by Gibson, Mira
She didn’t realize her expression had dropped until Kevin asked, “What's wrong?”
“Huh? Nothing,” she stammered, meeting his gaze and forcing a final smirk in thanks. “I’m good. I’ll talk to you soon.”
He held her gaze as if he didn’t quite believe her and then glanced in the direction she had been looking.
She took it as her opportunity to skirt away and when he called out, “Talk soon!” she waved without looking back.
It was a bitch and a half speed-walking around the entire block to shake the weirdo who had been following her, but Tasha managed and just before she padded down the subway steps, she pulled her cell from her pocket to make sure she had Kevin Wright’s number. Aiming to open the text message and save his contact information in her phone, she tapped the icon and stilled just shy of the subway railing to read the message.
You made my night, I hope I can make yours.
Chapter Four
When Tasha finally stepped inside her studio apartment on the corner of 126th Street and Amsterdam Ave, having climbed five flights of stairs, she was slightly out of breath, significantly unnerved, and substantially flattered—a conflicting mix of emotions she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with.
So she wrapped her hair in a towel and took a long shower, mentally wrestling with the gut feeling that she was in danger—that’s what being followed amounted to, right? After stepping onto the cool tiles she dried off and changed into her most comfortable pair of sweatpants along with a loose tee shirt that she’d borrowed from Greer and never returned.
Her apartment was cramped or cozy, as most realtors would describe a studio space that was barely five hundred square feet. She had arranged it as best she could, fitting her queen-size bed in the corner, a loveseat flush against the footboard, a coffee table nearby. There was a window covered with purple curtains in that area. She had situated her desk in the opposite corner against the wall. On the other side of that wall was a narrow kitchen and down the truncated hallway beyond it was the bathroom. She didn’t have a TV set, only a laptop computer on the coffee table. She sat on the loveseat, folding her legs and eyeing her cell phone.
Reading and re-reading the text message that Kevin had boldly composed while in her company, she pulled the towel from her head and set it beside her,
It was just vague and flirtatious enough to keep her guessing. She had made his night? The logical side of her insisted that she could’ve only made his night because her unfortunate predicament had given him a reason to delve into the crime at hand. But the woman in her intuited that Kevin was interested and that helping straighten out whatever administrative error was going on was his excuse to get close to her.
Would she let him?
She wondered.
Not to be presumptuous—who knew why men did the things they did?—but she sensed that if and when she received another text from him, it might be laced with the same innuendo.
She had never been with a guy like him. She’d certainly never gone out with a cop, not that Kevin was angling to ask her out. But even the guys at her old college that reminded her of him had never sparked so much interest in her that she ended up pursuing them or vice versa.
Tasha had a definite type—athletes, a bit rough around the edges, a bit hardened by life, but who had a distinct charm about them, and most consistently, she was into black guys.
Yet something about Kevin had him running around her thoughts in a way she didn’t at all mind.
Should she text him?
His eyes kept coming to mind. He had those thick, dark lashes, yet the actual color of his iris was hard to nail down—dusty hazel didn’t quite capture it. They’d seemed blue or green, but darkened with brown. She found it alluring not being able to pinpoint the exact color. And his mouth was another story. It wasn’t just the shape—straight and pale and perfectly proportioned—that had her daydreaming, but the way his lips were framed with a subtle dusting of growth, dark stubble spreading across his jawline... He was damn sexy.
In fact, the sum total of his dark brows, straight nose, prominent cheekbones, and chiseled jaw made her wonder if he might photograph well with the George Washington Bridge in the background. She might have to rethink the theme of the photos she planned on exhibiting...
Itching to text him if for no other reason than to strike up a conversation, she opted to open the window instead since the air in her apartment was getting a bit stuffy.
She unlatched the lock and hoisted the heavy thing up, eyeing the fire escape just beyond and stealing glances at the curtained windows of the apartments across the way.
A cool breeze rolled in, billowing the purple curtains, so she tied the cloth to the side and then returned to the loveseat, unaware of the smile that had formed on her face.
She stared at her cell, the text message, and began bouncing ideas around. Maybe a simple thanks? No, she had already thanked him. Maybe she should ask if he’d heard anything? That was no good either. She’d only come off sounding pushy and nervous.
Tasha kept formulating options and then jolted when her cell vibrated of its own accord.
It was an incoming text message and when she swiped it open, the number she had memorized as Kevin’s—it hadn’t been too taxing since it was a palindrome—appeared along with a brief note.
Looked into it... very weird.
She must have read it over five times before she realized he hadn’t sent a second message to explain things further. She had been too caught up on the profound lack of flirtation it contained.
So she typed out her response—I’m afraid to ask so just tell me.
She waited, staring at her cell and at times checking the amount of bars on the screen, an indication of cell reception that tended to be lousy in her place.
“Come on,” she grumbled when he still hadn’t responded. She let out a shaky breath, reminding herself that as a cop, Kevin probably got sucked into new cases all the time especially if he was working the front desk. Maybe someone had walked in with a pressing issue and he needed to file a bunch of forms.
She was about to call Greer just to keep herself busy, but her cell began vibrating in her hand. This time it wasn’t a text.
He was calling her.
Clearing her throat and palming her black curls like a nervous tick, she bit down on her lower lip, accepted the call, and placed her cell to her ear.
Don’t sound nervous, sound sexy, but not too sexy, she told herself, but what came out was, “Yo.”
She cringed at her lame choice of a greeting. She didn’t say yo in real life for Christ’s sake.
But in an instant his deep, smooth voice filled her ear, as he said, “Hey, its Kevin from the 26th.”
“Yes?” she said, doing a much better job of sounding like herself even though she didn’t especially love the nervous waver in her tone. “What’s going on with my camera?”
“I can’t be on my cell.”
Then why had he called her?
“But I have a break coming up...”
“Can you just tell me what’s going on?”
She hadn’t meant to say that or sound dismissive. Of course she’d rather meet him than hear news—bad news—over the phone or worse, in a series of texts messages, but this whole situation had her stomach twisting with knots.
“Not in a sentence,” he said almost in a whisper then she heard what sounded like his palm covering the receiver and a rushed, muffled conversation ensued. When the line opened up again, he said, “I’d really like to talk to you in person.”
Eagerly she asked, “Where?” not wanting to lose him to another conversation.
“There’s a 24-hour diner called Annie’s Kitchen on Amsterdam and 134th-”
“I know it,” she cut in.
“I can be there in ten minutes.”
Again, his end of the phone went soft, but this time Tasha heard him greeting someone approaching the counter.
When his voice returned, he sounded curt, as
king, “See you there?”
“I’ll be there,” she said fast before the line went dead.
Tasha sprang from the couch and after a moment of indecision, padded to her dresser beside the desk in the corner of her studio and pulled open drawer after drawer, feeling excited and strangely panicked in anticipation of seeing him.
What was that? she asked herself, as she selected a purple, v-neck tee from the bottom drawer along with a pair of black jeans. Dressing quickly and wasting a few too many seconds on whether or not to wear a necklace, she decided there was nothing wrong with liking a guy simply because he seemed to care. And he did care. Unlike that other cop who hadn’t believed her until she’d handed her camera over, and unlike the desk attendant who couldn’t even look at her earlier that night, Kevin had not only met her gaze, but had actually seen her and his actions had shown that he was invested, even aligned with her, in such a way that he was willing to see this through so she wouldn’t feel alone.
Once dressed, she slipped on a pair of Converse sneakers and her gray, leather jacket, locked up her apartment, and rushed down the stairs.
Annie’s Kitchen was a good ten blocks north of her building on Amsterdam. Traffic hummed down the avenue as she worked her way north, walking briskly along the blocks and waiting impatiently when the crosswalk signal flashed red. At times she glanced over her shoulder and across the street, slightly paranoid that the Russian might be following her, but all she saw was pedestrians walking with metaphorical blinders on. No one had her in their sights.
The diner's neon sign—orange but steady—came into view on the corner. Tasha slowed her step, taking a moment to look up the sidewalk in case Kevin was hurrying towards, but she didn’t see him and ducked into the restaurant, pushing the glass door open.
She was met with the familiar clatter of dishes being slapped on tables, orders being shouted in the kitchen, and the scent of late night pancakes, hash browns, and milkshakes.
It would’ve been nicer if the diner wasn’t so brightly lit, but she couldn’t say she wasn’t used to it. She had been to Annie’s probably a million times since moving into her studio apartment, and the fact that Kevin had suggested it made her wonder if he frequented the place. Would she have met him if she hadn't witnessed a murder?
Which brought her to a more pressing question, what the hell was going on that he had to tell her in person?
The approaching waitress—an aged looking forty-year old wearing the standard Annie’s yellow smock—seemed too bleary eyed to greet her properly, but understood well enough when Tasha mentioned she was meeting someone.
After the waitress plucked two sticky, oversized menus from the hostess stand, she led Tasha down the aisle along the window and as she slowed at a vacant booth, she asked, “Coffee? Beer?” then slapped the menus on the table.
“Water for now,” she said, sliding into the far side of the booth so she could keep her eye on the door. It wasn’t until the waitress started for the kitchen that she blurted out, “What tea do you have?”
With a sigh, the older woman began reciting the options, but Tasha’s attention was stolen, as the entrance door swung open and Kevin rounded towards the hostess stand.
He was dressed in full uniform, minus the police cap, and after scanning the room, his eyes locked with hers, which sent a stark jolt of excitement through her and caused her chest to burn.
She tempered her breathing, as he made his way down the aisle.
The waitress asked him, “And for you?”
But he was holding Tasha’s gaze. The moment of eye contact seemed to linger and though he directed his statement to their waitress, his gaze remained on Tasha.
“I might need a minute.”
Ignoring his request, she rattled off, “Coffee? Beer? Wine?”
Kevin cocked his head at Tasha, as if wondering what she had ordered so she supplied, “I’m thinking tea.” Glancing at the waitress, she asked, “Do you have rooibus?”
The woman looked annoyed. “We have earl grey and black.”
“Water’s fine,” she said quietly, trying not to stare at Kevin, something about being in his company a third time sent her heart racing in a way that she didn’t mind, but also worried she couldn’t control. She didn’t want her voice to start quavering.
Kevin grasped the back of the booth, telling the waitress he’d have a Rolling Rock then his eyebrow arched as he flicked his eyes at Tasha.
Drinking on the job? she thought to herself, not that she was judging him.
As the waitress lumbered off to fetch their beverage orders, he slid into the seat across from her and offhandedly said, “It’s one of those nights.”
“Already?” she asked, studying him, as he rested his elbows on the table, perhaps an excuse to lean towards her. Whatever it was, she couldn’t help but notice how the angle caused his uniform to pull taut around his biceps.
His gaze went soft as if remembering a rocky encounter he’d just escaped, yet his lips curled at one corner. “It’s a combination,” he began explaining, “of having dealt with some bullshit, but also anticipating there will be a lot more before I’m released at three in the morning.”
“Damn,” she said, her brows floating up. “That’s a long shift.”
“Not really,” he said easily before drawing in a deep breath and leaning his back against the booth. “Just late hours.”
He angled his eyes on her and rested his hands on the table, but said nothing, only held her gaze. Tasha’s knee-jerk reaction was to fill the silence so things wouldn’t feel awkward, but after a moment of wracking her brain for literally anything to say, she realized nothing about this situation felt awkward. If anything, her elevated heart rate and sudden self-consciousness were anchored in the thrill of having this time with him. But as exciting as it was, it didn’t detract from her curiosity about why he had asked her here.
The waitress shuffled over with his beer and a cloudy glass of tap water, and set them down with little tact. Kevin’s beer clanked against the plastic surface and Tasha’s water sloshed all over the table, not that the waitress noticed. She lifted her pen to her notepad and asked, “What’ll it be?”
Kevin asked Tasha, “You don’t want a beer?”
“Am I going to need a beer to hear what you have to tell me?”
The shrug he shot her was both nerve wracking—how bad is this news going to be?—and downright sexy.
Christ, what was going on with her? Maybe Greer and Jennifer were right. Maybe she was hungry for a man and needed to let loose, and maybe because she had denied herself for so long, the reality of her desperation was now rearing its ugly head in the form of finding every gesture Kevin did to be some kind of mating dance.
“Screw it,” she said, trying not to smile too wide, as she glanced up at their waitress. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
Kevin let out a breathy laugh that fortunately or not, got some ideas stirring in Tasha’s mind.
He watched their waitress walk off again with the same lack of urgency and then eyed the beer between his hands.
“I’ll be straight with you,” he began.
“Please.”
His eyes snapped up, locking with hers. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
It felt like hitting a brick wall, and no words came, not an objection, not a question. She only studied him, but couldn’t get a read on his expression.
As a response slowly formed, she was interrupted when the waitress dropped her Rolling Rock on the table.
“Nothing else for now,” Kevin told the older woman in order to resume privacy as quickly as possible. He watched her wander off down the row of booths then pressed his right palm to the table and said, “I saw those photos. I know something happened.”
“Something did happen,” said Tasha. “Your friggin' boss knows something happened.”
“My sergeant,” he supplied.
Now it was his turn to study her, but she didn’t like it. “So?” she asked. “D
on’t keep me waiting. My heart’s been in my throat since five.”
“Reilly never sent a cruiser.” Before she could ask, he clarified, mentioning, “Reilly is my sergeant. He took your camera, you left, I checked in with him because I wanted to be sent out to the pier, but he told me he’d already ordered two officers over there.” Kevin leaned across the table again and reached out for her, but stopped just shy of making contact. Instead, his gaze fell on her hands, which were wrapped around her beer. He took a deep breath and pushed out the unbelievable truth. “The reason you’re not in the system, that your case wasn’t logged, is because Reilly never sent a car. He’s not investigating.”
He let that hang and Tasha wasn’t sure what disturbed her more, that she would never see her camera again or that the man in charge of the 26th Precinct didn’t give a good Goddamn that someone had been murdered in his zone.
Finally, she managed to ask, “He’s not investigating?”
Kevin let out a frustrated sigh and the way he began shaking his head told her that he had been dealing with covert corruption for longer than he could take. When he finally reeled in whatever emotions he had been wrestling with, he pulled a long haul from his beer, swallowing hard. Tasha took a few sips herself and was glad he had encouraged her to get a drink.
Resting his beer on the table again, he leveled with her, “I can’t even wrap my head around whatever departmental...” He trailed off, but she still heard the word, cover up in his thoughts. “The bottom line is, if there isn’t going to be an investigation, then your camera won’t be needed as evidence.”
“Right,” she said quickly. “So how do I get it?”
“That’s the thing...” Abruptly, he began talking out loud, but everything he said seemed internal. “Why brush it under the rug?” His gaze went soft, though it landed on his beer. “Who were they? Face recognition should’ve pulled them up if they were crooks...”
She felt her eyes widening so she forced another sip of her beer, watching him and not knowing whether to pull him out of his contemplation or not.
He shook it off himself and got down to brass tax. “So the evidence room is at the back of the precinct. I’ve got a buddy over there who shouldn’t mind signing me in, or not signing me in,” he countered, doubling down on his own idea. “Either way, he should let me hunt around for your camera.”