Undone by Moonlight

by Wendy Etherington

  “No, you can’t,” Devin said slowly and firmly. “You’ll taint the chain of evidence. No judge would let that information be heard in court.”

  Calla waved her hand in dismissal. “We don’t need court. We need a suspect. You guys can figure out how to prosecute her once we find her.”

  Devin was almost certain the top of his head was going to blow off. “Oh, can we?”

  “Calla has a point,” Trevor said. “This woman has been a shadow so far. The usual methods aren’t getting results.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Devin argued.

  Calla glared at him over her shoulder. “We’ll meet the suspects in public places,” she said through clenched teeth. “No one’s going to get hurt.”

  “Really?” Devin faked surprise. “And that guarantee is based on your many years of experience in being safe and nonimpulsive?”

  “Trevor, do something,” Shelby pleaded.

  Trevor pulled out his wife’s chair and urged her to her feet. “I have a firm policy not to get in the middle of another couple’s argument. Why don’t we go upstairs to the terrace?”

  Victoria practically leaped out of her seat, grabbing Jared’s hand and poking Howard’s shoulder. “Great idea.”

  “There’s a full moon,” Howard said, following the others. “I should have brought my telescope.”

  The moment they were alone, Calla pushed her face within inches of Devin’s. “Since when do I need your permission to do anything?”

  “Since it’s my ass on the line.”

  “I didn’t hear you complain when I hauled your drunk ass home from that dive bar and took care of you.”

  Actually, he’d told her over and over he didn’t want to drag her into his dark and precarious life. She never listened.

  “Or when I found the only two pieces of physical evidence that gives us any remote lead on the identity of this woman,” she continued, her azure eyes standing out starkly from her flushed face.

  “Well, now that you’ve come up with a hairbrained scheme that involves you confronting a killer, I’m objecting.”

  She jabbed her finger against his chest. “Look here, buddy. I know I said the possessiveness was sexy, but I control where I go and what I do. I’m not some kind of chattel for you to order around.”

  “Chattel?”

  “From Medieval times. It means a personal possession. I was the leader of this group long before Lieutenant Rulebook arrived, and my plan deserves more consideration than your knee-jerk rejection because we’re not following the chain of command. Furthermore, any time you and your NYPD pals want to run your little operation by yourselves, be my guest.” She stormed off. “Tell Shelby I went home. And you can find some other comfy bed to warm tonight,” she added as she stalked down the hall.

  “I’m worried about you!” he shouted after her.

  She halted at the door. “Why?” she asked without turning around.

  Encouraged by her soft tone, he approached her, though he was cautious enough not to touch. “I can’t be responsible for you getting hurt.”

  Her gaze met his, searching. “Why?”

  “You mean too much to me.”

  “I want to help you for the same reason.”

  But she couldn’t possibly realize how thoroughly her beauty and optimism had saved him. Not that he could tell her. Not only wasn’t he the schmaltzy hearts and flowers type, he’d never forgive himself for contaminating her rosy light with revenge and death.

  She should be writing about exotic beaches and the latest luxury ski resort, not getting her editor to lie so they could interview potential murderers.

  He chanced soothing her fury and slid his arm around her waist. “I couldn’t do any of this without you. Your plan is good, but risking you is not how I want to get my badge back.”

  “So help me. We can do this together.” She curled her arms around his neck. “You know, teamwork.”

  He pulled her against him. “We’re a pretty good team.”

  She bumped her hip against his growing erection. “In certain areas, we’re great.”

  They were compatible in bed and nowhere else? Expected, but he had the strange urge to argue. Shouldn’t there be more? Did he want more?

  He did, but wasn’t sure how to say so, much less make it happen. “I want to tell Reid and Anderson,” he said, realizing he needed to focus on work, where he actually knew what to do.

  “They won’t approve.”

  “They will. They don’t have anything else, either.” He

  saw the argument rise in her eyes. “We need backup.”

  “Okay, fine.” After a brief sulk, she kissed him beneath his chin, and his blood, so cool from fear, warmed again. “But if they’re around, we’ll have to follow rules,” she said.

  Always the vigilante. “Some, yes, but it’s not illegal for law enforcement to mislead a suspect.”

  She brightened. “So, we can lie. What about the prints?”

  “Based on a suspicious statement from a suspect, we might have probable cause for print analysis.”

  “Who determines what’s suspicious?”

  “I do.”

  She scowled. “Don’t forget I’m Robin.”

  He returned her caress, pressing his lips to her chin, then her jaw. A touch he longed to extend and determined he would by night’s end. “So you’ve told me many, many times.”

  “And from now on, no dismissing my ideas without telling me the real reason you’re objecting.”

  No way he’d share that much. He didn’t know how. “I’ll be a team player,” he said, since that was within his capabilities.

  The rest of a healthy relationship was a complete mystery.

  13

  “HOW DO I LET MYSELF get talked into these things?” Devin wondered, though no one else was in the surveillance van to hear him complain.

  From the case files, the gang had identified the best leads and each pair of writers was interviewing two suspects a day, mostly during their lunch hour, as everybody had their own jobs to do or businesses to run.

  As predicted, several of the women contacted didn’t want to talk, since not only didn’t they think their spouse-boyfriend-brother-uncle had been wrongly convicted, but were thrilled he had been. Those contacts were added to the backburner.

  Yesterday hadn’t yielded any dramatic results, but Calla’s confidence wasn’t shaken. She’d personally interviewed the two most likely female ex-cons Devin had arrested who might be revenge-minded. Both were only too happy to yammer on about how they’d been railroaded. But since the department had profiled their murder suspect as cold and remote, the two were eliminated easily. Also, their prints were on file and hadn’t matched any aspect of the partials.

  His one stipulation to the fake journalist plan—

  putting Anderson and Reid in charge of surveillance—had eased his mind enough to let the Shelby-Trevor and Victoria-Jared teams move forward with basic microphones to record what they said to suspects and communicate with his colleagues, who were monitoring from a few blocks away.

  But since Calla had drawn the minuscule straw with Howard, and Devin was extra paranoid when it came to her, he was taking further precautions. So he’d made her wear a wire with video capabilities, which he was monitoring from a utility van across the street from the café where she was meeting her suspects.

  “What an adorable picture,” Calla was saying, holding a photograph of their suspect’s brother at five.

  “You wouldn’t recognize him now,” Natalie Thompson sobbed. “Shaved head, tattoos, piercings. Prison changed him. It’s horrible.”

  Exasperated, Devin slumped in his seat. Yeah, poor little Stevie Thompson. Course today, he was 6’4”, weighed 240 and had a fondness for using a knife with a ten-inch serrated blade to threaten convenience store clerks as he robbed them.

  Devin had nearly been filleted when he’d arrested him and was thrilled to know he was still behind bars where he belonged.

 
; Howard handed Natalie a tissue. “Tragic.”

  “Thanks.” Trembling, Natalie dabbed her eyes. “He fell in with the wrong crowd, you know. He said the police planted that big knife on him.”

  Calla gasped. “You’re kidding. That’s not fair.”

  “I know, right?” Natalie blew her nose. “Then they wouldn’t let him out on bail because he’d supposedly tried to attack the cop who arrested him.” Natalie was busying mopping more tears off her face and didn’t notice the shocked expression that crossed Calla’s. “Stevie said he hadn’t realized the guy was a cop. He’d only been defending himself.”

  “Yeah,” Devin muttered. “The big, shiny badge I shoved in his face wasn’t a definitive clue.”

  “Stevie wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Natalie wailed.

  “But he’s awfully...big,” Howard commented.

  Calla jabbed Howard with her elbow and put on an earnest expression for her suspect. “Of course he wouldn’t. Do you think the police are abusing their authority?”

  Natalie sniffled as she lifted her watery gaze to

  Calla’s. “I did for a while. I was so prepared to hate the cop that arrested him. I couldn’t wait to go to the trial. So, there he was, sitting in the witness stand and looking fierce and remote, but he was also...” She trailed off, apparently lost in a memory.

  “But he was also?” Calla prompted.

  Natalie’s bloodshot eyes lit up. “Gorgeous.”

  Devin nearly fell out of his chair. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Howard looked disgusted, and Calla coughed, likely covering up a laugh.

  “I mean I’m loyal to my brother and all,” Natalie continued. “I wasn’t going to ask him out or anything like that. But if the NYPD’s got guys like that roaming the city, I’m all for law and order.”

  “Are you sure you’re not more resentful?” Howard asked pleadingly. “After all, good looks are genetic. It’s not like he’s responsible for them. I think intelligence is a much more reliable yardstick of—”

  “He could be dumb as a rock for all I care.” Natalie pulled a compact from her purse and dabbed her flushed cheeks. “Anyway, I still don’t think Stevie did anything wrong, but I blame his attorney, not the cops. How that idiot got through law school, I’ll never know. Course all lawyers are creeps, so what do ya expect?”

  Howard suddenly became thoroughly engrossed in taking notes on the pad he’d laid on the table.

  “That’s where you should put the focus for your article,” Natalie said to Calla. “No telling how many innocent people are in prison thanks to incompetent lawyers.”

  Calla cleared her throat. “I’ll certainly give that consideration.”

  They parted from their suspect with effusive thanks and a promise to send a copy of the article when it was released.

  Howard pulled out Calla’s chair, and she returned to her seat. Their next interview wasn’t for another half an hour, so they ordered lunch.

  As the waitress walked away, Calla commented in a low voice, “So, Detective G, think that’s our killer?”

  Devin moved his headset microphone in front of his mouth. “Detect—” He stopped, realizing the significance. Gorgeous. Isn’t that terrific? Maybe he’d be extra popular in prison. “I think we can safely eliminate Natalie Thompson.”

  “Whatever happened to brains over beauty?” Howard wondered.

  Calla squeezed lemon into her water glass. “Don’t kid yourself, Howard. Women can be just as shallow as men.”

  Howard sighed. “You said it, sister.”

  “Devin, you’ve got your care package, don’t you?” Calla asked.

  “Yeah.” Though he knew the Robin Hood gang would provide something more interesting than the ham sandwich he usually wound up with during surveillance, he realized he’d be eating while watching his girlfriend enjoy lunch with another man.

  Calla laughed at a joke Howard made about the guy at the table next to them, who was apparently having lunch with a lover, but not his wife.

  “Maybe you should slip him your business card,” Calla suggested quietly.

  “I don’t do divorces,” Howard said, toasting her with his soda glass. “I prefer love and devotion in a relationship.”

  Devin hunched his shoulders.

  Calla was devoted to him, but did he give her what she needed? He was certain he satisfied her, and she loved helping him. Her positive spirit certainly left her open to love, but he wasn’t sure he knew how. He couldn’t imagine the “L” word was truly part of their relationship. Nor did he necessarily want it to be.

  Truthfully, the entire idea scared the crap out of him.

  Instead, to show his appreciation for her affection, care and patience, he’d given her a traumatized cat.

  “Way to go, Antonio,” he mumbled.

  “What was that, Devin?” Calla asked. “Is something wrong?”

  He’d forgotten about the microphone. “No. Everything’s good here.”

  Even as he said the words, the waitress delivered their meals, and Devin ground his teeth as Howard offered to grind pepper over Calla’s salad.

  Wasn’t suppressed anger bad for digestion?

  At least when he opened his picnic basket, he found a bowl containing several varieties of lettuce leaves with all the salad additions and dressing packed in individual plastic containers, one of which included medium rare, thinly sliced prime filet.

  There was a note from Shelby. If you’re going to live on beef, you should at least have some greens.

  Care and devotion. Yet he hadn’t even satisfied Shelby beyond arresting the guy who’d stolen her parents’ retirement savings.

  Oscar Wilde was obviously right on point.

  After surviving lunch—barely—and reminding his chummy investigative duo that the suspect was five minutes away, Devin double-checked all the audio and video equipment. He briefly, and silently, acknowledged that Howard was way better at romance than he could ever dream to be.

  Devin wasn’t blind. He knew he was bigger, stronger and more physical than Howard, but his lawyer knew the right things to say, how to engage a woman in a conversation she enjoyed, how to make her laugh and relax, how to show her she was valued beyond the bedroom.

  Devin was clueless.

  With little choice, he shook off his inadequacies and doubts as the second interview began. The information revealed was as unlikely to lead to anything significant as the discussions before it.

  The suspect seemed more interested in her free lunch than chatting about her ex-boyfriend, who was doing time for aggravated assault.

  She blamed his mother, her mother, the government, the cops and his hard-drinking buddies for his problems. Yet she seemed too angry. She had no control and certainly didn’t have the sophistication to pull off the elaborate frame-up their suspect had. And, at 5’9”, 200 pounds and sporting both a scorpion tattoo and blue-streaked hair, she looked nothing like the sketch.

  Scary, but not their killer.

  “We’ve got nothing,” he said to Calla and Howard as Blue-haired Girl left. “Let’s meet Anderson and Reid to see if they’ve got anything better.”

  * * *

  SINCE THEY WEREN’T officially part of the gang, Devin’s colleagues hadn’t gotten a care package, so they suggested a meeting and late lunch at a sports bar near Times Square.

  They might be surrounded by too much neon and chatty tourists, but they couldn’t chance Paddy’s, the usual cop hangout. They’d have to explain why a suspended detective was sharing a cozy meal with IAB and the Homicide cop in charge of the case of the guy he’d been accused of assaulting.

  Personally, Devin was already sick of the intrigue. He’d never make it as a long-term undercover guy.

  The gang, including Howard, had to go back to their respective offices, so that left Devin, Calla, Anderson and Reid.

  Anderson flipped open his menu. “So...Detective Gorgeous, the captain’s been tryin’ to get a Men of the NYPD calendar started up. You play
your cards right, you could be Mr. October.”

  Humiliated, Devin closed his eyes. “How did you—”

  “It’s my op,” Anderson said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I can listen to whatever channel I want to.”

  He was absolutely never going to live that one down. Would he also be called a coward if he took a job in private security and never had to walk through the doors of the station again?

  Calla shrugged. “Beauty aside, Detective, which is entirely subjective, the more embarrassing fact is that it’s a bad boy thing. Some women simply can’t resist the lure.”

  No kidding?

  Wait, based on her hand currently sliding across his thigh, she was kidding.

  Still, Devin considered her comment. The bad boy moniker seemed more apt for movie trailers or extreme sports. But was that description why she was interested in him? Had she been lured? Was he a curiosity? A distraction?

  He found himself unhappy by all those reasonings. But what else did he have to offer her?

  “This is a murder investigation.” Reid snapped closed his menu and laid it on the table. “Can we focus?”

  “Just tryin’ to lighten the mood,” Anderson retorted, unrepentant. “I’ll have the cheeseburger,” he added to the waitress.

  Reid ordered a club sandwich, and they were left to talk about their unproductive morning.

  Reid claimed their second interview was a possibility. The suspect was infuriated over her son’s arrest and conviction for drug possession and intent to sell, and she wasn’t going to take it anymore. She was certain Devin had planted evidence—apparently a common delusion among the wrongly convicted—and the cops wanted her son in jail because he knew the attorney general was a secret communist trying to gain control of the city.

  Again, in Devin’s option, she harbored too much anger, and she didn’t remotely fit the parameters of the sketch.