Purrfect Justice

by Ashley Ladd

  An idea popped into her head. She banged the hubcap on the ground so that it sounded like a cymbal, and then shouted, “Drop your weapon! We have you surrounded!”

  Whirling in her direction, the criminal snarled at her, hatred in his eyes.

  When she got him in her sights, she flung the hubcap like a Frisbee with all her might. It knocked the gun out of his hand as the bullet exploded in her direction.

  The bullet whizzed by her temple as she ducked. The gun clattered to the pavement, followed by pounding footsteps and men’s urgent voices.

  “Get him!” Cole shouted as footsteps hammered the ground closer and closer to her. He rounded the corner.

  So, this was how a deer trapped in headlights felt. She froze for a split second before panic propelled her to run.

  “Hey, you! Stop!”

  She’d sooner be kidnapped by aliens than have him capture her. Adrenaline burst through her, catapulting her forward.

  “Halt! By order of the police!”

  Haley’s heart was about to burst, but she kept going. Her head spinning, she dragged the cycle out of the grove of trees, hopped on, kick-started it, and sped off, spewing dust and gravel behind her.

  Chapter Three

  “This is war,” Cole muttered under his breath as he made a suspect list of women who could be his Catwoman. No one else had been helped by an unknown woman in black. He was sure he wasn’t dreaming, but he wasn’t sure someone wasn’t trying to make him think he was nuts.

  The new woman from West Palm Beach topped his suspect list because she was built and had dark chestnut hair. Although he hadn’t gotten a very close look at his rescuer that night, at least she hadn’t been wearing a mask or cap. Long, dark brown hair had framed an exquisite face with Grecian features. The hair had been straight and silky and almost as dark as the rest of the woman’s outfit—Catwoman minus the tail, cap, ears, and mask. Erotically enticing.

  Steam practically curled from his ears at the memory. He’d always thought ultra-feminine, clingy, trophy women were his type, but there was something very sexy about the independent, take-charge, mysterious allure of this female. He vowed to find her, and the pencil he gripped snapped in two. Disgusted with himself, he trashed the ruined instrument.

  Brad glanced up from his report and shook his head, his hair falling rakishly across his forehead. “You still got that dame on the brain?”

  With a huge sigh, Cole leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared at his moronic buddy. “Yep. It’s not every day a goddess saves my neck.” He let his gaze roam over all the females in the room, assessing them for the hundredth time each, still no closer to an answer than he’d been the first time he’d evaluated them.

  “Who do you think it could be? The new chick from West Palm Beach has chestnut hair and a dynamite figure. What about her?” Brad’s eyes twinkled when his gaze settled on her with a hubba-hubba gleam. “Could be. She fits the make.” He cracked his knuckles one by one. His gaze slid to Sheila, another brunette. “What about Sheila? You said the woman has dark hair.”

  Cole checked her out, shaking his head. “Too short, too wide around the waist, and too flat-chested.”

  “Cindy?” Brad’s lips twitched as he watched the luscious secretary parade around the office delivering interoffice mail. “She’s got some bodacious ta-tas, and I slipped and told her we might be on that stakeout.”

  Alarmed at his partner’s slip, Cole’s gaze riveted on him. “You know you’re not supposed to divulge classified information. You could get written up for that.” Or worse. Agitated, he raked his fingers through his shorn hair. Unlike his friend, he wore a Marine haircut, just a tad longer than a crew cut. It didn’t fall in his face, wasn’t in his way, and was never out of regs. Thus it wasn’t a bother to him when he swam or played ball, and stayed off his neck.

  “I slipped, man. I didn’t mean to tell her. She was practically suicidal I had to break our date.” Brad’s voice was pitched low.

  “You think Cindy’s the one?” She had a curvy figure and good legs which she sure liked to show off. She even had glossy mahogany hair. But she seemed like the damsel-in-distress-waiting-to-be-rescued type, not the Xena, Warrior Princess, take-charge type. No stretch of his imagination could make him see her facing an armed gunman or saving the day.

  Another question popped into his mind. “Cin was at the Halloween party, wasn’t she?” Her presence still left him with a mystery, for Cindy couldn’t have been his masked, mysterious temptress.

  “Yep. Cin posed as Cinderella.” Brad wiggled his brows. He put his hand over his heart and bowed in a courtly manner. “I was her Prince Charming.”

  “Don’t make me gag.” Just as he’d surmised, Cindy was the sugary type. Any more so and she’d give his pal diabetes. “That rules her out.”

  “Speaking of Cinderella, too bad your Catwoman didn’t leave anything behind like a glass slipper.”

  Brad’s idea sparked a memory and a goofy grin stretched his lips. “Maybe she did leave something.” Something much better, much more identifying than a glass slipper. Maybe she left her fingerprints on the hubcap she’d hurled at the gunman. It was worth a shot. “You’re a genius. Come on!” He jumped to his feet so fast, his chair crashed into the desk behind him.

  “Where we goin’?” Brad’s footsteps scuffled hurriedly behind Cole.

  “Scene of the crime. Anyone else overhear your slip to Cin? Who else was in earshot?” Worry washed over Cole. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.

  Brad hesitated a few seconds, and then said in a thoughtful tone, “That Bailey dame. Cin’s friend who wears the butt-ugly suits all the time.”

  Cole racked his brain, came up blank, and frowned. “Who’s Bailey?” He looked around the room in the hopes he’d remember. Nothing. He shrugged.

  Brad tilted his head at the blonde behind one of the desks. “You know, the cookie lady. The one who likes to suck on Tootsie Roll Pops everyday.”

  Cole only dragged up a dim vision of this woman. He changed course so he could take a look. “I thought her name was Holly.”

  “Bailey, Holly, Molly—somethin’ like that.” Brad trailed after him, bumping into Cole’s back when he stopped in front of the blonde’s desk.

  It couldn’t be Blondie. Although her hair was a very pretty color, it was scraped back from her face and twisted into an unattractive bun. His temptress had the most luscious dark brown hair that fell in loose, curly waves around her pixie face.

  He crossed the Holly chick off his list.

  The secretary looked up, a quizzical light flashing in her eyes covered by her clunky glasses. “Can I do something for you?” Her face remained expressionless, even cold.

  This plain ice maiden definitely wasn’t his girl.

  Nothing fit. She had no figure. Not a curve was outlined by her stuffy, three-piece suit. He wondered how she could stand to wear her blouse buttoned all the way up to her neck and to wear such starched, stiff fabric. He was about to suffocate just looking at her. The only feminine thing about her was her habit of baking cookies all the time. Deep down, she must have a Martha Stewart fetish. Maybe if she’d lay off the cookies, she’d develop a more womanly shape.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Officer?” Her voice had a sharp edge this time, startling him out of his reverie.

  Embarrassment stole over him. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea about why he was ogling her. Clearing his throat, picking up a cookie, he bit into it. Pure ambrosia. “I came for a cookie.”

  The woman nodded and held up the plate to Brad. “Take one for the road, if you like.” After they each took a second cookie, she returned to her work, dismissing them.

  When they were out of earshot, Brad clapped Cole on the shoulder and taunted, “Real smooth, Ace.”

  Cole’s lips twisted. “Pretty lame, all right.” Usually, he was more charming with the ladies. He hoped he wasn’t losing his touch. “She’s not my mystery woman anyway. N
o big loss.” He itched to find the luscious brunette. Maybe she’d give him a ride on her motorcycle. He grew hot and bothered just thinking about riding behind her, wrapping his arms around her slender waist, brushing the undersides of those full, heavy, perfect breasts with his arms…

  Whew! He needed a cold shower and looser slacks. Now he’d done it. He could barely walk. With every step he took his pants chafed a very sensitive part of his anatomy.

  “Fisher, Mueller. Look here.” Captain Crowe’s head stuck out of his glass office and his forefinger beckoned. Better than his middle finger, but Cole sighed at the interruption nonetheless.

  “What now?” Brad muttered under his breath, his teeth grinding loudly.

  “Don’t know. Left my crystal ball at home today.” Cole wished there really was such a thing as a crystal ball, then he could look into it for his answers.

  Brad snorted. “Hope this doesn’t mean we’ll be tied up during the softball tournament this weekend.”

  Cole would prefer the Captain didn’t mess up the weekend tournament either, but he’d live. Brad, however, lived to play softball, and still probably harbored dreams of being discovered by a pro scout so he could go big time.

  Captain Crowe paced behind his desk, his hands linked behind his back. The captain towered over Cole, who was no slouch. Afternoon sunlight glinted off the captain’s balding head. What little hair he had left was iron gray. Gaunt cheeks and a too thin, hooked nose dominated his long horse-like face. “Close the door, boys.”

  As no one had called Cole “boy” in over ten years. Cole arched his brow, but stood at parade rest, his gaze solidly on his superior. They didn’t always see eye to eye, but Cole respected him.

  Crowe hitched up his slacks as he lowered himself into his chair. He rested his bony elbows on his large oak desk. “Take a seat.” He picked up a report on top of his stack, and tossed it on his desk. The papers smacked loudly and created a gust of wind. “Explain this.”

  Cole swallowed the sudden lump in his throat as he recognized the report he had handed in about the two Catwoman episodes. He exchanged glances with his partner who nodded at him to take the lead.

  “What’s this shit about an unknown superwoman saving your sorry ass twice?” The captain opened the file and spun it around so he could read from it. “Archie said she was dressed like Catwoman the first night?” Disbelief echoed in his voice. “He getting dementia now?”

  Cole’s gut twisted into a pretzel. He hadn’t really thought Archie would add that little detail to his official report. He stared his boss square in the eye and spoke as matter-of-factly as he could. “No, sir.”

  The top sheet of the report crackled when Crowe held it up. “‘No, sir’, he wasn’t imagining things? Or ‘no, sir’, the woman wasn’t dressed up as Catwoman?” He expelled a long sigh and mumbled under his breath, “What’s this city coming to? Now we have comic-strip characters playing cops and robbers?” He pounded the desk with his fist. “This isn’t Gotham City!”

  Cole squirmed under the man’s intense gaze and he shifted in his seat. His Adam’s apple protruded painfully. “No, sir, he wasn’t imagining things. Yes, sir, the woman was dressed up as the fictional cartoon character of Catwoman from Batman.”

  Crowe’s gaze shifted to Brad. “Can you corroborate this, lieutenant?”

  Brad ran his finger under the neck of his T-shirt. “No, suh. I wasn’t present at the crime scene when the first incident occurred. The woman wasn’t wearing the Catwoman costume that night when I saw her.”

  Crowe leaned forward, replacing the paper and folding his hands on top of the desk. “You get a good look? Can you identify her?”

  “No, suh.” Brad cracked a knuckle and stopped in the middle of cracking a second one when the captain scowled. “It was dark, she wore all black and kept mostly to the shadows. I only saw her back briefly.”

  Crowe shot the next question at Cole. “What about you? You saw her twice, plus according to the report, you think she was a policewoman.” Crowe leaned back in his chair, folded one leg over the other, and crossed his arms over his chest. “What makes you think that? And why the hell, would one of my officers back you up out of uniform and without following proper procedure?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Cole answered the last question first. “The woman wouldn’t stop and identify herself or talk to me. She ran off both times when I tried to ascertain her identity.” It was still a complete puzzle, especially how she knew where he was and that he was in trouble. The first time could have been a fluke, but not the second. Not unless fairy godmothers were for real and his liked to dress in black. Fairy godmothers were supposed to wear white, frilly gowns, carry magic wands and flit around, not perform karate and ride motorcycles, not unless the rules had changed a whole heck of a lot since the new millennium began.

  “So why do you think she’s a cop?” Crowe bellowed, clearly out of patience. He slammed his fist into the desk again, so hard his paperweight jumped. “We can’t have our officers going around masquerading incognito, nor can we have civilians interfering in police matters.” He rubbed his balding head and sighed. “It’s downright embarrassing for one, dangerous for two. What if the press gets wind of this?”

  “I met her at the police Halloween party earlier that evening, sir. It was the same woman.” Cole squared his shoulders, fidgeting. It was getting awfully stuffy despite the whoosh of cold air from the ceiling vent directly overhead. Sweat trickled down his back. Cole loosened his collar so he could breathe easier.

  “So, you do know her. You can ID her?” Crowe squinted, rubbing his bald spot again.

  “Well, uh, no, sir. She wore a mask all night and she didn’t tell me her name.” He’d been much too busy making love to the sexy mystery woman to ask her name. He’d meant to get it out of her before the night’s end. But he hadn’t counted on being called away early, and he’d never dreamed how the night would end.

  “I want you to find her and I want a report on my desk by next week.” Crowe drummed his fingers on the desk. “If you see her again, you are to apprehend and unmask her. Do you have any clues to her identity?”

  Cole thought about the hubcap and prayed it was still there, and that they’d find traceable fingerprints. “One possibility. We were on our way to check it out when you stopped us.”

  Crowe waved them away, scowling darkly. “Go, go! Get this menace off my streets before the press gets wind of her.”

  Cole was only too happy to oblige. His hand was on the doorknob when the captain stopped them.

  “Fischer, don’t let our precinct be a laughingstock, you hear?” The captain glared.

  Cole nodded, grimacing. “Roger that. I have no desire to be the butt of jokes either, sir.”

  “Yes, suh.” Brad shoved Cole out the door, almost pushing him over. “We’ll find her for you.”

  “Report all findings to me ASAP. You’re dismissed. Get out of here.”

  Cole fought the urge to salute. Between clenched teeth, he said to his partner, “Let’s find that hubcap and get it to Forensics.”

  * * * * *

  Haley held out Sher’s brunette wig to her friend on the tip of her finger. “Thanks.”

  Sher scrunched her nose and shook her head. “Keep it. I look ghastly in it.” She put her finger on each of ten other wigs in various styles and colors before lifting a blonde wig in a pageboy style and fitting it over her head. She turned her head left, then right, and then stuck her tongue out at herself. “How do I look?”

  Haley eyed all the hairpieces. “Like a chameleon.” She smiled sweetly and added with a chuckle, “I’m blonde, and you’re trying to make me a brunette. You’re a redhead, and you want to be a blonde.”

  “We all want to be somebody we’re not, dearie, at least occasionally. It breaks the monotony.” Sher yanked off the blonde pageboy and replaced it with a blonde, shoulder-length, curly wig. Her gaze locked with Haley’s in the vanity mirror. She whipped it off and thrust it into Haley’s ha
nds. “I bet your real hair would look cute like this. I want to see you in it. Try it on.”

  Haley complied and liked it instantly. “It’s darling. I never thought I could be so pretty.”

  Sher’s brows drew together into one long line as her forehead crinkled. “You’re very pretty. You just need to update your look. French twists went out in the fifties.” She stood and grabbed her scissors. “Sit.” She pushed Haley down onto the vanity chair.

  Haley’s gaze flicked between her friend’s determined glint and the shiny shears with trepidation. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Sher lifted off the wig and put it on the stand directly in front of her. A wicked smile played about her lips. “Giving you a makeover. Trust me?”

  “Do you know what you’re doing? Maybe I should go to a salon.” She mentally calculated her bills and figured she could squeeze in a haircut and perm, if she ate peanut butter sandwiches all week.

  “I know what I’m doing. Relax.” She snipped a long lock of Haley’s silky hair in two. “If I mess up, you can wear the wig ‘til it grows out.”

  Haley’s eyes widened in alarm and her muscles bunched to bolt.

  “Just kidding.”

  Sher cut her hair expertly as Haley squeezed her eyes tightly shut, praying. Hair fell on her lap, her arms, and down her blouse, tickling her. She focused on the humorous sitcom flitting across the television screen rather than the fate of her hair.

  “Okay, you can look now.” Sher stepped back, a grin on her face.

  Haley peered into her friend’s smug face and then fingered her hair, which was still straight and limp, just shorter. Then she eyed the curly wig. “Curlers don’t work on my hair.”

  “It still needs a perm.” Sher glanced at her watch. “We still have time tonight. I’ll just run to the store and be right back.”

  Haley cleaned up the hair from the floor. “I’m going to bake cookies ‘til you get back.”