Don't Mess with Texas

by Christie Craig

  “Don’t know, don’t care.” Tony’s frustration about LeAnn sounded in his voice. “If it’s a homicide they’ll call me. What did LeAnn—” Tony’s cell rang. He snatched his phone from his belt loop and looked at the number. “Shit. It’s a homicide.”

  Nothing like a little murder to help digest a hamburger. Dallas walked with Tony to the grocery store parking lot. They were met by Juan Bata, a patrol cop a few years younger than Tony. Dallas and Tony had grown up with Juan in the neighborhood a few miles north of town.

  “You’re fast,” Juan said.

  “I was next door at the restaurant,” Tony answered. “What we got?”

  “A no-brainer,” Juan said. “Ex-wife.”

  He waved at a woman sitting on the asphalt in the middle of a parking spot. She had her arms wrapped around her calves, and her head down on her knees. Her curly blond hair spilled over her legs.

  “And dead ex-husband.” Juan waved to the car with the open trunk. “Another case of marital bliss.”

  Tony and Juan moved in and Dallas followed.

  “Nasty,” Tony said. Dallas stared at the body covered in vomit. Peeking from under the man’s expensive suit coat was a white shirt. Or what was once a white shirt. Blood always did a number on white cotton.

  “CSU on the way?” Tony asked Juan.

  Juan nodded. “Supposedly Blondie puked on him.”

  Tony took his pen out and lifted the suit coat up to inspect the wound.

  “Looks like a knife wound,” Dallas said.

  “Yup.” Tony looked at Juan. “Does Blondie have a name?”

  “What we got?” Rick Clark, another homicide cop and one of Tony’s friends, walked up. Dallas nodded. He didn’t care much for hanging out with cops, but they were his brother’s friends so he tolerated them.

  “Looks like a stabbing. Found him in the ex-wife’s car. And her name is…” Tony looked back at Juan.

  Juan opened a pad. “Nikki Hunt. Dead guy is Jack Leon.”

  Jack Leon? The name bounced around Dallas’s head and hit some familiar bells.

  “She copping to it?” Tony asked Juan.

  “Swears she doesn’t have a clue how he got there. Said she had dinner with him at Venny’s. That’s a high-priced place that people like us can’t afford. Supposedly, hubby skipped out and left her to pay the bill. Claims she left the restaurant and came here. But get this… she was talking about killing him with the cashier inside the store.”

  Tony glanced at the suspect. “I do love it when they make it easy for us.”

  Juan continued to stare at the blonde. “Why are the pretty ones always guilty?”

  “She didn’t do it,” said Clark, sounding almost cocky. “Look at her angel eyes. A woman with those eyes—”

  “Forget the eyes, check out that body,” Juan said. “Black widows are always hot.”

  Dallas looked at the woman. She’d raised her head and her round blue eyes seemed to stare at nothing. Her shirt clung to curves. Juan was right. She was hot. Dallas envisioned another hot-looking woman with angel eyes. Betrayal hardened his gut when he recalled arguing with his ex last week.

  “The eyes can fool you,” Dallas said. “They can suck you in and then stab you in the back. And never even blink with guilt.”

  Clark looked at him and pulled out his pad. “You ready to put your money where your mouth is?”

  “Money on what?” Dallas asked.

  “On her guilt,” Clark answered.

  “Wouldn’t be a very fair bet. Everything here points to her being guilty,” Dallas countered.

  “Everything but me,” Clark said, and tapped his forehead.

  “That’s not the head you’re thinking with right now,” Dallas said.

  “Maybe.” Clark smiled, and let his gaze shift back to the blonde.

  When Dallas didn’t have a comeback, Clark continued. “Give a guy a chance to win back some of the money you walked away with last weekend in that poker game. I’ll make it easy—if we still consider her the main suspect in twenty-four hours, you win. If we’re seriously looking into new leads, I win.”

  “Count me in,” Juan said. “I’ll go twenty.”

  “We got a job to do here.” Tony, his professionalism showing in his actions, walked over to talk to the suspect.

  “You in?” Clark asked Dallas, tapping the pen to the pad.

  “You really want to give away your money?” Dallas’s phone rang. He checked the number—Austin.

  “Come on,” Clark said. “You didn’t mind taking my money during the poker game.”

  Dallas nodded.

  “Twenty?” Clark asked.

  “Fine.” Stepping away, he took the call. “What’s up?”

  “I’m so damn good,” Austin said.

  “What? You got another clown gig?” Dallas teased and rolled his shoulders to get the tension he felt just from being back on a police scene.

  “I found the girl Nance said he’d talked with the night of the robbery. She also jogs at Oak Park. She remembered Nance, confirms his story, said they talked a good twenty minutes.”

  “Freaking fabulous,” Dallas said. “Is she willing to go to the police?”

  “Said she was. I got her info. We’re getting this kid off. Damn, that feels good.”

  “Hell, yeah.” Victory stirred in Dallas’s chest. Deep down, he knew this wouldn’t completely prove Nance innocent. The DA would argue the kid had time to get from the store to the park, but it would give his lawyer something to work with.

  An ambulance pulled into the parking lot, sirens roaring. Obviously, someone hadn’t explained that the situation wasn’t urgent.

  “Where are you?” Austin asked.

  “Would you believe a murder scene?” Dallas gazed back at the blonde.

  “That’s one way to round up business.” Austin laughed. “Who’s dead and who’s being unjustly accused?”

  The realization hit his conscience and went south, and Dallas felt as if it made a direct thump on his balls. He was doing to Blondie what everyone had done to Nance. What everyone had done to him. Hell, he’d even bet a twenty on her guilt.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  “What?” Austin asked.

  “Gotta go.” Dallas disconnected. He turned around to see Tony talking to the woman. She’d stood up and had her arms wrapped around her middle as if she was about to fall apart. Maybe it was because she’d killed her husband—maybe it was because she was being accused of a crime she didn’t commit.

  “Oh God.” The blonde swung away from his brother.

  Tony moved in front of her. “I asked you a question.”

  Blondie sprinted five steps, and ran smack-dab into Dallas’s chest. When she bounced back a few inches, he grabbed her arms to steady her.

  Her tear-filled baby blues met his gaze and, for some crazy reason, all Dallas could think about was how soft her skin was under his palms. They stared at each other, one, two seconds.

  “You okay?” he asked, reading all sorts of panic in her expression.

  “No.” She shook her head and her curls bounced around her face. Then she doubled over and puked all over Dallas’s shoes.

  Stunned, he stared at his Reeboks and, before he came to his senses enough to move, she puked again—making a direct hit in the middle of his chest.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A WHILE LATER, Nikki lay back on the hospital bed and stared at the IV pumping fluids and meds into her veins. Her mind reeled. She glanced around for her purse, wanting to call Ellen, needing a bit of moral support. Then she looked at the clock. Ellen had already closed shop. Gone to teach her yoga class.

  Gone. Gone. The word stuck in her head.

  Jack was gone. Jack was dead. The image of his body being pulled out of her trunk flashed in her head. She remembered the blood and her stomach roiled.

  She was probably going to have to get new carpet laid in the trunk of her car. When she’d first spotted Jack curled up in her trunk, she’d missed t
he blood. But when the coroner had gotten Jack’s body out…

  The image flashed again. Her stomach threatened to revolt. Not that it had anything left to revolt with.

  The two-hundred-dollar dinner was long gone. She was down to dry heaves and felt certain she’d blown a lung in the process.

  Jack was dead.

  Now she wasn’t sure if it was panic making her sick, or Venny’s chicken marsala.

  Finding out meant her overdrawn account now topped the thousand-dollar-mark. Yeah, she’d opted for the high-deductible insurance. Nikki seldom ever got sick. Plain and simple, she couldn’t afford to be sick.

  But she was sick now. So sick, she’d barfed all over her stomach medicine, all over her ex-husband’s body, and all over the guy she’d collided with at the parking lot. Had he been a cop or just a bystander? The question rolled through her head as another wave of nausea roiled through her stomach. Clutching the pink plastic tub the nurse had given her to use if she got sick again, Nikki fought the desire to throw up.

  She closed her eyes and could see the stranger back at the parking lot looking down at her—his blue eyes were darker than hers. But his dark brown hair and olive complexion made his eyes more noticeable—strikingly noticeable. And she’d noticed the look in those eyes—concerned and almost apologetic—even when she’d obviously been the one needing to apologize. But she didn’t have a clue about the etiquette required in this situation. She’d never thrown up on anyone before.

  First, she’d gotten his shoes. And then… Oh Lord, she didn’t want to think about the mess she’d made of his shirt.

  Or the look on his face. Or the laughter she’d heard in the background.

  “Don’t think about it.” Her mind flashed to Jack’s shirt—to all the blood.

  Dead. Jack is dead. “Don’t think about it.”

  Her chest ached. She hadn’t felt one flutter for her ex when she saw him at the restaurant, but for almost three years she’d loved him. Adored him. Her world had revolved around him, trying to make him happy, trying to be the wife he wanted, and then he broke her heart. “Don’t think about it.”

  “Don’t think about what?” a male voice asked from the door.

  Dallas, shirtless, parked between Austin’s and Tyler’s cars in front of the office. Grabbing his hurled-on shirt from the floorboard, he hurried inside. Bud, his tongue hanging out and his whole short and stocky body wagging in joy at his master’s return, met him at the door.

  “Hey, Bud.” Kneeling, he patted the dog. “No!” Dallas said when the canine went straight for his shoes as if he smelled something appetizing. In a hurry, Dallas stood and walked toward the office where he’d heard voices. Bud followed—his paws clicking against the hardwood as they went, and his nose still sniffing the air.

  Popping his head in the office door, Dallas said to his partners, “Do me a favor and Google a Nikki Hunt and give me the highlights of what you find. Then get me the address to Venny’s Restaurant while I take a really, really fast shower.” He met Austin’s gaze. “Good job on the Nance case. I owe you a beer.”

  Tyler tapped into his computer. “Nikki Hunt, come to Papa.” He looked up. “What’s up? Did the woman steal the shirt off your back?”

  “Not quite,” Dallas said. He’d tell them later and give them a good laugh—not that he thought it was all that funny. But the guys at the scene hadn’t stopped laughing when he left. Frowning, Dallas headed down the hall with Bud following. Home, sweet home.

  When Dallas had found the building and approached Tyler and Austin about opening Don’t Mess with Texas, their own PI agency, both guys had flinched at the price of the building. Dallas remedied that by paying the extra fifty thousand and having a portion of the building converted into a small apartment.

  Stepping into his bathroom, he started to toss his shirt into the dirty clothes but tossed it in the garbage instead. Kicking off his shoes, he set them up on the counter, away from Bud. Undressed, not even waiting for the water to warm, he popped into the shower, lathered, rinsed, and then grabbed a towel.

  Half-dressed moments later, he opened the door that led into the hallway back to the office. “Get anything?” he called.

  “There’s two Nikki Hunts,” Tyler called back. “One’s a dancer at a men’s club—very hot—the other’s an artist and almost as hot. Which is she?”

  “You know which one we’re voting for, don’t you?” Austin called out.

  Dallas slipped a shirt over his head and envisioned the woman back at the parking lot. She’d been hot, but was she the stripper kind of hot? Were strippers that soft?

  “I don’t know,” he answered and ran a hand through his wet hair. “They both local?”

  “Almost,” Austin answered. “The stripper’s in Houston.”

  “Blond?” Dallas offered.

  “Both blond.” Tyler’s laughter rang out. “Wait, I know. Is she a C or double D?”

  “C,” Dallas answered.

  “The artist wins,” Tyler answered.

  “Damn,” said Austin. “I was hoping you knew the other one and would introduce me.”

  “Like I wouldn’t keep her for myself.” Dallas grabbed his keys and walked back down the hall, stopping at the office door. “What else did you get?”

  Tyler looked up. “She has a gallery—sells her work and that of a few other artists in a shop on the square.”

  “Is this connected to the murder case you crashed?” Austin asked seriously.

  “Yeah.”

  “Not the victim?” Tyler glanced back at the computer with sympathy.

  “Nope. Her ex’s body was found in her trunk.”

  “Did she do it?” Tyler asked.

  “Not sure.” Dallas mentally flinched when he remembered how he’d condemned her. “Did you get the address to Venny’s?”

  “Yeah, it’s 2234 Walters Street. But you better put on a tie. It’s upscale.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be dining.” Something clattered at Dallas’s feet. He looked down to where Bud had dropped his food bowl. “Is food all you think about, boy?”

  “It wouldn’t be if you let him get a little,” Austin kidded.

  “As soon as he proves he knows how to use a condom, I’ll let him do that.” Dallas started out.

  “You need company?” Tyler asked.

  Dallas looked back. “Nah. But could you walk and feed Bud? I might be late.”

  “Oh, speaking of Bud.” The humor from Tyler’s voice faded. “I forgot to tell you, you got some papers from Serena’s lawyer.”

  “Shit!” Dallas spun around, walked into the office and snatched the envelope from Tyler’s hand. He ripped it open and read the first few lines. “She’s fucking doing it. Can you fucking believe she’s actually doing it? Joint custody, my ass!”

  Tyler leaned back in his chair. “It’s you she wants, not the dog.”

  “You shouldn’t have given her a taste of the good stuff,” Austin said, smiling.

  “It was revenge sex,” Tyler piped in. “I wouldn’t mind having a shot at revenge sex with Lisa. Screw her hard then tell her to go screw herself.”

  “It was a damn mistake.” One Dallas sorely regretted, too. He’d just gotten the apartment finished and had a few guys over for a poker game to christen the place. The guys had left, and Dallas was finishing off the last beer—two past his limit. When Serena showed up claiming she wanted to check on Bud, he’d been just drunk enough to let her come in. Just drunk and horny enough not to fight off her advances. Though he clearly recalled telling her, “If we do this, it doesn’t mean a thing.”

  He’d no more than rolled off her when he remembered the ring on her finger and realized he’d been wrong. It had meant something. It meant if Serena was capable of sleeping with him while she wore Bill’s engagement ring, then maybe she’d been capable of sleeping with Bill, her boss for the past five years, when she’d worn his wedding ring.

  When he’d confronted her about it, she’d admitted they’d ha
d a one-time fling but, of course, she assured him that it hadn’t meant anything at the time.

  Right.

  He’d been pissed. And not even because she’d cheated. But because not once during his marriage—and damn if he hadn’t turned down some nice-looking ass—had he cheated on Serena. And why? Because he’d been a friggin’ idiot.

  Dallas stared at the papers. He started to crumble them in his fist when the lawyers’ names at the bottom of the stationery caught his eye.

  Jack Leon. That’s why the name had been familiar. The dead guy in Nikki Hunt’s trunk was part of the hotshot law firm Serena had used to get her divorce and was now using in a custody battle for Dallas’s dog.

  With his mind back on the murder, he tossed the papers on Tyler’s desk. “Do me another favor. Do a search on Jack Leon, the lawyer, and call me. And don’t forget to feed Bud.”

  “What is it you aren’t supposed to think about?”

  Nikki glanced up as Detective Anthony O’Connor strolled into her little curtained area. She almost thought it was the guy she’d used as a barf bag. But nope, just the head honcho cop who’d accused her of killing Jack.

  Not that she was too worried. She was innocent. Only the guilty worried, right?

  “Sorry,” Nikki said. “I talk to myself a lot.” The nausea pulled at her stomach and she pulled the pink tub closer and looked at the bag of fluid hanging to her left. The doctor said the meds in the IV would “eventually” calm her stomach.

  “Maybe you can tell me what ‘yourself’ is saying about what happened tonight.”

  There it was again—the accusation in his tone that was mirrored in his expression. His eyes tightened, his right eyebrow arched slightly, and he pressed his lips together in a thin line. If he was trying to intimidate her, he could give himself a high five. His disapproving glare was downright daunting. Had they taught him that look in the police academy?

  Maybe I should be worried. “You really don’t think I did this, do you?” Her stomach roiled again. She eyed her IV. “Eventually” couldn’t arrive soon enough.

  “Did you do it?”