“They just worry about you. We all do. Especially now you’ve landed yourself a job without a Glock.”
Bex knew that uprooting herself from her friends and family to travel half way around the world had most of them convinced that she still had a long way to go to recover from Zane’s death. What they failed to understand was that they were part of the reason for her needing to escape to a place where there were no memories of her husband. In New York, every single person she knew reminded her of a life she’d shared with Zane for the past five years, a life that had disappeared in the blinding glint of oncoming headlights.
“Well, I’m guessing you haven’t called to check out the phone signal. Since it’s not quite 7:00 a.m. in New York, are you going to tell me what’s up?”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but the hot water system has spouted its last shower. The boys are howling like pussies even though it’s been in the nineties every day this week and I reckon cold showers will help keep their dicks in check. But I know how you spoil them, so I’ve already had the plumber check it out. He’s given me a quote for a replacement. Trouble is we’re going to have to pay for it up front so I’m just warning you I’ll need to dip into the trust fund.”
Walt had been at a loose end since his retirement and it had been a cinch to talk him into managing the halfway house she’d set up three months ago for kids being released from juvenile detention. The idea behind the home was sparked by something Zane’s dad, Neil, had said when reminiscing about Zane’s somewhat wayward boyhood.
Convinced Zane would approve of giving young offenders a second chance, she had staked the project with a trust fund set up using Zane’s life insurance money. Blood money so thoroughly tainted in her eyes she had been tempted to throw it into New York Harbor if it would bring Zane back.
“You know you don’t have to check in with me on every decision, Walt. I’m going to be away from New York for awhile, that’s why I made Neil a signatory to the account.”
“Good, because I’m sick of fielding complaints from the boys and they’ve only been out of bed for an hour.” On the end of the line Bex heard Walt chuckle, before his voice turned serious. “Taking a chunk of cash out like that isn’t going to leave you short?”
“The money’s meant to be spent, Walt. Hot water’s a necessity not a luxury, no matter what you think.”
She had signed a long-term lease on a run down motel on West 94th Street and everyone in her precinct who had known either her or Zane had chipped in hours they couldn’t really afford to help with the renovations. The facilities were basic, but provided a clean and safe environment for the kids. She had few rules, but they were ironclad: No drugs, no alcohol and no girls on the property. One warning only, then they were out on their own.
“The boys toeing the line okay?”
“Don’t tell me you’re missing the little hellraisers already!” She heard Walt’s throaty chuckle again. It was heartwarming to hear the life being pumped back into him. Being involved with the house had given him a new purpose after retirement, one he was ideally suited for. “I’ve only had that one run in with EZ and the warning seemed to shake him up.”
“Good. I’ll let you get back to the boys, because I’m just about close enough to smell the coffee. Or at least what passes for it here.”
As the line inched forward, her attention was hooked by an overly loud comment. “OMG, was it a car crash?”
The words “car crash” scraped against her nerves, sending her senses into overdrive verging on a panic attack. For a moment she flashed back to bright beams shining straight through the windshield, Zane slumping over the steering wheel, her hands yanking control out of his as they skidded off the road, metal shrieking savagely, sight blurring into a jumble…
She closed her eyes, gripping her fists tightly as she fought to control the urge to hyperventilate. Deliberately she slowed her breathing, bringing her heart rate back to normal.
“…giving him mouth to mouth. ‘Freakin’ Saint’ has got over five million views so far…”
Bex did her best to block out the raised voices behind her as her phone buzzed in her pocket. She was now only one customer away from placing her order and was tempted to ignore it. It was probably just her mom checking up. Taking a quick glance she noted it was a private number.
“An espresso.” She placed her order with the girl behind the counter as she swiped her screen, bringing the phone to her ear. “Rebecca Wynter,” she answered, her voice as crisp as tiredness would allow.
“Detective Superintendent Sophie Dresden here, Wynter. I believe you’re in London already?”
“Yes, ma’am. I arrived this morning.” Juggling her coffee in one hand and clamping the phone to her ear with the other, she headed into the open, away from inquisitive ears. It was impossible to find a private spot for conversation but at least by ambling through the crowds she was less likely to attract attention.
“I realize you don’t officially join the team until next Monday, when your two week transition course kicks in, but a high profile case has landed on my desk that I’d really like to have your team handle. I’ve contacted the others and made arrangements with their current supervisors so they can come on board early. Can you adjust your plans?”
Whether it was the kick from the espresso or the anticipation of a new case, Bex found her pulse racing again. “Certainly, ma’am, the Hampton Court Palace Flower Show will just have to wait.”
The frosty silence on the other end made her curse her odd sense of humor.
“When do you want me to report for duty, ma’am?” She loaded her voice with earnest responsibility.
“I’ve put in a request to get your official paperwork fast forwarded. I’m assembling the team for its first briefing at 2:00 p.m. See if you can make it to the first floor meeting room at New Scotland Yard by then, Wynter.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she responded, but the line was already dead.
Chapter 4
Wednesday 5 July
At 1:50 p.m., a cab dropped Bex at Victoria Embankment, outside the understated Curtis Green Building. Alighting, she snagged her heel in a grate. Cursing under her breath, she hopped onto the curb, recovering the stranded shoe as the cabbie took off. Luckily the heel hadn’t snapped and the top piece was still in tact, although the leather trim was badly scuffed, curling down the length of narrow heel like a wood shaving. Bloody hell, luv, she thought to herself, mimicking the cabbie’s oath when she’d given her destination. “Bloody hell, luv, you’re not a crim are you?” He’d laughed uproariously at his own humor.
Bloody hell, she cursed again. If only Detective Superintendent Sophie Dresden had called the meeting for three o’clock instead of two, she would have been able to check into her hotel room and choose a more appropriate outfit.
Smiling benignly, the desk clerk had been as unyielding as granite and wouldn’t budge on letting her check into her room an hour early. “Sorry, ma’am, but we do have lovely restrooms in the lobby you can take advantage of.”
She had been reduced to washing her armpits with paper towels and splashing water over her face to freshen up. For security reasons the porter wouldn’t let her near the luggage storage, although after slipping him a hefty tip he had reluctantly located her hand luggage for her.
Accessing the small carry-on bag she had unpacked a navy jacket to smarten up her traveling attire of faded jeans and black T-shirt over-stamped with NYC in distressed, ten-inch high letters. It was a departing gift from Walt and the boys, but she didn’t feel it would make the right impression upon meeting her new team for the first time.
For footwear she had a choice of continuing to wear her worn out sneakers or the ultra expensive designer shoes she had placed in her hand luggage to safeguard them from being damaged in her suitcase. She had opted for the three and half inch heels. As she regarded the peeling leather now, she bitterly regretted that decision. Zane had bought her these shoes for her
last birthday and insisted she keep them on as they celebrated the event, very satisfactorily, in the bedroom.
She closed her eyes and pushed the memory away. With a weary sigh she glanced up at the neoclassical edifice that served as New Scotland Yard. However, the eternal flame glimmering at the center of a pool in the pavilion automatically dragged her thoughts back to Zane. The reflection of the light strip that outlined the flame flickered with the beat of her stuttering heart. That could also have been caused by the double shot of coffee she’d consumed at the Tower of London palace and then again ordered from the hotel café before jumping into the cab. She needed something to keep her alert for this meeting rather than fading into a snooze.
Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she moved forward resolutely to be confronted by an airy Art Deco interior. In New York any police station was filled with members of the public and uniformed police officers coming and going. This building was eerily empty in comparison. But then she remembered that this headquarters was no longer a working police station, it was a repository of the service’s top brass.
As she pushed through the curved glass entrance she was almost bowled over from behind by a short, skinny-jeaned whirlwind with his eyes glued to his smart phone. His phone and sunglasses went skittering along the marble tiles, while Bex was knocked forward several steps, tottering shakily on her high heels, her arms flung out to give her balance.
“Oh, I say, that was clumsy of me. Should’ve been looking where I was going.”
He afforded her a good view of his boney behind as he fell to his knees, scrabbling to collect his possessions.
“You think? Damn straight you should have been paying attention! I was told English guys were all born gentlemen.”
She watched his expression do a shocked doubletake. “You’re American?”
“New Yorker, born and bred.” She refused to return his infectious smile, instead concentrating on straightening her jacket and securing her bag over her shoulder.
“At the risk of getting myself shot down, can I take a wild stab and guess that you’re DCI Rebecca Wynter?”
He said the acronym so quickly and with such an inflection that she didn’t catch it. “I am Rebecca Wynter. Bex for short. What did you call me?”
“DCI,” he repeated the acronym more slowly.
Of course, that was her new title! Detective Chief Inspector.
He resumed his feet, his free hand shooting forward and she reached out to shake it. “I’m Detective Constable Reuben Richards, newly appointed to the Youth Crimes Team. Very pleased to make your acquaintance because if there’s someone who can take the heat off me being a newbie detective it’s going to be the new Yank detective. New Yank, New York, get it?” His barking laugh was quickly stifled into a pretend cough behind a closed fist. “No offense, of course, ma’am. No doubt with the Met being down six hundred detectives they’re pleased to be getting even inexperienced recruits like me. I was an estate salesman before I took the eighteen-week course. By the way, I still have my contacts if you’re on the lookout for a property.”
Bex was well aware of the London Metropolitan Police Service’s latest push to recruit new detectives from far and wide. In less than a month she had put in her application, been interviewed and landed the role of Senior Investigation Officer in charge of a team of detectives in a brand new specialist unit. A promotion like this would have taken years more dedicated work in New York to achieve.
But the speed of the transition across the Atlantic had left her little time to bone up on the intricacies of her new employment. She believed Reuben’s title meant he was essentially a trainee detective on her team. She hoped some of the others had more experience.
“We ought to stick together, eh, boss?” He gave her a hopeful, cheeky grin that Bex had trouble resisting.
“You’re here for the meeting with Superintendent Dresden I take it? She said to meet in the first floor briefing room.”
“Detective Superintendent. Never forget the Detective part. If there’s one thing I have learned from my training it’s that correct titles play a very important role. And DSU Dresden is a stickler.”
English police titles were such a mouthful, no wonder they used acronyms, Bex decided. Still, she’d better get used to them quickly if she didn’t want to end up sounding like an idiot.
“Follow me, DCI Wynter, the lifts are straight ahead.”
Bex could see the scenic elevators with their glassed fronts, but Reuben’s words confused her. “Why do we need the lift?” Unconsciously her voice emphasized the English word, storing it away for future use. “Detective Superintendent Dresden said to meet on the first floor.”
“That’s right. We’re on the ground floor, first floor is the next level up.”
Bex swallowed her chagrin, feeling like a fool and wondering if Reuben’s kind explanation bordered on patronizing. Meeting her was obviously doing wonders to improve his self-esteem levels. Blinking her eyes to relieve the tired, scratchy feeling behind her eyelids, she irritably rubbed her forehead to forestall a sleep-deprived headache.
Still, she had to be grateful he’d bumped into her. Without his enlightenment she would never have thought to venture upstairs and might have missed the entire briefing. Or worse, Dresden might have sent one of her new crew downstairs to search for her! She cringed inwardly at the close call she had escaped, rubbing a clammy hand down her jeans. That would have made an unforgettable introduction to her new team. Bex Wynter leading a team of detectives? You mean the woman that couldn’t even find the briefing room? Cue raucous laughter. She knew how intolerant a group of male detectives could be.
Bex and Reuben fell into step together, heading towards the elevator. As they approached, the doors slid open and a striking woman exited, striding past them with toned, showgirl legs, elongated even further by skyscraper stilettos. Her deep auburn hair was cut crisply, accenting sharply slanted cheekbones. She was wearing a classy, rose-tinted suit with a mid-thigh split and a bored expression.
The glacial glance she cast over Bex emphasized what a disheveled, jetlagged mess she looked in comparison. It was a look Bex recognized as deliberately designed to shrivel a rival woman’s confidence, and it was doing a damn good job.
Silently Bex and Reuben stepped into the elevator. Once the doors whooshed quietly closed on them, Reuben gave a soft whistle. “Now she’s a stunner, but if that look was anything to go by, she’d freeze the balls off a brass monkey. I’d say DI Standing had a lucky escape from that piece of arm candy, as you Americans would say. Looks aren’t everything, are they? Sometimes you have to dig a little deeper.”
“DI Standing?” Bex recognized the name from an electronic folder of information she’d been sent on the Youth Crimes Unit Team: Quinn Standing, Elijah Morgan, Idris Carson and Reuben Richards.
Reuben pressed the button for the first floor. “Yeah, that block of ice we just passed was Isla Standing, his very recent ex-wife. She’s also the daughter of Chief Superintendent Vincent Titus, more commonly known amongst the riff raff as Super Tight-Arse. Growing up with that monicker no wonder Isla kept ‘Standing’ as a surname instead of reverting back to her maiden name. I wonder what she’s doing here?”
Bex knew enough to register arse as the equivalent of ass. No doubt “Tight-Arse” was the men’s affectionate nickname for him. “Perhaps paying a visit to her father since I assume Titus has an office here.” Bex said the name self-consciously, trying not to mimic Reuben’s inflection. She didn’t want to be caught addressing one of her commanding officers as “Tight-Arse” to his face.
“Possibly. But since she’s one of London’s up and coming barristers there could be other reasons.”
Up and coming barista? The comment left Bex wondering at Londoners’ priorities. She had assumed that tea was a more popular beverage than coffee, but maybe she was wrong? Isla Standing was far and away the best-dressed coffee server she had ever come across. And what did Reuben mean
that she might have other reasons for being in New Scotland Yard? Did London baristas make coffee deliveries to the Met’s top brass? Very curious.
Reuben flipped his attention back to his smart phone while Bex peered through the glass walls of the elevator. Down below she saw a stranger bowling through the lobby like a man on a mission, halted mid-stride by the simple action of Isla raising a curt hand to his chest. Even from this distance she glimpsed the quarter inch of stubble covering the sunken planes of his cheeks that was a perfect match for the T-shirt molded to tight, bunched muscles like a second skin.
Isla’s upper body swayed closer while the man held himself so rigid he was almost vibrating under the strain. Was he a coffee connoisseur whom she needed to discuss the finer points of arabica versus robusta blends with?
Posed like a tableau out of a magazine shoot, their stance and attitude screamed intimacy, driving home her own loss. Pain blossomed throughout her chest, leaving her brittle and hollowed out. With an effort she wrenched her eyes away.
Chapter 5
Wednesday 5 July
“I want to welcome DCI Wynter and thank her for coming in today when her plane only touched down at Heathrow early this morning.” From the head of the table, Sophie Dresden nodded at Bex.
“Everyone, please call me Bex.” Seated beside Dresden, Bex gave a self-conscious nod, her eyes connecting one by one with each of her team members.
Beside her was Detective Sergeant Idris Carson, the powerfully built, honey-skinned man who had slid around the edges of the room like a shadow to take his seat. Next to him, Detective Sergeant Eli Morgan had a bulldog face with close-cropped hair giving him the look of grizzled, seasoned warrior. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a gladiatorial arena. His world-weary eyes spoke volumes: Been there, done that more times than you’ve had hot dinners, mate. She met their appraising stares with fake calm.
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