No Saint

by Mallory Kane

  He rubbed his temple and took a deep breath. His knees shook, but he walked deliberately and slowly into the bedroom and looked down at her, soft and beautiful and traitorous, in his bed. She stirred as if she felt his gaze, then glanced sleepily over her bare shoulder. When she saw him standing there, she sat up, drawing the sheet with her.

  Dear Lord, she looked like a painting, sitting so artlessly graceful, her hair all mussed and sticking out and the sheet draped perfectly to hide her nakedness.

  Sin Awakening. Ironic.

  He held out her phone.

  Her eyes went wide, then dull. Her gaze narrowed. He saw her throat move as she swallowed, then cleared her throat. “Uh, who is it?” she asked, her voice low and hoarse and unbelievably sexy.

  He just held it there. Just as he figured it would, it rang.

  She took it from him, her eyes widening as she looked at the screen. She swiped it. “Yes?” she answered, her gaze returning to his. He couldn’t interpret the look in her eyes. If he’d been inclined to guess, he’d think it was sadness or regret, but that wasn’t right. He didn’t want her to be sad or regretful. He wanted her to be defiant and angry. He wanted her to be a tough-as-nails cop who didn’t give a crap. He didn’t want to know that she was afraid of roaches, or that she had a horrible scar where her stepfather had held her forearm down on a hot stove eye.

  Damn her. Damn the NOPD, and damn Johnny for dying and leaving him to sort all this out on his own.

  “I—can’t—talk—now,” Sin said through clenched teeth. “I’m fine. I’ll call you back.” She clicked the phone off. “Rick, I can explain—”

  “Really? You can explain that?” He nodded at the phone. “Please. Go ahead.”

  “I—I didn’t know…”

  “Yeah.” He held up a hand. “That’s what I thought,” he snapped.

  “But…”

  “Look, Sin, if that’s even your name, I really don’t give a crap. Just leave.”

  “Rick, please. You don’t—” she started, then clamped her mouth shut. She lifted the corner of the sheet as if she were going to get up, but thought better of it when she looked down at herself. She sent him a pointed glance.

  For a second, he considered forcing her to stand up with no clothes on while he watched her. But that would be sinking to her level—or below, and right now he needed all the dignity he could muster. He whirled and went into the living room.

  He saw her handbag on the floor beside the couch. He decided it was within his rights to search it. He needed to see if she was armed, he told himself. Actually, the thing was more like a large tote bag than a purse, although it wasn’t heavy. He unzipped it and glanced inside even though he’d already determined that there was no weapon in there, based on its weight.

  As he set it back down, Sin came out of the bedroom. “Find anything interesting?” she asked in a voice that was impressively cool, given her sad expression.

  He shook his head, more in annoyance at her sarcastic question than in any effort to answer her. Shaking his head made it ache. He was on the verge of getting a headache. He had a migraine tablet in his wallet. He walked over to the refrigerator and looked inside, but the bottle of water wasn’t in there. It was still on the bedside table where she’d put it earlier, while she was taking care of him. He closed the refrigerator and glanced at his watch. It was about an hour until his shift started at Beauregard’s. Maybe the migraine wouldn’t hit him until after then.

  “I’m gone,” she said. “Just as soon as I get dressed.”

  Her voice didn’t carry the determination and strength he’d come to expect from her. She sounded subdued.

  “I didn’t mean right now,” he said. “Where are you—Oh, hey, do you need any money?” he asked, thinking about her rent.

  Her gaze snapped to his. “Are you freaking kidding me?” she snapped.

  “No, wait. I didn’t—”

  She flung her hand out sideways. “Don’t—even—try.” She picked up her bag and headed into the bathroom.

  Staring at the closed bathroom door, Rick cursed under his breath, using every word he knew. Then, when he ran out of curses, he stood helplessly, wishing he could hit something—hard. Like the wall or the door or his own stupid blockhead.

  He’d screwed the pooch. There was only one unbreakable rule about undercover investigations. Never get involved. It was too dangerous, in too many ways. As one of the best undercover cops in the entire NOPD, he’d always prided himself on being able to make another cop within seconds, but Sin Stone, or whatever her name was, had fooled him. As suspicious as he’d been at the way she kept turning up at his door, he’d never seriously considered that she could be a police officer. The question was, why the hell hadn’t he?

  He wasn’t particularly surprised that the BPI was watching him. He knew they couldn’t see past their noses. If he was caught shot and unconscious with dope and dope money in his pocket, he had to be guilty, right? The obvious conclusion, considering that he was the Eighth Precinct’s best undercover officer, should have been that someone planted the contaminated heroin and the dirty money on him while he was lying unconscious in the alley. He’d hoped they believed him, but he’d known they didn’t.

  He rubbed his face. He needed to think about all this, but right now, his temple was beginning to throb like a sonofabitch. He fished the tablet out of his wallet and put it under his tongue, then grabbed his phone and left, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed hollowly, like fading, mocking laughter.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lusinda stayed in the shower a long time, hoping that Rick would be gone when she got out. She couldn’t believe she’d made such a rookie mistake. Okay, she was a rookie. But she was also her father’s daughter. She should have been smarter than this. Not only had she left her phone out in plain view for him to see, she had also broken the cardinal rule of—well of pretty much everything she stood for as a police officer. She’d slept with a relative stranger. She’d had a one-night stand. And worst of all, she’d gotten involved with the subject of her undercover assignment.

  She stood under the hot water, alternately crying and cursing herself, until the water started to turn cold. She dried off as quickly as possible, rubbing her skin to rid herself of the chill.

  How dare he look at her phone! How dare he offer her money! How dare he—what? What the hell else could she blame on him? This was her fault. She threw the towel on the floor and pulled on her clothes. When she jerked on the bathroom door, the towel stopped it from opening.

  “Get out of the way!” she yelled at it, but being a towel, it didn’t move, so she kicked it away and took a deep breath, preparing to face Rick again. She stormed out into the short hall that connected the bedroom, bathroom and living room, but the apartment was empty. She checked everywhere. She even opened the front door, but he was nowhere to be seen. Realizing she’d been holding her breath, she let it go in a long sigh.

  So now he knew, damn it. He knew. She was so stupid. She sat down on the couch and tried to figure out the best thing to do. But she couldn’t wipe away the look on his face as he stood there, holding her phone. Nothing he could have said could have cut straight through her like the expression on his face. How many emotions could be stuffed into one dark countenance? Anger, hatred, betrayal, hurt. Hurt? Had he been hurt? She could understand anger, even hatred. She could see how he’d think she’d betrayed him. But she couldn’t fit hurt into a neat, easily explained category. The word hurt implied that he had feelings that could be injured, bruised, or irritated. But couldn’t someone’s ego also be hurt, offended, or injured?

  That was it. She hadn’t hurt his feelings. She’d bruised his ego. That made more sense, right?

  The time on her phone told her she was already five minutes late for her shift. She looked around for anything she might have forgotten, because there was no way in hell she’d ever be in here again.

  She had to talk to the landlord and pay him what would probably be
a hefty bill for the changed lock and her rent and late fee. So first, she had to find an ATM and charge another cash advance to her credit card. She winced. She was already carrying a balance on it, because of having to pay double rent. Even if O’Reilly reimbursed her for the expense of the apartment, she wouldn’t see it for a couple of months. The wheels of government turned very slowly.

  O’Reilly. She’d told him she’d call him back. Taking another deep breath, this time for courage, she dialed his number.

  “Where the hell have you been?” O’Reilly asked. “You didn’t check in. I told you, even if it was just a text, I need to hear from you on a regular basis. And what was with you hanging up on me? Are you okay?”

  Lusinda supposed that it was nice to have a boss who was genuinely concerned about her welfare. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, checking the time. Nine minutes late. “I’m fine. I told you I was fine. I was just—I was with Rick, so I couldn’t talk.”

  “Well that’s exactly what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t have to call and interrupt you if you’d just let me know what you’re doing. I expected to hear from you yesterday.”

  “I know, sir. I was busy and—I never found a good time when I could talk in private.” She was lying through her teeth. She hadn’t wanted to talk to him because she didn’t know how to explain that not only had she not gotten any information on whether Rick was working for Beau, she’d also gotten herself tangled up in some kind of weird relationship with him.

  “What have you got for me?” O’Reilly asked. “No, wait. Let me get you up to speed first.”

  Lusinda was standing outside Rick’s apartment with her hand still on his doorknob. She took one last look into his living room, then slowly closed the door and listened to the latch click. She tried the knob. Locked. A little hitch caught in her throat. So that was that.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I missed what you just said.”

  O’Reilly repeated himself. “I said that we’ve gotten a credible report that Anastase Beauregard and T-Gros Grossman have had at least one meeting. Grossman is an entrepreneur who is trying to move into the French Quarter—”

  “I know who he is,” Lusinda interrupted.

  “You’ve met him?”

  What could she tell O’Reilly that would give him the information he needed without making her look worse for not calling him? Her shoulders contracted in a small shrug. Probably nothing. Anything she said at this point was going to make her look bad. “Yes, sir. I had occasion to run into him.”

  “You did? Where? Was Easterling involved?”

  She clenched her jaw. “He came into Beauregard’s but he didn’t stay long.”

  “This same source told me that one of the bartenders broke T-Gros’s finger.”

  “I—heard that,” she said. “I mean, it wasn’t his finger. It was his wrist, and it wasn’t actually broken. It was sprained.”

  “And Easterling? Got anything on him?”

  “Not really,” she lied. Please stop asking questions. There were things O’Reilly needed to know—but not yet. Anything she told him now would make Rick look bad. She had to talk with Rick first.

  She’d walked to Beauregard’s while she was talking to O’Reilly. Now she was almost at the back door. “What was the deal with Miller?” she asked, figuring that O’Reilly was waiting for her to bring him up.

  “Homicide sent him in. I wasn’t made aware of it until it was too late to let you know. Word is Easterling saved Miller’s ass at one of Beau’s famous secret poker games. That’s not Miller’s story, but he reported in with a black eye and a bruised cheek. Whatever happened, Easterling managed to keep his own cover.”

  “I saw Miller in the bar but I didn’t know as much as you do. I’m not allowed back there.”

  “Don’t worry. You shouldn’t be back there. I need you to find out what you can about T-Gros and if you see him in the bar again, call me immediately. We have word that the DEA may be watching him. They’re getting worried about this bad dope epidemic. Too many people have died. So keep a watch out and be careful. There’s some talk that Easterling might not be working for Beau at all. He could be working for Grossman.”

  Had Carlos told O’Reilly that? “Why is everyone so positive that he’s dirty?” Lusinda asked before she could stop herself. She leaned against the wall next to the back door of Beauregard’s, hunching her shoulders and ducking her head. If anyone saw her, she planned to act as though she was on the phone with a jealous boyfriend.

  “What?”

  “Never mind, sir,” she said quickly. “It’s confusing and frustrating. I haven’t seen him talking to anyone or doing anything suspicious. Fact is, he’s done some nice things.”

  “Did you say nice things? Like what?”

  “Um, well, Miller, for instance. Saving Miller’s butt. And he gave a kid money for a bus ticket home.”

  “What kid?”

  The back door opened and Nina came out to smoke a cigarette. Lusinda turned slightly away and lowered her voice.

  “Some kid working at Beauregard’s. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen. I’m sure you know about Beau hiring kids.”

  “Yeah, we do. Lusinda, watch out. I’ve done my share of undercover work. I get that it’s not easy to nail a dirty cop. You keep wanting them to be good. To be part of the blue wall. But when you work for the BPI, you belong to a different community. You have to be the filter. You have to be impartial, and you have to be absolutely certain. There are a million reasons why a cop can go bad. I’ve seen it all. Money, love—”

  “Yes, sir. I know. I’ve got to go. I’m really late for work.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. I know you understand about bad cops. Listen, you take care of yourself. If you get in a situation where your life is in danger, it’s no shame to out yourself to Easterling or any other cop to save your life. Nothing is worth getting yourself killed over. You understand me, Officer Johnston?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” She hung up and looked up. Nina was grinding out her cigarette.

  “Two minutes, Sin City,” she said. “You better be inside and taking your first order in two minutes or you’re fired. You understand me?”

  Lusinda didn’t feel like being nice. “You been promoted?” she shot back.

  “You’re an okay kid, but don’t push it. Understand?”

  Lusinda winced. “I’m sorry, Nina. Bad day today.”

  “Yeah? Well, don’t bring that bad day inside.”

  “I won’t. Nina? Thanks for the warning.” She smiled.

  Nina snorted and threw open the door and went inside. Lusinda hurried in behind her. She took twenty seconds to delete O’Reilly’s text messages as well as the record of their phone call, then threw her phone into her locker and grabbed her dupe pad and practically ran into the restaurant. She couldn’t lose this job.

  O’Reilly had brought up her father’s murder. He hadn’t said anything explicit, but he’d made his point. The only way he could have been clearer would have been to say, Don’t fall for Easterling. Your father trusted his partner and it got him killed.

  Sadness and love welled up inside her, as always, but tonight, she understood for the first time how her father must have felt. Why he hadn’t gone to his bosses as soon as he’d learned that his partner was taking protection money from local businesses. Her dad had loved his friend and partner, so he’d tried to fix him.

  Now she was doing the same thing, wasn’t she? If she fell for Rick, could she ever be sure that she’d done her job? If BPI found him innocent because of her information, would it be because she was blinded by love?

  Good Lord, when had she stopped thinking Rick was corrupt? She was supposed to be impartial. She had to find out the truth and fast. The sex thing stopped now!

  As she was checking in at the computer, Rick walked in carrying a case of top-shelf bourbon. He had on the short-sleeved Beauregard’s T-shirt and his biceps and forearms were flexed and hard from hauling boxes. As he set the box on
the counter, he noticed her and shot her a withering glance. Then he took a box opener out of his pocket and sliced open the top of the box with quick, measured strokes. His jaw was clenched.

  Lusinda almost laughed out loud at herself. Apparently, she had nothing to worry about. Any relationship with the subject of her investigation was obviously no longer an issue. He knew who she was now, and he hated her.

  *

  A day later as Rick left his apartment to go to work, he glanced up at the third-floor landing, wondering if Sin had gotten her apartment back. She could go back to her personal apartment, but that wasn’t advisable for people working undercover.

  He felt the dark haze of anger rushing up from his chest to his neck and on toward his face. The rage was building inside him. He had to stop this. All anger did was distract him from his job. He had to go into work and tend bar as if there was nothing wrong.

  He hadn’t seen Sin since she’d clocked out of work at three a.m. the day before. He’d had to close up last night, so he hadn’t gotten to the hotel until almost four this morning. He’d half-expected Sin to be there again. But she wasn’t. It was stupid of him to think she’d ask him for anything now. And even more stupid to be disappointed that she wasn’t there. Which he wasn’t. He was furious—with her, with Larsen, with the BPI, and most of all with himself. He couldn’t believe she’d conned him so thoroughly. How in hell had he not known she was a cop?

  Damn it. He needed to call Larsen. He should have talked to him yesterday. The only excuse he had for delaying was pathetic. He wanted to talk to Sin before he said anything to his boss. He knew how wrong that was.

  But he’d been too angry to listen to her earlier. He did want to give Sin a chance to explain. He wanted to give himself a chance to calm down and think rationally about what she’d done. Maybe it was because he was worried about her. Ever since he’d found out she was a cop, the one thing that had filtered through his rage was that she needed his protection more than ever. Even if she was spying on him to see if he was involved with the Bad Dope Murders, he still felt responsible for her safety.