LOVER UNDER COVER

by Justine Davis

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  The first thing he noticed before she slapped him was the strawberry-blond color of her hair.

  The first thing afterward was that she had one hell of a right arm.

  His left cheek stung, and he tasted a trace of blood in the corner of his mouth. Quite a price, Quisto Romero thought, for the quick once-over he'd given the shapely redhead as she walked up the steps toward him. First the sergeant's test—which he knew he'd messed up—and now this. It was not shaping up as a great day.

  He sensed a movement to one side of him and muttered, "Hold on a minute, partner."

  "No thanks, Quisto, ol' buddy," Chance Buckner said, stifling a grin as he began to sidle away. "I'm an old married man now. I never get in the middle of your … domestic problems."

  "Normally I'd agree," Quisto said, staring at the petite woman with the wavy mane of hair who still stood on the steps of the Marina del Mar police headquarters, "but I've never seen this woman before in my life." He tried his most practiced, charming smile; it hurt his sore mouth. "And believe me, I would remember."

  He'd gotten varying reactions to that smile, both positive and negative, but never had it fallen quite so flat. She simply stared at him, this redhead with the peaches-and-cream complexion—and a pair of blue eyes that redefined the word ice. She wasn't angry; she was far beyond that. Fury was rolling off her in waves that were palpable.

  "If you're really his partner," she said to Chance, never releasing Quisto from the ferocity of her gaze, "then you have my sympathy. You must have to do his dirty work, too."

  "Ouch," Chance said. "You stabbed him right in the machismo."

  His partner's gibe, half joking, half wary, had the effect it was supposed to; Quisto's ire, which was sometimes too easily aroused, cooled. And his curiosity—even more easily aroused—began to make itself known.

  "A large target, I'm sure," the redhead said.

  "Are you just pushing to see how far you can go, or do you have a plan of some sort?" Quisto asked; merely curious. "Perhaps to prod me into arresting you for simply being obnoxious, and then filing a brutality suit, Ms—?"

  "Oh, no," she said, ignoring his implied question, her tone turning bitter. "I'm sure you would never do anything that could be construed as brutal in front of witnesses."

  "Unlike yourself, of course," Quisto said mildly, rubbing anew at a cheek that he was certain still bore the imprint of her palm.

  "So arrest me for assaulting an officer. It was worth it. You're the one who should be dead."

  Quisto straightened sharply; Chance went very still. A slap in the face from an outraged female was one thing—and one Quisto had suffered through before, on occasion—but a death threat was something else again.

  He saw Chance move with that swiftness that was so striking in such a big man, coming up close behind her, so quickly that, startled, she jumped forward and turned her head to look at him. In that instant, Quisto moved again, catching her wrists in his hands and holding them.

  She whipped around, the thick mass of her hair swirling with the movement. Her chin shot up, and her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. Whatever her problem was, it wasn't lack of nerve, Quisto thought.

  "Let go." She grated the words out through clenched teeth. She pulled with considerable strength, but Quisto held her fast.

  "In a minute," Quisto said. He glanced at Chance. "Amigo?"

  Chance groaned. Then, with a sigh, he began to do a pat-down search of the slender woman. "Why me?" he muttered rhetorically as he ran his hands up the outside of her leg.

  "Hey!" the woman exclaimed, looking back at Chance. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Being late for my vacation." He continued the search methodically, thoroughly. "My wife is at home waiting for me now, the baby's with my parents, and we're going to be alone together tonight for the first time in a year."

  "Oh."

  The mention of Chance's family seemed to throw her; it always amazed Quisto how people never seemed to realize cops had families, too. Except, he thought sourly, when they saw them at said cops' funerals.

  "I'm sorry," she said unexpectedly to Chance. "But what are you doing?"

  "It's called a pat-down search for weapons," Quisto said coldly.

  "Weapons?" she yelped, jerking around to face him again.

  "It's routine for people who are stupid enough to threaten police officers on the front steps of the department."

  "Threaten? I didn't threaten you! I just said you were the one who should be dead!"

  "Excuse me, but in my line of work, when people start wishing me dead, I have a tendency to take them seriously."

  "I don't doubt you have to," she snapped, as Chance finished his search and shook his head. "I'm sure you have a lot of enemies, Detective Romero." She rolled the title off her tongue as if it tasted bad.

  Quisto lifted a brow in an expression that some women had described as whimsical, some as sardonic, depending on whether he was still seeing them at the time. He didn't release her wrists.

  "I see," he said. "So this is a specific attack, and not a campaign against cops in general."

  "I have nothing against cops in general. I respect them. There are only specific examples of the species I loathe. Let go."

  "In a moment—"

  "Not even enough courage to face an unarmed woman?"

  Quisto sighed. "You know, you keep punching, and pretty soon that machismo of mine is going to be bruised. And I get very cranky when that happens."

  She ignored the warning. "I shouldn't be surprised. Not from the kind of man who sends a child to do his dirty work for him."

  Quisto stiffened. And his voice took on a low, quiet note that had Chance watching very warily, because he knew it so well.

  "I'll have your name now, please."

  Her hands still held tight, she gave a short shake of her head, tossing the red-gold mass of her hair back out of her eyes. "It's Murphy, for all the good it will do you."

  "That was a very specific accusation … Ms. Murphy. Would you care to explain what the hell you're talking about?"

  The very evenness of his tone made the curse somehow more potent. For the first time, a touch of caution came into her eyes. He had to give her credit for that, too; she seemed to have sensed she'd gone too far. Even when Chance searched for weapons, she hadn't been wary. Which meant she trusted them—well, Chance, at least, probably due to those blue-eyed-and-blond farm-boy good looks—to behave as most people expected cops to behave, with more restraint than would ever be asked of an average person.

  The only problem was, Quisto thought as he looked at her thoroughly once more, she had run through his quota of restraint for the day in one big hurry.

  "You know very well what I'm talking about." It came out through gritted teeth, as if she were having to hold back an even stronger anger than she'd let out. "And you have no right to hold me like this, now that you know I'm not armed."

  The last word was bitten off sarcastically. Quisto held on, trying to maintain his grip while not hurting what seemed to be inordinately delicate wrists. "I do if you're going to slap me again the minute I let you go."

  "I won't." She sighed, and he felt some of the tension go out of her, and her constant pulling, her testing of his grip, eased. "I didn't want to slap you in the first place."

  Quisto's mouth quirked, and then he winced slightly, as the movement pulled on the sore part of his lip. But she seemed calmer now, so he released her. "Then you sure did a good imitation of somebody who wanted to slap me, lady."

&
nbsp; Her chin came up again. "I wanted to slug you."

  Quisto blinked. He heard an odd sound, and glanced to one side in time to see Chance stifling a chuckle.

  "Sorry, pal," his partner said, raising his hands, palms out, to disclaim responsibility, "but this has all the earmarks of a scene I've watched before. Often. And Shea's waiting for me."

  Quisto knew Chance had reached the same conclusion he had: Ms. Murphy was not likely to try hitting him again.

  "Give my love to my favorite songstress," he said, signaling Chance that it was all right for him to go. Chance hesitated, but Quisto nodded toward the parking lot, where Chance's Jeep was parked. "Go on. I get the feeling the lady's business is with me."

  His partner would have stayed, had he asked, but he knew that Chance wanted nothing more than to get out of here before something happened to delay his long-awaited vacation. He was absolutely crazy about his wife, and watching them over the two years of their marriage had had an odd effect on Quisto; he envied them, even as he acknowledged that the thought of being as close to anyone as Chance was to Shea made him very, very nervous.

  "So, Ms. Murphy," he said after Chance had left, accenting the title slightly, "would you like to explain what brought you here in such righteous indignation?"

  He knew the second the words left his mouth that they were a mistake. That chin came up again, and the blue eyes—they were, he noticed, very blue—regained their former icy gleam.

  "I suppose I should have expected that kind of belittlement from you," she said, her voice tight. "Putting the little woman in her place would be your style."

  "Hijo la," Quisto muttered the expression of disgust under his breath. He glared at her, all attempts at charm now far from his mind. "You are carrying around a bagful of assumptions about me, and I don't appreciate you airing them in public."

  "I'll bet. People like you work better under rocks."

  "That's it," Quisto snapped, his patience at an end. "Come on."

  He reached for her arm. She backed away. "Am I under arrest?"

  "Oh, I'm sure I could find something to arrest you for. Some obscure municipal code to do with loitering on the steps of a public building with no visible purpose, or obstructing pedestrians on the sidewalk … not to mention assaulting an officer. And I assure you, I could make it a miserable experience for you."

  She studied him for a moment. "But you're not going to."

  "A decision for which I shall surely pay," he said gloomily. "Now, will you please come inside, where we can talk in—"

  "We can talk here."

  He let out an exasperated sigh. "Then at least let's get out of the way." He started toward a small bench that sat to one side of the front door of the station, positioned to give its occupant a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean—gray today, in the typical early-spring fog—in the distance. She hesitated, and he said warningly, "Don't make me change my mind about that arrest."

  "I don't respond well to threats, Detective," she said, following him, but refusing to sit down.

  His mouth quirked again as he resignedly remained standing, and again he winced. "You don't respond well to civility, charm or restraint, either. Or am I assuming too much on such short acquaintance?"

  Faint spots of color tinged her cheeks; she had the grace to acknowledge the accuracy of his jab. "I know enough about you," she said shortly. "But I apologize for hitting you. Violence isn't the answer. I'm ashamed that I resorted to it."

  "But it was your first instinct."

  Her color deepened. "Yes. I wanted to … hurt you."

  "Rest assured," he said wryly, "you did."

  For the first time, she lowered her gaze. "Then why don't you arrest me?"

  "I'd rather know why." Her gaze shot back to his face. He shrugged. "Insatiable curiosity. Occupational hazard."

  For a long moment, she simply looked at him. Her eyes really were incredibly blue, he thought. And he'd be willing to bet that in the summer a trail of freckles marched across that pert little nose. And maybe elsewhere…

  And she'd slap you again if she knew what you were thinking, he warned himself. With an effort that was unusual for him—both because he made it at all, and because of the exertion it took—he masked his appreciation of her long-legged, nicely curved figure and kept his expression even.

  Finally she shook her head slowly. "Did that child mean so little to you? Just a tool to be used and then thrown away?"

  Her voice was full of pain, and something knotted in Quisto's stomach. His reaction disturbed him, because he couldn't explain it. But something in this woman's eyes as she stared at him was making him very uneasy, like a man who knows something's wrong in the instant before the bomb goes off.

  "That's twice now you've mentioned a child. Who," he said carefully, "are you talking about?"

  "God!" she exclaimed, her eyes suddenly glistening with moisture. "Do you use so many you can't remember? Eddie, damn you! Eduardo Salazar."

  Quisto drew back a little, his brows furrowing. "Eddie? He's what this is all about?"

  "You probably thought no one would care, didn't you? No father, no family… And what's one kid more or less? Especially when he was already in trouble—"

  "Ms. Murphy," he said, cutting her off, "I haven't talked to Eddie in well over two weeks. So if he's in trouble—"

  "My God."

  Her eyes were wide with shock as she stared at him. He felt like that man again, only this time he'd heard the final tick of the time bomb.

  "You really don't know, do you." The whispered words weren't a question.

  A chill raced up his spine; he tensed his shoulders against it. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask her what it was he didn't know, but no words came. He closed it again and simply waited, what she'd said before echoing in his head.

  You're the one who should be dead.

  She bit her lip, her eyes now wide and troubled, rather than angry. And then she spoke, saying the words Quisto dreaded, but expected.

  "Eddie is dead."

  He stared at her for a long, silent moment. He searched her face for any sign that she was lying. He found none. Nausea gripped him. Slowly he sank down onto the bench, inanely wondering if his stomach or his knees felt more wobbly. She remained standing, and he could almost feel the heat of her gaze on him.

  "He was fourteen years old, Detective Romero. Fourteen, but you sent him into that hell to do what you wouldn't do yourself." Her voice was cold, harsh, and it beat on his ears like pellets of hail in the afternoon sun. "You killed him, as certainly as if you'd put a gun to his head."

  Damn. Damn, damn, damn…

  Quisto felt a stinging in his palms. He glanced down and saw his hands curled into fists atop his knees. With a conscious effort, he straightened his fingers, easing the digging of his nails into his palms.

  "What happened?" He said it, his voice hoarse, still staring at his hands.

  "He was murdered, Detective," she said. "Yesterday."

  His gaze shot to her face. "Murdered?"

  "You sound surprised. What did you expect, when you sent him back in to spy for you again?"

  Slowly Quisto rose to his feet. He wanted facts, details, but first he wanted one thing very clear with this woman.

  "I did not send Eddie anywhere, not the first time, and certainly not again."

  "That's not what Eddie told me." Her voice rose slightly, and Quisto could hear the pain in it, genuine, honest pain. "I tried so hard to keep him out of that life, to keep him away from the street gangs. And he had stayed away from them, too. He was at the Neutral Zone almost every day, after school."

  "The Neutral Zone?"

  "My club. For the kids. Eddie was doing so well, helping me out there this summer. Until you came along."

  "Eddie came to me…" Quisto began.

  "And you used him," she said. "He was just a boy, and you used him." Her voice wavered, then steadied as she added coldly, "And I hold you personally responsible for his death."

  "An
d I'm telling you, Ms. Murphy, that I never recruited Eddie. He came to me, with information we needed. We used that information. I won't deny that. But I told him to stay out of it. I told him he was in way over his head, and to stay away, for his own safety."

  "And you expected him to listen? He was fourteen and practically drunk on the excitement of being a 'secret informant.' Like on television, he used to say."

  "He wasn't an informant. We don't use kids—"

  "But you used what he told you."

  "Of course we did. He'd already given us the information. We'd be crazy—and negligent in our duty—if we didn't."

  "Duty?" The red-gold waves of her hair swirled again as she shook her head. "Was it worth it? Was keeping the Pack out of Marina del Mar worth a boy's life?"

  Quisto's head came up sharply. "What do you know about the Pack?"

  She gave him a disgusted look. "Please, Detective. Don't insult my intelligence. I live and work in Marina Heights. You can't do either of those and not know about the Pack."

  He knew she was right. Even in Marina del Mar, they'd known about the Pack long before they had to deal with them. Bound together not by ethnicity or territory, but by a common predilection toward crime, they were a band of thugs, of many races and mixes, whose ferocity held even the most vicious of the other youth gangs at bay while they conducted their own criminal forays.

  "So was it worth it?" she asked again. "Or do the upscale residents here in Marina del Mar think a life is a small price to pay to maintain their pristine little world?"

  Quisto had heard that more than once, had even thought something not too far removed on occasion. He and Chance had more than once acknowledged the irony that a large number of the residents in the town they served paid more in taxes than the two of them put together were paid to protect them. Even his small apartment down at the marina took a portion of his income he still winced at when he wrote the monthly check.

  But he wasn't about to admit that to a woman who was already, however unjustifiably, furious with him.

  "Envious?" he asked.

  To his surprise, she laughed. "Hardly. I was born here in Marina del Mar. I grew up here. With the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth."