by C. A. Szarek
The prosecutor’s gaze was sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago, but it’s why I’m all for keeping drunks off the road.”
“Well, as long as you crossed your t’s and dotted your i’s, we’ll be fine. Your reports are great, as is the video footage. We’ll be fine.” She seemed to relax with every word. Her shoulders loosened and she smiled again.
“By the book, Ms. Wesley. Like always.”
“Sounds good, Sergeant.” Her expression was pleased. “Are you going to grab lunch?”
“Yes.” Shannon glanced at his watch. “We have an hour.”
“There are lots of places within walking distance.”
“Thanks.”
Her tongue darted out, moistening her bottom lip, highlighting her pink lipstick. Blue eyes locked onto his.
Shannon paused, waiting for her to speak.
“Do you have a place in mind?” the prosecutor asked.
He tried not to blink. Is she asking to come with?
Ms. Wesley answered by looking him up and down.
Wow. Didn’t see that coming. Shannon smiled and reached for his cell phone. “I have to make a call, but I’ll see you after lunch, Ms. Wesley.” Feigning busyness was easier than letting her down. No one liked to be rejected.
Besides, if she was into him, it wasn’t professional. That didn’t work for him.
Disappointment darted across her face, but she schooled her expression fast and gave a curt nod. “Be ready, I’m going to call you to the stand when we reconvene.”
“You got it.”
Chapter Two
The scent of Italian food teased her nose even before Taylor made a fist to knock on Ross Catrone’s office door.
Her stomach rolled over and growled. Well, it was more like curse words at this point. She hadn’t eaten anything except for a protein shake circa six a.m. after a two mile run on her treadmill.
“Come in.” His deep voice greeted her.
The federal prosecutor wore a wide smile when Taylor slipped inside and shut the door. He had a takeout container in front of him—lasagna by the looks of it—and her stomach demanded she stake a claim.
She cleared her throat. “Looks like this is a bad time—”
“Not at all, have a seat. And some lunch.” He reached into a white paper bag with green and red writing on it. He slid a Styrofoam container toward her.
“For me?”
“Sure. Thought it’d be rude to set a lunchtime meeting and not feed you. Hope you haven’t eaten. Sorry I didn’t wait, I was starving.”
“Ah. Thanks.” Taylor took one of the seats in front of his desk. Her suspicious nature made her arch an eyebrow at him as she perched on the edge of the chair.
Catrone took one look at her and laughed. His dark eyes twinkled. “Go on, Special Agent. I don’t consider this a date. No worries.”
Taylor didn’t relax in her seat. Nor did she reach for the food, even though her stomach was threatening to digest itself. “Why did you want to see me?”
“Ah, cutting to the chase?”
“Yes, sir. No use wasting time.”
The prosecutor tsked as he sliced into thick layers of pasta and meat with plastic ware. “Life is too short to be so uptight, Carrigan. Relax. Let a man buy you lunch once in a while.” His gaze was hooded as he took a bite of his food.
She sucked back a sigh, or maybe a groan. “Look, I appreciate the sentiment—”
Catrone laughed. “I’m not asking you out.”
“Oh.”
He grinned. “Won’t make that mistake again. It might put me in physical peril.” When he winked, Taylor gave in to her desire to smirk.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What did you want to see me about?” she repeated, choosing not to remark on his jibe. Might get too specific about what parts of him were in peril. Not exactly politically correct. And not that Catrone would, but she’d hate to have the tables turned and give him fuel for a sexual harassment claim.
“Just wanted to check in. We haven’t chatted in some time.”
“There’s not much to tell. No new sign of Bennett. We still haven’t found Rowdy Vargas—dead or alive.”
“Hmmm, it’s been too long for Bennett to have not made a move.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” Taylor tried to keep the frustration from her voice. She gave in to temptation and opened the Styrofoam container he’d presented to her.
The delicious scent of garlic and marinara sauce hit her senses and she swallowed a moan.
“Hope you like lasagna. It’s my favorite, so I was going on faith.” He winked again and she wanted to roll her eyes.
“I do. Thank you.”
“Still so formal, Carrigan.” His words were wrapped in amusement.
She ignored him and took a bite of food. Flavor burst on her tongue. The perfect combination of sweet red sauce, melty cheese, ground beef and soft noodles. She held back her delight. The lasagna was awesome.
“So, what’s your next move?” Catrone asked.
Taylor refocused on him instead of her delicious lunch. She didn’t want to admit that she was open to suggestions—or that she was so stuck. “I’ve gone over all the reports a dozen times. I’ve got everyone on the lookout from California to Oklahoma. Bennett has no family. Neither does Vargas, so there wasn’t anyone to seek out and question.”
“What about Joe Pompa?”
Taylor’s heart skipped. “What about him?”
“Have you reached out to him lately?”
I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye. “No. I don’t think he’s relevant to the case at the moment. He’s in Texarkana awaiting trial.”
“But you did interview him?”
No. “He gave several statements, yes.”
Catrone tilted his head to one side. “You didn’t speak to him personally?”
No, but I read all the reports. Taylor cleared her throat and forced her eyes to remain locked with the prosecutor’s. “I didn’t find it necessary, after I reviewed his statements and the final reports. And, of course, our entire FBI file, as well as what Antioch PD submitted. Detectives Lucas and Manning were very thorough.”
“Hmmm…”
“If you have something to say, just say it.”
Catrone paused with his fork partway to his mouth. He averted his gaze, but only for a second. “I’ve never known you to be a coward.”
“Excuse me?” Taylor fought a wince when her voice broke, instead of sounding like the demand she’d been going for.
He sighed and met her gaze dead-on. “Look, I know what happened in Antioch, and I’d like to think I know you pretty well—”
“You don’t. And the rest isn’t any of your business.”
His handsome face softened and Taylor glared. She didn’t want to know what he had to say next, and she regretted the defensive bark. No one knew how Joe Pompa haunted her, and that wasn’t about to change.
“Carrigan, I’m not telling you how to run your investigation—”
“Then don’t. I know what I’m doing.”
“All I’m saying,” he went on as if she hadn’t interrupted, “is don’t leave any stone unturned. Pompa might be able to help. He’s been on his feet for a few months now. Seeing what he might know couldn’t hurt.”
“I don’t need him. I need to get Bennett.”
The prosecutor threw his paper napkin over his empty food container and leaned back in his leather chair. He sighed, and studied her until she wanted to squirm. “You’re letting this eat at you.”
She rose and schooled her expression. “We’re done here. Thanks for lunch, and I’ll keep you posted on anything new.”
“Carrigan, wait—”
Taylor didn’t.
She grabbed her half-eaten lasagna only because her stomach was still rumbling. Pride demanded she leave it, but hunger won this round. She closed the container with as much grace as she could manage, and didn’t spare Catrone a parting
glance.
Before she could reach for the door, it swung open. Taylor heard a feminine exclamation at the same time warm tomato sauce hit the skin of her neck and slid down her chest, noodles and chunks of meat following before the Styrofoam hit the floor. The container split, lasagna went flying. Like a bomb, red sauce-spatter was left in its wake, dotting her shoes and the pale tile. Probably her pants, too, but they were black and it didn’t show.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” Wide, pale-blue eyes were frantic when Taylor looked up. Margot, Catrone’s assistant, wore a mortified expression and pink cheeks.
It didn’t make Taylor feel any better. She bit back an expletive and assessed the carnage to her white silk shirt. “Accidents happen,” she muttered.
Catrone was on his feet and around his desk in seconds, with a roll of paper towels in hand. “Here, I always keep these around for emergencies.”
Taylor looked at her shirt, then the floor. “Looks like a murder scene.”
He tore off a few paper towels and handed the wad to her. “Who’s the victim? You or the lasagna?” The prosecutor was amused, but his young blonde assistant looked even more horrified.
Taylor smirked. “Not sure, since I was going to eat it.” She gestured to her ruined fine silk. “Maybe my shirt.”
“I’m so sorry!” Margot covered her face with the file folders in her grip. “I’ll get it cleaned for you and buy you more food.”
“No, that’s not necessary. Don’t worry about it.”
Margot didn’t look convinced, but her boss threw her a nod and she seemed to relax.
Taylor tried to escape, but Margot continually apologized. She ignored the assistant and said her goodbyes, dashing out before the building day porter had made it to the office after Catrone’s call about the mess.
She sighed when her detour to the restroom did nothing to save her shirt. Buttoning her blazer didn’t cover up the glaring red-orange stain, either. It lined her collar and covered her chest.
Taylor glanced at her watch. Looked like she was going to have to go home and change before she headed back to the office.
My day is even shittier than before.
Grumbling about wasting time—something she despised—Taylor dug for her car keys and trotted to the parking spot she’d been lucky enough to snag right outside the building. There was still time left on her meter, so there was no parking ticket to greet her.
Thank God.
Someone called her name before she could push the button on her fob to open the Charger’s door.
Taylor glanced over her shoulder, intending a dismissal for whoever was about to bother her, but stopped in her tracks.
A dark-haired uniformed cop jogged toward her, a small paper bag in hand. He wore a friendly smile that made her belly flutter, but she promptly ignored that.
She also ignored the urge to cover her tomato-sauce-stained shirt with both hands.
“Special Agent Carrigan, it’s good to see you.”
Taylor met unusually colored amber eyes and had to swallow hard.
She’d met Sergeant Shannon Crowley from Antioch Police Department when she’d been working her case—chasing Joe Pompa—with Detective Cole Lucas and Pompa’s brother, Detective Jared Manning, five months before.
He’d been the one to debrief her—and confiscate her weapon—after the shooting.
“Nice to see you, too, Sergeant.” She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders, but she really wanted to flee to her car.
His smile widened and her knees wobbled a little.
What’s wrong with me?
Taylor’s face warmed and she fought the urge to lean on the Charger. “What brings you to Dallas?”
Sergeant Crowley studied her before answering. “Trial.”
She fidgeted. “Ah. How’s it going?”
“It just started today but it’s going to be a long one. DWI Three and Intoxication Manslaughter.”
“Oh wow.” She couldn’t look away from his eyes. Or his high cheekbones. Full mouth. Dark hair that was just a tad too long, in need of a good cut. But that didn’t matter—it gave him a charming air. Fit well with his smile and tall muscular frame. His shoulders were broad and she remembered what it felt like to be up against his side. In the protection of his strong grip.
He’d put his arm around her when she’d needed it, and hadn’t judged her for falling apart.
She’d been drawn to him then. Thankful in a way she could never repay. Because she’d been in crisis, of course.
No other reason.
Crowley was speaking, but Taylor didn’t process the words, just watched his lips moving.
Seeing him for the first time darted into her mind. She’d been meeting her temporary partner, Detective Jared Manning, also for the first time, at a bar in Antioch called McAuley’s.
The sergeant had held the door open for her. He’d been wearing tight jeans he’d had no issue filling out, and a brown leather jacket.
“Agent Carrigan?”
Taylor jumped. He’d been waiting for her to speak and she’d been staring. Like an idiot.
“Are you okay?”
She forced a nod and wanted to glare. He was hot even when he was concerned. “Just having a hell of a day.” Taylor gestured to her stained shirt, then cursed.
Nothing like pointing it out.
Her neck burned. She shut down unfamiliar embarrassment by chanting her father’s mantra. Emotion is weak.
“Sorry to hear that.”
Damn, he looks so genuinely bothered for me. “Not your fault.”
Sergeant Crowley nodded and lifted the paper bag. “Well, I need to eat and get back. We’re only recessed until one.”
“It was nice to see you again.”
“You too.” He smiled, and Taylor had to swallow hard again.
She threw him a nod and turned to open the car door. “Good luck with the rest of your trial.”
“Hey, listen.”
Taylor paused and glanced over her shoulder.
“I’ll be in town all this week, maybe into next. Wanna get together? You can tell me all about your bad day over dinner tonight.”
She froze. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Taylor’s heart sped up and she shut down the urge to say yes. Dammit. “Actually—” she finally managed, but couldn’t turn back to him.
His expression fell and she felt like a piece of shit for some reason.
Taylor cleared her throat for the hundredth time that morning. “I’m really mired in a case right now, so I can’t. But maybe I’ll run into you again before you leave town.”
He nodded, but he was already backing away from her car.
Lasagna churned like cement in her stomach and her movements were jerky as Taylor lumbered into the Charger and started it. She forced her eyes away from the handsome uniformed cop.
She drove away, not returning his parting wave because it made her feel like an even bigger idiot. Taylor chastised herself on the drive back to her apartment.
Her reaction to him was…an inconvenience. She was reading into things that weren’t there, in herself and in the sergeant.
He’d comforted her in a time of need, and walked her through what’d happened with Joe Pompa in that Antioch safe house. He’d been nothing if not professional when he’d taken her statement and had kept her distracted from what she’d done. Kept her calm and factual.
Sergeant Shannon Crowley had been doing his job.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Chapter Three
“Fuck you.” Carter slammed the phone down into the cradle and rammed his hand through his messy hair. That made his shoulder ache, and he cursed even more. His months-old bullet wound was all but healed, but it still took a bite out of him when he moved too fast, or stretched his biceps out.
He’d dug out the bullet himself, and hadn’t that been a big-ass piece of craptacular cake, topped with shit-flavored icing.
One of Bubba’s bimbos had stitched him
up, and given him a blow job to ‘make him feel better’. Well, he’d been distracted from his arm, for damn sure.
“Hey! What the hell did my phone do to you?” Bubba’s voice held laughter, and his rotund belly shook. His gray wife-beater had sweat stains under the arms, like the large man had run a mile.
Yeah. Right.
Maybe he’d come from playing with the same chick who’d serviced Carter. That was more likely. Bubba wouldn’t know an exercise if it bit him in the ass.
The guy yanked his black sweatpants up, something he did constantly. Good thing, too. Last thing Carter needed to see was a set of sweaty balls that weren’t his own. Especially if they’d just been used.
“Who has a real phone anymore anyway?” he snapped and glared.
“You’re welcome for using it.” Dark eyes flashed and all traces of amusement were gone. Bubba’s bald head was creased, just like his brow.
“Sorry,” Carter made himself murmur.
Bubba finally relaxed, and took a seat on the ratty couch across from him. “What’s up?”
“Grady said no.”
“Ah, shit. I thought for sure the slimy bastard would agree. Especially since there was money for him involved.”
“‘Not for all the money in the fucking world,’ he said. He said his crew is out, too.” Carter swore some more. Left out the part where Grady had called him a ratty traitor.
Fuck Grady O’Malley, anyway.
Desperation ate at his stomach. He needed to get the hell out of LA. He’d already stayed here too long, with the hope of finding Rowdy. He had no money, and he needed some income so he could really disappear.
There’d been no sign of his former teammate, and so far, sure as hell no chance of making any dough.
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
He dragged his hand down his face and tried not to stomp his good foot like a two-year-old. Needed a plan, and he needed it fast.
“So, what’s your next move?”
Carter tried to tamp down his immediate ire at the guy who’d been doing him a favor by letting him crash at his place.
Was his old friend trying to be helpful, or being nosy for another reason? True, he’d always fenced their stolen rides, and therefore, took a cut, so Carter’s success was Bubba’s… But was there more in that look?