Shades of Passion

by DePaul, Virna

  “Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t psychoanalyze me. I’m a cop and you have a history—”

  “A history that’s my business.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. It’s your business so long as it doesn’t affect me. That being the case, I just want to make sure we’re clear on what this next week is going to look like. That’s all.” He stood and shrugged into his jacket. “You ready to go?”

  “No,” she said quietly. “You’re coming down on me because I withheld my past, or so you think. Don’t do the same thing. My sister’s suicide was a tragedy and sure, it could conceivably impair my judgment. But what do you call your girlfriend’s death? What about the fact you admitted it affects how you think about psychiatrists and I’m betting probably affects how you think about the mentally ill, as well? You want to question me about my past? You can expect the same thing in return.”

  Simon’s jaw clenched. “Fine.” He sat back down again and held his arms out. “What do you want to know?”

  Her eyes widened slightly before she asked, “How—how long ago did she die?”

  “Six months ago. Next question.”

  “Were you there when it happened?”

  “No. But I saw her afterward and I know exactly what he did to her. Given how often I imagine what really happened, I might as well have been. Next question.”

  She shook her head. “I—I’m sorry.”

  “And like I said, I’m sorry about your sister. We’ve both had to deal with tragedy. I’m just trying to make sure we don’t have to deal with more.”

  “Fine.” She stood. “Have I alleviated your concerns?”

  Since she obviously wasn’t going to ask any more questions about Lana, he relaxed slightly and stood, as well. “Not by a long shot. But I’m hoping we’ll get there. I—”

  “Hey, Simon.”

  Simon looked up at the sound of DeMarco’s voice. Nina glanced up, too, and for a second he saw appreciation flicker over her face. Mentally, he scowled. Maybe she went for the tall, dark and Latin-lover kind of guy, and DeMarco was certainly that. He clenched his fists when Nina smiled secretively.

  “What’s so funny?” he growled.

  She started. Looked up at him guiltily. “Nothing. I was just thinking about something my friend Karen said.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  DeMarco stepped up to them. He glanced at Nina, then back at Simon with a quick yet not so subtle waggle of his brows.

  “Hey, DeMarco. We were just heading out.”

  “Whoa. Not so fast. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  Simon sighed. “DeMarco, this is Dr. Nina Whitaker. She’s going to be shadowing me for a few days.”

  “Doctor. As in medical doctor or—?”

  “Doctor as in a shrink. I mean, psychiatrist,” he said when Nina glared at him. “She’s advocating some further training for the department.”

  DeMarco turned a curious gaze on Nina. “Training in what?”

  “Expanded training on mental health consumers and de-escalation techniques,” she replied. “But more than just that. Part of the program consists of establishing a Mental Health Intervention Team. Training dispatch to route certain calls to that team rather than patrol.”

  “That right? Sounds fascinating. Tell me more.”

  “I’m not sure we have time...” She glanced at Simon, and he jerked his chin, indicating she should go ahead. If he was going to give her a fair shot at changing his mind about the merits of the MHIT program, he needed to know more about it. For the first time, he found his curiosity outrunning his skepticism.

  “The pilot program I helped launch in Charleston was actually modeled after one formed in Australia. The program has four key aims—reducing the risk of injury to police and mental health consumers during mental health crisis events, improving awareness by frontline police of both the risks involved in dealing with mental health consumers and the strategies to reduce potential injuries, improving collaboration with other government and nongovernment agencies in the response to and management of mental health crisis events, and reducing the time taken by police in the handover of mental health consumers into the health care system.”

  DeMarco nodded and hummed. “Sounds ideal. But then again, around here we tend to focus more on reality than the ideal, don’t we?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, we’re short on manpower and funds already.”

  She smiled tiredly, as if she’d heard the same argument over and over again. “And that’s justification for failing to implement effective policies? Policies that can improve what you do?”

  “Not a justification. Just an explanation. There’s a difference, you know.”

  “Really? Thanks for pointing that out to me,” Nina said lightly. “But seriously, many of the police officers in Charleston were skeptical, too. At first. But afterward, the results are unassailable. Self report data has evidenced a reduction in the number of times that medical attention has been required for a member of the public as a result of officers being MHIT trained. Also, MHIT training has increased police officers’ confidence when dealing with a mental health problem or a drug-induced psychosis. Qualitative data from Charleston Health staff working specifically in mental health has—”

  She stopped speaking abruptly. Simon, who’d been fascinated by what she’d been saying, blinked and glanced at DeMarco. The other man was smiling, as if he, too, found Nina fascinating. And attractive.

  Simon felt an immediate sense of possessiveness and had to bite back a warning for the other man to back off.

  Nina shook her head. “Sorry about that. As you can probably tell, give me an opening and I’ll run with it. I’ve talked to so many people about supporting the program, including donating to the cause, that I’ve pretty much memorized the spiel.”

  “It’s a great spiel.”

  “She already persuaded Gil Archer to donate a chunk of change,” Simon said.

  DeMarco whistled with admiration. “I’m ready to reach for my checkbook right now. Maybe when we have more time you can tell me more.”

  Nina just smiled politely while Simon bit back a growl.

  DeMarco laughed, then turned to Simon. “We haven’t hung out in a while. You wanna get a drink sometime this week?”

  Simon’s shoulders relaxed. Why was he getting upset over DeMarco’s flirtation with Nina? Like Jase, the guy pretty much flirted with anything that moved. “Sure. Let’s touch base in a few days.”

  DeMarco nodded. “Will do.” He held out his hand for Nina to shake. “It was nice meeting you, Dr. Whitaker.”

  “Likewise.”

  Humming softly, DeMarco settled in at his desk. Simon shook his head when he recognized the melody, “Me and My Shadow.”

  As Simon and Nina walked to his car, Simon abruptly asked, “So what was it that your friend told you? And why did it make you smile when you met DeMarco?”

  She stumbled slightly, which just piqued his curiosity more. She didn’t answer until they were inside the car and he turned toward her, obviously waiting for an answer. “She—um—commented that she thought your team was particularly blessed in the good looks department.”

  “Right,” he snorted and started the car engine. “And DeMarco confirmed that in your eyes?”

  “Sure. He’s a good-looking guy. Nice, too.”

  Simon pulled out of the SIG parking lot. It required a key card to enter, so Nina’s wreck of a car was probably a few blocks away on the curb or in a public parking lot. “He is nice. And he seemed to like you.”

  “What’s not to like?” she said mildly. “Except in your case, my career, of course.”

  “Look, I’m trying to be open-minded, I promise. I listened to your spiel, as you called it, back there, didn’t I?”

  “And?”

  “And I can’t argue with your good intentions,” he acknowledged. “That’s not what this is about. Like DeMarco said, it’s more about practicality. Reality. That’s all.”
/>
  “Why don’t we just agree to disagree on what’s practical or realistic?”

  “Fair enough.”

  After several minutes of silence, Simon tapped his palm on the steering wheel. “We’ll be together for the next few days, but I want you to know, if you ever need anything and I’m not around, you can always contact anyone on my team. Commander Stevens. Our lead detective, Mac, is away on a case, but there’s Jase or Carrie, who you met the other day. Or even...DeMarco.”

  She seemed surprised by his non sequitur, but nodded. “Thank you. Does that include a date to the fundraising gala Gil Archer was talking about? Because if DeMarco’s free...”

  He shot her an exaggerated scowl.

  Nina snorted. “I’m joking. Sheesh.”

  “Please, don’t joke about the gala. I’m not exactly looking forward it. At least if you were there, that would be a step in the right direction.”

  Her eyes rounded at that before she glanced away, trying not to look pleased. “Oh. Well...good. So...does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

  “I never said I hated you. I said I didn’t like you. And you were right when you corrected me. It’s your career—or more accurately, certain aspects of your training—I don’t like, not you.”

  When she remained quiet, he said, “I might as well keep my reputation as a straight shooter, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “That would be good.”

  “So. Funny that your first attempt at teasing me involves going on a date with DeMarco. Is that called verbalizing an unconscious desire in your line of work?

  She blinked dramatically. “Why, Detective Granger, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound jealous.”

  He grunted. Then shrugged. “I do, don’t I?”

  When he said nothing else, she shook her head in amazement. “Straight shooter, right?”

  “What can I say? I hate lying, even to myself. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Just like I didn’t like DeMarco flirting with you. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned. We have kissed, remember? And despite your stated feelings on the matter, well, as far as I’m concerned, the jury’s still out on whether we’ll be doing more.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it.

  “No comment?” he asked. “No insisting that our kiss got me out of your system like you were hoping it would?”

  “How about I change the subject and say DeMarco’s lucky to have you.”

  He looked at her chidingly, but gamely responded, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “It’s obvious you’re friends and he looks up to you. But it’s also obvious he uses his humor as a mask. What you do, it’s hard. You must rely on each other to stay grounded.”

  Simon thought about it. Although he didn’t ask for help often, he’d never doubted the other SIG members would be there for him if he needed them, but did they feel the same about him? Did DeMarco? DeMarco’s flirtations with Nina aside, he’d been quieter lately. More engrossed with his work. Maybe even...troubled?

  Was that why DeMarco had asked to have drinks with him? Did he need to talk some things out?

  He made a mental note to check in with his friend when they got back.

  “So...when I saw him the other day, Commander Stevens commented that you’ve got your eye on a management position. Is that—is that right?”

  “Sure. It’s a promotion. More responsibility. More pay. Why not?”

  “You seem to love what you do right now. You seem to be good at it.”

  “Can’t stay in one place too long or a person will grow complacent. I made the move last year, but got bored. Transferred back. It—it probably wasn’t the wisest choice.”

  “How come?”

  Simon glanced at her. “Are you psychoanalyzing me again, Doc?”

  “Not at all. I’m just...trying to get to know you better. You intrigue me.”

  He grinned. “Yeah? Well the feeling’s mutual.”

  They stared at each other for several seconds before he looked away and concentrated on the road again.

  “So you got bored and wanted back on the streets, but what changed? You want to be bored again?”

  “Maybe,” he said, clearly surprising her. “What? You weren’t expecting that answer?”

  “Honestly, I wasn’t expecting you to answer at all.”

  “As we’ve already discussed, Lana dying has had a huge impact on me. I suspect you already guessed that. I cared about her. I loved her. And I hate that I couldn’t save her. Of course I don’t want to be that helpless again. I want more control in my life. Control I’ll have a better chance at maintaining if I’m a captain rather than a detective. For example, the fact that we’re having to work together right now? That wouldn’t be happening if I was management.”

  “Good point. Although one subject to debate. Commander Stevens indicated this would give you a better idea of what management was actually like.”

  Really? Simon thought, wondering which one of them was right. But in the end it didn’t really matter. The fact was, even though he hadn’t wanted to work with her at first, he was enjoying her company immensely now. And that included the conversation they’d just had about his career decisions and how they’d been affected by Lana’s murder, no less. How the hell had that happened? When had he decided that Nina wasn’t an opponent, but a smart, beautiful woman whose company he enjoyed enough to let down his guard. When had it become so natural for him to tell a woman he barely knew that he liked her and was thinking about kissing her again?

  It had begun when he’d visited her home, he realized. When she’d joked with him about their “doing it.” And his respect for her had been growing by leaps and bounds ever since.

  Fortunately, before he could think about it too long, a call came through on his radio. He listened to the dispatcher’s communication with the patrol officer. Then he switched lanes. “We’ve got our first call,” he said abruptly.

  * * *

  SITTING AT HIS DESK, DeMarco was supposed to be working some leads in a carjacking case but he was growing more and more frustrated with each minute that passed. He’d felt fine when he’d been talking to Simon and his doctor friend, but now for some reason his mind kept wandering. And not to Nina Whitaker, the woman who’d just walked outside with Simon. Hell, that would have been understandable. She was a damn good-looking woman. Smart, too. If he was merely thinking that or about getting her in bed, he wouldn’t be worried. Distracted, but not worried.

  Instead, DeMarco kept thinking about the murder of that homeless man, Louis Cann, and how he and Simon must have missed something even though he knew damn well they hadn’t. And what was worse, DeMarco kept thinking that the Cann case file was calling out to him.

  He didn’t mean that his instincts were urging him to look at the file.

  He meant the file was literally calling out to him from the file cabinet across the room.

  “Hey, DeMarco,” it was saying in a voice eerily reminiscent of Bill Cosby. “Come and get me. Open me up and I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

  DeMarco gritted his teeth and willed the voice to go away. Instead, it continued calling to him. He felt a fine sheen of sweat break out on his body.

  Abruptly, he whirled around, wondering if Jase Tyler, their resident jokester, was messing with him. Jase was at his desk all right, but he was talking to Carrie. They both looked up at his sudden movement.

  Jase raised a brow. “Hey. You okay, DeMarco?”

  DeMarco swallowed hard. “What? Yeah, of course I am.”

  He turned back to his desk. Blinked rapidly and tried to focus on the papers he’d been reading. The letters were all swirling around. And that damn voice was still calling to him.

  Get the fucking file, he told himself. Then the damn voice will shut up.

  Slowly, DeMarco stood and made his way to the file cabinet. Acutely aware that Jase and Carrie were watching him, he opened the right drawer, found the file and reached for it. His hand hov
ered over the file almost fearfully, as if he expected the damn thing to leap out and bite him. He forced himself to pick it up.

  A sudden clanging across the room made him jump. He whirled around and shouted, “What the fuck?” Automatically, he reached for his sidepiece.

  “Whoa, DeMarco,” Carrie said, holding up her hands. “I just tossed my soda can in the trash.”

  “Jesus, Carrie. You startled me.”

  When she and Jase just stared at him, he shook his head.

  “Damn it, I’m sorry. I think—I think I should go home for a little while. I’m not feeling well.”

  “You want me to drive you?” Jase asked.

  DeMarco shook his head. “No. But thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  But even as he said it, DeMarco knew he was lying. Because he was holding the Cann file now. And it was still calling to him. This time, however, it wasn’t taunting him about a dead homeless man named Louis Cann.

  It was taunting him about Billy Dahl, the teenage boy DeMarco had shot six years ago in New Orleans.

  * * *

  WHEN SIMON AND NINA arrived at the modest little house off of Mission Street, the patrol car was already parked outside. Simon explained that he’d assess the situation first and would return for her only if he determined it was safe. Even so, he said, “Stay here,” before exiting the car and entering the residence. To her surprise, he returned a few minutes later and got back in the car. Silently, he started the engine and reached to put the car in gear. She stayed him with a hand on his arm.

  “What’s going on? Is the situation already over?”

  He gave a curt shake of his head. “Officer Harrison has it under control. At least, he will.”

  “But you don’t want me to go in,” she confirmed. “Who’s the suspect? Is he exhibiting signs of mental illness like the dispatcher thought?”

  “It’s a she. And yes, there may be a mental health issue involved.”

  “Then why shouldn’t we go in?”