by Pamela Clare
"Pregnancy is the only time in a woman's life when it's all right for her to be fat, and I'm making the most of it," Lissy said, when they all eyed her lunch with envy. "Besides, I didn't eat for the first three months because I was too nauseated."
For a while they talked about Lissy's pregnancy—how she was feeling, how Will was pampering her, what her plans were for the birth. Then Lissy and Holly told them about some new designer line that was being manufactured out of Denver and the upcoming show that the designer, Anton, was hosting at the Adam's Mark Hotel.
"High fashion has finally come to Denver." Lissy dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "Last year, Anton did incredible things with grommets and peasant patterns."
Sophie and Tessa looked at each other.
"Grommets?" they said, almost in unison.
But as Tessa listened to her friends' cheerful conversation, she found herself feeling disconnected, as if she weren't really there. She smiled. She laughed. But inside she felt wooden.
It was Sophie who finally said something. "How are you holding up, Tess—and don't say 'fine,' because I can see for myself that's not true."
"I'm just tired." At first Tessa meant to steer the conversation away from her problems. But then she realized she wanted to tell them. "I've had a hard time sleeping. Every time I hear a noise, I wake up, and yesterday I ran into the man in the black leather jacket."
They gaped at her.
"Oh, my God, Tessa! Did you call the police?"
"Funny you should ask."
Tessa wrestled for a moment with what she could tell them. She hadn't told Tom anything, knowing the information wouldn't be safe with him. Swearing them to secrecy and keeping her voice to a whisper, she told them how she'd gone to see Mr. Simms and had ended up in a linen closet kissing a tall, dark-haired man she'd thought was a murderer who'd turned out instead to be some kind of undercover police officer. She told them everything—except for Julian's name and the details he'd uncovered about her past.
"You actually held a gun on him?" Lissy stared at her. "A gun with bullets in it?"
"Oh, who cares about that?" Holly smiled. "Go back to the part where he had his tongue in your mouth."
"He only did that to shush me up. It wasn't a real kiss."
"It sure sounds like it turned into a real kiss. I'll bet he's attracted to you." Holly gave her a self-satisfied smirk. "He did keep kissing you."
Tessa's stomach did a little flip. She didn't know what to say.
"You know, Tessa," Lissy said, "I think this tall, dark, and deadly guy went out of his way not to hurt you. He could have arrested you—maybe even shot you."
"And if he's an undercover cop and Chief Irving is worried that his life is in danger, then I'm worried about you." Sophie paused, took a sip of her mineral water. "Whoever is behind the shooting—they sound really dangerous. Could be you've stumbled onto a big story—or had it stumble onto you."
Tessa had lain awake last night thinking the same thing. "Most drive-by shootings are gang related, so that's where I'm going to start. This afternoon I'm going to check out the neighborhood around the gas station and see what I find."
* * *
Tessa parked her car on the side street across from the gas station, which was once again open for business, then walked south. She wasn't sure why she chose this street, except that it seemed to her the girl had come from this direction. Having nothing else to go on, she was willing to trust instinct.
It was an older neighborhood with mature trees. Aging apartment buildings competed with even older houses for space. The sidewalk was crumbling in some places, sloped in others where tree roots had pushed it up. Most of the yards were maintained, their lawns brown from the dry fall and scattered with orange leaves. A few of the houses had tricycles on their porches and Halloween decorations on their doors and windows—families with small children. Parked cars lined the street on both sides—small economy cars, old junkers, newer SUVs, even a sports car or two. Clearly, people visiting the theaters and businesses on Colfax felt safe enough to use this neighborhood to park.
It wasn't the kind of neighborhood she'd associate with gang activity. She knew what poverty was, and this wasn't it. The folks who lived here were not desperately poor; they simply weren't wealthy enough for a new coat of paint every year. Perhaps some gang claimed this street as part of their territory but rarely came through.
She saw her first bit of gang graffiti on the side of an apartment building. At first it seemed a jumble of blue letters made to look three-dimensional, crowded together and piled on top of one another. She walked up to it, tried to break it down.
The biggest word was "CUZZ," a slang term for Crips.
Then the words "Syko" and "Flaco" emerged—probably the names of the gang members who'd painted it, one clearly Hispanic.
Beneath that was "O.G."—original gangster—and "SLOB" with the "B" covered by a black "X" to indicate "Blood killer."
Beside that was scrawled "Trey-8," street slang for a .38.
Syko and Flaco were trying to take credit for killing a member of the Bloods with a .38.
She wrote the words down in her notepad, then took out her camera, stepped back from the wall, and snapped a picture.
She knew the Crips were the biggest gang in Denver and, like their rivals, the Bloods, were under the direction of gang leaders in Los Angeles. Both gangs sold crack and other drugs, fighting each other and the city's numerous Chicano and Mexican Nationalist gangs for supremacy on the streets. Yet, compared to the gang scene in New York City and Los Angeles, Denver was Eden—few shootings, little fatal violence.
Tessa tucked her camera back into her purse and walked the length of the alley, finding a few more examples of graffiti, some from harmless taggers, the rest from the eloquent spray can of Syko and Flaco. She headed back to the sidewalk and continued down the street.
It was a bright, sunny day, the sky wide and blue as only a Colorado sky could be, and she realized with a sense of relief that she'd gone at least an hour without thinking of Julian Darcangelo and his lethal lips. She'd no doubt overreacted, imagined more heat and finesse in his kiss than there actually had been. She'd been afraid for her life, after all, adrenaline surging through her system and heightening her senses. He probably kissed like a fish.
Her spirits lifted a notch, and she decided to knock on a few doors.
No one answered at the first three houses on the block. The fourth was home to an elderly African-American couple who wanted to talk about their grandchildren but knew nothing about gang activity or the shooting.
"We don't read the papers," the husband told her. 'Too much bad news."
The fifth house was inhabited by several college students, one of whom was home—an Anglo kid with spiky brown hair.
"Whoa, yeah," he said when she told him about the shooting. "Yeah, I read about it in the Indy. Are you the chick who wrote that? I've seen that car around—the one with the hot rims. Hot car."
But he couldn't tell her who drove the hot car, nor did he recognize her description of the victim. And though he'd seen boys he thought were gang members hanging out on Colfax, he'd never seen them come this far into the neighborhood.
Four houses farther down, she spoke with a young Asian-American mother while her two toddlers ran laps around her ankles. The woman said she'd read about the shooting but had seen neither the car nor anyone who looked like a gang member. But when Tessa described the victim and asked her if she'd ever seen four young women walking together down the sidewalk, the look of surprise on the woman's face was unmistakable.
"Oh, gosh! Yes, I think I saw them once or twice. Tyler, stop it!" She reached down, separated one child from the other. "I think I saw them a few times this summer while I was working in the garden—four Hispanic teenage girls and an older woman. I can only garden on the weekends when my husband, Terry, is home. Were they gang members?"
"I don't know, but I'm trying to learn all I can."
&nbs
p; "Tyler!" The woman gave an exasperated moan. "I guess that explains why the police were at their house that night. They probably came to tell her family she was dead, didn't they?"
"I imagine so." Tessa felt her pulse quicken. "You know where her family lives? Can you show me which house it is?"
One of the little angels let out a piercing wail.
'Tyler and Sasha, I'm going to put you both in time-out! You're not going to print my name, are you? I don't want my name in the paper, especially not if there's a killer out there."
"I understand. I won't use your name if that's what you'd prefer."
The woman picked up her crying daughter and led Tessa out onto her porch. "Third house down and across the street. A lot of people come and go from there, mostly men. It's been pretty quiet since the police were there."
Tessa counted the houses, saw a dilapidated white bungalow with a black roof. "Thanks so much. You've been a huge help, Ms.—"
"Aito—Wendy Aito. Good luck." Then the woman vanished indoors, balancing her daughter on her hip, her son in tow.
Tessa crossed the street, thinking of ail the things she'd like to tell the victim's family.
I wish I had been able to help her, but I froze. I'm sorry.
It happened so quickly, I didn't have time to react.
I'm so, so sorry.
Tessa approached the house, felt a strange sense of misgiving, thrust it aside. Ms. Aito had said this was where the girl's family lived. It wasn't the killer's hideout. She walked up the cracked sidewalk, up the front steps, and knocked on the door.
No one answered.
She knocked again.
Still no one came.
She knocked a third time and had just fished a business card out of her purse when the door opened to reveal a little old woman with bowed shoulders, tight white curls, and thick glasses. She was using a walker.
"I don't want any!" the woman said in a thin, trembling voice.
Tessa held out her card. "I'm not selling anything, ma'am. I was wondering if you had a moment to talk."
"Speak up!" The old woman tapped her ear, pointing out her hearing aids. "Can't hear a thing. Needs a new battery, but I don't get out much. Come in."
Tessa walked inside.
Julian watched Tessa enter the old lady's house, watched her come out twenty minutes later, saw the old lady point to the rear of her home.
"Oh, for God's sake!"
Chief Irving was right—she was persistent.
Irving had ripped Julian's head off this morning for the kissing stunt at the hospital.
'Tessa Novak is not just a reporter, Darcangelo. She's a member of the Denver Indy's elite Investigative Team and the best cop reporter I've known. Half of my men are scared shitless of her. The other half think they're in love with her. And I'll tell you something else:—I respect the hell out of her! I've spent the better part of three years trying to convince her we're not crooks. Now do you want to tell me why you dragged her into a linen closet and kissed her yesterday? She's calling it assault, and I'm just damned grateful it's not on the front page this morning together with your goddamned name!"
Assault? Julian supposed it had been involuntary. Then again, he hadn't wanted to kiss her, either—at first. Besides, her tongue had found its way into his mouth, too.
But he hadn't told Irving this. Instead, he'd taken responsibility for his actions and made it clear that he'd had few options that didn't include making a scene or leaving bruises on Ms. Novak's pretty skin. Then he'd gone to the morgue to watch the ME dissect Zoryo. Though the lab results weren't in yet, the cause of death looked like suicide by asphyxiation.
Still angry as hell about losing Zoryo, Julian had spent the afternoon brooding and sitting in his truck down the street from the basement apartment, writing down the license plate numbers of all the men who'd driven up, parked their nice cars, and walked around back expecting a little forbidden action, only to hurry away when they saw the police tape. He would send officers to question each and every one of them. Once he told them about the dozens of DNA samples the cops had acquired from the victim's body, the sheets, and used condoms, they would crack like eggshells and tell him anything he wanted to know.
He'd spotted Tessa several houses down the street, the sight of her both pissing him off and causing a chemical reaction that had his blood heating by a few degrees.
It's called "lust," Darcangelo.
He'd watched her progress as she went door to door, enjoying the sway of her hips in her navy blue skirt, the bounce of her golden curls against her tailored jacket, the feminine shape of her legs. And he'd wondered what in the hell he was going to do with her.
She walked to the back of the house, saw the police tape, and stood there, staring at it. Then she ducked beneath it.
And then Julian knew.
Chapter 6
Julian made a call on his radio. Then he grabbed a pair of cuffs, slipped them into the pocket of his jacket, climbed out of his truck, and walked round to the back of the house. He knew the DA would drop the charges, but at least he could teach her a lesson.
She was at the bottom of the back stairs, peering through the door's little window, so preoccupied with her prying that she didn't hear him approach.
"Be damned glad the three bears aren't home, Goldilocks. You're under arrest."
She gasped, whirled about, looked up at him. Then her big, blue eyes narrowed. "You!"
He lifted the yellow tape, motioned for her to come up and out. "Crossing police lines is a municipal offense, but obstructing government operations is a felony."
"What government operations?" She climbed the stairs, her heels clicking on the concrete, then ducked under the tape.
"Hands behind your head. Fingers laced, feet apart. You know the drill."
"You can't be serious!" She stared up at him as if he'd gone insane.
"I've never been more serious." He rested his hand on the small of her back, propelled her away from the hazard of the stairs, the silky softness of her curls beneath his palm.
She knocked his hand away. "Don't touch me!"
"Assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest, failure to follow a lawful order." He looked at her over the top of his sunglasses, entertained by the look of astonishment on her face. "You're building quite the rap sheet, Ms. Novak."
She gave a little feminine cry of rage, dropped her purse onto the ground, and assumed the position, fury on her pretty face. "Chief Irving is going to have your head!"
She was probably right. Still, he couldn't help but smile. Compared to the hardened killers he usually dealt with, this was going to be like arresting Barbie. "I think he might demand to know why you were snooping around on a case he's asked you to drop."
"I don't answer to Chief Irving! You do!" She turned her head and glared at him. "Besides, I wasn't 'snooping around'! I thought the girl's family lived here. I wanted to offer my condolences."
"You should have sent flowers." He walked up close behind her to search her, saw her stiffen. She really didn't want him to touch her. Or did she?
He reached around to feel between her breasts with the edges of his hands. "You have the right to remain—"
The moment he touched her, she gasped and jerked her arms down to her sides, tottering on her heels and falling back against him.
Had an adult male done that in the middle of a bust, Julian would have assumed the suspect was gearing up for violence and would have subdued him. But Tessa wasn't the murderer-rapist he was used to frisking, and he found her skittishness both amusing and strangely appealing.
He steadied her, placed her back on her fancy feet. Then he grasped her wrists and forced them back to her head. "Easy, Tessa, I'm not going to molest you."
He worked quickly, his hands finding their way over her narrow rib cage and her gently rounded belly, down her slender waist and the flare of her hips, up the sleek length of her calves and thighs. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will
be used against you in a court of law."
The words came automatically—and it was a good thing, because the thinking part of his brain had shut down. It didn't help that everywhere he touched her, she tensed—her shoulders, her belly, her thighs. As an agent, it was second nature for him to be aware of even the subtlest motions of those he took into custody; it was a skill that had kept him alive. But this was something different.
It was physical. It was chemical. It was damned distracting.
And it told him something he didn't necessarily want to know: Tessa Novak might look cool and aloof, but inside she was fire.
Down, boy.
"You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you fully understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"
"Go to hell!" Her voice had lost some of its defiance.
"Use of fighting words." He took her wrists, bent her arms behind her back, and slipped the cuffs onto her wrists, leaving them looser than he would otherwise. "I hope you've got a good lawyer. A cozy stay at Club Fed is looking more likely by the minute."
A black-and-white slid up to the curb, its lights flashing.
Right on time.
"Maybe while I'm in booking I should file charges against you. How about kidnapping, false imprisonment, sexual assault, and false arrest for starters? That might make an interesting news brief, don't you think?"
He jerked her about to face him, leaned down close, and lowered his voice to the tone that frightened grown men with guns. "This isn't a game, Ms. Novak. I know things about kidnapping and sexual assault that are beyond your worst nightmares. If I see my name in your paper, heads will roll, starting with yours."
Her eyes grew wide, and her breath caught, but her chin came up.
Julian felt an absurd impulse to kiss her.
He thrust the impulse aside, reached down, picked up her purse, and searched it, while Petersen escorted her to the cruiser. Wallet. Sunglasses. Lipstick. More lipstick. Nail file. Tampons. Keys. Half a dozen pencils. Loaded .22. Notepad. Digital camera.