“I need to go,” he said. “I need some space.”
She grabbed his arm as he moved past her. “You can’t wander
around the city alone. Let me take you home.”
“Sure.” He shook off her touch and stalked toward the end of
the alley. “I’ll hail a cab.”
Watching him go, she noted the distance between them was
greater than ever.
He blamed himself, not her, for not anticipating his attack.
But if he didn’t stow his temper, they were never going to get through this
mess. He’d been there for her and her friends. Even when their actions had
skirted the law, he’d stood by them.
As she followed him toward the street, she reminded herself of
his guidance and support.
But damned if the man wasn’t the most irritating, prickly, son
of a—
Her tirade ground to a halt as she noticed a piece of gold
fabric dangling from a shrub branch.
She brought the fabric to her nose and smelled a hint of
gardenia, so it couldn’t have been there long. What potential assaulter wore
silken gold? None she could think of...unless an early Halloween sale at the
costume shop two blocks over had brought out the animal side in a lame-seeking
party girl.
The police had certainly searched the crime scene, so the
chances of the fabric having anything to do with Devin’s case were less than
zero. Still, she shoved the gold scrap into the front pocket of her jeans. Maybe
she could find a way to have it professionally examined.
When she reached the end of the alley, a cab was waiting along
with Devin, his hand outstretched. “How about if I buy lunch?” he suggested as
he assisted her into the car.
He kept hold of her hand as he directed the cab to a deli
several blocks away, and less than twenty minutes later, Calla found herself at
his kitchen table, enjoying a gooey, piping hot slice of pepperoni-and-sausage
pizza.
His third-floor apartment, with a lovely view of the tree-lined
street below, was large, though additions were spare. Plain furniture, probably
rented, a couple of standard landscapes on the walls and no photographs or
mementos. A couple of gun magazines had been tossed on the coffee table, and a
book on forensics lay open and facedown on the sofa. The living room and kitchen
walls were painted dove-gray, the bedroom—which she’d gotten a peek of from the
hallway—was a dark, grayish-blue. Like a storm in the summer sky.
The colors suited him, and she’d bet her next assignment to any
tropical paradise that everything that actually belonged to him could fit into a
suitcase and two boxes.
“I’m sorry about before,” he said as he pushed away his empty
plate and leaned back in his chair. “None of this is your fault.”
“Nor yours.”
He said nothing.
“I’m willing to make allowances for your mood,” she added.
“Considering the circumstances.” Hiding a smile, she sipped her soda. “You’re
not the cheeriest guy when you aren’t accused of assault.”
“And you’re full of sweetness and light.”
She wagged her finger at him. “Stow the sarcasm, Detective. I’m
on your side, remember?”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic. I was completely serious.”
“Ah, so I’m sugary and you’re dark and brooding.”
“Yes.”
As silly as the idea seemed, she had a feeling this difference
was the reason he was keeping his distance from her. “Do you always run from
sweet women who kiss you?”
He rose to clear the table. “Sweet women don’t kiss me.”
“So I’m a...special case.”
He paused, loading the dishwasher before answering. “Yes.”
She followed him into the kitchen. “I made the first move.
Somebody had to.”
“I’m not so sure. We need time apart.”
“Why?”
“Since I don’t—” He stopped, shoving the dishwasher door
closed. “I’d like your help. There’s nobody else. But I can’t get into anything
with anybody right now. I need to get my badge back. I
have
to.”
Though she didn’t like the idea that she was
anybody,
Calla walked toward him. “You have my
loyalty, Detective. Always.”
“Thanks. You can call me by my first name, you know.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Like you said, we’re friends.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are we?”
“I thought so. Last night...”
“How much of last night do you remember?”
“Bits and pieces.” His gaze connected with hers, then slid
away. “I made a move, you rejected. Smart decision.”
“You were pretty out of it. I didn’t want repercussions later.
I wondered if you might blame your attraction to me on booze and a
concussion.”
“You think I’m attracted to you?”
“Yes.” And she was becoming more confident by the second. He
didn’t want to want her, but he did. “And there’s nobody else, right?”
“I’ve had plenty of lovers. Right now I need a friend.”
He was, very politely and firmly, putting their desire for each
other aside. Given all he’d gone through in the past day, she’d let him get away
with avoidance.
For the moment.
“You have not just one, but three friends.” She paused,
reconsidering. “Five, if you count the guys.”
Sighing, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Please make it
clear to your gang that they’re not allowed to burgle, interrogate or unlawfully
enter a residence or place of business.”
She opened her mouth to argue, since—who was he kidding?—she
and her friends would likely break all those rules in the first forty-eight
hours if they needed to, but he rolled on before she could point out the
obvious.
“I’m in charge of this case. And while the NYPD and I might be
at odds, I’m the one with the badge, so you girls will follow my orders.” He
opened the pantry door and knelt, rummaging around the floor as she glared at
his back. “Surveillance would be good. I’ll put you on watching the purse
snatcher.”
“As soon as you find out who he is,” she returned smartly.
He either didn’t hear or didn’t care about her sarcasm. “And
try not to be too obvious. Wear a hat.”
“A hat?” she repeated.
“Yeah. You glow like the noonday sun.”
“I glow?” she asked, now treading the line between aggravation
and flattery. Did the man live to keep her off balance?
When he stood and turned toward her, he was holding a
pistol.
Yep, apparently he did.
As much as she liked looking at him, she couldn’t seem to move
her gaze from the gun. “Where did that come from?”
“My safe.” He shoved an ammunition clip into the butt of the
pistol. “Beretta nine-millimeter. I like a classic.”
“So I see. What’re you doing with it?”
He shrugged on a leather shoulder holster and slid the gun into
the slot below his left arm. “Like you said, somebody’s after me. I need to take
precautions.”
“But you’re not allowed to...” She trailed off at the fierce
look that flooded his face. Clearing her throat, she made herself continue. She
wasn’t afraid of guns. She was a Texan. But she was wildly concerned about what
Devin might do with his weapon. “You can’t carry a gun in the city.”
“I’m not walking around unarmed.”
“You have to.”
“Weapons laws aren’t my problem.”
Calla had a feeling they would be very soon.
And he was worried about her randomly interrogating people.
“Okay,” she said, backing away while mentally making a note to
check if bail could be posted for somebody with a credit card; otherwise, she’d
have to run by an ATM. “Let’s get to work on your recent cases. Anybody who
outright threatened you should be noted. We’ll fill in the details once we get
more information from the department.”
“And how exactly are we going to get anything out of them?”
“We’ll ask.”
5
D
EVIN
WASN
’
T
SURE
HOW
she’d done it, but over the next several days Calla had gotten access to closed
case files and made copies of all the ones he’d mentioned as possibles for
revenge against him. He was grateful and impressed.
At least until she’d turned his apartment into a chick
club.
They’d shared wedding pictures, cookie recipes, clothes and
shoes, profit margins for their various businesses, city gossip, restaurant
health ratings, how men were so cute but dense, the economy, how that was
impacting their various businesses.
Devin’s head had starting spinning after the first ten minutes.
He’d take a shoot-out in a dark alley any day. He’d stopped taking pain pills
days ago, but he was tempted to head to the medicine cabinet.
Instead, he crossed to the fridge for a beer.
“It’s barely four o’clock,” Calla said in reproach.
He made a show of twisting off the top of a bottle. “I’m not on
duty.”
“Which is stupid,” Victoria commented. “Aren’t my tax dollars
paying your salary? We need good cops on the streets.”
“And we’re certainly less one with Devin on suspension,” Shelby
said.
Flicking her dark hair off her face, Victoria scowled, her
icy-blue eyes fierce. “Idiotic bureaucracy. I say screw ’em. There’s got to be a
law firm in this city that needs a solid investigator.”
“I don’t know about that,” Calla said, shaking her head as she
scooped cookie dough onto a baking sheet. “What if he winds up following around
potential divorcees, trying to prove adultery or other nasty habits?”
“He’d be terrific as a subpoena server,” Shelby pointed out.
“All that dark energy and quiet stares.”
“You three know I’m standing right here, don’t you?” Devin
asked. He snagged a warm cookie off the cooling rack. “And I already have a
job.” Though the meal perks of being suspended were a nice reward for his
troubles.
Victoria drummed her fingers against the kitchen table. “Pretty
lousy of your employers to spend their time investigating you when they should
be looking at that sketchy thief and this obvious framing.”
“They have to follow procedure,” Devin said—for probably the
tenth time.
The Take Matters Into Your Own Hands Gang obviously didn’t know
the meaning of legal protocol.
But he could hardly argue with their techniques. They got
results, and that was what he needed. Ethics and consequences were on indefinite
hold.
Though he hadn’t said so, he understood their drive to
circumvent the rules better than most. As a kid growing up in an abusive
household, he’d been bitter about teachers and social workers who hadn’t seen
what was really going on and saved him from his personal hell.
But once he’d earned his badge, he’d accepted the rules that
went along with it. He promised himself he’d make a difference, and he’d do it
the right way. He wasn’t sure what it said about him that, though he’d
previously adopted an aberrance for vigilantism, he was not just willing, but
eager, to compromise when it was his ass on the line.
“Phooey on procedure,” Calla said, making a classic get lost
gesture.
A smokin’ hot blond Texan who knew how to tell somebody to piss
off without a word? Was it any wonder he was crazy about her?
He had to admit his surprise that for all Calla’s sweet
requests and enticing wiles, she still hadn’t gotten the identity of the thief
out of his lieutenant. Even the peanut butter chocolate chunk cookies and Calla
in a miniskirt had failed.
Being faced with such temptation himself, Devin had to admire
Meyer’s resistance.
Seeing her, inhaling her and enjoying her smiles for the past
few days had weakened his resolve for keeping his distance to the point that he
was seriously considering the idea of giving in. Just once. Surely if they
exorcised their attraction, they’d get past the carnal need and be able to go
back to casual friends.
Beyond that torturous indecision, he was also in limbo with his
suspension. He expected IAB every day, but was confused why they hadn’t yet
questioned him. The delay had him antsy. Something big was going on, and he
hoped he wasn’t the prize pig destined for a long, slow roast.
He refused to ask his buddies in the department for help. One,
it was humiliating. Two, he didn’t want them tossing in their chips on a bad
hand.
Just how thorough was the frame-up?
Devin grabbed another cookie, though the smell of a
chicken-and-cheese casserole Shelby had made permeated the apartment. Once this
mess was over, he’d be back to burgers and wings at the pub, so he might as well
enjoy the unexpected gifts.
Shelby, her expression stern, rushed toward him with a mixing
bowl tucked under her arm. “Dinner’s in less than an hour.”
Devin shoved the rest of the cookie in his mouth. “I’ll eat
that, too.”
“Bottomless pit,” she muttered, a hint of cinnamon and sugar
trailing after her.
Devin followed her. “Don’t worry, my lovely harem,” he said,
spreading his arms. “I won’t lose my appetite.”
The three women stared at him.
He surveyed the beautiful group gathered at his slightly
battered kitchen table—the blonde, the brunette and the redhead. If he was a
bragging kind of guy, he’d take a picture and post his coop online. Though,
since he wasn’t sure how long he’d have a job or a reputation, he didn’t have
much of an urge to whip out his phone and start clicking.
“Devin,” Calla began, her fingertip tapping a stack of suspect
files, “we’re trying to work. You could help by deciphering these notes you
made. Your handwriting is terrible.”
And the fantasy comes to a crashing
halt....
“Seriously, Antonio...harem?” Victoria snorted with mock
laughter. “In your dreams, copper.”
He certainly had plenty of those. But they all involved one
woman.
When he moved toward her to help with the handwriting problem,
a whiff of her vanilla-scented lotion washed over him, and he squeezed his eyes
shut to gather his resistance.
“Are you in pain, Detective?” he heard Shelby asked,
concerned.
He opened his eyes. “No.” At least not the kind of pain she was
wondering about.
“You’re not fully recovered from your injury.” Shelby pulled
out a kitchen chair. “Sit. Didn’t the doctor say you could have headaches and
dizzy spells for weeks?”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, caught between embarrassment and
arousal.
Hurt flicked across her face, and he regretted his attitude.
He’d never been mothered before. He wasn’t exactly sure how to act.
“Thank you,” he added in a softer tone. “I think better on my
feet.” He turned his attention to the folder Calla was holding. “GSW,” he said,
looking at the list over her shoulder. “Gun shot wound.”
“Oh.” Calla paused then, asked, “You’d think a guy who stole a
snake would have been bitten, not shot.”
Damn, she was cute. “A Viper’s a sports car, not a
serpent.”
“Oh.” She paused for a longer stretch this time. “Why would you
want to ride in something named after a poisonous—” Abruptly, she waved her
hand. “Never mind.”
“This isn’t the guy I chased,” Devin said. “Look at his
weight—two-sixty. The handbag thief was short, wiry and fast. He outpaced me for
more than a block.”
Victoria handed Calla another folder. “Let’s talk about this
one.”
Devin studied the information, and his cop sensors went on
alert. This guy was destined for a long career. He’d been picked up as a kid on
minor theft and vandalism, graduated to assault and armed robbery in his early
twenties. Hard, having suffered serious abuse in childhood, he’d resisted all
efforts at education and rehabilitation.
He’d been released from prison two weeks ago.
“Scary-lookin’ dude,” Calla commented.
“And no dummy, either,” Devin said, remembering the guy well.
“He’d ripped off five convenience stores in Midtown before we got him. And we
only managed that because some tourist happened to get a cell phone video of him
running from the scene.”
“He was locked up six years, though,” Shelby pointed out. “You
think he’d really come for you after all those years?”
Victoria spoke before Devin could decide. “Nothing much to do
in prison but eat, sleep and plot what you’re going to do when you get out.”
They all agreed on the sageness of that fact.
Looking at several other files, they found more possibilities,
but Devin couldn’t help but think they were simply marking time until IAB rapped
on his door. “This is great, ladies, but when Internal Affairs questions me,
they’ll tell me the identity of my accuser.”
Maybe when he had that information, and he could pair it with
the cases they’d been researching, he’d find a link.
But then he’d also have to endure another encounter with IAB.
The last one hadn’t been pretty.
Calla narrowed her eyes. “You mean the thief.”
Devin nodded. “Seems like there’s more evidence against me than
him, though. If I’m gonna be charged, they’ll tell me that, too.”
Victoria’s head snapped up. “What charges exactly?”
Devin shrugged with a casualness he certainly didn’t feel.
“Assault.”
“You’re a cop,” Shelby said. “Aren’t you allowed to hit bad
guys?”
“Only if they swing first.”
“But you were assaulted, too,” Calla said.
“They’ll think I hit myself to cover up my assault of a
suspect.”
Victoria rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”
Before Devin could do more than marvel at the loyalty from his
defense team, his phone buzzed. Pulling it from his back pocket, he noted the
text from a buddy at the department.
Be ready. IAB coming
today.
After relaying the information, the mood in the apartment
dived. Dinner’s tempting smell could still be detected, but there was no denying
the concern.
When the knock came, Devin headed to the door without looking
at Calla or the others. Part of him wished they weren’t there, part of him knew
he couldn’t deal with this mess alone, much as that was his natural
instinct.
A guy in a tailored navy suit stood in the hall. He held up his
NYPD badge. “Lieutenant Colin Reid, Internal Affairs.”
“Yeah.” Devin stepped back and allowed the other man to enter.
“I’ve seen you around.”
His short brown hair looked as if the edges had been measured
with a ruler, then trimmed with a razor blade. Devin had the feeling he and this
guy weren’t going to be buds.
When he and Reid entered the living room-kitchen area, the case
files were miraculously gone, and the ladies looked busy doing anything but
conducting their version of a private investigation. Shelby and Victoria hovered
near the stove, while Calla appeared thoroughly engrossed in
Guns and Ammo.
How much of this Reid bought, Devin couldn’t tell. The
lieutenant’s face was blank as he surveyed the apartment. “I need a word in
private, Detective.”
All pretense at reading the magazine abandoned, Calla surged to
her feet. “I’d like to stay.”
“You’re entitled to a lawyer,” Reid said.
Devin scowled. “Do I need one?”
Reid shrugged. “Legal representation is generally more
advisable than a friend.”
Devin didn’t hesitate. “Calla can stay.”
Silently, Reid stared at the other two women.
Shelby tugged Victoria’s arm. “We need to go to the bakery and
get bread for dinner.”
“Can’t you
make
bread?” Victoria
asked incredulously as the two retreated down the hall.
“I expected you days ago,” Devin said to Reid when the door
closed behind them.
Reid removed a micro-recorder from his briefcase. “We had
priority cases to clear.”
“Do you people ever give a straight answer?” Calla asked,
irritated.
By the surprise that skated across Reid’s face, Devin knew he,
like so many others before him, had underestimated the angelic-looking
blonde.
“I’ll be asking the questions today,” Reid said, recovering
quickly.
Devin and Calla sat side by side on the sofa, while Reid sat in
a chair across from them once he’d set the recorder on the coffee table.
He started the interview by reciting the standard warnings
regarding statements and legal representation.
He asked Devin a few opening questions about his position with
the department and years of service. Reid certainly knew the answers already but
was watching Devin’s body language closely. If his mannerisms or tone of voice
changed, it could signal a lie.
The fact that Devin understood Reid’s strategy didn’t give him
any comfort, however.
He then went through the events of Saturday night, and Devin
was glad Calla had encouraged him to write down his account. The chain of events
came easily to mind, and he could recite the account with confidence.
Cops noticed details and telling IAB he couldn’t remember
because of the lump on his head would be tantamount to an admission of guilt at
worst, or he was incompetent at his job at best.
“How much did you drink before you saw the alleged thief?” Reid
asked.
Devin clenched his teeth at the underlying insult. “One beer.
Off duty,” he couldn’t help but add.
“And you saw nobody in the alley other than the alleged
thief?”
Devin had already said he hadn’t but he answered calmly,
“No.”
“How quickly after entering the alley were you allegedly
struck?”
Call surged to her feet. “
Allegedly?
Would you like to see the baseball-size knot on his head?
What kind of cop are you, questioning a fellow officer instead of the criminal
he was chasing?”
Devin grabbed her hand and pulled her to the sofa. “Calla,
please.”
“Where are you from?” Reid asked, his gaze locked on Calla.