Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2)

by Gibson, Mira

  And what would come of her statement? An investigation? A trial? Nothing? As terrible as it might be to wish this would all go away, it seemed better than the alternative: testifying in a trial. And when would that happen? Months down the road or years?

  At least that guy who'd been working at the desk was on her side or had been, she thought as she stirred her coffee and tossed the wooden stick into the trash. Who knew what he thought now? Maybe his superior had convinced him that Tasha was some kind of troublemaker.

  She reminded herself that all they needed to believe her was already in their possession—her camera, those photos, the frame-by-frame blow-by-blow that had taken place on the pier—but it didn’t make her feel any better.

  If she had her choice, she would rather be considered a crazy person and have her Canon around her neck than be believed and even thanked and not have it.

  She realized her shoulders were tense so she forced out a long exhale, loosening her muscles. That cop, what was his name? She’d read the name on his badge too quickly—Wright? He had told her to call in or swing by to get the form, which would be her ticket to retrieving her camera, and that was exactly what she planned on doing. Once she had the report number, she could call the station every day if need be.

  And that’s when she fully understood what was really eating her. She hated not being believed. It was worse than being taken advantage of. She felt like she'd been brushed under the rug, disrespected, discarded, and she just plain couldn’t stomach it.

  As she made her soundless way back to the front of the studio where Hans was switching out the full memory card from his camera with a fresh one, she downed her coffee and worked up the nerve to interrupt.

  “Hans?” She said softly, nearing her boss, as the DIT specialist popped the full memory card into a gadget beside his laptop.

  “She’s fantastic, isn’t she?” he commented without looking at her.

  Tasha glanced at the model, who was ducking behind a folding screen to get into her final outfit. Agreeably, she told him, “She is. She’s so unusual looking. These shots are going to be ground breaking.”

  Hans shot her a crooked smile that she hoped indicated he was in a good mood.

  “I was wondering...” she said, trailing off and studying his face. “Well, unfortunately I had a mishap with my camera, and… I know there are five hanging around the studio and if I could borrow one for a few days-”

  His snorted laugh cut her off, but she swallowed hard and pressed on.

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said curtly. “They don’t belong to me. Those cameras are the property of the studio.”

  She happened to know that wasn’t true. Feeling bold and also feeling downright sick of being dismissed, she challenged him by asking, “Then should I ask someone at the front desk?”

  That got his attention and he straightened up from eyeing his camera. His cold blue eyes locked on her and the washed-out apathy on his face was replaced with disgust.

  Fortunately or not, he didn’t have a chance to vocalize what he really thought of her request, because Shivana was stomping out from the changing area in puffy, white winter boots that reminded Tasha of a cross between Uggs and overgrown shrubs, and a sleek, beige one-piece bathing suit.

  Hans yelled out, “Fabulous!” and neared his model, lifting the camera to his face.

  It seemed to take an eternity for Hans to capture the final look as modeled by Shivana. As always, Tasha hung out behind the bright lights and took notes, fantasizing all the while about how she might launch herself out of this crappy job and into the life she had always envisioned for herself.

  For some reason as she ran down the particulars of making her photography dream a reality, Officer Wright kept popping into her thoughts.

  Between the surrealism of entering the police station and her overall shock of having witnessed a murder, Wright had struck her as the one aspect that wasn’t completely otherworldly. He had been kind and gentle, treating her with respect. He had seemed to care—a rare trait she seldom found in people other than her closest friends, Greer and Jennifer, much less in a cop. And he had handled her in a manner that had made her feel good, genuinely proud, about coming forward.

  But it wasn’t only his attitude that had Tasha’s thoughts wandering. She couldn’t recall ever giving a cop a second look, and Officer Wright’s looks were deserving of more than a single glance. He reminded her of the artsy guys she'd gone to Cooper Union with—sharp, discerning eyes the color of which were too hazy to guess, laid-back stubble along his jaw, a muscular build though hidden as if he didn’t quite realize how fit he was, a distinct sensitivity that poured through his words and actions—which was why the fact that he was in law enforcement, dressed in a uniform, and taking down crime reports was so bizarre.

  Hans shouted, “That’s a wrap!” startling Tasha from her daydream.

  Of course she would now be exiled to cleanup duty, but she tackled her obligations quickly, turning off the lights, helping the stylist gather garments in the changing area, and finally locking up when everyone else had slipped out into the lobby, chatting and making promises of drinks—soon and definitely and great job, babe—that none of them intended to keep.

  When finally she returned the studio keys to the front desk attendant and signed out on behalf of her boss, she felt a great weight lift from her shoulders—she had made it through her day—but soon another, even heavier force began baring down on her.

  All that lied in store for her at the 26th.

  Dusk was settling over TriBeCa, as she walked briskly along Canal Street towards the A train. She paused briefly to wrap a scarf around her neck—the chill of the evening having settle in—before descending the subway stairs. And as she threaded the silky fabric into a loop, she sensed eyes on her.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of a man just as he diverted his gaze. He was standing a quarter of a block away and as pedestrians swallowed him, hurrying past, Tasha studied him. He was short, stalky, Russian-looking in his black windbreaker and sweatpants. Comfortably dressed yet donning a thick gold chain around his neck as well as a few bulky rings on his fingers, he struck her as a creep if anything, and because of it she hurried down into the subway, swiped her MetroCard fast when she reached the turnstiles, and managed to duck into a train just as its doors were closing.

  The ride uptown was rocky and drawn out. There wasn’t a seat available so she held onto the handlebar that spanned the ceiling and kept her eyes down. The subway lights flickered and at times cut out all together, but she was used to it, as well the bucks and flares of the train car, the occasional crazy person addressing anyone who would listen, the juveniles who break dancing and blaring their boom boxes in hopes of spare change.

  When the doors opened and the intercom voice announced 163rd Street / Amsterdam Avenue, she forced her way between a tired looking hospice nurse who hadn’t bothered to change out of her orthopedic shoes and an older black man who smelled like stale cigarettes, and spilled out onto the platform.

  Crazy as it might have seemed, she liked the underground scent where concrete met with the electric rails, a pungent mix of mothballs, bleach, and human life filled the air, and sometimes Tasha thought she couldn’t get enough. Nothing smelled quite like the bowels of New York City so she wasn’t shy about breathing deeply as she huffed and puffed her way up the many steps and in minutes emerged onto the darkened street.

  It hadn’t been a long ride, fifteen minutes tops as fast as the express train tended to fly, but night had fallen over the city.

  When she reached the street corner, she paused for the light and gave the crosswalk button a few firm presses. She felt warm so she tore her scarf from her neck and tucked it into her purse, and again the eerie feeling of being watched came over her.

  She glanced up at the cross signal, which was still a solid, red, Do Not Walk sign, so she made cautious work of taking in her surroun
dings, slowly pivoting and looking over her shoulder.

  The man.

  Gold chains, black windbreaker, sweatpants that seemed strangely expensive—he was rounding onto the street from the subway and before he could touch eyes with her, she turned, caught sight of the flashing walk signal, and booked it across the street.

  It wasn’t lost on her that the man’s attire, his dark hair and entitled manner, reminded her of the men she’d witnessed toss another dead into the Hudson River.

  Was he following her?

  She quickened her pace and hung a right, mapping the same route she had taken two nights ago to the precinct, and told herself she was reading too much into this. New York was filled with doppelgangers. She wasn’t being followed. That couldn't be the same man who she had seen on Canal Street. Her eyes were playing tricks on her because she was rattled about her camera. Besides, if she was being trailed, no one in their right mind would follow her into a police station, she told herself, as she flung its glass door open, strangely hoping to find a familiar face behind the front desk.

  Considering the long, frustrating day she'd had with Hans Janz, whose name sounded like a bad joke, Tasha should’ve figured a cold looking, middle-aged cop would greet her and not the one she had been fantasizing about.

  She cursed under her breath, slowing her step and rehearsing in her head exactly what she needed to say. By the time she neared the counter, the cop grunted, “Yeah?”

  “I’m here to get the...”

  Damn, the form number had flown right out of her head it was so long. Scrambling, she found a scrap of paper in her jacket pocket where she had noted the name of the form.

  “501-67-B458,” she read. “I filled it out the other day and need a case number so I can get my camera back.”

  The cop angled his vacant brown eyes down at her, working his jaw, then asked, “Name?”

  “Tasha Buckley.”

  “Spell that,” he ordered.

  “T as in Thomas-”

  “No, spell your last name.” He still wasn’t looking at her but at least his fingers were poised over the keyboard.

  She made patient work of spelling her last name and again reminded him that she had filled out the form. “Is Officer Wright on duty?” She added, “He’d remember me.”

  He didn’t answer, but his face screwed up ever so slightly as his gaze scanned the monitor that of course Tasha couldn’t see. Soon he was shaking his head.

  “Nope,” he said to himself.

  “What do you mean, nope?” She asked, keeping her tone even and without emotion since the cops in this precinct evidently had a problem with that kind of thing when it came out of an African-American woman.

  “You’re not in the system,” he said in conclusion.

  It simply couldn’t be true.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What do you mean? I filled out the form the other day. Officer Wright helped me. Should I have waited a few more days?”

  “No, property forms get logged within an hour of filing. It wasn’t logged.”

  Overwhelmed, Tasha leaned further across the counter, angling to see the monitor, as her mind began racing so fast that she almost couldn't think straight. She forced in a deep breath, straightening her back, and managed to say, “There must be some mistake. A very expensive, very irreplaceable camera of mine was confiscated and I filled out a form so I could get it back.”

  “At this precinct?” he asked, finally studying her carefully.

  “Yes, at this precinct!”

  She hadn’t meant to raise her voice, but controlling her outrage was damn near impossible.

  He used an authoritative volume when he said, “Ma’am,” and she knew what would come next.

  Every part of her wanted to kick the counter, but she clenched her jaw instead. “Yeah, I know,” she said, seething with frustration, spitting each word through her teeth. “I’ll be going now.”

  This was the thanks she got for reporting a crime? She yanked the glass door open and stomped out onto the sidewalk. She turned north then south but didn’t have a clue as to where to go. There was nowhere, no place, no hovel she could hide in that would wash away this feeling.

  That was it? She had just kissed her camera goodbye and that’s the end of it?

  She needed to calm herself, but it didn’t seem likely. She neared the precinct and leaned against the wall so she wouldn't be in the way of oncoming pedestrians. She needed a minute to think.

  Her best friends, Greer and Jennifer crossed her mind, but they would only console her. They couldn’t offer a solution to her problem and the damned thing was that no one could unless they had access to the evidence room and could steal her camera back. She snorted a laugh at where that would land her if she attempted such a thing.

  Tasha, think, she told herself. How could she get a camera? Never mind the total outrage she felt towards the 26th Precinct, all she cared about was her upcoming exhibition and having brilliant photographs. How could she solve this? She wasn’t sure she would sleep tonight if she couldn’t come up with a plan.

  She sensed more than saw a man approaching she was so bogged down in worry, but when she lifted her eyes, she noticed Officer Wright not just nearing her, but staring right at her.

  He was wearing jeans that fit him well, sneakers, and an overcoat that flapped in the gentle, spring breeze. His hair looked more bedraggled than she remembered, but his eyes were the same—bright and wide and concerned.

  “Hey,” he said in a smooth voice. “Tasha, right?”

  Feeling sour, she said, “Unfortunately,” and her eyes seemed to flutter all on their own.

  He cocked his head at that and then his expression turned serious, almost knowingly, but he seemed to shift his attention to the gray duffle bag over his shoulder, adjusting it with a little jostle.

  “You want your camera back,” he stated as though reading her mind.

  “That would be nice, but I’m not sure your buddies feel the same.”

  “What, like the form hasn’t been processed yet?” he asked. “Even when it is, I mean, it’s going to take some time for you to get it back. That’s just how it goes with investigations.”

  “You're sure there’s an investigation? Because according to your man behind the desk in there, I’m not even in the system.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” she said, giving him a moment to weather the same shock she had felt moments ago. “I would think that at the very least I’d be in the computer. How many forms did I fill out? Two? But when the officer typed my name into the computer, nothing came up.”

  “Hey, listen, I’m about to go on duty. I’ll look into it.”

  She let out a frustrated sigh that sounded guttural and said, “Don’t bother. I know what’s up.”

  “Well, I don’t,” he countered, catching her upper arm, as she motioned to leave.

  Realizing he might have overstepped his bounds he released her, but he had her attention. Tasha couldn’t see anything else. Wright filled her vision and the way his sharp eyes were probing her did a fast job of convincing her that he actually gave a damn and more.

  “I’ll look into it,” he said, as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. Tapping the LCD screen, he leveled with her, saying, “You either get a case number for the form you filled out or you get your camera back on the spot. I’m going to get to the bottom of this as soon as I’m in there and I’ll let you know. What’s your number?”

  In an instant, Wright had become infinitely more attractive and her lip curled into a smile in response. God, was she some kind of sucker for a guy willing to help? She straightened her mouth and recited her number, as Wright tapped his cell quickly. A moment later, she felt her own cell phone vibrating in her back pocket.

  “That’s me,” he mentioned, indicating he had just texted her.

  When he lifted his gaze to her again, his eyes were easy and soft. Was he drinking in the sight of her? Tasha couldn’t deny it stirred someth
ing in her that had nothing to do with her camera.

  He smiled, though subtly, as he said, “I’m Kevin in case you didn’t know.”

  “I knew it was Wright.”

  “Good memory,” he complimented and glanced over his shoulder at the precinct entrance.

  She didn’t want to keep him, and yet she did.

  Nothing was said for a moment, and the only thing awkward about it was that it didn’t feel awkward. Tasha registered the color of his eyes—dusty hazel that erred on the side of blue—and also noted his height. Being in flats as she was he had a good four inches on her, tall in a way that wasn’t towering.

  He might have felt their prolonged eye contact had gone on too long, because he asked, “How’s the photography going?”

  “Are you kidding me?” she blurted out and—surprising even herself—playfully shoved his shoulder. He took a step back then closed in again, as she reminded him, “I don’t have my camera. How do you think it’s going?”

  He laughed and she liked the light, breathy sounds he was making. There was something soft and easy about being around him, which didn’t make sense considering they functioned on opposite sides of the track, not good versus bad, but very different nonetheless.

  When they sobered up, smiles waning into something serious that to Tasha felt like flirting, he again broke the silence. “You can’t rent or borrow?”

  “Believe me, I’m trying. If I’m being real here, I’m going to have to buy another camera, and I can’t say it’ll be easy.”

  Kevin winced for her, nodding and inhaling deeply. “Let me see what I can do. Rest assured, your camera is within those four walls.”

  “You want to steal it for me? I won’t stop you,” she teased.

  “Ha. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but I won’t leave you hanging either way. Promise.”

  It felt like time to walk away even though it was the last thing she wanted to do, but she fought the urge to close the gap between them and make a bold move. Instead, she took a step away, smirked at him thankfully, and was about to say, I’ll wait for your call, when the Russian man who had been following her caught Tasha’s eye.