Triple Time

by Regina Kyle

  “Did I ask for opinions from the peanut gallery?” Devin snatched up the box and took it through the curtain back to her work space to a chorus of disappointed groans, punctuated by a few Spanish curse words.

  “Oooh, is that the Bergdorf’s logo?” Jazmin craned her neck for a peek as Devin tried unsuccessfully to stash the box unnoticed behind her chair. “What’s inside?”

  “I don’t know.” Devin set the box down and fingered the card. Her name was written in a strong, masculine hand on the envelope. “It’s a gift. I haven’t opened it.”

  “Well, come on, muchacha.” Jazmin nudged her with one elbow. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I should really get back to work on your ink.”

  “We can finish up next week. I was starting to get a little sore, anyway.” Jazmin lifted the gauze pad and inspected her new tattoo.

  “Keep that covered.” Devin gave her client a fresh pad and threw the used one into the medical waste container.

  “Stop changing the subject.” Jazmin pouted. “Open the package.”

  “Okay, okay.” First the waiting room crew, now Jazmin. What was with these people? They took meddling to a whole new level.

  Devin tore open the card, knowing whose signature she’d find inside. Can’t wait to see you in this at the ballet tonight. And out of it at my place after. Yours, Gabe.

  Was he? Hers? And she, his? Was that what all this, surprise museum trips and unexpected presents and life-changing orgasms, was adding up to?

  Fat chance. Devin crumpled up the card in her fist. He’d pushed her further than any man had before. Gotten her to admit that their relationship—God, she hated that word—went beyond the physical. But belonging to each other? Lifetime commitment? His and hers towels? No way. Forever wasn’t in her DNA.

  “Who’s it from?” Jazmin’s voice brought her back to the matter at hand.

  “A friend.” Devin eyed the box at her feet.

  “Must be a good friend if he’s shopping for you at Bergdorf’s.”

  “Who says it’s a he?”

  “The blush creeping up your face.” Jazmin waggled a finger at her. “Quit stalling. Let’s see what your novio picked out for you.”

  “He’s not my...” Devin’s denial died in her throat. What was the point? They were seeing each other almost every night. Humping like sex fiends. And now he was sending her expensive gifts. That made Gabe her boyfriend, didn’t it? Even if hearing it out loud gave her the willies. “Never mind.”

  Devin laid the box flat on the floor, knelt beside it and lifted off the lid. She peeled back the mountains of tissue paper and stood, lifting up a stunning beaded mermaid gown in a deep, rich red, with a sweetheart neckline, wide, gathered shoulder straps and an open back.

  “Aye, dios mio,” Jazmin breathed. “Alexander McQueen.”

  “You’ve seen it for all of two seconds. How can you tell the designer?”

  “I watch Project Runway. And stalk the fashion blogs. That gown is part of his new collection. It’s worth over five thousand dollars.”

  “What?” The gown slipped in Devin’s shocked hands, and she clutched it to her chest to stop it from falling into a five-thousand-dollar heap on the floor.

  “Exquisite.” Leo came up behind her, his voice startling her so she almost dropped the damned thing again. “Your Gabriel has outdone himself.”

  Devin grimaced. “Shouldn’t you be working?” she snapped.

  “I just finished up on Hector.” Leo stood firmly planted, hands on his hips. “And my next client ran next door to get some cash from the ATM.”

  Great. A bigger audience.

  “Ooh, try it on,” Jazmin purred.

  Devin draped the dress over her arm. “Not now.”

  “Look, there’s more.” Jazmin had gotten down from the chair and was crouched next to the still open box, holding up a pair of matching mesh and suede pumps. “Jimmy Choo.”

  “You realize these names mean nothing to me, right?”

  “Well, they should.” Jazmin dangled the shoes from her fingertips. “They mean your novio has expensive tastes and the cuartos to indulge them.”

  Devin snatched the shoes in her free hand, tucked the box under her arm and stomped toward the storeroom.

  “Square up with Jazmin, and schedule her for a follow-up early next week,” she called over her shoulder. “Someone’s got some ’splainin’ to do.”

  * * *

  “HEY, BOSS. YOU GOT A minute?” Murphy stuck his head inside Gabe’s office door.

  Gabe looked up from his keyboard at his inspector. “I have to file this motion by five. Can it wait?”

  “You’re going to want to see this.” Murphy waved a DVD. “We got the surveillance tapes from the victim’s apartment building.”

  Gabe pushed back his chair and followed Murphy down the hall to the video room, whistling as he went.

  “What’s with you?” Murphy slowed his steps to let Gabe catch up with him. “You take happy pills or something?”

  “Just in a good mood, I guess.” Gabe swung open the door marked Video Room. “It’s a beautiful day. Birds singing. Flowers blooming. Taxi drivers cutting each other off. What’s not to like?”

  “Well, I hope this doesn’t burst your bubble.” Murphy pushed past him and headed straight for the combination TV/DVD player.

  “Not likely.” Taking a seat at the conference table in the center of the room, Gabe fought a smile. It would take an elephant dart to bring him down today. He checked his watch. In about four and a half hours he’d be with Devin, at the ballet.

  “Let me get it cued up.” Murphy fiddled with the DVD player. “The interesting part’s at around 12:30 p.m.”

  “That’s almost five hours before the medical examiner’s estimated time of death.”

  “Exactly.” Murphy’s finger hovered over the play button. “Ready?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  Murphy started the DVD. The entrance to the Park Avenue apartment building where the bodies were found popped up on the screen. The angle of the camera caught everyone coming and going. Including a man in jeans, a stained, white T-shirt and a tool belt, swinging a tool box in one arm.

  “Pause it.” Gabe leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Was that who I think it was?”

  “Yep.” Murphy crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That’s our guy, all right. The defendant. On his way out. Five hours before the murder.”

  Gabe slumped in his seat. No wonder their witness was wavering. She was wrong.

  “I take it there’s nothing that shows him returning.”

  “Nope.”

  “And no other way in or out of the building.”

  “Negative.”

  Gabe tugged at his collar, which all at once seemed to be choking him. “How did we miss this?”

  “Problem is—” Murphy cleared his throat “—I don’t think we did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember how we thought the security camera wasn’t working?”

  “Yeah.” Gabe scowled at his inspector, still not following.

  “Well, someone from this office watched the video from the day of the murder. He paid off the guard on duty to erase it and say he’d accidentally turned off the camera. But the guard didn’t feel right about it, so he saved it onto a USB drive. Just in case.”

  “If someone bribed him to erase it, why come forward with it now?”

  “Because that someone is no longer working the case.”

  Jack.

  “Shit.” Gabe slammed his fist on the table. “That unethical little prick. He completely screwed us.”

  “You said it.” Murphy took a step toward Gabe and jammed his hands in his pockets. “We have to disclose this to the defense. We’re going to look like assholes.”

  “Fuck disclosure. We might have to dismiss the whole damn case.” Gabe pushed back his chair and stood, the motion he had to file suddenly the least of his concerns. “I’ve got to talk
to Holcomb. Now.”

  “Before you do, there’s something else you should see.” Murphy turned back to the DVD player and pressed Fast Forward. The images zoomed past.

  “Please tell me it’s not more bad news.” Although Gabe didn’t know how it could get any worse. Withholding evidence that could prove the defendant’s innocence was pretty much the lowest a prosecutor could sink.

  And this guy wanted to be district attorney?

  Over Gabe’s dead body.

  “Depends on how you look at it.” Murphy froze the DVD. “Here we are. 5:25 p.m.”

  “Right around the time of death.”

  Murphy nodded and restarted the video. For a few seconds, there wasn’t any movement. Then a grainy figure came into the frame. It was a man of average build, his face obscured by a gray hoodie. He paused briefly to adjust something in his pocket then ducked out the door.

  “Our murderer?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Not much to go on.”

  “Forensics is enhancing it and printing up some stills. We’re going to recanvass the neighborhood, show them around and see if anyone recognizes him.”

  “Great.” Gabe ran a hand through his hair and headed for the door, continuing to speak as he went. “Get Colby and Renwick to help. I’ll clean up Kentfield’s mess.”

  Five minutes later he was on the seventh floor, talking his way past Doris to Holcomb’s private sanctuary. This wasn’t going to be easy or pleasant, no matter how much he detested Jack. He knocked.

  “Come in,” Holcomb barked from inside.

  Gabe pushed open the door. “I apologize for the interruption...”

  “This better be important, Nelson.” Holcomb spun around in his desk chair and waved Gabe in. “I’ve got a press conference in twenty minutes.”

  “It is, sir. It’s about the Park Avenue homicide case.” Gabe made sure the door closed behind him before continuing. “We may have the wrong man.”

  Holcomb jerked upright in his chair, the full force of his razor-sharp attention on Gabe. “What do you mean, ‘may have’?”

  “The surveillance tapes show the defendant leaving the scene almost five hours before the murders and another man in a gray hoodie exiting shortly after the medical examiner’s estimated time of death.”

  “Why are we just finding out about this now?”

  “Well, that’s another issue.” Gabe stood taller, determined not to let his boss intimidate him. Hell, he hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t his fault Jack was a complete douche. Okay, so he was the douche’s immediate supervisor, but he couldn’t and shouldn’t have to watch him 24/7. “The security guard we got the video from says he was paid off to destroy it.”

  “Paid off? By who?” Holcomb’s amber eyes speared Gabe.

  Gabe shifted his weight, rocking slightly. “You’re not going to like this.”

  “Cop?”

  “Prosecutor.” Gabe clasped his hands behind his back. “Kentfield.”

  “What motive would he have for hiding evidence?” Holcomb tapped a finger thoughtfully against his cheek. “How do we know this security guard is telling the truth?”

  “We don’t,” Gabe admitted. “Yet.”

  “Then come back when you have some real proof Kentfield was involved.”

  “And until then?”

  “Do what you have to do.” Holcomb plucked a pen from a container on his desk and clicked it absently. “Disclose the video. Talk to the security guard. Track down the man in the hoodie.”

  He pointed the pen at Gabe, piercing him with another stare. “But until we’ve got another suspect in custody, this handyman’s our guy. And he stays in Rikers.”

  Holcomb turned back to his computer, dismissing Gabe.

  With a shake of his head, Gabe started for the door, only to be stopped by one more blast of Holcomb’s voice.

  “And Gabe.”

  Gabe froze.

  “Until you can prove someone from this office withheld evidence, this stays right here.” Holcomb’s tone was hard and flat, one Gabe knew from experience brooked no dissent. “I don’t want to see this aired out in the press.”

  “Understood.”

  Gabe let the door slam shut and rushed for the elevator.

  Goddamn Holcomb, leaving him hanging out to dry. He should have known the big man wouldn’t want to get his hands dirty, even though his term of office was coming to a close. Who knew what kind of sweetheart deal he’d worked out for himself in the private sector.

  The elevator dinged at the same time Gabe’s cell rang. He stepped in, hit the button for the third floor with the heel of his hand and answered the call, not bothering to check who it was. “Gabe Nel—”

  He was cut off by a barrage of Spanish in a familiar female voice. He caught a few words, like vestido, costosa and estupido.

  “I take it you got the dress,” he finally managed to interject when she took a breath. “What’s the matter? Not your color?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s the matter.” Her voice seemed to rise an octave with each word. “It’s too damn expensive, that’s what.”

  Gabe winced. The dress was too much. He should have known Devin would be insulted by what she’d no doubt view as a hand-out. He’d almost gone with something simpler, more understated. But he made the mistake of texting pictures of the two gowns to his sister, and Holly had convinced him that the rich red beading would look striking against Devin’s light mocha skin. And it would, if he could worm his way out of this and convince her to wear it. “It’s not a big deal, honest.”

  “Not a big deal? You call five thousand dollars not a big deal?” He had to hold the phone away from his head. “That’s almost three months’ rent.”

  Not for me, Gabe thought. Not that he was dumb enough to make things worse by saying it.

  “I appreciate the gesture,” Devin continued, her voice a tad calmer. “Really, I do. But I can’t accept it. Or the shoes.”

  The elevator doors slid open and Gabe got off, making way for a frazzled-looking woman with a copy of the New York Post under her arm. The paper was folded so that its infamous Page Six gossip section faced outward. Tina Fey and Amy Poehler smiled at him from a picture above the fold, flanking the mayor at some charity event. He snapped his fingers. “I have an idea.”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t even heard it.” He waved to his secretary on his way past and pushed open his office door.

  “If it involves me wearing this outfit, I don’t have to.” A rustling sound crackled over the line, like she was putting the dress back in the box.

  “Hear me out.” He sank into his chair and propped his feet up on the desk.

  The other end of the line went quiet for a minute. “Okay,” she said finally. “What’s your brilliant idea?”

  “Wear the dress and shoes tonight.”

  “I told you.” Her tone spiked again. “There’s no way...”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” he interrupted. “Wear them. Hob nob with the elite. Get yourself photographed by the press. I know a guy at the Post who can make sure your picture hits the society page. Maybe even get you a mention in Cindy Adams’s column.”

  “What good is that going to do?”

  “Then we give the dress to your friend at Turn the Page, the force of nature.”

  “Ariela? Where’s she going to wear a getup like this?”

  “She’s not.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “She’s going to auction it off for the charity.”

  Silence. He was about to concede defeat when she spoke.

  “Damn. That is a brilliant idea.” She paused and he could almost picture her biting her lip, warring with herself. “But it’s a lot of money for you to give away.”

  “I’ll get a tax write-off and I’ll be able to sleep with a clear conscience.” He dropped his feet from the desk and sat upright. “So, what do you say?”

  “I say yes.” She paused and for a moment he thought she’d hung up un
til she spoke again. “And thank you.”

  14

  “FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK.” Devin paced self-consciously in front of Lincoln Center’s iconic plaza fountain, watching the rich and famous make their way toward the Koch Theater, where the ballet performed. She tightened her grip on the faded pashmina she’d covered her shoulders with despite the sweltering late August heat. Even with her tattoos hidden and three of the four piercings in her ear removed, she felt the stares of the passersby.

  You can take the girl out of the Heights, but you can’t take the Heights out of the girl.

  She stopped pacing and checked to make sure her ink was totally concealed, adjusting the long shawl so it draped behind her, hiding the top of the sugar skull just visible above the low back of her dress. This was a big, fat, freaking mistake. She belonged at a society event as much as a nun belonged in a biker bar.

  She was about ten seconds from bolting when a deep, smoky voice came from behind her. “Juliet.”

  She turned and found Gabe, looking hotter than hot in a well-fitting, single-breasted black tuxedo, crisp white shirt and black bow tie, a red rose extended in one hand. “Romeo, I presume?”

  “At your service.” He bowed low and handed her the flower.

  “Thank you.” She brought it to her nose and inhaled, her eyes on the patrons as they streamed into the theater. Too late to back out now. “I guess we’d better get inside.”

  He took in her wrap. “It’s almost ninety degrees. What’s with the granny garb?”

  “I, uh, thought it might be cold in the theater.” She clutched it closer to her.

  He scanned the crowd. “No one else seems concerned. Besides, you’ll never make Page Six in that thing.”

  Devin groaned. He was right. Most of the women flooding past were showing some skin. Only there was a big difference between their unblemished flesh and hers.

  “Unless there’s some other reason you’re clinging to it like it’s a life preserver and you’re a passenger on the Titanic.” He put his hands on her upper arms and drew the shawl down to her wrists. “Like you don’t want anyone to see your tattoos.”