking through the photos.
The shots of Jimmie’s battered face and body were graphic and
jarring, and Calla felt a moment of pity for the squirrelly thief. What had his
partner promised him to go along with the scheme? Money? Could’ve been about
sex, too. Or simply revenge against the cop who’d arrested and testified against
him.
“I see you considered the idea I had a co-conspirator,”
Devin said, reading from the file.
Reid poured himself more coffee. “I tried to look at the
conflicting facts from all angles. If you’d had a partner who’d knocked you out
after you’d beat up Jimmie, then he could have tossed the pipe away.”
“Then where are his prints?” Devin argued. “And why leave the
pipe at the scene?”
“He wouldn’t.” Reid leaned back in his chair. “Every time I
lined up the evidence against you, the results simply didn’t make sense.
Especially for a cop.”
After another hour of studying the information and becoming
frustrated that a miraculous smoking gun hadn’t appeared, Calla headed to the
kitchen for a snack.
At least Reid’s notes and supposition had confirmed their own
ideas, and, in her mind at least, her theory about the killer considering
herself an avenging angel was not only alive but probable.
Yet how were they going to find her? The cops would ask
Jimmie’s neighbors and show them the sketch. And the crime scene techs had
collected hair and fibers from the murder scene. She couldn’t possibly have been
in Jimmie’s apartment and not left DNA somewhere. So if she was in the criminal
database, they’d have a great lead. If not, they—
“Oh, no.” She nearly dropped the block of cheese she’d pulled
out of the fridge. “The scrap of gold fabric.”
When she’d shown it to Devin last week, he hadn’t given her
much hope that it was connected to his case. But that was before the idea of
Jimmie’s partner being a woman emerged.
Across the room, Devin was asking Reid about the angle of the
pipe blows, and maybe it was possible for a crime scene expert to determine the
height of Jimmie’s attacker.
Her heart pounding with guilt, Calla dug in her purse for the
evidence, which she’d sealed in a plastic zip bag. She had the dreaded feeling
the lieutenant wasn’t going to be quite as nonchalant as Devin had been.
No fool in the strategy department, she sliced the cheese and
some cured sausage, then assembled the snack on a plate with a variety of
crackers. The guys mumbled their thanks, and she waited until their mouths were
full before broaching the subject of the item she was holding behind her
back.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” she began. When he looked her way, she
managed to swallow her nerves. “It’s Colin, right?”
As he nodded, Devin furrowed his brow. Her sweet tone was
probably too much.
“I, ah...found this near where Jimmie and Devin were
assaulted.” She handed him the plastic bag. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but maybe
the lab should do some tests or something.”
“Where?” was Reid’s single, terse question.
“On a shrub at the alley entrance.” Calla didn’t think she
would have trusted him with the information before today. “I remember smelling
gardenias when I picked it up.”
“From the foliage or the fabric?” Reid asked.
A little put out by his smart-aleck question, Calla crossed her
arms over her chest. “Gardenias bloom in the spring.”
“You think it could be something?” Devin asked Reid, though
he’d already made his doubt clear.
Reid laid the bag on top of the file. “Probably not.”
“Your guys still missed it,” Calla said smartly.