Dead to Rights

by Ellie Thornton

  “But you were a ghost.” He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, elated he could.

  “Yeah, well, when they tried to bring me out of the coma, I didn’t wake up—not until that night. Somewhere along the way, I must have…” She stared off to the side as she thought. “Separated from my body.”

  “Elizabeth,” he said on a soft breath. He pulled her to him again and held her tight. “You have no idea how much I’ve longed for this.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “To touch you. To hold you in my arms.” Each time he’d reached for her, only to be denied, had been torture, and now…. He pulled back enough to make eye contact.

  She blinked, and her gaze dropped briefly to his lips.

  He leaned in, pausing to give her a chance to back up. She didn’t, only closed her eyes, her minty breath caressing his lips as he moved closer.

  “Excuse me,” someone spoke behind Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth’s eyes flew open, and she jerked away from him as his nosy neighbor passed them, heading to the elevator. Mrs. Jenkins gave them a haughty look in the process.

  He chuckled. A flustered Elizabeth was a cute Elizabeth.

  He saluted his neighbor. “Afternoon, Mrs. Jenkins.”

  “It would seem so,” the older woman said as she stepped onto the elevator.

  Elizabeth cringed and moved back to his door. “That was embarrassing.”

  He followed her, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Nonsense. That woman has ten children. There’s not much you could do to embarrass her, and as for me, I’m shameless.”

  She bent to pick up a can sitting where he’d first seen her. “Yeah, well, I was raised to always dance with a space large enough to fit the Bible between me and my date. My perspective is a little different.” She held out the can. It was a luxury hot chocolate. “Here.”

  “What’s this for?”

  Her cheeks tinted pink again. “Your birthday? It’s one of those fancy brands you like.”

  He sucked in a breath. “How did you know?”

  She pulled her chin back and sucked her teeth at him. “I’m a cop. I did a background check.” She laughed. “Besides, I figured you could use something other than vodka in your cupboards.”

  He grinned. Boy, was she in for a surprise. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He opened the door, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm to let her pass first. Once in, he pulled it closed behind them.

  Elizabeth froze. The space that had once lacked every comfort minus a leather couch and a small TV—which Elizabeth doubted Patrick ever used—was now filled with furniture. Two leather armchairs sat with his couch around a wooden coffee table, atop a cream oriental rug. To the right sat a dining table with a bouquet of sunflowers in the center. A tasteful selection of pictures hung on the walls, and now, instead of a TV, there was a bookshelf filled with leather-bound classics. It was so warm and welcoming, so him.

  Patrick skirted around her, resting his hand on the small of her back as he came to stand next to her. “What do you think?”

  “It looks amazing.”

  “Wait until you see what I’ve stocked my fridge with. Fruits, veggies, all sorts of healthy crap I thought you’d appreciate.”

  “Tomatoes?”

  His eyes creased at the corners in his amusement. “Yes, but minus the vodka.”

  She chuckled, and then it hit her. “You did this even though you thought I was dead?”

  He nodded. “After everything you did for me, the least I could do is pull myself out of my slump and get my life back together.”

  Her vision blurred, but she’d already allowed one tear to fall. She blinked them away. Since she’d come to in the hospital, she’d agonized over why Patrick’s wife had thanked her. While she’d been with him as a spirit, she’d wanted to help him, was sure she was supposed to, but seeing this moment was what finally brought it home for her. He was changing, and he was moving on with his life.

  She spun toward him and surprised him once again by planting a kiss firmly on his lips. He dropped the tin of hot chocolate to the tiled granite floor and pulled her close as she leaned into him. She’d felt the connection, the spark between them when she’d been a spirit, but she’d pushed it back, refusing to give in to it. How would it help either of them? She hadn’t been able to see a happy ending from it, hadn’t been able to see this.

  And this was so much more than anything she’d ever imagined for herself.

  His hands ran up and down her back in a comforting gesture—a gesture she never would’ve imagined she needed. Her knees went wobbly, and he smiled against her lips as he held her sure against him.

  She was a cop. She was supposed to be tough, to face fear head-on, to be able to take care of herself and need no one. In the end, admitting she needed him, wanted him and his comforting touch, his often aggravating manners, his clever mind, and his desire to protect and take care of her was the scariest thing she’d ever done. Even more frightening than fighting for her life.

  She moaned against his mouth, and his kisses grew heated, hungry, so much so they had to pull back to catch their breath. They held each other until their breathing calmed.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said.

  “So did I for a minute.” She thought of Katelyn then. “Listen, Patrick; there’s something I need to tell you—”

  He shushed her, and his grip on her tightened. “You saw her. I know. You don’t need to tell me.”

  A shiver ran up her spine as he spoke. He did know. Somehow, he knew. And she was grateful.

  She kept her eyes closed, savoring the moment. “‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” she quoted.

  He froze, and her eyes flew open. Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap.

  He pushed her back until he could look her in the eye, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Did you just say you love me?”

  “What? No!” Her voice pitched high. “I was quoting Midsummer Night’s Dream. You quote it all the time.”

  He smiled his million-dollar smile, the one she found almost too impossible to resist. “And that’s what you went with?”

  “Yes.” She shoved his shoulder and tried to step from his firm grasp on her hips, but he held tight. When did he even grab my hips? “I’m not… in love… with you.”

  His eyes twinkled at her. “I ‘What? No!’ you too,” he mimicked her, and then laughed.

  “I’m not!” She threw her hands up. “We barely know each other.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” His smile fell, his face becoming serious. “How many people can say they fell in love while one of them was a ghost?”

  She gulped. Fell in love?

  “We know more about each other than most, in a way. What we haven’t done is known each other long, but I think we can amend that, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  With his thumb and forefinger, he lifted her chin and lowered his lips to hers for one more impossibly sweet kiss. As he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers. “Brown offered me a job consulting with your team today.”

  She smiled. “And?”

  “I told him I’d think about it, but as long as you’re okay with it, I’m in.”

  Her chest squeezed painfully tight—the sensation strangely welcome after so much time feeling and not feeling at the same time. “You’re a brilliant detective. Of course, I want you there. You could do so much good, and I can’t wait to see it.”

  “So much faith,” he said.

  “In you, yes.” She tilted her head to the side. “I did wonder if Brown would actually go through with it.”

  “You doubted?”

  She scoffed. “Are you serious? Or did you get a minor case of amnesia when he punched you in the nose?”

  “Meh,” he said. “He’s just mad I guessed his little secret.”

  She rolled her eyes. “For the last time, he is not in love with me.”

  He kissed her
neck, chuckling against her skin and making her shiver. “Whatever you say, my dear.”

  She shoved him back and marched off. “Insufferable.”

  Laughing, he chased after her. “‘I’ll follow thee and make heaven of hell, to die upon the hand I love so well.’”

  She grabbed a pillow from the couch and chucked it at him, then darted around the couch. “Are you going to keep quoting Shakespeare?”

  He went left, and she went right. She barely evaded him.

  His grin spread. “Probably. Why?”

  She lifted her hands, warning him back. “Then I should read up. Seems like a necessary self-preservation tactic.” He lunged, catching her right before she could round the couch again. They fell onto the couch in a fit of laughter.

  “Then might I suggest Taming of the Shrew? It’s recently become my favorite.” His eyes twinkled.

  She glared. “And what are you implying?”

  With a laugh, he kissed her once more, and she melted into a puddle of bliss.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Beginning of June

  Elizabeth opened the door to the interrogation room of the women’s maximum-security prison and crossed to where Stephanie Striker sat shackled to a loop in the middle of a metal table. She placed the file in front of Striker and sat.

  They held gazes but said nothing.

  Prison orange wasn’t the best look on the once Assistant DA. It made her face appear gaunt and her skin pale. She was still beautiful, though, and held herself like she knew it. That said, she had good reason for looking less than her best. Felons tended to go after prosecutors, police, and anyone who formerly worked in the justice department. Because of this, Striker spent much of her time in solitary confinement.

  Striker held her gaze, eyes wide and unblinking.

  “I’m told—” Elizabeth started, and Stephanie jumped. Elizabeth guessed she was still afraid of her after having seen her spirit the night at her house.

  Good. She hoped her presence made her sweat. “I’m told you’ve been less than forthcoming about why you did what you did. The powers that be thought they’d give you one last chance to come clean and decided I was the best person to try with you.”

  Striker stuck her chin in the air. “Why? Because you’re one of my victims? That’s rich.”

  “Perhaps. It might feel good to get the guilt off your chest.”

  She shook her head. “Is this your method? It’s a wonder you ever get confessions.”

  The door opened, and Striker sat tall, a little grin spreading across her face. Patrick grabbed a metal chair from against the cement wall and dragged it screeching across the concrete floor. Striker cringed at the sound. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. He shrugged and took a seat next to her.

  Striker leaned forward. “Patrick. Aren’t you looking handsome as ever?”

  “My girlfriend sure thinks so,” he said.

  Elizabeth had to stop herself from kicking him. When he’d taken the job, the number one rule they’d agreed to was staying professional at work. For her, it was a must. She’d never be able to focus otherwise. For him, it was a drag. What bugged him most was that their colleagues had no clue they were together, and she insisted they keep it that way.

  Of course, Lee knew, and Brown suspected, but that was it. She was a private person and who she dated was no one’s business but her own.

  Striker flipped her hair over her shoulder with a small toss of her head. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “I can’t see why it would be.” He crossed his legs. “Last time we were in a room together, you tried to shoot me.”

  Striker batted her lashes. “That was pure necessity. It wasn’t personal.”

  “Oh.” He smirked at Elizabeth, and she bit the side of her cheek to keep from laughing. “‘It wasn’t personal.’ Well, that’s good to know. Taking my life—just a necessity. And to think all this time I’ve been holding a grudge.”

  “Now don’t be like that,” Striker said. “If you hadn’t brought your friends, the evening would’ve been much more pleasant. You and me, we could have been good together.”

  He frowned. “I’d prefer the bullet.”

  Striker narrowed her eyes.

  “Daley, that’s enough.” Elizabeth had taken to calling him by his last name at work like she did all her colleagues. “If you can’t behave, you’re going to have to go sit out in the hall. We’re not here to rile Ms. Striker.” Though it did amuse her.

  “Then why are you here?” Striker demanded. “I won’t be giving you a confession.”

  Patrick pointed at himself. “I’m here to watch her work. She’s something else.” He’d begged to come with her when she’d left that morning, and she’d given in, much preferring to have him with her for the long drive than to go it alone.

  Elizabeth rested her hands on the table. “We don’t need your confession. We have enough evidence and witnesses to put you away for life, including two police officers. Me, your victim, and my partner, Detective Lee. We’re here to offer you a deal. We know you have information that may be helpful to us about other criminal rings around the city.”

  “What could you possibly offer me?”

  Elizabeth opened the file. “First of all, we could move you to a lower-security prison.”

  Striker bit her lip. “You could do that?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Why would you?”

  “Good question,” Elizabeth said. “It’s simple. There are other bad guys out there, and you know who they are. I want their names.” The Tourneau Cartel was finished, but Striker had had her hands in other pots. Elizabeth slid the file over with a plastic pen and a blank sheet of paper.

  Striker grabbed the pen and tapped it on the table. “If I do this, there are other things I want.”

  Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. “You’re not in a position to negotiate, Striker. We have you dead to rights.”

  Striker’s face fell and Elizabeth smiled outright.

  Patrick laughed. “That’s funny.”

  Both women looked at him.

  “Because that’s her phrase and…” He glanced at Elizabeth, and his smile fell. “No?”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes but kept smiling.

  Striker flinched.

  “Get writing,” Elizabeth said.

  After Striker made her list, she pushed the file back.

  Elizabeth took the page and nodded to Patrick. They stood and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Striker called. “When are you getting me out of here?”

  Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. “As soon as we verify these names.”

  Striker stood, being held down from her full posture by the shackles. “That wasn’t the deal.”

  Patrick faced her. “Isn’t she great? And my girlfriend, by the way.”

  Striker’s jaw dropped.

  He wiggled his fingers at her, and they stepped from the room. Patrick turned to Elizabeth. “Dead to rights? That was brilliant.”

  Elizabeth grinned, and even though they were working, even though there were guards nearby, she went on her toes and kissed him.

  The End

  Afterword

  Elizabeth sat at her desk tap, tap, tapping away on her computer. She had pages and pages of paperwork she needed to complete, and the task at hand wasn’t made any easier by her consultant/boyfriend who sat off to the side of her desk, reading.

  “Wow,” he said.

  She kept typing.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  Her fingers froze above her keyboard and she took a deep breath. I will not get distracted, I will not get distracted.

  “It’s a wonder so many of them keep at it.”

  She fisted her hands and closed her eyes. Last time she’d given in to this technique of his, he’d proceeded to tell her about the Pygmy Marmoset, the world’s smallest monkey. Apparently it weighed as little as 120 grams.

  That meant nothing to her
; how much was a gram?

  Patrick slid his swivel chair closer to her, the wheels scratching over the concrete. “Elizabeth, look at this.”

  She glanced over. He was holding her phone out to her—his still coming from the Neolithic period—and showed her a site he’d found. It was too close, so she yanked his hand and the phone back.

  The screen appeared to have a list in bullet points. “What am I looking at?”

  “Did you know that most authors make less than ten thousand a year?”

  She blinked. What on earth? “Nope, can’t say I did.”

  “That’s why reviews are so important. Amazon won’t recommend a book until it has fifty reviews.”

  Elizabeth thought of the last book she’d purchased online. It’d been on Productivity. “Isn’t that what publishers are for? To help market?”

  Patrick lowered her phone and rested his hand on the end of her metal desk. “Sure, if the author has a publisher, and if their publisher can afford to market. If not or if they’re an indie author, they rely on reviews. Without them, their hard work won’t amount to much.”

  Elizabeth glanced down and tried to remember if that book on productivity had a publisher or not. She hadn’t left a review, though she had found it very informative. She’d just been so busy lately.

  “Even a short review, like ‘This was great!’ helps, and it doesn’t take a lot of your time either.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Quit reading my mind.” How does he do that?

  He grinned, his eyes crinkling, then leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He pushed her phone toward her with the tips of his fingers. On her screen was the last book she’d purchased and the customer review page on Amazon. The button reading “Write a Customer Review” was zoomed in on.

  She picked it up, holding back a smile all the while. “What are you saying?”

  He stood and headed toward the kitchen. “Every review helps, my dear. Every review helps. Now where’s the hot chocolate?”

  At least working with him would never be boring.

  She chuckled, then hit review.