by Pamela Clare
He scrutinized the last two and saw she was looking into a gang angle—a fact that bothered him. He didn't like the idea of her on the streets tangling with gangbangers.
"Sorry to see you under these circumstances, Ms. Novak," Petersen said, his hand on the top of her head to guide her inside the vehicle. "We'll get you down to the station and get you processed."
Julian placed her purse in the front seat. "She's got a loaded double-deuce in her purse, Petersen, though I'm not sure she knows how to use it. And be sure to book her on one count of falsifying information on a driver's license while you're at it."
"What?" she cried. "You're just making stuff up!"
He pulled off his shades, met her gaze, saw the outrage and disbelief in her eyes. "It says you weigh one-fifteen, but I know for a fact you're not a pound under one-twenty."
Her cheeks flushed crimson. "Oooh!"
Hungry and thirsty, Tessa sat in booking on a molded chair of orange plastic that was bolted to the floor—and which desperately needed to be scrubbed—her legs and feet bare and freezing. A few chairs down, a filthy man with a scraggly red beard and tangled blond hair sat in dirty jeans and an even dirtier plaid shirt, his gaze sliding over her body as if she were naked.
"What you in for, baby?"
"Castrating some guy because he annoyed me." He stared at her for a moment, the lust vanishing from his eyes, then crossed his legs and looked away. "Bitch," he whispered.
Tessa still couldn't believe she was here. In booking. In the Denver jail. Under arrest for multiple felonies. She kept expecting someone to tell her it was all a joke or a terrible mistake and release her. But nobody was telling her anything. They hadn't even let her make her single phone call.
Officer Petersen had driven her downtown and escorted her to a controlled checkpoint. "Welcome to the Denver Hilton," he'd said.
He'd uncuffed her and asked her to remove first her shoes, which were passed through a little window one by one, and then her pantyhose. Next, a female guard had given her a thorough pat down, touching the few body parts Julian hadn't. After groping her, the guard had escorted her through the checkpoint to the waiting area, where, one by one, new arrests were called back to be fingerprinted and photographed.
Tessa felt humiliated—and furious. She knew it was against the law to cross police lines, but journalists did it all the time, usually with the cops' tacit approval. Never had Tessa heard of a journalist being busted for ducking under the yellow tape. And the rest of it—he was just making it up.
Obstructing government operations? It would never stick. Neither would assaulting a police officer. How could she possibly assault a man who was so much bigger and stronger than she was? Julian was probably some kind of black belt on top of everything else, but even if he'd been a ballerina in a pink tutu, he'd have been able to take her down without breaking a sweat.
He'd nearly frightened her to death, sneaking up behind her like that. Then he'd put her through a humiliating pat down—
Oh, God, she couldn't think about that. She couldn't.
She couldn't help but think about it.
She'd tried to play it cool, to act like getting frisked by six foot three of dark-haired, potent male was nothing more than an irritation—like getting stuck in traffic. But the moment he'd touched her, she'd lost her resolve, jerking her arms down, losing her balance, falling backward into the hard wall of his chest.
Easy, Tessa, I'm not going to molest you.
What in the hell had been wrong with her? She'd watched dozens of arrests during her career, had researched Koga arrest-control techniques. She'd known what he was going to do.
Sure, but you didn't know how it would feel, did you?
He'd stood so close behind her, his presence overwhelming. She'd felt his breath against her hair, heard the tight creaking of his leather jacket, smelled his spicy aftershave. She'd even sensed his body heat. His big hands had seemed to burn through her clothes, scorching her skin as he'd worked his way over her. And when his hands had slid over her pantyhose and up her thighs, she'd actually felt herself grow wet.
How could her body respond like that when she hated the man?
Okay, so maybe she didn't hate him, but she certainly didn't like him. Twice now he'd used force to intimidate her. And he'd found it amusing. She'd seen the humor in his eyes when he'd looked at her over the top of his sunglasses.
You're building quite the rap sheet, Ms. Novak.
Well, she'd be the one laughing when Chief Irving busted him down to dogcatcher.
Then again, something told her Chief Irving didn't have much control over Julian. Maybe it was the fact that Julian looked nothing like her idea of a undercover cop, plain and invisible. Or maybe it was his cockiness, an air about him that said he took orders from no one.
What had he been doing there? Obviously he'd been watching the place. Did he expect whoever had rented the apartment to return?
Be damned glad the three bears aren't home. Goldilocks.
What had he meant by that? Perhaps he'd been referring to the three surviving sisters. But why would they pose any threat to her? Or maybe he was referring to the killer, to whomever had been in the car that night. But that made no sense, either. Wendy Aito seemed certain the girls lived in the house, and Mrs. Davis, the little old lady who rented the upstairs, said they lived there, as well.
"They had a lot of male visitors," she'd said, in a tone that made it clear she disapproved.
Why would the girl have been running away from her home? Domestic violence? A boyfriend turned violent? Some kind of gang raid? Whatever the case, no one lived in the basement apartment now. From what Tessa'd been able to see, the apartment was empty.
'Tessa Marie Novak!"
Tessa cringed inwardly at the sound of her name shouted through the booking area. She was the only woman in the room. Couldn't they have just motioned for her?
A short cop with cropped dark hair and a mole on his narrow chin fingerprinted her, took her mug shot, then motioned for her to stand on a scale. The red digital number raced up to stick at 124.
It says you weigh one-fifteen, but I know for a fact you're not a pound under one-twenty.
Bastard!
"This way." The cop spoke to her in a bored voice, motioning her to follow him toward one of a half dozen holding cells.
Small rooms with thick glass windows, they looked something like fishbowls for people. She'd seen them before, but she'd never noticed their finer points—steel bunk, steel sink, visible steel toilet. No privacy. No comfort.
"If I might ask, sir, when do I get to make my phone call? And is there any way I can have a blanket or get my shoes back? My feet are freezing."
He ushered her into a vacant cell. "The chief is on his way to see you."
Finally! "Do you know when—?"
The thick steel door shut with a heavy click.
Tessa paced in her cage for what seemed forever, then, stomach growling, she sat on the steel bunk, pulled off her suit jacket, and draped it over her chilled legs and feet. She'd counted the tiles on the floor twice by the time Chief Irving appeared on the other side of the glass.
She stood, slipped back into her jacket.
A key in the lock. A metallic click. The door swung outward.
"Chief Irving, I am so glad to see you!"
She took one look at his face and knew the feeling wasn't mutual.
Julian watched on the monitor from the booking control room as Tessa followed Irving out of the holding cell. She looked pale and shaken as she walked up to the front counter, signed for her personal belongings, and walked on her still-bare feet toward a dressing room. He turned the dial, followed her with the camera, and saw her wipe her eyes. Was she crying?
Something twisted in his chest. He ignored it.
Crying was better than dead.
A door opened behind him.
"What did you say to her, Chief? She looks upset."
"I don't know whose ass to kick�
�yours or hers. But right now I feel like kicking yours."
Julian watched as Tessa walked into a dressing room and shut the door, blocking out the camera. Then he turned to face Irving, crossed his arms over his chest. "Fair enough."
Irving sat his girth in a rolling office chair. "She reminds me of my oldest daughter—tough on the outside, not so tough on the inside. I hate having to be hard on her."
"Don't tell me you've fallen for her fragile Southern belle act, too, Chief." Julian gave a snort of disgust, even as he acknowledged to himself that what Irving said about her was true. "She's got the entire DPD wrapped around her pretty pinky finger."
"Don't pretend you're not attracted to her, Darcangelo. I've worked with men my entire life. I can smell it when a cop gets a hard-on for a woman involved in one of his cases."
Julian hid his surprise. "Okay, I won't deny she's attractive." An understatement. "But / didn't just let her walk out of here without so much as a citation. She's interfering with my investigation, and I can't let her do that. There's too much at stake—including her life!"
"All true." Irving nodded. "But we poor city cops can't throw our weight around and bend the rules like you federal boys do, and I can't have you compromising my department's relationship with the media."
Feeling pissed off now, Julian stood. "What would you have had me do? Sit there while she scared off potential suspects?"
"I'm not sure what I would have done, but it's pretty clear that her stumbling over the crime scene was an accident. She was looking for information on gangs and got lucky."
"Yeah, lucky. How lucky would she have been had they come home?"
'They're not coming back, and we both know it. But I get your point, and so does she."
"What did you tell her?"
"Only that she'd be floating in the Platte River tonight if the occupant of the apartment had found her instead of you."
"That's why she was upset?"
Irving nodded. "And the fact that she's still traumatized by the shooting—can't sleep, has nightmares, keeps remembering the girl's last words. Survivor guilt."
Julian knew all about survivor guilt.
"I told her I'd make this up to her by having one of my men offer her some practice using that twenty-two of hers after work on Tuesday. That's you, Darcangelo."
Julian sat, gave a snort. "No way! Sorry, Chief, but I've got more important things to do than teach—"
"You'll do it, because I'm asking you to do it. I've done more than a few favors for you these past months—letting you call the shots, keeping my own men in the dark, concealing certain activities from your real boss. How much longer do you think I can sit on the murdered girl's autopsy report or deflect attention off Zoryo's arrest and suicide?"
Irving had him by the balls.
"Okay, I'll do it—once. But Tessa Novak is not my responsibility. I have a job to do, and it doesn't include babysitting a reporter."
"Keep her alive, Darcangelo. How you work out the conflict is up to you. In the meantime, just remember what the good book says."
Julian had never read the Bible. "What's that?"
Irving stepped into the hallway, looked back at him. "Never pick a fight with someone who buys ink by the barrel."
Tessa accepted a ride back to her car from Chief Irving, then drove home. She'd have some explaining to do on Monday, but she didn't feel like dealing with Tom tonight. Right now, all she wanted was to devour a pint of chocolate chip ice cream and watch mindless television.
She pulled into her assigned parking space, let herself in through the front entrance, and checked her mail. Nothing but junk.
She took the elevator to the seventh floor, let herself into her apartment, flicked on the lights, and locked the door tight behind her. All was as she'd left it. She dropped her briefcase by the door, let out a sigh of relief.
What had she been expecting? Fifteen armed gang members?
She went about her after-work routine, trying to shake the sense of foreboding she'd felt ever since Chief Irving had told her—off the record, of course—that it was the killer who'd lived in the basement apartment, not the girl's family.
"You'd be dead by now—or you'd wish you were," he'd said. "We'd eventually find you floating down the Platte."
She'd seen in his eyes that he was trying to scare her, but she'd also seen he was telling her the truth. And she'd done the most unprofessional thing she'd ever done—she'd confided in a source. She'd told Chief Irving how much trouble she'd had sleeping. She'd told him how every little noise made her jump. She'd told him about her nightmares.
She'd been certain he'd think she was a big wimp, and she'd said as much, only to have him lay a fatherly hand on her shoulder.
"Witnessing cold-blooded murder is no small thing, Ms. Novak. I've seen grown men who were bigger wimps than you—men with badges. Take some time off. Go visit your folks. Get out of town for a while. You'll feel better for it."
Then he'd offered to have one of his men guide her through a bit of practice shooting at the police shooting range.
She'd been reluctant at first, not wanting to make this any more real than it was. Besides, how hard could it be to point a gun at someone and pull the trigger? But then she'd remembered how quickly Julian had disarmed her, and she'd accepted. It wouldn't hurt to become more comfortable with the gun, to take a few practice shots. She'd studied the owner's manual, but she'd never once pulled the—
Down the hallway a door slammed, made Tessa jump.
And abruptly she knew what she wanted to do. She hurried to her phone and dialed Kara's cell phone, hoping it wasn't too late. Kara answered on the third ring.
"Oh, thank God I caught you! Can I please, please, please take you up on that invitation and come up to the cabin with you? I need to get out of town for a while."
There were so many ways to savor women, so many ways to control them, to own them. Alexi had mastered them all— and become a very wealthy and powerful man because of it. He'd lifted himself from the frigid, gray streets of Moscow to a life of luxury in America. Few men could comprehend the control he had over the lives of others—or the great burden he felt when something went wrong.
He'd come close to losing everything three years ago. Julian Darcangelo had infiltrated his organization like a virus. But Alexi had turned the tables, manipulating Darcangelo to rid himself of two tiresome partners, using him to ferret out the weaknesses of his organization. It was a risky but symbiotic relationship—Darcangelo kept Alexi on his toes, and Alexi gave Darcangelo a life purpose. Alexi knew.more about Darcangelo than the bastard knew about himself, and Alexi used it to his advantage. One day Darcangelo would have to die, but for now Alexi found him a useful, if formidable, opponent.
Still, he could not afford for any of his employees to make stupid mistakes.
He lowered the .44, watched the idiot he'd just shot slump to the floor. Then he shifted his gaze to the others, enjoying the scent of fear that permeated the warehouse. "One of my girls is dead, and I think this is good. She should be dead. But I wonder—how did she get away? She runs three blocks to a gas station, and no one stops her until witnesses are thick like flies on shit. Do you have an explanation for this?"
He lifted the pistol again, smiled when his target sank in a puddle of piss to his knees, hands raised in supplication.
"I-I don't know how she got out! Oh, God! Jesus! I was asleep, I fucking swear it! It was Toby's turn to watch the door!"
Alexi considered shooting this one, too. His business was only as strong as its weakest link, and this fool had crumpled so easily. What would he do if the police got hold of him—or, worse, Darcangelo. "You are nothing! Look at you—groveling in your own urine. Can you not even look death in the face?"
The imbecile slowly lifted his pale, sweaty face, his entire body trembling, his breath coming in sobs.
"Ah, see?" Alexi smiled. "You are not a complete coward. . What will you do for me if I let you live?"
"Anything you ask! Anything you want! Oh, Christ!"
Alexi lowered the weapon. "There are two witnesses to this sloppy shooting, yes?"
A frantic nod.
"One of them is a journalist. See, she has written about the shooting for her paper." He held up a copy of the Denver Independent. "Very nice article."
"I-I'll pop her for you. I'll pop them both!"
"That is a kind offer—but very stupid. One does not simply shoot a reporter. It makes the other reporters ask questions."
"Wh-what should I do?"
"The old man—he has a bad heart, one leg already in the grave. You won't even need a gun. But the journalist…" Alexi considered the situation, weighed the pros and cons. "I want you to watch her. I want to know everything about her— where she goes, who she sees, what she eats for dinner. Then we shall see."
Chapter 7
There was nothing as therapeutic as a good snowball fight, and Tessa got into several on Saturday. She and Connor vanquished Reece twice, making up for their bad aim with sheer quantity of snow. Then she and Kara lost in a valiant struggle against the men. They were forced to award top snowball honors to Connor, who, at the age of six, was fearless.
When she wasn't outside playing like a kid in the snow— who'd have known making snow angels could be so fun?—she was inside the warm cabin, lending a hand in the kitchen, entertaining fourteen-month-old Caitlyn, or sitting in front of the fire and talking with her friends. Kara and Reece didn't push, and for a time Tessa said nothing about her investigation, wanting more than anything to put the shooting out of her mind.
But cradled by snowcapped 14,000-foot peaks, sheltered by groves of fragrant ponderosa pine and bare, white aspen and surrounded by the warmth of friendship, she felt the tension she'd been carrying all week melt away. And for the first time in days, she slept deeply.
Of course, it didn't hurt to know that Reece was armed. Tessa had caught sight of the holster that was clipped to his belt when he'd taken off his snow-soaked sweater. It wasn't just for her sake, she knew. He'd been carrying a concealed weapon ever since the TexaMent ordeal that had almost gotten both him and Kara killed.