Velvet Ropes

by Patricia Rosemoor

“But he may be the one who murdered Tony Vargas.”

  Gripping her steering wheel harder, Stella only hoped he was right. “But since this is going to be an official bust, you have no place there.”

  Dermot had forced his way into her car, and Stella told herself she’d let him because she hadn’t had any spare time to argue. She figured he would argue now—tension came off him at her in waves—but he kept his mouth shut.

  Good. They didn’t need to talk. They’d done enough talking. And other things. She didn’t need to be distracted from her purpose.

  But as she raced to end this thing, she couldn’t help but regret that it would soon be over. Not regret that Dermot’s name would be cleared, but that she would probably never see him again.

  “Do you hate me now?” he suddenly asked.

  “Hate is a strong word.”

  “So is love.”

  Stella laughed. “Love is an illusion. You see in a person what you wanna see.”

  “No one is perfect, Star. All we can do is our best.”

  Tears bit at her eyes, but she refused to acknowledge the sign of weakness.

  All we can do is our best…

  Hadn’t Dermot done his best, given his circumstances? He’d tried to save her the best way he could without contravening the seal of the confessional.

  I made a promise to keep what I heard to myself…I do keep my promises…

  Dermot’s words echoed in her head. He’d taken a vow and he’d been true to it, just as he’d been true to her afterward. Fearing for her younger sister, she’d made him promise never to tell anyone about her rape, and he never had. The truth of that struck her heavily.

  Cass had said Dermot was a man of honor, who stood by his word, and she’d been correct.

  Something to think about.

  Only not now. Later.

  After this was finished.

  They were close. As she turned onto 18th Street, Stella went into stealth mode by cutting off the siren, and in another block upon turning, did the same with the light. Though it was late, pockets of the neighborhood were still alive, celebrating Day of the Dead with sparklers and illegal fireworks. A block down, she glanced into the rearview mirror, slowed and watched Blade do the same behind her. Then she kept an eye out for Logan and his men. Spotting them about a block ahead, she looked for the first clear spot at the curb. Parking, she flew out of the car just as Blade slid into the spot behind her.

  When Dermot tried to follow, she said, “Stay put—this is an official operation!”

  She ran to join Logan, only once glancing over her shoulder to make certain Dermot did as she ordered. He wasn’t looking happy about it, but he was still standing next to the open car door, staring after her as Blade joined him. She tried to put him and the truth and the past all out of mind and concentrate on the capture. Waves of tension rushed at her from Logan and the uniformed officer with him.

  Logan asked, “You brought O’Rourke along for the ride?”

  “He brought himself. Blade followed.”

  “I hope they have sense enough to stay out of the way.”

  He gave her a quick rundown. Paz Falco was in a third-floor apartment of the multiunit building on the corner. Logan had stationed men on the side and in back, so when he went in the front way to make the arrest, other possible exits would be covered.

  “I hope you told them we need Falco alive,” she said.

  “We always need them alive. Whether or not we can keep him that way…”

  She knew they had to protect themselves. No cop she knew wanted a notch on his gun, but sometimes it happened, anyway. Not this time, though. Too much rested on taking the offender in alive.

  They couldn’t lose Falco. They needed more than a conviction. They needed information about Tony Vargas—namely, who was behind that murder. She had a growing notion, but she wanted him to tell her that her instincts were wrong. But how would she get to the truth? She hated cutting deals with cold-blooded killers…but she had to know for sure.

  She had to clear Dermot.

  She kept her promises, too.

  “Everyone set?” Logan spoke softly into his radio. And when he got responses from both of his teams, he said, “We’re going in.”

  Instinct kept Stella from going in with him. She waved him off and jogged around back, opening her jacket to make sure her ID and star were in plain view on her belt to the uniformed officers on the side street. Hitting the alley, she drew her weapon and stopped to stare up at the back porch, where another plain- clothes detective and a uniform were positioned in case Falco made a break through the back door.

  The bam-bam-bam at the front door echoed through the apartment and out an open rear window, followed by Logan’s muffled shout. “Police, open up.”

  Then nothing.

  Holding her breath, Stella stared at the back door until a furtive movement caught her eye.

  A crash from inside was followed by a lot of yelling, and the other detective and uniform were going in the back way.

  A rocket went off, lighting up the sky with gold shards, and Stella saw Falco’s silhouette. He was escaping across the roof, with what looked to be a gun in hand. She moved parallel with him as he jumped from the bigger building’s roof to that of a three-story apartment building. She wanted in the worst way to yell out his position, but she feared Falco would do something desperate if she did.

  She wasn’t ready to die yet.

  A teenager and a younger kid were messing around in the alley, ready to set off a bottle rocket. They saw her and froze. She put a finger to her lips and waved them off with her gun hand. They slipped into the shadows and disappeared.

  Staying with him from the alley, she watched him make his way over the roof. He ran crouched, head down, and zigzagged forward as if he was part of some military operation. A scary thought—if all gang members were that well trained, the police would be in real trouble with them.

  Falco stopped and stared down at the next roof, which was a floor lower. Stella held her breath as he prepared to jump. He had to make it. If he killed himself, he couldn’t talk. And if he couldn’t talk…

  He landed on the edge and swayed backward but caught himself before he went over.

  Stella let out her held breath.

  And as he swung himself down and onto the back porch, her heart began to pound. He was planning on coming down the stairs, and from the looks of things—one of Logan’s men was just now coming out of the corner building and he was looking in the wrong direction—it was up to her to get Falco cuffed.

  Sliding around the garage and keeping to the shadows, she focused on the sounds around her. Falco didn’t try to cover the light slap of his footsteps as he descended the stairs. She was in the yard now, between the garage and a tree. She couldn’t be sure he would come this way, but if she tried to take him in the open, he could shoot her or escape. Surprise was her best bet. Even so, the next fifteen seconds were the longest she’d ever waited.

  Then he was off the porch and headed toward her. Stella whirled into the open, facing him, both hands on the weapon she pointed at his chest.

  “Stop, Falco!” she yelled loud enough for Logan and his men to hear. “And drop the gun!”

  “You think you can pull the trigger faster than me?”

  They were facing each other, and before she could step forward, he raised his gun so they were practically barrel to barrel. Stella didn’t wait to think. She grabbed his gun hand and shoved it hard to the side as she moved into him, gun first, barrel into his ribs.

  An explosion made her start, and for a second she thought his gun had fired. For another second she thought the noise was simply that of a rocket being set off. Eerie red glowed along his features, illuminating his surprised expression. Then the light went out, snuffed like a candle, and he slumped against her, his weapon hitting the ground before he did.

  Someone had shot Falco!

  Relief that she was safe warred with terror that Falco might not be alive t
o talk. That everything she and Team Undercover had done would be for naught and Dermot would be screwed. Wondering who had fired that shot, she dropped down to the sidewalk next to Falco, yelling, “Call the paramedics!” and heard someone repeat her request into his radio.

  Footsteps smacked the pavement around her, assuring Stella reinforcements were at hand. Not that she needed them. Falco wasn’t going anywhere. For all she knew, he was dying before her eyes.

  As she made the arrest and read Falco his rights, Stella found the hole in his chest and applied pressure to stop the flow of blood…just like Marta Ortiz must have done in trying to save her little brother.

  “Falco, talk and we’ll make a deal.”

  He coughed, and blood bubbled over his lips. “Too late for deals.”

  “The paramedics will be here in two minutes,” she said, hoping that was true. “They’ll save your sorry ass and then we’ll put it on trial. So talk and make things easy on yourself.” If he died, his confession would undoubtedly hold up, as well, and with the other officers around her, she had witnesses. “We know you killed Manny Santos and Tony Vargas—”

  “Not Vargas…not mine.”

  Not expecting that, Stella demanded, “Who, then? Who killed Tony Vargas?”

  “Think…you’ll know…” His voice faded and his eyes closed.

  “Bastard! Don’t you dare die on me!”

  A pair of legs stopped in front of her. Dermot crouched at Falco’s head. He hadn’t stayed where she’d told him to.

  Dermot slipped two fingers along the front of Falco’s throat, then nodded. “I don’t know how long he has, but for now he’s still alive.”

  A SIREN SPLIT THE NIGHT as the ambulance careened down the alley and stopped yards away from where Dermot stood looking down at Stella, who was still forcing Falco to live with the gift of her hands and, he swore, by her sheer will.

  So Paz Falco hadn’t killed Tony Vargas. Dermot swore silently, not wanting to upset Stella further. He’d been counting on the gang member being the one. And he didn’t like the fact that Falco had put it on Stella to find the answer. That’s all she’d been doing—looking for answers. Why couldn’t Falco have simply given her a name?

  The paramedics were on Falco then, and Stella rose and stepped away. Her hands were covered with his blood. She stared at them as if she were in shock.

  “Water?” Dermot asked.

  “A couple of bottles in the back of the ambulance.”

  Dermot jogged to the alley to get one, and when he returned to the yard, Logan and Blade were with Stella.

  Logan clapped Stella on the arm, saying, “Good work, Jacobek,” sounding in good spirits despite the fact that he would not only have to explain Stella’s presence at the scene to his sergeant, but would have to give her credit for the arrest.

  “Water,” Dermot said, joining them and holding the opened bottle out. “Give me your hands, Star.”

  She did so without saying anything. And without looking at him.

  Dermot let the water flow over her palms and rubbed at them with his own fingers to eradicate every speck of red. Touching her filled him with such emotion that he had to steel himself lest his own hands begin to shake. Suddenly she pulled her hands away as if she couldn’t tolerate the feel of him for one more second.

  “We still didn’t get what we need, though,” Stella said as the paramedics lifted Falco, who was strapped down to a board, an IV in his arm. “I didn’t get a name outta him.”

  “We will,” Logan assured her, following the progress as the medics got Falco to the ambulance. Then he turned and looked at the men who were part of the operation. “In the meantime, which one of you fired on the offender?”

  A chorus of “not me” filled the night.

  “No one discharged a weapon here?”

  At least no one who would admit to it.

  Dermot realized Stella’s attention had shifted upward. She was scanning the upper levels and rooftops of the buildings around them…looking for what?

  Then it hit him that if the police officers hadn’t fired on Falco, someone else had.

  She was looking for that someone.

  So when she ran down the alley to her car, he chased after her. “I’m coming with you!”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Stella slid into her seat behind the wheel, but when Dermot tried to open the passenger door, he found it locked.

  He pounded on the window. “Stella, let me in!”

  “This is something I need to do alone!”

  Sick with worry for her, Dermot looked around and saw Blade talking to Logan, exiting the alley together.

  He yelled, “Blade—keys!”

  Blade took in the situation as Stella charged away from the curb. He tossed the keys to Dermot, who got into the SUV. A block behind her, he tried catching up to Stella. But when she turned onto a main street, other cars got between them. With each block, the distance between them grew a car length or two. Luckily he was sitting high and could see when she turned down a side street.

  But traffic jammed for an interminable moment, and when Dermot made the turn, Stella’s car was out of sight.

  STELLA WAS SICK INSIDE. She knew. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but the proof had been in her hands barely an hour ago. And though he hadn’t named names, Falco had confirmed her worst fear.

  She should have looked at the contents of the damn folder Gabe was building before today. If she had, Manny Santos might still be alive.

  What the hell kind of detective was she?

  Tony Vargas holding up that prized walleye had been the giveaway.

  She pulled into the auto-parts lot and waited. It wouldn’t be long, she knew. Frank had probably parked a couple of blocks over from where he’d been waiting to shoot Paz Falco. He would have to sneak through the night to avoid being held for questioning.

  How had he known? she wondered. Who had leaked the information that Falco was about to be arrested? No doubt Frank meant to silence his henchman before he could talk.

  A few moments later an old Jag pulled into the lot and Frank Jacobek got out.

  Opening the door, she called out, “Frank,” and gave him a wave like nothing was wrong. Even so, his footsteps toward her appeared heavy and slow.

  Firecrackers in the alley made them both start. Her stomach was already sick and knotted, her breathing irregular.

  “Star, what’re you doing here this time of night?”

  “What were you doing out?” she asked, the words sticking in her throat. “Where were you tonight, Frank?”

  “I don’t think I have to answer to you, young lady.”

  He tried to make a joke of it, but she heard the tension in his voice.

  “I think you do, Frank. It breaks my heart, but you have a lot of answering to do.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He tried to move past her, but she grabbed his arm and whipped him around so his back was against her car. She hadn’t even known she would be strong enough. Amazing thing, adrenaline.

  “The keys, Frank. Open your trunk.”

  She watched him with an eagle eye as he rummaged through his pants pockets. She was ready to pull her weapon if she had to. But all he produced were the keys. Without saying a word, he walked over to the Jag with her following close, and opened the trunk.

  The rifle he’d used to shoot Paz Falco lay there, mocking Stella.

  How could she have been so blind…

  “I was just trying to protect you, Star,” Frank wheedled. “I didn’t want to see you hurt again like last time.”

  Again? He knew about the rape? Of course he did. He knew everything that went on in the neighborhood, because he made it his business to know.

  “When did you buy it, Frank?” she asked sadly, then looked him in the eye. The streetlights cast deep shadows on his face, making him look his age. Older. “When did you buy the house overlooking Lake Geneva?”

  She’d seen the photo
graph on his wall, and she hadn’t thought anything of it.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure, you know the house we picked out all those years ago on a family vacation at your cabin. Our fantasy house we were gonna buy if we ever won the lottery. How much did that property set you back when you bought it? It’s gotta be worth a couple of million now.”

  Frank looked impressed. “You’ve turned out to be a good little detective. How did you find out about the house?”

  “The walleye Tony Vargas caught. The photo for the local paper. You shouldn’t have let them take it in front of the house, not when you were standing there, the proud owner on his patio.”

  He cursed and said, “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “How did you buy it, Frank? Not from running the auto-parts and repair shop. You used to have more business, true, but never enough to buy that property. Tell me the truth and I’ll try to help you.”

  Frank laughed and the sound was icy—foreign to her—laced with a cruelty that made her shiver. Something about the feeling was familiar from when she was young. The disciplinarian. She remembered him.

  “I should have taken care of Tony Vargas the first time he opened his mouth about my business!”

  Heart in her throat, she asked, “Then you admit you had something to do with his death?”

  “He got himself up on the chair and put the velvet rope around his own neck. I only obliged him by kicking the chair out from under him and ending his sorry life.”

  She couldn’t believe he was admitting it to her, to a cop. “You did that yourself?” she asked stiffly.

  “Vargas was stupid enough to try to blackmail me!” Frank was angry now and yelling over the explosion of a bottle rocket coming from the alley. “The little squealer couldn’t be trusted to keep what he knew to himself. And he was seeing O’Rourke, spilling his guts to the man like he did in the old days in the confessional!”

  So why was he admitting all this? Did he really think she would keep it all in the family?

  “Is that why you framed Dermot? Because you thought he knew something about you?”

  “That and because he interfered in my business.”