The Rookie: A Romantic Suspense Standalone (The Intelligence Unit Book 1)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  The Rookie

  Kimberly Kincaid

  THE ROOKIE

  © 2020 Kimberly Kincaid

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Untitled

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Sneak peeks and other works

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to

  Avery Flynn and Tracey Livesay

  who encouraged me to “write what you want!”

  This book of my heart would not

  exist without your advice.

  And that is totally not the margaritas talking.

  Mostly.

  1

  As far as Tara Kingston was concerned, not all murderers were created equal. Some killed people out of hate, some out of anger or revenge. Some were twisted enough to do it for chuckles. Some—and this category had always had the ability to chill Tara’s skin and send her stomach toward her Manolos—were frightening enough to do it for no reason at all. The murders Tara had helped to prosecute in her three years working in the Remington District Attorney’s office had ranged from emotion-fueled snap decisions to calculation and ice-cold blood. There was only one thing that every single one of them had in common.

  The people who’d committed them all deserved to pay for their crimes. And even though it wouldn’t reverse the one senseless murder that mattered to her most, Tara could make sure that when wrong was done, justice was served.

  Because she was going to miss her best friend for the rest of her life.

  “Stop,” she said, her voice echoing through her office. The rest of the staff, including her workaholic boss, Bennett Alvarez, were long gone. If she’d clocked enough hours to have even a hint of a weak moment, it was time to toss in the towel for the night. No one wanted a soft, sentimental lawyer—especially not the families of the victims of the case she was working on right now. Ricky Sansone had committed three murders, maybe more, while he was selling illegal guns and God only knew what else to criminals with rap sheets as long as Tara’s leg. She’d busted her ass to work the case with Remington’s Intelligence Unit, carefully cultivating an agreement with a young woman who worked in Sansone’s nightclub to get her to work as an informant and testify against him. Between the intel they got from Amour—whose real name was Aimee and who wasn’t even old enough to drink, let alone work in a seedy-ass nightclub that was really a front for Sansone’s shifty extra-curriculars—and the evidence collected by the detectives at the Thirty-Third, Tara had been able to build a case and get an arrest warrant. Bail had been set at a staggering one million dollars, which Tara had thought was a victory…right up until Sansone had posted it.

  But his days breathing free air were numbered. He was dangerous. Deadly. She was going to need all the fortitude she could work up in order to prepare for the trial, but she would put him away forever.

  Tomorrow, her weary brain told her, and her burning eyes ganged up in agreement. Thanks to the precautionary measures she’d insisted upon as a condition of his bail, Sansone was being carefully monitored by the RPD. Tara had six weeks until the trial started, and it was—shit—nine thirty on a Friday night. Her yoga pants and the leftover Pad Thai in her fridge were calling her name. She’d start fresh in the morning.

  Turning in her desk chair, she powered down her laptop and slid it into her bag. A few files went on top, along with the legal pad she’d jotted a few notes on throughout the day. Remembering the self-defense class she’d taken last year, Tara pulled out her keys so she wouldn’t have to hunt for them in the dark and made her way out of her office, the sound of her heels clicking on the polished floor seeming overly loud with everyone gone. Exhaustion set in, turning her shoulders heavy as she stepped into the elevator, and she allowed herself the luxury of a too-long blink as the car descended to the ground level. The quick refresher gave her enough energy to steel her spine once the doors trundled open, and her legs took the autopilot route out of the building.

  The night air was still residually warm from the brutal late-June heat wave that had put a chokehold on most of North Carolina over the last few days. Tara savored her inhale despite its muggy state, tucking back a strand of hair that had escaped from the twist at her nape. She needed to schedule a yoga class—she’d already missed two this week because of all this trial prep—and make sure she hit the dry cleaners tomorrow to pick up her lucky suit to wear in court on Tuesday. And, oh, she had to order flowers for her mom’s birthday next—

  The chime of her cell phone interrupted both her thoughts and the quiet, making her jump, then making her laugh at herself for doing so. Slipping her hand into the side pocket of her messenger bag, she palmed her phone and smiled at the name on the caller ID.

  “Hi, Amour.” Tara hit the button on the key fob in her other hand, shifting the phone between her shoulder and her ear as the locks on her BMW disengaged with a beep-click. “How’s it—”

  The pain-laced moan filtering over the line cut Tara’s question off at the knees.

  “Amour?” Dread shuddered down Tara’s spine, cold and clammy despite the humid night. Oh, God. “Amour, talk to me. Where are you?”

  “Tara,” came the barely-there whisper.

  “I’m here,” she promised. “Tell me what’s going on. Are you hurt?”

  Amour’s whimper in reply was all the affirmative Tara needed, the sound claiming her gut in an instant. “Please. Help me.”

  Tara’s brain kicked her thoughts into action. “Don’t hang up, do you hear me?” She flung her car door open, dumping her bag inside and yanking herself into the driver’s seat. She needed to get EMS on the line so they could access the GPS in Amour’s phone and send help. “I’m going to put you on hold and get nine-one-one on the line. Do not hang up, Amour.”

  Willing her fingers not to shake so hard they couldn’t function, Tara pressed the mute button for three seconds that might as well have been a month, then dialed nine-one-one.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked, his voice smooth and sure.

  Tara’s was neither. “My name is Tara Kingston, and I’m an ADA in Bennett Alvarez’s office. I’ve got an informant on the other line who’s in danger. I’m patching her through.”

  Praying that Amour was still there—please, please, please—Tara punched the button that would—please—bring her back on the line. “Amour? Are you there? There’s an operator listening.”

  “Tara,” she croaked. “It hurts.”

  “Ma’am, can you tell me where you are so I can send help?” the operator asked.

  Amour whimpered. “H-home.”

  “Twelve Broadmoor Street, in North Point,” Tara supplied, switching the call over to her car’s Bluetooth and pulling out of her parking spot. She’d arranged for at least a dozen Ubers
to take Amour home as they’d put together the case against Sansone. Of course, she was all the way across town, and damn it! Tara had to hurry.

  “Ma’am, can you tell me if you’re in danger right now?” The operator was trained to keep his tone calm, Tara knew, but the concern in his voice was obvious.

  “I don’t…know. There was a man,” Amour murmured. “He…I can’t…my…my head feels funny. Hurts.”

  Tara bit her bottom lip hard enough to make it throb, letting the nine-one-one operator do his job even though she wanted nothing more than to loosen the scream in her throat.

  “I’m dispatching police and EMS to your location, ma’am,” the operator said. “Do you know if the man is still there? Are you in danger?”

  “I don’t…see him…he…said…not to…” Amour’s whisper faded into a white-noise whoosh of silence on the line.

  Tara’s heart vaulted against her breastbone. “Amour? Are you there?”

  “Ma’am?” The operator’s voice tightened. “Ma’am, if you can hear me, stay on the line. Don’t hang up, even if you can’t talk. Help is on the way.”

  Please, God, Tara thought as she jammed her foot even harder over the BMW’s accelerator. Please don’t let me be too late again.

  “You try and lay claim to that Cuban sandwich, and me and you are gonna have words, rookie.”

  Xander Matthews looked up from the takeout bag in his lap and placed a hand over the Kevlar turning his patrol uniform into a sauna. This heat wave gave zero fucks about the fact that the sun had set, or that the air conditioning in the cruiser where he’d spent the last eleven hours was iffy, at best. Still, the smile he leveled at his partner was genuine.

  “After all this quality time we’ve spent together, you think I’d do that to you? I’m wounded, Sergeant Dade. Truly.”

  She snorted, just as Xander knew she would. Despite her petite stature and her sweet, Halle-Berry looks, Lucinda Dade had a mile-wide reputation for being one of Remington’s toughest patrol cops. But after a year of working a beat under her supervision, Xander also knew that she was as fair as she was fierce.

  Also, a sucker for a good Cuban sandwich.

  “Your charm’s no good over here, Matthews,” Dade said, her mouth forming a scowl that the rest of her expression couldn’t make stick.

  “If I’m charming, it’s only because I learned from the best,” Xander pointed out with a grin as he passed over her sandwich. While he might’ve been laying the rest on with a trowel just to mess with her—he was her partner, after all, which made him practically duty-bound to give her at least a little crap on occasion, rookie or not—the part about her being the best, he meant. Dade had served the Remington Police Department for fifteen years. She’d passed up numerous well-earned promotions to stay right where she was, preferring to “keep one eye on the street and the other one on rookies”—something she reminded him of at least daily.

  Not that Xander minded. He was here to be a good cop, and that meant learning from the sharpest and most streetwise. If it also meant crazy hours (it did) and work hard enough to make most grown people weep (yep again), then so be it.

  He was all too happy to keep his head down, his ears open, and his boots on the straight and narrow.

  It was the least he could do to atone for the sins of his past.

  “Mmm.” Dade slid some PhD-level side-eye across the front seat of their cruiser before softening into a smile. “I am pretty damn good. And you’re pretty damn lucky the guy running your sister’s kitchen makes the best Cuban sandwich in the city.”

  “You’re not going to get any arguments out of me on that one,” Xander agreed. Kennedy managed one of Remington’s most popular bar and grills, and she never hesitated to have a grab-and-go meal ready for him and Dade when they were on patrol. She hadn’t been thrilled about his decision to become a cop—ever since they’d been reunited two years ago, she’d done some serious leveling up in the protective older sister department. Considering the dangerous circumstances that had brought them back together after five years of near radio silence, he couldn’t exactly blame her. But Xander had been adamant.

  He’d been a party to that danger, and a lot of really good cops had helped him out of a shit situation. Becoming a really good cop in return so he could help people, too? Made sense, no matter how dangerous it might get.

  Before Xander could unearth the Tex-Mex turkey sandwich Kennedy had put in the bag for him—that homemade Chipotle mayo was a work of freaking art—the radio on the cruiser’s dashboard crackled to life.

  “Thirteen sixty-two, this is Main.”

  Dade’s dark brows lifted toward her hairline in a non-verbal “not-it” as she held up her sandwich, which was already missing a sizeable bite.

  Xander shook his head and scooped up the radio with a chuckle. “Main, this is thirteen sixty-two. Go ahead.”

  “Be advised, a nine-one-one caller is reporting a ten thirty-nine at twelve Broadmoor Street,” came the report, and shit. Assault calls were some of the worst. “Victim is non-responsive, unclear if suspect is still on-scene. EMS has been dispatched to the location and advised to wait for police assistance, over.”

  Xander flashed Dade a look, but she was already nodding. Between her ridiculous driving skills and the fact that Xander knew North Point’s streets as well as he knew the goddamned alphabet—maybe better—they could be on-scene in five minutes. Plus, someone was in trouble. End of shift or not, they needed to take this. “Main, this is thirteen sixty-two. We are responding to twelve Broadmoor Street, over.”

  “It’s a damn sin to let this sandwich get cold,” Dade muttered, hastily wrapping up her dinner and handing it back to Xander as she reached for her seatbelt. While most people would find her gripe a bit callous, given that someone had just been assaulted to the point of non-response, Xander knew better. Defense mechanisms were as much a part of keeping cops safe as good training and body armor. Dade focusing on her sandwich meant she wasn’t focused on her adrenaline.

  And that helped Xander not focus on his. “I could always drive if you want to eat on the way there,” he offered sweetly, tugging his own seatbelt into place as Dade kicked the cruiser into gear and pulled away from the side street where they’d stopped to eat. He’d learned pretty damned fast that her sarcasm was the main ingredient in the defenses that kept her safe, just as his laid-back demeanor was his. It was a weird partnering that shouldn’t work, and yet…

  “Stop being cute,” she warned.

  A smile touched his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I mean it, Matthews.”

  “Copy that,” he said, his smile refusing to budge. The banter calmed him in its odd way, leaving him clear-headed enough to scan the quickly passing streets. The city wore its usual Friday night crowds, but luckily, most people deferred to the flashing red and blue lights on the cruiser. Xander measured both his breaths and his heartbeats in time with protocol. Inhale, survey the entire scene upon arrival for potential threats. Thump-thump, clear the scene so paramedics can administer first aid to the victim. Exhale, take statements. Canvas the area. Search.

  Do whatever it takes to help the person who needs it.

  Each neighborhood grew shabbier than its predecessor as they went deeper into North Point. Xander’s pulse always worked differently up here, as if the neighborhood that had given him the rough edges he’d tried so hard to sand down could see right fucking through him. Sure, he’d gotten out. Lived in a nice apartment. Had a good job. Food in his fridge. An eighty-year-old neighbor who checked on him as much as he checked on her, because that’s what people did downtown.

  And after two years, North Point only needed two seconds to make him feel like an imposter.

  “Okay,” Xander said, dumping himself out of his thoughts and into the right-now of Broadmoor Street. “The house should be right up here, on the left.” He slanted a gaze over everything the cruiser’s over-bright headlights touched. “I don’t see anyone.” After a glance in the sid
e-view mirror, he added, “But it looks like the ambo’s right behind us.”

  “Copy that,” Dade said. “Keep your head on a swivel.”

  “Always,” Xander promised.

  Putting the cruiser in Park in front of the nondescript single-story house, Dade radioed in their arrival, then got out of the car. Xander moved in tandem with her, both of them treating the scene to one last heavy visual before turning toward the ambulance that had pulled to a stop at the curb.

  “Hey, Xander,” came a familiar voice from the driver’s side of the ambo. Cops and firefighters were like peas and carrots around the Thirty-Third, and EMS totally counted. Quinn Slater leaned through the open window, her husband/paramedic partner, Luke, sitting right beside her. “You want us to hang back?”

  “For a minute, yeah. We’ll move as fast as we can to secure the scene.”

  Dade tilted her head toward the house to indicate that this wasn’t a tea party, and right. Time to go.

  He fell into step beside her, his heart striking a brisk rhythm against his ribs as they approached the front door. The house was quiet, the single porch light casting a dingy glow over the worn boards, the flimsy screen door, and—

  “Door,” Dade murmured. Her hand moved to her weapon at the sight of the splintered front door jamb and the sliver of light spilling onto the porch from the interior of the house.

  Xander didn’t have time to register the knock-knock/who’s-there between his adrenal glands and his pulse. At Dade’s nod, he shouldered his way over the threshold, his own weapon drawn and all five senses on full alert. The house was small enough for them to clear it quickly—just one front room, a kitchen, and a small dining area. Dade lifted her chin at the short hallway, which presumably led to a bedroom, and Xander metered the tightness in his lungs with a nod in reply. She led the way into the lone room in the corridor, moving soundlessly to the door on the far side of the room as Xander took the opposite side. Searching the tiny closet behind him took seconds, and he moved to the far side of the bed to clear the space.