by Norah Wilson
~*~
Quigg looked at his watch. Four oh five. Ten minutes later than the last time you checked, stupid. Exasperated, he reached for his mug and downed the last of his coffee. It was room temperature and bitter, but he didn’t even grimace. He was well used to cold coffee. He was in it for the caffeine, a commodity he needed in large doses after a restless night spent on Suzannah Phelps’ couch.
God, she’d looked good in that dress. And those shoes. Lying there on her tasteful couch that smelled vaguely of her warm, exotic scent, he’d burned for her. Then he’d come within a heartbeat of jumping her bones this morning when she’d sat up in bed. Warm and tousled and sleep-dazed, she’d looked like his hottest fantasy.
Down, boy. His internal censor clicked on. There’d be plenty of time to play back those images in Technicolor, but not here on the job. You’ve got work to do.
Would Suzannah have replaced that lock yet? Would she have gotten someone hopping on an alarm system? Maybe he should have hung around.
Nah, Bandy would have chewed hell out of his sofa cushions and watered the philodendron, which was dying quite well on its own without any help from that quarter. But he could have gone back after he’d let the dog out, or at some point later in the day. At the very least, he could have made sure she lit a fire under the security guys –
Damn, he was doing it again. Thinking about her.
Resolutely, he forced his attention back to the report he was supposed to be writing. Shouldn’t be so hard to focus. This was one of those cases made you shake your head. Man stabs wife. A pretty straightforward piece of business, normally. But this one had a wrinkle. Seems it was an accident. Jimmy didn’t intend to stab his pregnant wife at all. He did, however, intend to stab his mother-in-law and his wife just got in the way. And the dumb ass couldn’t grasp that he’d done anything wrong. After all, he hadn’t meant to hurt her, and besides, the plastic surgeon had sewn her up good as new anyway. Even after the serious nature of the charges were explained to him, he’d still insisted he didn’t need legal counsel.
Of course, all of this meant Quigg would eventually end up sitting in that witness box giving testimony against this cracker. And given this guy’s socio-economic situation, he’d be Legal Aid all the way when he finally lawyered up. Which meant he’d end up with Suzannah, if he had half a brain. And she’d likely be mad as hell they didn’t oblige the guy to get legal advice.
“What are you grinning at, old man?”
Quigg glanced up to find fellow detective Ray Morgan standing there holding a tray containing two Styrofoam cups from the gourmet coffee shop.
“Who you calling old man?” Quigg pushed his chair back. “Razor, buddy, you’re the one with the wife in tow and a mortgage on that picket fence.”
Ray grinned. “That just makes me lucky, not old.”
Lucky? Yes, Quigg believed his friend was pretty lucky. Grace took some of Ray’s rough edges off. She centered him in a way probably no one other than Quigg truly appreciated. “Maybe so,” he conceded.
“You, on the other hand, are just old.” Ray proffered the tray.
“Go to hell.” Quigg accepted one of the coffees.
“No, thanks. Been there once already today.”
“Yeah?”
“Remember the Courtenay Equipment break in?”
Quigg pried the lid off his coffee and flipped it into the overflowing garbage can by his desk. “Young offender made off with a four wheeler?”
“That’s the one.” Ray removed his own coffee and jammed the carry tray into the wastebasket. “It went to trial today, and you’ll never guess who the defense counsel was.”
Quigg almost choked on a mouthful of coffee. “Suzannah Phelps?”
“The ice princess herself.”
“How’d you make out?”
“Kid was convicted. Judge asked for a pre-sentence report.”
“So what’s the trouble?”
“The trouble, my friend, is that my nice, heretofore pristine goin’-to-court shirt is now permanently discolored from armpit to elbow, thank you very much.”
Quigg laughed at the expression on his friend’s face. No one would ever accuse Razor Morgan of being a dandy, at least not to his face, but he was a bit of a snob when it came to dressing. Natural fabrics, quality tailoring, the whole nine yards. He’d tried his best to educate Quigg, but that was a non-starter. Anything you couldn’t machine wash, haul out of the dryer and drag on didn’t make the grade for Quigg’s closet.
“Cretin. We’re talking Egyptian cotton, here.”
“Maybe you should send her the cleaning bill.”
Ray snorted. “Yeah, like I’m gonna let her know how bad she made me sweat.”
“Did she give you a rough ride?”
“Not really,” he conceded. “But you know how it is. By the time they called me, I was second guessing myself like crazy. Did we process the scene properly? Did we get the warrant right? I mean, I know the evidence was all gotten fair and square, all our I’s were dotted and our T’s crossed, but things just have a way of coming undone when that woman’s around.”
“Man, that’s gotta be the understatement of the year.”
His reply must have been too vehement, because Ray’s face sharpened.
“Not hard on the eyes, though,” his friend said casually. Too casually.
Quigg grunted, took another sip of his coffee, aware that Razor was watching him like a hawk.
“Not that you can see much under those robes,” he said. “Nice calves though.”
Quigg took another swallow of his black coffee. “I suppose.”
“You suppose? Hell, those are first-class getaway sticks if I ever saw ’em. And unless I miss my guess, I’d say she had a first-class set of –”
“Oh, look, I almost forgot,” Quigg grabbed a pink telephone message slip from the jumble of papers atop his desk and shoved it at Ray. “Grace’s looking for you.”
Ray took the message, but not the hint. “Thanks, but you can’t distract me that easily. I want to know what you think the Ice Princess is packing under those black robes.”
Unfortunately, Quigg now had a pretty accurate idea. So accurate, the sweat nearly beaded on his forehead at the memory. “I have no opinion.”
“Hah!” Ray laughed exultantly. “I knew it! You’ve got a jones for her.”
“Hardly.” The denial sprang automatically to his lips.
“You do so. You’re hot for Miss Tasty Freeze. God, I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”
“Grow up, will you, Morgan,” Quigg growled.
“Hey, it’s cool.” Ray lifted his hands, palms up, in a gesture of peace. “It’s not like I’m gonna tell anyone.”
“It’s not like there’s anything to tell.” This as casual and off-hand as he could manage. Couldn’t make too big of a deal out of it or Ray’d know he had him dead to rights.
Ray just grinned, then held up the message. “Must go call Grace.”
Great. Wonderful. Might as well take an ad out in the daily paper. Quigg swallowed a gulp of his still-too-hot coffee, grimaced and turned back to his computer screen.