After all, not a whole lot of people wore a shit-ton of armor and carried themselves with the sort of awareness that had been earned rather than taught.
Kennedy pushed past her office door with a bump of one hip, reminding Gamble that a) she had really sexy hips, and b) he was here for a reason that had nothing to do with her body parts, no matter how hot she looked wrapped up in all that dark, low-slung denim.
“Sorry for the wait,” she said, placing the cup of coffee in her left hand on the desk in front of him while cradling the cup in her right hand carefully to protect her bandaged palm. “I really appreciate you letting me get my staff updated and ready to prep for the shift in front of us before you and I talk.”
Gamble waited for her to shut the door behind her before answering. “You’ve got a business to run, and I’m sure they’re a little rattled about the fire.” Annnnnd cue up the segue. “But you still haven’t given me a good reason not to go to the police.”
Irritation flickered over her face, but she banked it quickly—not an unwise move since he had the upper hand.
“Let me guess,” Kennedy said, arching a brow. “You’re an only child.”
The words slipped under his skin with a sharp sting he wasn’t prepared for, and his shoulders knotted as he drew back to stare at her. “I’m not sure how that signifies.”
She surprised him by softening, even if only by a degree. “I just meant you’d understand my reason for not saying anything last night if you had a sibling you were close with. Or used to be close with, I guess.”
Her gaze lowered to the cup of ridiculously over-creamed coffee in front of her. She remained quiet for a heartbeat, then another, and God, his inclination was to push. Someone—her brother, from the look of things—had started a fire that had grown big enough to potentially hurt bystanders and the firefighters who had responded to the scene, not to mention cause a truckload of property damage. Gamble was through waiting for explanations. But he knew from experience that sometimes the best way to get the information you wanted was to simply wait for it, just as he knew that if he pushed before she was ready, the only thing he was likely to get was pushback, so he metered his breath to a steady inhale/exhale and stayed quiet, until, finally, Kennedy spoke.
“Look, first, I need you to know that I didn’t lie to the police about not seeing the driver of that car, or anything else about it, really, other than my brother in the passenger seat, and if I thought for one second that he’d done something seriously malicious, I wouldn’t hesitate to come forward.”
“People could’ve been hurt by that fire,” Gamble said by way of argument. “Bystanders, firefighters. Fuck, Kennedy. You were hurt.”
The pang that had spread out in his gut grew stronger as she nodded in agreement. “I know. I get it. I really do. But this isn’t what it looks like.”
Time to get all the cards on the table, patience be damned. “Really?” Gamble asked. “Because what it looks like is your brother was involved in vandalism and arson. Christ, he and whoever he was with could’ve been purposely trying to burn down the entire block for all we know. If that’s not seriously malicious, I don’t know what is.”
Emotion flashed, dark green in Kennedy’s eyes, and she shook her head, adamant. “Xander wouldn’t be a party to trying to burn down a building. Not willingly, and definitely not here, when he knows this is my bar. You don’t understand.”
A noise of irritation rose in Gamble’s throat. “Then explain it to me. Because all I see right now is a guy who, in all likelihood, committed a crime, and his sister, who’s lying to cover for him.”
“Of course, that’s all you see,” she said. But rather than snapping at him, her voice went uncharacteristically soft. “That’s all the police would see, too. But I’m telling you, now that I’ve seen him and the look that was on his face, I know there’s something else going on here. Something that isn’t right. I don’t just love my brother, Ian. I raised him.”
The use of his first name pinned Gamble into place. He hadn’t had a clue she’d even known it, that was how frequently anyone ever addressed him as “Ian”. What’s more, her brutally fierce certainty was a complete one-eighty from the guarded nothing-to-see-here attitude she’d given up before.
His gut was rarely wrong, and right now, despite the warning pumping down from his brain, it was telling him to hear her out.
Crossing his arms, he sat back in the chair across from her desk. Just because he was giving her a chance didn’t mean he trusted her. Fire still burned, whether you meant to set it or not. “Start from the beginning, and don’t hold back on the details.”
“There aren’t that many,” she said, caution returning to her expression. “Xander and I grew up in Hillside Bay.”
Gamble’s well-shit meter inched up a notch. Hillside Bay, or just The Hill to Remington locals, was the most notoriously dangerous section of North Point, which was already a pretty crummy part of the city to begin with. No wonder she and Xander both carried themselves with such toughness. Christ, even your battle scars had battle scars growing up in a neighborhood like that.
Kennedy continued, “Our mom meant well, but she grew up in The Hill, too, and nothing out that way is a walk in the park. Xander and I have different fathers. Not that either one of them was ever close to being in the picture.” She paused for a shrug that was all fact. “But it didn’t make life easy. Our mom juggled three jobs to keep a roof over our heads and food in our mouths.”
“Three?” Gamble asked, unable to cage his surprise. He didn’t make a king’s ransom working for the RFD, but it was definitely enough to live on, and pretty decently, at that.
As if she could read his mind, Kennedy nodded. “There aren’t exactly a whole lot of legit job opportunities for a Northie with her GED and a limited skill set, so yeah, my mom took what she could get, even when her employers offered her less than minimum wage. But that left me to look after Xander.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for a kid,” Gamble said slowly.
“Maybe,” she agreed, “but it was far better than going into the foster care system, where we’d get separated, for sure. Plus, at least if we stayed with our mom, we knew we’d eat most of the time and that no one would knock us around. Or worse.”
The thought sent a spear of something hot and dark through Gamble’s chest, but he tamped it down. Stay focused. “So, you weren’t exaggerating when you said you raised your brother.”
“Did you really think I’d make something like that up?” The question came out mostly tenacious, but there was enough of a bittersweet edge to make Gamble pause. He understood that brand of loyalty—certainly not from anything he’d experienced growing up, but he wasn’t going to think about that now, or, hey, ever would be cool, too. Still, he knew exactly what it was like to devote himself to a family, even if his had been chosen rather than blood.
He’d have done anything for the Marines in his recon unit, just like he’d do anything, including lay down his life if he had to, for the firefighters and paramedics at Seventeen.
Which meant the chances of getting Kennedy to see reason here were slim to fucking none.
“No. I guess I didn’t. But your relationship with your brother still doesn’t change the fact that he sped away from the scene of a fire last night.”
“I know it looks bad,” Kennedy said, her spine straightening against the back of her desk chair. “That’s exactly why I didn’t say anything to those officers. But Xander wouldn’t have come here today unless something was seriously wrong, and he damn sure wouldn’t have done anything like intentionally set that fire. There’s something else happening, here.”
Gamble frowned. “Like what?”
Well, that took the wind out of her sails. “I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out.” A handful of emotions flickered through her olive-green stare, each lasting for the briefest second before turning into pure resolve. “Listen, Gamble. I may have a lot of loyalty to my brother, but I’m a
lso not an idiot. A crime was committed, and I understand how serious it is that it looks like Xander was involved. If he genuinely committed arson, I’ll haul his ass to the Thirty-Third precinct myself. But I truly don’t think that’s what happened. All I’m asking is that you hold off on saying anything until I talk to him and figure out what’s really going on.”
“How do you know he won’t lie to you?” Gamble asked, and if Kennedy was offended by the question, she didn’t show it.
“Because he’s my brother, and I trust him,” she said simply. “I also think he’s in trouble. All I want to do is get to the truth.”
Indecision wasn’t something Gamble felt often, and right now, he remembered how much it sucked. Still, he had to examine every angle in order to figure out the best plan to proceed. “Xander could be headed out of town right now.”
Kennedy’s laugh held not one trace of happiness. “To go where, exactly? He’s never been outside of Remington in his life, and he still lives in North Point. I doubt he even has enough gas money to get all the way home, much less skip town.”
“So, you know where he lives, then?”
She paused, and wait, was that guilt on her face? “Not for sure, no, but things in The Hill don’t change. I know where he works and where he hangs out; plus, I know how to get intel in the neighborhood. I can find him without a problem.”
Gamble connected the dots, his gut ratcheting in a twist of oh-hell-no. “You’re not going into North Point by yourself.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Kennedy said on a huff. “I lived there for over twenty years. I’m pretty sure I can handle a run to my old block.”
“Oh, I know you can.” This next part was going to sting, but he was far past giving a shit. The fact that he was even considering not calling Isabella or Capelli or any number of the other cops he knew from the intelligence unit was crazy enough. “But here it is. While you might trust your brother, I don’t, so you’ve got two options. You can either take me with you into North Point when you go talk to him, and let me listen to every part of every conversation the two of you have, or I can call the police right this second and let them do the dance with him. Your choice.”
Kennedy opened her mouth to reply, and judging by the way she’d just lowered her mug to her desk hard enough to send a splash of coffee over the stack of invoices piled there, she wasn’t going to wish him a happy birthday. Which didn’t hurt Gamble’s feelings any—hell, he’d just as soon call the cops and let them wade through the particulars of who was really responsible for this fire. He might understand loyalty, but family ties, the kind you shared with your flesh and blood?
They never amounted to a hill of shit as far as he was concerned.
But then, Kennedy paused. Closed her lips. Pursed them in the mother of all scowls and said, “Fine. You can come with me. But you’re going to have to let me do all the talking”—she held up a hand to press back the protest that must have been obvious on his face—“unless you want Xander to clam up, or worse yet, run again before we get any answers.”
Although he didn’t like it, Gamble nodded once in terse agreement. “Okay, but if things even hint at becoming a cluster fuck, or if he cops to setting the fire on purpose—”
“He won’t, because he didn’t,” Kennedy insisted.
But oh, Gamble had just as much tenacity as she did, and he was equally happy to sling it around. “If he does, or if we run into any trouble otherwise, you can bet I won’t keep quiet. Understood?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pain in the ass?” she grumbled, meeting his unamused stare with a, “Fine, yes. I understand.”
“I have one other condition,” Gamble said, sending Kennedy’s scowl on a comeback tour.
“I already told you, we have to do this my way. You’re not in any place to be making demands.”
“And you’re not in any condition to go running around North Point without some sleep and a decent meal,” he pointed out. The shadows beneath her eyes didn’t lie. He’d deal with the way they’d sent a funny feeling to the pit of his belly later. “We won’t get any answers if I have to worry about you falling over from exhaustion the whole time.”
Kennedy scoffed, but at least she didn’t push back. “I can take care of myself. I’ll be well-rested and ready to go by dinnertime. You just worry about you.”
“Not a problem,” Gamble said. “But I mean it, Kennedy. Make sure you’re solid, because I am getting answers tonight. Even if I have to dig them up myself.”
Slowly, she stood. Gamble’s heart pumped faster, the air growing thick with the sort of energy he’d call tension, except it left him far too fucking aroused. Placing her hands on the desk in front of her, Kennedy leaned forward, just enough to heat his blood with a subtle flash of the ink trailing toward the black lace bra beneath her snug, low-cut T-shirt.
“Let’s get something straight right now, Lieutenant. I’m always solid. Be here tonight at six. If you’re so much as a minute late, I’m going without you.”
Kennedy stood behind The Crooked Angel’s bar and cursed under her breath for the eight-hundredth time in the last eight hours. Although it had righteously chapped her ass to do so, she’d taken Gamble’s advice-slash-order, power napping for three solid hours on the couch in her office and eating a Cuban sandwich that she’d barely tasted, despite the fact that the dish was not only one of their most popular menu items, but her favorite, to boot. She hadn’t really expected that sleeping or eating would make her feel any better, but seriously, not even a two-week vacation sipping umbrella drinks in Maui would put a dent in her stress levels right now.
Her brother hated coming into downtown Remington as much as he hated that it was now her home. At least, she suspected that he hated her change of address. He’d never quite copped to it out loud, but she’d heard him bitch far too many times about the spoiled “other half” who never knew what tough times were like because they lived in a different zip code. The chip on his shoulder had been thorny enough that he’d made it a point to never set foot in her bar before today, despite the dozen and a half invites she’d extended over the past couple of years. That he’d not only broken his unspoken standoff, but spooked so thoroughly at the mention of last night’s fire told Kennedy all she needed to know.
Xander was in trouble. And she needed to find him before it got worse.
Desperate for a distraction, Kennedy grabbed the remote for the TV over the bar and punched the volume button. It was just after five o’clock, and while they were open, the dinner rush wouldn’t start in earnest for another two hours. There were only a small handful of folks in the game room, enjoying an early beer, and the wait staff had them covered. She didn’t feel too bad about losing herself in whatever happened to be on the ol’ tube right now.
“…and in local news, the Remington Fire Department was called to battle a considerable blaze outside The Crooked Angel Bar and Grill, on the fourteen-hundred block of Marshall Avenue in the early hours of this morning.”
Kennedy’s stomach dipped as the camera cut from the perky blond reporter to a grainy video image of the dumpster behind her bar, engulfed in angry orange flames.
“The fire, which was quickly contained, is the latest in a string of dangerous happenings on Marshall Avenue in downtown Remington. While the cause of the fire is yet unknown, it appears that there’s very little evidence, if any, for investigators to go on, and the police have confirmed that no arrests have been made in connection to the incident. The fire is just one of several recent acts of vandalism and burglary in the trendy downtown area, and some residents are growing concerned. Local real estate developer, Chaz McCory, is one such individual.”
Just when Kennedy had been certain her day couldn’t get any worse, a highly manscaped face, complete with Botox-smooth forehead and teeth too perfect to be anything but veneers, flashed over the screen above the bar.
“I have to tell you, Amanda, as someone who is personally invested in the safety
of this city, this fire is troubling.”
Chaz paused for a flawlessly timed grave nod, and Kennedy barely resisted the twin urges to scream and fastball the remote at the TV. This guy might have the public fooled into thinking he was on their side, but she’d been to enough community meetings and zoning board hearings to know a flashy, cheesebag opportunist when she saw one. The only side Chaz McCory cared about was his own.
“I’ve taken serious measures to up the security around all McCory properties to ensure their safety. If it’s got the McCory name on it, you can bet it’ll be protected. Now, I know the RPD will find whoever is responsible for these crimes and bring them to justice. But it’s truly a shame that such a promising part of Remington is becoming so riddled with danger that people can’t even feel safe going out for a burger or—”
Okay, yeah, that was enough. Kennedy stabbed her thumb over the remote to shut Chaz up, mumbling her eight hundred and first curse of the evening.
“Dear God, thank you,” said her closest friend and fellow bartender, January Sinclair, as she slid in next to Kennedy behind the bar. “This bar is perfectly freaking safe, and that guy is a colossal ass-clown.”
“Mmm hmm.” Damn it. On top of all the other crap she had to worry about, now Kennedy would have to call Miles to let him know about the potentially bad press. But better he hear it from her than from Chaz Fucking McCory. She made a mental note to contact the TV station to tell them The Crooked Angel was safe and sound and open for business as usual, and that they weren’t experiencing any setbacks as a result of the fire, first. Miles expected her to take care of business, so that’s exactly what she’d do. Then she’d get this mess with Xander sorted, even if it drained the last of her already questionably thin energy.
Down Deep_A Station Seventeen Engine Novel Page 7