by J W Becton
“You’re not what I expected,” Emily said, still tagging along with us.
“What did you expect?” I asked.
“Well, you’re supposed to be a dirty cop. Out to convict people for crimes they didn’t commit.”
I couldn’t say anything without violating the gag order, so I just kept walking.
Her words came with increased certainty now.
“You’re suspended, but you still saved that man. You’re not dirty, are you?”
I raised an eyebrow, and Vincent answered for me. “I’m not under a gag order, so I can tell you that, without question, Special Agent Jackson is a good cop. But you and your media buddies have tried and convicted her unfairly.”
Emily looked away. “We got a tip. I thought it was good.”
Wishing I could defend myself, I remained silent as Vincent and I crossed into the parking lot of the Heights, leaving Emily and Jimmy on the street.
We found Sydney and Mrs. Twilley plastered to the window in the top-floor apartment.
“We saw everything!” Mrs. Twilley said, walking eagerly toward us. Then, she paused and took us in. “Lord, you two look like you’ve been in a slaughterhouse.”
“What happened to the nurse?” I asked, ignoring her question. I was surprised to find them alone in the apartment and without medical care.
“We’re fine. Besides, she was hovering,” Sydney said, “so I sent her on her way.”
“Ah,” I said. “But she gave you a clean bill of health?”
“Sure, sure,” Sydney said.
“Who cares about all that?” Mrs. Twilley demanded. “Sydney and I, we got the bad guy, didn’t we?”
I nodded, not sure how much I ought to tell them. But then again, I figured the footage would be on the evening news, so what would it hurt? Plus, they’d obviously seen some of the chaos from the window.
“They’re all covered in blood,” Sydney said. “At least let them clean up first.”
He rooted around a nearby cabinet for old washcloths, and I explained as best I could.
“The suspect tried to cut off his own hand with that saw, and we were able to stop him before he severed it completely.”
Mrs. Twilley shot a glance at Sydney, who was now busy dampening washcloths for Vincent and me.
“Why would he do that?” Sydney asked as he turned from the sink. “Try to cut off his own hand?”
“Good question,” I said, taking a cloth from Sydney and wiping the blood from my face. “We weren’t able to ask him, but based on previous information, I think he was trying to make a death and dismemberment claim.”
“You can do that?” Mrs. Twilley asked. “Cut off your own hand and get paid for it?”
“No,” Vincent said. “Insurance doesn’t cover purposely self-inflicted wounds.”
“So what’ll happen to him?” Sydney asked.
“He’s at the hospital now, and I guess in surgery, but after his recovery, he’ll see a psychiatrist. He’ll probably be in the hospital for a while.”
“Too bad,” Mrs. Twilley said.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because it was just getting interesting around here. What will we do for fun now?”
Sydney groaned and turned his back so that he faced me and blotted out my view of Mrs. Twilley.
“How are you, dear?” he asked me. “Everything going okay? We saw the news….”
I smiled at Sydney. I didn’t feel like getting into it, but his dark eyes revealed genuine concern, and I felt bad for being so negative.
I sighed. “Oh, you saw that, huh?”
“Hon, everyone in town saw it,” Mrs. Twilley crowed from behind Sydney.
“I don’t know how the news got out, but I wish it hadn’t. Makes me look like a dirty cop,” I said, thinking of Emily’s words. “But I’m not dirty. I was just trying to keep my sister’s case from going cold.”
Sydney nodded.
“We know you’re a good girl, but—” He paused. “You really shouldn’t be walking around in those clothes. Here, let me give you something to wear home.”
He glanced at Vincent, who had removed his blood-spattered sweater and now wore a dark, mostly clean T-shirt.
“I’d offer you a pair of slacks,” Sydney said to Vincent, “but I’ve got nothing that’s going to fit you.”
I almost laughed at the idea of Vincent squeezing into a pair of the shorter man’s pants.
“It’s okay,” Vincent said. “I appreciate the thought. I’ve got a change of clothes in my truck.”
Sydney rummaged through a chest of drawers and produced a change of clothes for me: a pair of plaid pants circa 1975 and a knit turtleneck.
Reminding myself to be grateful for the clean clothes, I went into the bathroom to change. I stripped out of my blood-splattered outfit and dumped it into the plastic liner from the bathroom trash can. Then I washed the last of Blissett’s blood from my skin.
Sighing, I slipped on Sydney’s ensemble. The shirt was mustard yellow and apparently made of steel wool, and the orange plaid pants were so high waisted that they could have doubled as a bra, but I’d take clean and blood-free over stylish any day of the week.
I tried to smooth my hair with a little water, but that was a hopeless cause.
After tugging on my boots, I restrained a giggle as I checked my appearance one last time.
I was throwback gorgeous.
I had just returned to the living area, looking sharp, when we were interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door. Vincent let in Joseph Peters, who was wiping sweat from his forehead with the cuffs of his plaid shirt when he realized that Sydney wasn’t alone.
“Excuse the interruption,” Peters said, looking over my outfit with confusion. “I want to apologize again for the situation with the elevator and let you know that it will be out of service for the rest of the night. Our maintenance crew got the doors open, but we have to call the elevator company to get it working again.”
Mrs. Twilley voiced my first thought. “You expect these old people to walk up and down ten stories? You’re off your rocker.”
“The elevator company charges a massive after-hours fee,” the building manager protested.
I rolled my eyes.
Ted would have been proud of this spendthrift. Which reminded me: what exactly was going on between Peters and our boss, Ted?
Peters glanced at our disapproving faces.
“It’s only one night,” he said, sighing. “There’s nothing more I can do.”
Peters shrugged at all of us and then turned on his heel, tromping down the hallway.
“Alright,” I said, following Peters to the stairs at a brisk clip with Vincent close behind me. “What is it between you and Ted?”
Peters didn’t appear surprised at my rapid change of topic, and he didn’t slow his steps as he entered the fire stairs and started pounding down them.
“Why do you care?” he asked.
“Would you believe that I want the dirt on my boss? I’m not a great fan of Ted. Isn’t that enough reason for you to tell me?”
“Nope,” he panted.
“Ted’s just about to fire me—”
“You’re on his shit list too?” Peters asked, stopping suddenly between the seventh and sixth floors. He turned to look over Vincent and me with newfound admiration in his expression.
I stopped short and managed to nod.
“I’m numero uno on Ted’s list,” I said to Peters, trying not to look as if I were breathing heavy from chasing him.
“That true?” he asked, looking over my shoulder at Vincent for confirmation.
“Ted’s just looking for a reason to drop her,” he confirmed.
“Still a bastard,” Peters mused, starting down the stairs again. “Come to my office, and I’ll tell you everything.”
We followed Peters down the remaining flights of stairs at a slower pace and were treated to bottled water when we got to his office.
“Those stairs are a kille
r,” he admitted. “No senior citizen is going to be able to deal with this for one night.”
He picked up his phone, called the elevator company, and told them to get the elevator moving before the night was out and to finish servicing it without taking the machine down for longer than necessary.
“Okay, now, about Ted,” I prompted when he hung up. “We know you worked with him in the mayor’s office years ago.”
“First, let me apologize for not helping you out. Once I heard you were associated with Ted, I was afraid of getting tangled up with him again.” Peters took a swig of water. “Seemed like a nice guy, for someone with political aspirations, I mean. But you know how it is when you get into government work. Everyone has political aspirations, and they’ll do whatever it takes to make their dreams come true. Well, it didn’t take me long to learn that Ted’s kindness was all a mask. We were competing for appointments to a couple of state positions, and he chewed me up and spit me out.”
“State positions? You were in local government,” Vincent pointed out.
“Yeah, but the mayor was throwing his weight around back in those days, using his high-clout friends to put politically similar people in state positions in the city. He saw it as a way to ensure cooperation ad nauseum.”
I nodded. It sounded smarmy enough to be a viable political tactic.
“Well, Ted wanted a law enforcement gig, and so did I. The press has this annoying habit of shining the spotlight either on the baddies or on people who take down the baddies, you know. And we both wanted that spotlight on us.”
I glanced at Vincent and grunted, “Be careful what you wish for.”
He gave me a small grin, but Peters must not have heard.
“Ted was young and unqualified for any law enforcement appointment, but he wanted to advance, and he didn’t want just any city appointment. No, he wanted to skip some rungs on the ladder. Of course, plenty of people boasted more seniority and had more experience, including yours truly. Ted was determined. And he sure found a way via the bedroom.”
My lips dropped open in surprise. I had thought of Ted as a Ken doll, without actual man parts, so the idea that he might have used them for career advancement left me at a loss. Fastidious Ted having sex, and pimping himself, no less. It was so wrong.
I cut my eyes toward Vincent, who seemed equally flummoxed by this news. He recovered first.
“How is this relevant?” he asked, though I assumed he was already just as aware as I was of some of the repercussions of Ted’s past actions.
Peters himself represented the biggest repercussion. He had elected to thwart a DOI investigation due to whatever Ted had done to him. And because of his fear of Peters, Ted had refused to step in and work on our behalf to secure an optimum surveillance location.
Therefore, Ted bore the responsibility for the safety of Mrs. Twilley and Sydney, civilians who had become embroiled in the matter as a result.
“Ted began an affair with Sarabeth Moynahan, and ba-da-bing—if you’ll excuse the expression—he started a rapid ascension through city and state positions.”
I blinked.
The widow of deceased state senator Chip Moynahan, Sarabeth now held his seat, and word was that she planned to run for reelection when her honorary term ended. Sarabeth’s affair with Ted was obviously not a recent development, but dredging it up during an election that hinged on emotion would sully Sarabeth’s wholesome reputation as the ever faithful, grieving widow. Double standard alert: political sex scandals don’t always end well if the woman is the party in power.
“Wow,” I said, feeling as if my vocabulary had suddenly diminished by a factor of ten. Ted had an affair. And with a state senator’s wife. I could hardly wrap my mind around the idea of starchy Ted involved in such a charade. “I can’t believe it.”
I’d always viewed Ted Insley as a buttoned-up, micromanaging boss, not a philanderer. He existed to crunch numbers and fill starched shirts. He didn’t have affairs in order to get political appointments.
Of course, I was a good cop who would never tamper with evidence.
Appearances could be deceiving.
“Yeah, well, it’s true,” Peters said. “Later, Ted and I ended up competing over the DOI job, and surprise, surprise, he won the appointment. I got to admit that I was pissed. After all, I had far more experience in the field, more seniority. So I hired a PI, and this is what he brought me back.”
He handed me a wrinkled, well-stuffed file folder.
“It’s all there. I confronted Ted with it, which was a dumb move on my part, but I was so angry. I wanted to cram it down his throat. But all I did was get myself fired and subsequently blacklisted from any decent state government positions.”
I opened the weathered folder in my hands and saw photos of a younger Ted and a woman a few years his senior.
Oh, my gosh! It was true. I slammed the folder shut, but the images remained imprinted on my brain.
“Why are you showing me this?” I asked, dangling the folder between my thumb and forefinger as if it were contaminated.
“You said Ted was going to fire you. Besides, I know about your trouble,” Peters said. “I’ve seen you on the news. I didn’t put it all together until just now, but if you have this, Ted won’t be able to throw you under the bus. Use it against him. You have my permission.”
I stared at Peters, not caring that my mouth hung agape.
In my hands I held the perfect opportunity to gain Ted’s unwilling support. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to preserve my job at the DOI, but having him on my side, well, it might go a long way toward turning things in my favor. Maybe I could keep my reputation at least.
I blinked at my turn of thought.
I glanced at the folder again and then back at Peters. What he wanted me to do was tantamount to blackmail. Was my career worth blackmailing Ted?
“Why?” I asked him. “Why haven’t you used this information against Ted before now?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”
“And this is the right moment? I’m the right moment?”
“Maybe,” he said. “On the surface, Ted tries to look like one of the good guys, but when he’s faced with a moral choice, he will always take the one that benefits him, right or wrong. Right now, he’s likely facing a lot of pressure from above about how to handle you and the mess you represent. No offense.”
“None taken,” I answered automatically. My life was a mess.
“He’s going to do the expedient thing and drop you. He’ll let the authorities come after you, destroy your life and career in law enforcement, and he’ll come out smelling like a rose for ridding the world of one dirty cop. He’ll revel in the accolades, get promoted. But what you’ve got in your hands can change your future. On an ordinary day, Ted hates scandal, but he’d be able to fight off an ordinary sex scandal. When Moynahan’s election is on the line, though, and he’s already ankle deep in controversy himself…. With the spotlight on the DOI’s ethics, adding Moynahan’s role in his appointment to the mix will make the place look like one big cluster”—he checked himself—“disaster.”
“The higher-ups in Atlanta would have to clean house,” I said. “Get rid of me, Ted, anyone whose career hints at scandal. Save face. PR.”
“That’s right,” Peters said, a wicked grin creeping across his features. “If you go, he goes too.”
What a wicked idea indeed.
Thirty
I held Peters’s file protectively beneath my arm, and I could almost hear Sydney’s sweater scratching against the smooth folder as I walked with my partner toward the parking lot at the Heights.
It seemed like we’d been there for ages, and with each step, my mind and body reminded me how exhausted I was. My limbs felt heavy, and my head ached. Beside me, Vincent carried his soiled clothing under one arm. He looked tired too.
Vincent stopped and leaned against the driver’s door of my Explorer. The wrinkle of concern deepened on his b
row as he regarded me.
“Are you all right?” he asked, reaching out to brush a stray hair from my face. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
Before he pulled away, I trapped his hand, cradling his palm against my cheek.
A hell of a day? More like week, month, the last seventeen years.
I wanted to hit the pause button on my crazy life. I wanted the insanity, the hard decisions, to be over. I longed to go home, shower, rest, and try to forget about all my problems. But the prospect of being alone, of entering an empty house and spending the night isolated with my thoughts and fears, repelled me.
I didn’t want to be alone.
“I know there’s no need for a protection detail tonight,” I said softly, “but….”
My voice trailed off as I tried to compose my question. We had agreed to take things slow, but we were partners in more ways than one already, even if we hadn’t been on a real date yet. I wanted him with me.
Vincent’s eyes darkened with mutual need.
“Come home with me tonight,” I said, my voice breathy.
His fingers slipped from my cheek to the nape of my neck, and he leaned carefully toward me, his lips a whisper from mine.
“There’s no place I’d rather be,” he said.
And then he kissed me.
Going into my dark house with Vincent felt like more than just entering a familiar dwelling. It felt like coming home.
Sure, it was my house, but sometimes, even with Maxwell there, it felt less like home and more like a place I simply lived. I liked hearing Vincent’s shower running in the background, loved seeing the quilt he’d used Saturday night folded on the end of the sofa and his coffee mug still on my counter.
Good Lord, I needed to clean my house.
I needed to clean myself first. Once in my own bathroom, I stripped off Sydney’s loaner outfit and boiled myself in the shower until the dried blood and assorted dirt I’d picked up at Blissett’s house was gone.
By the time I made my way down the stairs again, Vincent was already preparing his makeshift bed on the sofa. Maxwell supervised the procedure from beneath the side table.
I’d been planning to do a load of laundry, but my good intentions flew right out of my head when I saw Vincent leaning over the sofa, wearing nothing but a pair of dark sweats. Good Lord, he was delicious. Solid, masculine, and delicious.