Protector’s Temptation
Page 13
“Framed him?” Maricci supplied when he didn’t finish.
“May have committed the murder themselves.” It was hard to say. AJ could talk about corruption in police departments, but when it came to cops he knew—and when the victim was someone he’d felt responsible for—it was tough to wrap his mind around.
With the emotional distance of uninvolvement, Maricci shrugged. “You know that shit happens.”
“You ever work with a dirty cop?”
“Not that I know of. Some lazy ones. Incompetent. One who questioned a suspect without Mirandizing her, then suggested we could testify that she wasn’t a suspect at the time. But that was more inexperience and overenthusiasm than corruption.”
Maricci stopped in front of the brick building that housed Dr. Stafford’s clinic, and AJ clumsily unfastened his seat belt. Before opening the door, though, he grimly said, “I knew these guys since the first day at the academy. One of them saved my life when we worked narcotics. It’s just hard to believe…”
“Everyone has secrets, Lieutenant.”
After a moment, Maricci shrugged again. “While you’re here, I’m going back to your house to look around. Call me when you’re done.”
AJ nodded as he climbed out of the car and went inside. When the nurse called him after an hour-long wait, she first took him to X-ray for more films that left him sweating and nauseous, then to an exam room.
Stafford came in as the nurse removed the splint and unwrapped layers of cotton to expose AJ’s bruised, swollen wrist. “Falling down the stairs, Lieutenant. Seems a cop could find more exciting ways to get hurt,” Stafford remarked with a grin.
“Next time I’ll try to get shot.”
“Nah, bullets do nasty things when they go through bone. The X-rays show that your wrist is in good position, so we’ll get you fixed up with a cast, then see you back in four weeks.”
“What about work?”
“Once you can get through the day with only acetaminophen or ibuprofen, then you’re good to go.” Stafford paused to make a notation, then gave him a warning look. “But don’t go without the narcotics when you really need them, just so you can work. The job’s not going anywhere.”
That damn sure was true, AJ reflected as he walked out fifteen minutes later, sporting a black cast from the base of his fingers to just below his elbow, along with a sling that was already cutting into his shoulder and neck. As long as there were criminals, there would be cops.
And when the two happened to be one and the same…
Just the thought made him feel as sick as he had when the X-ray tech had been twisting his arm in there.
Maricci was waiting in the parking lot. AJ settled in the passenger seat, then propped his right wrist on his left shoulder, taking the pressure off the sling strap and hoping it would ease the throbbing. He hurt so bad that he wanted to lean over and puke, but the effort might make him pass out. Besides, Maricci was fastidious about his car. He’d reamed Kiki for tossing a candy bar wrapper in the back when they were on surveillance one time, and AJ had to listen to her complain for two solid days.
“Bet you wish you’d taken those pain pills your friend was pushing, don’t you?” Maricci asked. “I’ve seen pretty much all there is to see at the house. You wanna go back to the motel?”
A slow breath helped ease the nausea. “Nah. I’ve got to pick up some stuff. My cell phone…” He paused as Maricci handed it over. “My weapon. Did you find how they got in?”
“The back door was jimmied. Pretty good job of it, too. Did you move that TV that was in front of the sofa? Because it’s not there now. There’s clothes scattered around the stairs, but nothing else seems to be missing. Oh, and they painted a few obscenities on the Sheetrock in the living room.”
AJ scowled. “Stealing a television, graffiti…doesn’t sound like cops trying to shut someone up, does it?”
“Nope. More like kids that you almost arrested for stealing a television a couple days ago. Connor Calloway’s family had him out of jail within two hours yesterday. That gave him the rest of the day to persuade those idiot Holigan brothers to go along with him.” Maricci pulled into AJ’s driveway. “I sent Isaacs over to pick up the brothers. We’ll keep them waiting for an hour or two before I question them.”
If the break-in turned out to be the work of vandals, Masiela would be relieved—though she wouldn’t be thrilled that three pretty much harmless teenage punks had driven her even deeper into hiding. Better that she be safe, though, than AJ be sorry.
Fishing his keys out with his left hand, he went inside the house and surveyed the handiwork in the living room. Neon-colored curses marked each of the four walls, one of them misspelled. No one had ever accused the Holigans of being smart.
While Maricci secured the back door temporarily with a two-by-four and nails, AJ took a slow walk-through that showed nothing else out of place besides the TV. The clothes basket that had caused his fall remained where it had landed, the clothing still scattered. His bedroom was undisturbed, with no noticeable attempt to get into the gun safe in his closet where he kept his pistol and badge.
He’d just taken out the pistol and two extra magazines when his cell phone rang. “Yeah,” he muttered.
“Good morning to you, too,” Donovan said. “Tell your house guest that I checked, and all three of our friends worked their usual shift last night. No way they could have paid you a visit.”
So Masiela had called Donovan. He would have thought of that sooner or later. Probably much later, after a double dose of pain pills. “Yeah, it looks more like stupid kids. Maricci’ll find out for sure.”
“Be careful until then. I don’t want anything happening to Masiela.”
You and me both. He hesitated, then gruffly said, “I assume you’ve been examining her evidence. What do you think?”
“You haven’t looked at it yourself yet? No, of course you haven’t. You were buddies with them and pissed off at her.” Another voice sounded in the background, a woman, then Donovan said, “I’ve got to go. My jury’s just come back. I’ll call you.”
Israel Rodriguez might be innocent of this particular crime, Donovan had said on Monday. Masiela had been saying it for years, and AJ had been resisting it for years. What if she was right? What if he’d been ticked off at her all this time and she’d been right and he’d been wrong?
He felt sick again, and this time he couldn’t blame it on pain.
Since he couldn’t bring Masiela back to the house until they were positive Connor and his buds were their visitors—a confession or hard proof would be nice—he dumped some clothes, shampoo and stuff into a duffel and carried it downstairs, then pointed out Masiela’s suitcase. As soon as Maricci placed both bags in the trunk, they were on their way back to Peachton.
When they were parked in front of the motel room, Maricci said, “You don’t have to look so sour. She can’t be too big a hardship to come home to. She looked pretty damn sexy with that gun on her hip.” There was something about a woman as capable and tough—and feminine and soft—as Mas, AJ admitted to himself. The problem was, it was all so damn complicated.
“She can outshoot and outrun you and me both. She could probably get the best of us in a fight, too.”
“And she’s beautiful. Gotta love her.”
Oh, yeah, he’d loved her. Once. Her going to work as a defense lawyer and taking on Rodriguez’s case had ended that. Even if Rodriguez had been innocent, someone else could have represented him. Someone else could have continued to fight for him.
Someone else could have done the right thing, a snide voice whispered.
Though it was looking more and more like AJ hadn’t.
After flipping through the channels once, Masiela surrendered the TV remote to Ty, then paced to the window to gaze out through a narrow crack. What she could see of the parking lot was empty, the only movement being the housekeepers as they pushed their carts from room to room. Decker and Maricci had been gone more than two hours, and she’d spent mo
st of the time wondering. What had the doctor said about Decker’s arm? What had they found at the house? Had Donovan gotten in touch with them yet? Could they go back home soon, or were more dimly lit, musty-scented motel rooms in her future?
Home. It seemed odd that she would think of Decker’s house that way, but why not? His apartment in Dallas had been home as much as her own place had. He had been home. At his side, working together, playing together, having his back—that was where she’d been happy. Where she’d belonged.
Until she turned down the job with the DA’s office and taken Rodriguez’s case.
The flash of a turn signal drew her attention to the Dodge turning into the parking lot. The tightening of her muscles would have told her it was Decker, even if she couldn’t see him in the front seat. He looked exhausted, in serious pain. Poor baby, she thought, without a hint of the usual sarcasm.
When Maricci parked in front of the door, she moved away from the window, heading for the sink to get a cup of water. “They’re back.”
Ty rose from the bed and crossed to the door, checking the peephole before undoing the locks. Decker came in first, death warmed over, and went straight to his bed. By the time he was settled, she had the water and two pain pills waiting for him, and he took them without protest.
Maricci was on his cell, not saying much beyond the occasional murmur. After a few moments, he ended the conversation. “Good job, Isaacs. Thanks.”
“I bet that hurt,” Decker muttered, his eyes closed. “Complimenting Kiki. Thanking her.”
“Hey, I compliment her when she deserves it,” Maricci replied. “When she picked up the Holigans, she brought their mom in, too, since the younger one’s seventeen. Mom tends bar across the river and didn’t get home until four, so she wasn’t real thrilled to be dragged out of bed and down to the station. She told Isaacs all about the television in the living room this morning that wasn’t there when she left last night. Neither of the kids would admit that Connor was in on it, but at least we know for sure it was homegrown punks instead of out-of-state ones.”
Masiela sank down on the edge of her bed. “Kids,” she echoed. She was chagrined. All that fear, all that adrenaline, over nothing. Oh, sure, she’d come up against teenagers before who were stone-cold killers, but that wasn’t the case with these kids. They were holding a grudge, looking for a thrill and too dumb to get rid of the evidence.
She was also relieved. She was still safe. Decker was still safe, except—she glanced at his cast—from her.
“So we can go home,” she said hopefully.
“We’ll follow you,” Maricci said. “Where’s the truck?”
She told him, and in a matter of minutes, he had retrieved Decker’s truck and Ty had checked them out of the room. Ty helped Decker into the pickup while she and Maricci kept watch, then she climbed behind the wheel, started the powerful engine and backed out.
When she parked in Decker’s driveway a half hour later, her earlier thought returned: Home.
But not for long.
“Thanks for everything,” Masiela said, glancing over her shoulder as Decker wearily climbed the stairs. He’d be snoring before his friends made it to the edge of the porch. “Thanks for everything.”
Maricci pulled a card from his hip pocket, a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote a few lines before handing it to her. “If you need anything…”
She looked at his home number and his and Ty’s cell numbers, then nodded. “Thank you.”
“We’ll be checking by. Don’t worry if you don’t see us.” For the first time, Maricci broke his professional demeanor with a grin that had probably stopped—or jump-started—a ton of female hearts. She wondered if the gold band on his left hand had slowed the fluttering any. “That’s the point.”
“Thanks,” she said again. There was no overstating her gratitude that Decker had people he trusted, people she could trust.
The house was quiet once she locked up again. She walked into the living room to check out the juvenile messages on the walls, circled through the kitchen and came back to the end of the hall. After picking up the once-clean clothes and leaving them for another trip to the laundry room, she carried Decker’s duffel upstairs, replacing the toiletries in the bathroom, going to his room to put away the clothes.
She stopped abruptly.
Instead of snoozing in bed, Decker was standing beside it. The clothing he’d worn that morning was on the floor, and now he wore olive drab shorts and held a short-sleeve shirt. The print was subdued for a Hawaiian shirt—exotic blue flowers and pale green leaves on an ivory background. It was so not his taste that she knew it must have been a gift.
From Cate. How could they have even vaguely considered marriage when she knew so little about him?
Masiela ignored the fact that his unfastened shorts rode low on his hips and went on into the room. She didn’t notice that he had a great chest, smooth and muscled, or a nicely flat stomach. She didn’t even give a hint of a thought to the knowledge that he had a great back, too, and that she’d always been a sucker for muscular backs. Nope, she paid none of that any mind.
She set the duffel on the dresser. “You should be in bed.”
“I’m going to rest. Downstairs.” He lifted the shirt. “A little help?”
Still doing a lot of ignoring, she closed the distance between them and took the shirt by the collar. “This is beyond help. I never thought I’d see the day when you’d wear something so…Hawaiian.”
“It’s the only clean shirt I stand a chance of getting on—” he extended his arm, and she guided the fabric carefully over the cast “—without hurting.”
He shrugged his uninjured arm through, then pulled the edges together. She fastened the buttons, fixed her gaze on the center of a blue flower and slid her hands underneath the cool cotton to the waistband of his shorts. Her fingers grazed warm, bare skin, and her breath caught, or was it his?
The button slid easily through the hole, but she fumbled with the zipper. This time it was definitely his breath that caught, followed by an indistinguishable mutter that she suspected was a curse. Feeling his scowl, she glared at the flower in return. “Hey, I’m not used to zipping up in reverse.”
Heat radiated from him as the zipper rasped to a stop. Immediately, he took a step away. If he hadn’t moved, she would have. Since he had, she remained where she was, pretending a carelessness she didn’t feel. “Tell me you didn’t buy that shirt yourself.”
He slid his feet into flip-flops. “In what universe would I pick this out?”
“Just because Dr. Cate can fix broken bones, it doesn’t mean she can choose clothes.”
“Don’t I know it.” He gestured toward her. “I need the sling.”
The white cotton sling was on the bed behind her. She picked it up, helped him put it on, then positioned the foam cushion on his neck. She was about to make some inane remark when her gaze caught his. His hazel eyes were dark, shadowed, and his voice came out husky.
“Thanks.”
She had trouble catching her breath. “You’re welcome.” She had more trouble tearing her gaze from his. Finally she remembered what she’d come in for—to put away the clothes he’d packed—and opened the duffel. Trying to sound at least somewhat normal, she said, “You know, if you called Cate to help you out, she would probably come.”
Though her back was to him now, she could feel his stare. “We ended things last night, but I should call her asking favors? You used to give better advice than that, Mas.”
We ended things last night. Had she needed to hear that there were no doubts, no maybes, no working it out? Not that it made a lot of difference. It didn’t give her the right to make a move of her own. It didn’t mean he wanted her to make a move. That tension just now probably would have sparked between any man and woman in the same situation. It didn’t mean anything, except that her libido was alive and well.
Seeking a distraction, she said, “I didn’t give advice, good or bad.”
She left the empty duffel on the closet floor, then faced him again. “Those were just statements of fact and honest questions. You can’t deny, your taste in women was atrocious.”
“I worked with pretty and smart eight to ten hours a day, and I balanced it off the job with pretty and dumb. What’s wrong with that?”
He’d never called her pretty or smart that Masiela could recall. Maybe “smart-ass” on occasion. But he’d never given any hint that he thought she was at all attractive, at least until the night he jumped her bones—then pretended it didn’t happen.
Since you didn’t say anything, I figured it would be best to ignore it.
She never would have guessed in a million years that he’d wanted her to bring it up first. What would have happened if she had? Would he have wanted to have sex with her again? Was it possible he might even have asked her out on a date? Been interested in a relationship?
Or said, “Hey, it was fun, but we can’t do it again”? Or, “It was a mistake. It won’t happen again”?
Even though he’d said just this morning that he didn’t regret it.
That knowledge sent a warm little shiver through her. All these years she’d wondered and, considering how things had ended between them, had figured the answer was a resounding yes. Now she knew it wasn’t. Despite the fact that he’d ended up angry and distrusting her, he didn’t regret those few hours. That was incredible.
Chapter 9
Feeling unsettled, AJ brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, then went downstairs, his left hand trailing the wall just in case. Masiela had already folded away the sofa bed and was in the kitchen, changed into shorts and a T-shirt that drew his gaze over long expanses of bronzed skin. There was a scar on her right knee, a souvenir from learning to ride a bike, and another on her left calf, the result of her first down-and-dirty fight on the job. She’d been about to handcuff a suspect when his buddy had come out of nowhere, knocked her to the ground and tried to grab her weapon. After breaking the guy’s wrist with a wrist lock—AJ felt a twinge of sympathy—she used the weapon to hold them both until backup arrived, then she’d quietly driven herself to the hospital to get eight stitches in her leg.