Badge of Honor

by Justine Davis

  It made perfect sense to him, and he stood up and reached for his suit coat. He'd had a meeting today with the city manager, to discuss the budget farce once again, and he'd donned the suit in deference to that. But the tie had gone the moment the man had left his office, and he wasn't even sure where he'd tossed it.

  He gave up the search after a few seconds. He wasn't going anywhere that required a tie, anyway. Probably the café, he thought as he grabbed a couple of reports he needed to read.

  He nearly collided with Robards in the hallway. He really was distracted, he thought, if he had missed the smell of stale cigar smoke approaching. And the stogie was there, clenched between teeth yellowed by years of the habit, the end in his mouth already dark, wet and chewed. Miguel looked away from it, wondering if he'd lost his appetite for lunch.

  It was, however, unlit. Robards was sticking to that rule, at least, although he didn't have much choice, since the policy was backed up by state law. Had it been his rule only, Miguel was certain the old-school cop would have found a way around it.

  Their greeting was more grunts and nods than anything. Neither of them had much to say to the other. And Miguel didn't want that to change, didn't want to do anything to put the man on guard. But he couldn't help glancing at the narrow, muddy brown eyes, wondering if somewhere behind the flatness of them hid a murderer. He couldn't tell. All he could see was the glow of dislike the man didn't bother to hide.

  After they passed each other, with more distance than was necessary in the fairly wide hallway, Miguel was aware of the man's stare, felt as if the tiny red laser light from a sniper rifle had settled neatly between his shoulder blades.

  He was several steps along, with that spot on his back itching, when he realized Robards could well be watching him for more reason than to be irritating or to vent his considerable spleen. He could be watching to see where Miguel was going, and if he turned to the detective division, who knows what the man would think. Or assume. Or do.

  He only had a few feet to make a decision. And while the thought of changing his course because of that man galled him, he realized he wasn't the only one involved here. If Robards was already on Kit's back, if he even began to suspect what was going on and that she was involved, her life would truly become hell.

  Another aspect struck him. If the man believed the accusations he'd made on that tape, he'd see this as proof either of their involvement or that he was coercing her. And that could make life even more miserable for her.

  He forced himself not to look back. He didn't need to; he could feel the man watching. He wished more than ever that he'd tackled this particular problem before now, but he'd had so many other demands on his time.

  Even Miguel de los Reyes can't do it all.

  It was good to know that Kit, at least, understood. That she'd wanted to tell him made him feel even better. He wouldn't pay her back by bringing Robards down on her head, even inadvertently.

  He kept walking, past the detective division, not quite sure where he was going but sure he wasn't going to make that turn with Robards's eyes boring into his back.

  He was barely past the door when he felt an easing of pressure at the back of his neck. He glanced back. Robards was disappearing through the doorway that led to the outside stairs.

  He stopped, more irritated than before. This clown was way out of control Miguel had wanted to jerk his chain a long time ago. But he'd bided his time, wanting it to be solid, wanting it to be permanent. And it would be. With Kit's help, it would be.

  She was in her office. And with Robards's departure, she was the only one in the division at this midday hour. He paused, watching her at her desk through the window beside the door. She was reading a report, her head bent, and he saw the twin sweeps of gold-tipped lashes. So different from Anna's dark eyes, yet no less beautiful.

  And oddly, he found himself thinking her intensity, her concentration was as attractive to him as anything else. He'd seen it in so many areas, in her concern for the victims and their families, in her worry over the troubled kids she dealt with every day, even in her attention to routine things like reading that report.

  But he'd seen it elsewhere, as well. In the way she'd focused on Anna during that long, awful year. In the way she'd played all out in that softball game. In the way she was always there for her friends. In the way she'd worried about him when he'd been shot.

  As it did now and then, his mind went to that time. But it wasn't to the pain, it was to one of the few bright spots in the long, lonely days in the hospital, the times when Kit came, always bringing some little thing to amuse him, from awful jokes to silly cards. But it was her presence, her cheerful, vital presence that had done more for him than anything. More than once he'd thought he should tell her she didn't have to come every day, but he never had. He looked forward to her visits too much.

  The sun will shine again for you someday.

  He'd known in his heart and gut Anna was wrong. Never again would he risk such pain. He'd loved her so much, it had nearly killed him when she'd died. No way would he risk loving anyone again. He could care for someone, perhaps, but never love. Anna had taken his capacity for that dangerous emotion with her when she'd gone, and he didn't think he'd ever get it back. And anyone he could bring himself to care for wouldn't likely settle for that They would require—and deserve—what he couldn't, wouldn't give.

  Especially Kit. She deserved nothing less than someone who would love her utterly and completely, who would love her enough not to die for her, as some seemed to find romantic, but to live for and with her, which he thought was, in the end, a lot more difficult.

  As if she'd felt his gaze, Kit raised her head. She saw him through the window and smiled. Instantly, without hesitation, in the manner of one truly glad to see the person she'd discovered there. Warmth kicked through him, and he was seized with the sudden wish to have this all the time, to have Kit Walker look at him with that expression of pure welcome. What scared him was that he was picturing it in all kinds of ways, not just here. He was picturing it despite all the things he'd just thought. He was picturing it outside of the safety of Trinity West. He was picturing her in his life in all sorts of ways.

  And for the briefest of moments he pictured her in his bed, and the warmth became a heat that almost staggered him.

  She started to get up, and quickly he stepped toward the door, which put him out of her line of sight. He sucked in a deep breath, barely managing to steady himself before the door swung open.

  "Sorry to interrupt," he said, gesturing toward her desk, noting that his voice was steadier than he'd expected.

  "It's just routine stuff," she said. "No problem."

  He eyed her overflowing in tray. She caught the direction of his gaze and shrugged. "That's the lowest priority stuff. Follow-up phone calls on cold cases."

  "I'll get you some help on that."

  "I can do it."

  "Not even Kit Walker can do it all," he said.

  She looked startled, then blushed as he used her words.

  "Matching what Gage used to do in addition to my own work is beyond me," she admitted.

  "I should hope so," he said. "Somebody else can make the calls, screen them for you, at least, so you only have to deal with the ones where there may be new developments."

  She seemed to consider that, then nodded. "That would help."

  This was fine, Miguel thought. Nice and businesslike. No mention or reminder of that hot, stolen moment in her car. He could deal with this.

  "Did you want something?" she asked.

  In an instant, the equilibrium he'd been congratulating himself on vanished, swept away by a flood of vivid images conjured by her innocent words. He wanted something, all right. And he wanted it with her. And no matter how deeply he tried to bury the urge, it seemed determined to surface the moment his guard was down. And sometimes even when it was up. Like now.

  "I…" He swallowed and tried again, hoping she'd think he'd forgotten, telling him
self she'd never guess what had turned his voice to gravel. "Choker is in Chino."

  "Oh." Odd, he thought. She sounded almost as if he'd said something unexpected. Or as if she'd expected something else. "Guess I'll be driving to Chino."

  "I thought I'd go out there on Saturday."

  She lifted a brow at him. "Weren't you the one warning me about working weekends?"

  He gave her a sheepish look. "Yes, but this is…"

  "Different," she finished for him. Then she grinned. "Isn't it always?"

  That bright, sunny grin seemed to push aside all his dark thoughts, all the reasons he'd been so sure of, the reasons to forget how she made him feel, forget how much he liked simply touching her and above all forget that kiss. He felt almost drunk on it, that grin, and found himself returning it. Happily.

  "Let's go to lunch," he said.

  She blinked, looking not quite startled, and it hit him that maybe this was what she'd been thinking he'd say before. He hoped he was right. At least, he did as long as her answer was yes. When she hesitated, when he sensed she was thinking all the dark thoughts her grin had vanquished for him, he fell back on the old safety zone of keeping it work-related.

  "We can plan a visit to see Choker," he said.

  "We?"

  "I told you I'd be there every step of the way." He thought again of Robards's eyes on him in the hallway. "It could get very ugly, and I don't want you taking any of it alone."

  "All right," she said after a moment.

  He knew she was referring to him going with her to see Choker but chose to react as if she'd said all right to lunch, as well.

  "Good. Let's go."

  He saw her mouth quirk at one corner, and he knew she realized exactly what he was doing. He also saw the moment when she decided not to dispute it and go along.

  They were almost to the outside stairway when he thought to ask, "Any idea where your lieutenant goes to lunch?"

  She gave him a sideways look. "Looking to find or avoid him?"

  "Avoid," he admitted ruefully.

  She shrugged. "Not the café, if that's what you mean. Too many of the new breed go there for his taste."

  "Good." His mouth twisted. "I hate letting him have that much control, making me try to dodge him."

  "Look at it as an indigestion preventative."

  He chuckled at the suggestion, then added, "It's only temporary, anyway."

  She nodded. "And probably best to keep a low profile until we have something we can use."

  He liked the way she said that we. He liked the way she moved beside him. He liked the way her short cap of hair moved whenever she turned her head. He liked the way she could make him laugh.

  But he hated the way all that scared him. For the first time he didn't welcome the automatic warning that clamored in his head. And that scared him most of all. He didn't want to be warned away from Kit Walker.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  «^»

  A prison was a prison was a prison, Miguel thought, and the California State Institution for Men in Chino was no different. He hadn't been to this one in a while. It was fifty miles inland, and despite the view of the mountains—a subtle torture, he supposed, for those stuck here on the flat ground of the facility—it wasn't high on his list of favorite places to visit.

  The coils of concertina wire atop the main fence set the mood, he supposed. As they did at most prisons. They might look different on the outside, might be different colors, might be set up differently, but at the core they were all the same. They had the same smell, the same echoing sounds, the same feel—heavy and oppressive.

  At least, to him it was oppressive. He knew there were some to whom it was home, people who had somewhere along the way gotten so screwed up they couldn't function on the outside, and if they made it out, they seemed to set themselves up to get sent right back so they'd feel safe again.

  He had the stray thought that he was no one to talk disparagingly about wanting to feel safe. He wondered if he wasn't being held in a prison of his own making. He couldn't say he hadn't felt confined on the long drive out here, alone in the car with Kit.

  Not that it had been awkward or uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. She'd been herself, the Kit who made him laugh, who made him think, who made him relax. It was that, in fact, that made him edgy. He'd enjoyed her company so much he had to repeatedly remind himself not to get too used to it. It was getting harder and harder to heed his warnings. Lately he'd felt like a kid in front of a shop window, separated from something he desperately wanted by only a pane of glass. He could see it, long for it but couldn't have it. And all the reasons seemed to ring false in his ears on this bright, sunny day with bright, sunny Kit beside him.

  The latest of several wolf whistles and rude expressions of appreciation echoed in the visitor's area. Another passing inmate had caught sight of Kit. Snapped out of his musings, Miguel tensed. The guard escorting the man hushed him with a glare and a word, but Kit never turned a hair, never even blinked. She was utterly calm and poised, as if it was all old news to her.

  Maybe it was, he thought. He supposed she'd put up with this countless times over the years. But he wished he could be so calm. Instead he found himself getting angrier at each raucous outburst. He wanted to thump the lot of them, imagined the satisfaction of his fist connecting with a couple of smart-ass mouths. He wanted to teach them a lesson, show them they'd better not look at her, better not even think what he had no doubt they were thinking, because she was—

  She was what? His? Is that what he was thinking, what all this tension was stemming from, some protective instinct that he didn't think he had anymore, some far too personal reaction to any threat to her, no matter how minor? Was he really more imbued with that machismo attitude than he'd realized? There was no chance in the world any of these guys would even try to get close enough to lay a hand on her, but he was reacting as if they were all armed and there wasn't a guard in sight.

  "Are you all right?"

  She'd whispered it, and when he glanced at her face he saw that her forehead was creased in concern. She must have sensed his tension, he realized, and was thankful she could have no idea what had caused it. He knew she wouldn't appreciate a caveman, and he was feeling decidedly Neanderthal at the moment. Quickly, he tried to cover his reaction with a bit of the truth, albeit not what had caused his reaction.

  "I'm fine. I just feel about these places like I do about hospitals."

  "You'd rather walk on hot coals?"

  He smiled, and some of his tension ebbed. "Spiked with nails," he confirmed.

  "We won't hang around for the afternoon movie, then," she said cheerfully, and this time he chuckled.

  "No," he agreed. "It's probably Escape from Alcatraz or something, anyway."

  She laughed, and the bright sound of it made him think of sunlight again. And in a place like this, sunlight was a precious commodity.

  Kit, he thought, would be a precious commodity anywhere. He heard the heavy clank as the door to the cell block opened, and as they looked up a man dressed in the prison's standard-issue short-sleeved jumpsuit walked in. The face was familiar from the mug shots in his extensive record. Not being in for any violent offenses, he wasn't cuffed, Miguel noticed, and he felt an echo of that protective concern. He wouldn't have thought twice had he been alone, but Kit's presence seemed to change everything.

  She's a trained officer, so tamp it down, he told himself. He knew she could handle herself. But he still didn't have to like it. As long as he kept it to himself.

  Then he got a close look at Choker and realized he was going to have more than that to keep to himself. He struggled to keep his expression even. It hadn't shown in the stark mug shots, but the self-styled tough-guy convict with the felony record had the face of a choirboy. The angelic cast of his big, doe-soft brown eyes was marred only slightly by the two small tears tattooed beneath the outer corner of the left one. The comparison ended beneath his chin, however, where an
intricate, inch-wide tattoo of assorted crudities circled his neck. There was perhaps more than one reason he'd gained his nickname. The eyes might fit Lorenzo, but the neck ring was pure Choker.

  Choker eyed Kit up and down, more than a little salaciousness in his gaze, and Miguel tensed again. Choker was more observant than he had expected, for he turned his gaze on Miguel. It was full of challenge.

  "She yours?" he asked.

  To Miguel's surprise, before he could say anything, Kit answered evenly, "In a manner of speaking."

  He knew what she meant, that she worked for him, but for an instant he wished she'd meant it otherwise. And he didn't like that, either. But there wasn't much pleasing him at the moment, so he kept his mouth shut until he had his unruly emotions under control.

  Choker turned his gaze to her, and perhaps because of where they were and because he had little choice, he left it at that. "They said you were cops."

  She nodded. He looked her up and down again, as if trying to decide if her appearance made up for the fault of her profession.

  "I don't talk to cops," he said.

  "Even cops who believe you?" Kit asked sweetly.

  Choker blinked, then looked from Kit to Miguel and back again, suspicion obvious on his face. "You believe I didn't steal that car?"

  His temper under control, Miguel stifled a grin. Even Choker had the brains to know that was too much to believe. They knew darn well he'd stolen it, despite his claim that he borrowed it from a friend. He'd been caught driving it, had a record of three previous auto thefts, the real owner had never laid eyes on him, and Choker had claimed never to have noticed that the ignition had been punched.

  "Not exactly," Kit said.

  "But," Miguel said as Choker looked at them with suspicion, "we do believe that your car was stolen five years ago."

  That startled him.

  "Why don't we sit down and talk about it?" Kit asked, gesturing toward the gray metal table beside them. Choker hesitated, and Kit moved first, pulling one of the unpadded chairs out from the table and sitting in it. Miguel shifted his weight and sat on the edge of the table, keeping a foot on the floor, on some level aware that he wanted to be free to move fast if he had to.