Protector’s Temptation

by Marilyn Pappano

  He disappeared from her view, and she counted to ten, then darted inside and locked the door. For good measure, she whipped the curtains shut. That was too close. Granted, he was just a kid, thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. But it could have been anyone—even, if they’d managed to track her to Georgia, one of the Brat Pack.

  Hating the furtive feeling between her shoulder blades, she located a few items in the linen closet upstairs, along with a hammer and nails in the living room. With a silent promise to replace the sheet, she hammered nails along the top edge, forming a curtain over the dining room window. On the smaller window over the sink, she made do with a couple of pillowcases, blocking the view and making her feel slightly better hidden.

  The word made her cross. Here she was, hiding like a coward, while the men responsible were free to go where they chose, wearing their badges, carrying their guns, abusing their authority. “What’s wrong with that picture?” she muttered.

  Nothing that she couldn’t change.

  If she lived long enough.

  “Your friend didn’t stick around long.”

  AJ looked up from the lab reports spread across his desk as Tommy Maricci slid into the chair, picked up a manila folder and began flipping through it. “My—oh. Donovan. Nah, he was just passing through. Just stopped to say hello.”

  “He a good prosecutor?”

  “One of the best.”

  “Maybe you could persuade him to move here. The verdict just came in on the Terrell case. The jury let him off.”

  “Damn.” Steve Terrell was a punk, a small time loser drug dealer. The only way a jury could have acquitted him was if Benton Tatum, the DA, had phoned in his arguments from his riverside fishing hole. It seemed he’d been doing a lot of that lately.

  “Donovan’s got bigger plans than Copper Lake can afford. He’s got integrity, an excellent conviction rate and family money. I figure he’s gonna be attorney general someday.” No matter how Masiela’s so-called case turned out. If she persuaded Donovan that he had prosecuted the wrong man, instead of having a black mark against him, Donovan would set things right in a way that would strengthen his reputation.

  Depending on your definition of “right.” Three good cops would be destroyed. A murderer would go free. The distrust that already existed between the police and some segments of the population they protected would intensify.

  But Masiela would be satisfied that she’d won, and for her, that was enough to justify anything.

  A twinge of something niggled in his gut. Guilt? Wrongheadedness? Was he carrying loyalty too far by refusing to even listen to her so-called evidence?

  His first answer was no. He knew the officers in question, had known them a hell of a lot longer than he’d known Masiela. And he’d watched her in court, twisting things the witnesses said, implying deceit when there was none, using words to create doubt that didn’t exist. She’d excused it as simply doing her job.

  He couldn’t excuse it.

  “How’s it going at the house?” Maricci asked.

  He thought first of his unwanted guest, then realized Maricci was referring to the work. “I’ve done as much as I can on the living and dining rooms, until I get an extra set of hands.”

  “I can come over this evening. Ellie and Anamaria are taking a class at Sophy’s shop tonight. They’re learning to make baby quilts.”

  Surprise stifled the automatic refusal AJ was about to give. “Really?” When Maricci had broken up with Ellie last year, he’d begun seeing Sophy Marchand, only to leave her to go back to Ellie when she became the prime suspect in a murder investigation.

  Maricci’s grin was sheepish. “Sophy doesn’t hold a grudge.”

  “Nah, she’s got Isaacs to do that for her.” For a day or two, Kiki Isaacs had been the detective handling that investigation. As Sophy’s best friend, she’d taken great pleasure in harassing Ellie.

  “After dinner?” Maricci asked, referring to his offer.

  “Uh…tonight’s not good. Let me get back to you.”

  “Sure. Speaking of Isaacs…” Maricci shifted in the chair. “She’s driving Ty nuts. Reminding him every hour that she’s superior to him, giving him orders and generally making things tough for him. Talk to her, would you?”

  AJ scowled. Ty Gadney was the department’s newest detective; Isaacs had been on the job a whole nine months. She was a good cop, but she was a huge pain in everyone’s ass, especially his. Ambitious, eager to prove herself in an all-male division, she was like a rampaging bull, charging over anyone who got in her way. Her ego apparently put Gadney in her sights more often than not.

  Maricci closed the file, a report of crime statistics for the first half of the year, and put it back in its place on the desk. “I thought I’d take Ty with me to interview the hit-and-run from yesterday morning and leave Kiki to you.”

  “Thanks,” AJ said drily as Maricci left the office. He’d rather face anyone today than Kiki. Except Masiela. Maybe. At least she didn’t make him crazy the way Kiki did.

  But the only danger he was in with Kiki was of a legal nature, if he lost control and wrapped his hands tightly around her throat; while Masiela…

  She’d screwed with him in a way no one ever had. He’d cared too much about her and lost too much when she’d left. He wasn’t about to let that happen again. Damn Ray Donovan. He’d have been happier to pretend she never existed.

  Maricci hadn’t been gone ten minutes when Kiki came into his office. She wore the same jeans and yellow polo shirt the other detectives did; it just looked appreciably different on her. Her brown hair, prone to frizzing wildly in the humidity, was pulled back tightly and contained in a braid, and her face was settled in a pout. Not unusual for the woman referred to as the department’s biggest whiner.

  More than a few of her fellow officers thought she’d been promoted to detective only because she was a woman—something Masiela knew about. In Masiela’s case, it wasn’t true, but AJ couldn’t deny that had been part of his reason for selecting Kiki. The chief had instructed him to promote a woman, and she’d been the best-qualified of the handful in the department.

  She plopped into the chair and folded her arms over her chest. “Tommy took Ty with him and left me here to write reports on this morning’s calls.”

  “When you’re as senior as he is, you get to do that,” AJ said mildly. “Besides, you write better reports than he does. At least you spell everything right.”

  “It’s because I’m a girl, and everyone knows girls are better suited to jobs like typing and writing.”

  “I partnered with a woman in Dallas, and I was way better at that stuff than she was.” Damn, he just couldn’t seem to get Masiela out of his mind. Understandable maybe, since she was in his house. Still, he’d like to forget that, at least while he was out of the house himself.

  “He told me to do my nails.”

  That sounded like Maricci.

  “He picks on me because I’m a girl.”

  Woman, AJ mentally corrected. “You know, you did try to make a homicide case against his wife,” he reminded her. Maricci wasn’t an expert at holding grudges like Kiki, but that would be a little hard to overlook.

  “She wasn’t his wife at the time, and the evidence—”

  “Was manufactured.” It had been designed to make a so-so cop focus on Ellie and no one else, and that was what Kiki, in her inexperience, had done. Lucky for Ellie, Tommy had been on her side. Luckier still that Kiki’s father had had a mild heart attack and AJ had taken over the investigation himself while she stayed with him during his recovery.

  Kiki brushed it off with a shrug. Ellie had never been arrested, so in Kiki’s opinion, no harm, no foul. It wasn’t an attitude AJ liked to see in his people.

  “I don’t see why I couldn’t have gone out with Ty to interview the hit-and-run victim.”

  “Because Detective Maricci asked you to stay here.” Told was probably more accurate, but AJ tried to be diplomatic…to a point. “I know y
ou’ve been in the detective division for nine months, Kiki, but that’s still pretty new. You still have to do what you’re told. You don’t get to make a lot of decisions, and you don’t get to train anyone else.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Did Ty complain to you?”

  “Haven’t heard a word from him.” He was glad he could say it with total honesty.

  Her gaze narrowed even more, and her lower lip poked out. “Tommy?”

  “Even when I’m not around, Isaacs, I keep track of what’s going on in my division.” When she started to speak, he raised one hand to stop her. “One of these days, Kiki, you’ll be the senior detective—hell, maybe the lieutenant. Then you’ll have all the control you want. But you’ve got to earn it. Until then, do your job the best you can and try to be a team player. Don’t complain so much. Everyone in this office has to do jobs they don’t like until they get senior enough to palm them off on someone else. Suck it up and move on.”

  She sat there a moment, still pouting, then grudgingly got to her feet. “So I continue getting stuck in the office doing the girly jobs.”

  AJ’s voice was strained. “Doing the jobs you’re told to do.”

  “Yeah, the girly stuff,” she repeated. “Because, hey, I’m a girl.”

  With an exaggerated sense of martyrdom, Kiki left the office, disquiet in the air in her wake. AJ rubbed his eyes as he forced his jaw to relax.

  “She didn’t hear a single thing you said.”

  He looked up, his gaze connecting with Cate’s as she stepped into the open doorway. That feeling from last night—the crawled-from-under-a-rock one—reappeared as she closed the door, then leaned against it and smiled at him. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  She was pretty in a wholesome, middle-America, girl-next-door way: short brown hair, blue eyes, easy smile. She reached five-four only if she stretched, she favored jeans and T-shirts when she wasn’t wearing scrubs, she never put any pressure on him and she was sweet. Never moody, never difficult, never taking sides he couldn’t agree with. She was pretty much perfect.

  Except for that damn love thing.

  “Kiki will grow up sometime,” Cate said optimistically, as she started across the room. “She’ll turn your hair gray first, but it’ll happen.”

  “You promise?”

  She circled his desk, her movements purposeful. He liked purposeful. He didn’t need fluid or naturally graceful or inherently sensual, didn’t need to be distracted from what she was doing by the way she was doing it. Like Masiela, when she clipped her weapon onto her waistband. Or when she’d shoved her hair back from her face last night. Or when she’d tasted the first bite of Luigi’s pizza.

  Damn it. He’d worked hard over the years to avoid thinking about her, and now he couldn’t keep her out of his mind, not even with Cate slowly approaching.

  Scowling, he focused hard on Cate instead. “What are you doing out this morning?”

  She smiled as brightly as if she hadn’t worked through the middle of the night. “I got hungry, so I thought maybe you could join me for lunch.”

  It wasn’t unusual. They did it every week or two—sometimes at his house. Sandwiches in bed. That was out for the time being: his house, his bed, her bed. It wouldn’t feel right.

  Nothing felt right at the moment.

  “I appreciate the offer,” he said, turning in his chair as she finally reached him. She leaned against the edge of the desk, her knee between his, and held out her hand for his. He let her take it, let her twine her fingers with his. It was a familiar gesture. Comfortable. But about as intimate as holding hands with his sister.

  “But?” Cate prompted.

  “I, uh, I’ve got some things to take care of at lunch.” It was a lie when he said it, but as soon as the words were out, he realized the truth. He needed to go by the house and make sure everything was okay. He might not want Masiela there, but since she was, damned if anything was going to happen to her on his watch. And he really should take her some food. Yeah, she’d said leftover pizza would be fine for lunch, but even she had limits on how much pizza she could eat.

  “Okay,” Cate said. Nothing changed—not her smile, her tone, her mood. She didn’t care that he’d turned down her invitation. Shouldn’t it have mattered?

  Maybe she wasn’t so much in love as comfortable with him.

  He should be affronted, but all he felt was a vague sense of relief.

  “I think I’ll head over to Ellie’s Deli then.” Standing, she leaned forward to brush a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll call you.”

  “Be careful.”

  She flashed him a brighter smile as she opened the door. “What’s the fun in that?”

  By noon, Masiela’s edginess had given way to boredom, defined in two easy words: daytime television. Cooking shows, talk shows, game shows, soap operas, decorating shows… She was in hell, and she hadn’t even died yet.

  She was standing in the dining room, gazing out the window—truthfully, peeking out like a coward—at the yard that needed mowing and maybe a picket fence and definitely some flowers, when the phone rang. The sound startled her, and instinctively she took a step toward it before remembering that she wasn’t supposed to answer.

  After the third ring, the answering machine clicked on, and a moment later came Decker’s voice. “I’m in the driveway. Don’t shoot me when I come in.”

  She smiled thinly. There were times when shooting him held a certain appeal, but then there would be that mess to clean up. And how would she explain it to his parents and Donovan?

  By the time he came into the kitchen, she was standing at the dining peninsula, a half-empty bottle of water in front of her. He carried a couple of plastic grocery bags in one hand, a paper bag bearing a fast-food logo in the other.

  His grin could be charming, his smile polished, but the scowl he wore now looked most at home on his features. He was the kind of guy who could intimidate people with nothing more than that. She, being smaller, thinner and a woman, had had to rely on other means of intimidation—a pistol, pepper spray, tough talk accompanied by tougher follow-through, in the guise of a bone-jarring control hold.

  “I thought you might want something besides pizza.” He set the paper bag between them, sliding it toward her, and the fragrance of fried beef and onions drifted into the air. It was enough to make her mouth water, and the sight of her favorite cookies as he began unloading the grocery bags finished the job.

  He glanced at the dining room window, then the kitchen window. His eyes were expressionless, his tone mild, when he asked, “You worried about too much sun in here?”

  Masiela tried to sound as mild. “There was a kid out back this morning. Came out of the woods and across the yard to the house next door. It just made me realize that hiding isn’t really hiding when anyone who happens by can see me.” The odds that someone would track her from Dallas to Copper Lake were slim, but stranger things had happened. Though there was no substitute for good detective work, there was also no substitute for luck. Citizens might feel less safe if they knew how often luck played a role in solving crimes.

  “Skinny kid, needs a haircut, texting someone?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s Speed. He and his sister live with their aunt Pris next door. Mom’s in jail, Dad doesn’t want them, so they wound up here. The girl, Calie, is a little mouse. I figure I’ll be arresting Speed before too long. He’s pissed off at the world and showing it.”

  “What’s the nickname for? His drug of choice? His driving?”

  AJ shook his head. “Apparently, he was one hell of a runner before he came here. He’s only thirteen, but did half marathons, won lots of races. According to his aunt, pretty much all he does here is hang out alone in the woods and text his best friend back home.”

  “Someone should probably get the kid back into running. You know, someone who lives nearby, who could be a positive male influence in his life.”

  AJ scowled. “I’m a cop, not a social worker.�
�

  “Sometimes the line between the two gets blurry.” She’d heard the words from him first. They’d been interviewing witnesses in a case and had come across a man whose wife had left him and their kids in a seedy apartment not fit for cockroaches. She’d been all set to call social services to take the kids, but AJ had intervened. Clean the place up, he’d told the man. We’ll be back in two hours to check.

  In those two hours, they’d gone grocery shopping, picking up enough food, formula and diapers to get the family through the next few weeks, and he’d continued to check up on them until the man’s relatives had come through with their own help.

  “I think Speed needs more than a running partner.”

  “Of course he does. He needs a father.” She shrugged. “But you make do with what you have.”

  He didn’t pursue that statement—he could hardly argue when he knew she spoke from experience, could he?—and wadded the plastic bags. She gazed at the items he’d bought: cookies, BBQ potato chips, chocolate, bags of cherries and grapes, a box of tea bags and another of sweetener packets. Every one her favorites. She’d thought last night that he’d ordered his girlfriend’s favorite pizza by mistake, though it was coincidentally her favorite, too. But all this couldn’t be a coincidence.

  He’d remembered.

  He stuffed the bags in a drawer, then took two plates from the cabinet. “You gonna open that bag?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” She unfolded the top flap, and the aromas grew stronger. Inside were two burgers wrapped in grease-stained paper and two bags of fries. The fries were crispy and salty, the way they should be, and she popped a couple into her mouth while dividing the food between the plates.

  “Do you normally come home for lunch?” She hooked a stool with her foot and pulled it over to sit on as he set two cans of pop and a bottle of ketchup on the counter.

  “No.”

  “Will people think it’s odd?”

  “I don’t think anyone pays that much attention to where I eat.” He sat on a stool on the other side of the counter and squirted a puddle of ketchup on his plate. “Did you make a shopping list?”