Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2)

by Gibson, Mira

  “Okay,” she said encouragingly. It sounded promising, though the Russian who had been following her surged to the forefront of her mind.

  If Kevin’s sergeant, this guy Reilly, had sought fit to strike Tasha’s report from the system in order to cover up a murder, then the fact that someone who clearly looked as though he was a part of the dual killers’ crew had been trailing her, quite frankly, scared the shit out of her...

  “I’ll need a few days though,” he concluded.

  Keeping her tone even, she said, “I’m willing to wait.” She had an urge to reach across the table and touch his hand, but she drank her beer instead, feeling a sting of disappointment that their time together was probably coming to a close. Impulsively, and probably because he was reaching for his wallet, she blurted out, “I think someone’s been stalking me.”

  She had his full attention.

  “Yeah,” she asserted, quickly adding, “and don’t call me crazy.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “I saw this guy the other day when I was leaving work downtown. There are a lot of people in this city, but it’s so unlikely that I’d see the same guy in TriBeCa and then again in Harlem.”

  “He followed you uptown?”

  “I’m only telling you this because he seemed like, I don’t know, the same type of guy as the two who had thrown that guy into the river. I’m telling you,” she again asserted, not that he was in any way questioning her, but because some part of her needed to believe it herself. She’d been debating over whether or not she was paranoid or justified in her assessment... “I think they saw me and I think they knew I had a camera and I think they also knew I went to the police station, and I swear to God, they’re stalking me.”

  “Okay,” he said in a smooth voice that implied he was both digesting the information and strategizing what he might be able to do about it.

  He looked intense so she blurted out, “Should I be worried?”

  “I am,” he shot back and they stared at each other.

  It felt like a standoff, but for the first time in Tasha’s life she didn’t want to win. His concern comforted her and she was interested in hearing how he might be able to protect her. She wasn’t sure anyone beside her grandmother had ever cared as much.

  Decisively, he set twenty bucks on the table, which was more than enough to cover their beers, and said, “You have my number.” As he worked his wallet into his slacks he added, “You call me the next time you see this guy. Where do you live?”

  Taken aback, she stammered, “Like ten blocks south on Amsterdam,” wondering all the while if he expected her address.

  He seemed to do the math on the general proximity to his precinct and mentioned, “I don’t live far from there.”

  “Am I in danger?”

  His eyes snapped to meet hers, but whatever he was preparing to say wouldn’t come. After a long moment, he told her, “I’ll walk you home.”

  As they rose from their respective sides of the booth, Tasha thanked him for the beer under her breath, and he gestured she ought to go ahead of him.

  He stepped in behind her as she passed, his hand finding her lower back. His touch was delicate, almost airy, and as she walked along the aisle soon his hand wasn’t there.

  She held the door open for him, as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. A slight glance over her shoulder and their eyes met.

  They started down the street and he hugged in close, his hand at times brushing up against her lower back as if he were compelled to guide her along. And it wasn’t lost on Tasha that he was walking between her and the rush of cars—an old fashioned gesture meant to announce that she was his lady. Had he let her walk on the outside, closest to traffic, it would mean she was up for grabs.

  Her grandmother had taught her a lot before she’d died.

  “Where are you from?” she asked, as they paused for a light.

  His lip curled into a smile, as he glanced at her sideways. “Here... what do you mean?”

  “You were born and raised here?”

  “Not in Harlem, but on Staten Island. I come from a big family,” he explained, as he ushered her through the crosswalk. A taxicab was chomping at the bit to cut them off, but Kevin held his palm up.

  When they safely reached the sidewalk, the cab whizzing by behind them, he went on, “I’ve got a brother over at the precinct in Morningside Heights, a couple firefighter brothers, all older, by the way. I’m the baby of the family. We’re all cops and firefighters, but we've got a priest in the mix so...” He shot her a smile when their eyes touched. “There’s some redemption in my future.”

  “Ah,” she said lightly. “Wish I could say the same.”

  “Hey now,” he cut in, again resting his hand at the small of her back as they came to another light—she liked that he was a fast walker like her. “If you don’t need redeeming, you don’t need a priest.”

  “What did you do that needs redeeming?” she asked, as they started across the street.

  He frowned, glancing across the avenue as if buying time to compose his response.

  “It’s this precinct I work in... maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  He was shaking his head, as they came to her block.

  Naturally, and in many ways surprising herself for how casual she was acting around him—maybe Kevin was just easy to be with—she arched her hand up, meeting his chest with the back of her fingers and mentioning, “This is me.”

  He paused, turning towards her. “I don’t know why,” he continued and for a second, based on the way he was searching her eyes she thought he might say something bold about how he felt about her... She wasn’t sure she could handle that so soon, but was let off the hook when he finished his thought. “But these cops... they lose sight of the law after a while. What was once black and white turns gray...”

  “You’re referring to Reilly?”

  “I’m referring to a lot of them.” Again, he gazed off at the avenue, the cars speeding by, the flow of pedestrians breaking free from the subway stop a block off, spilling out onto the sidewalk at a hurried pace. He returned his eyes to her and asked, “Do you live alone?”

  She looked over her shoulder at the building she’d called home for longer than she could remember. “Yup,” she said softly, walking to the door and feeling him trail closely behind her.

  When she turned, facing him, Kevin was standing a breath away and tilting his head ever so slightly. It reminded her of first kisses to come.

  Quietly and in a tone so deep and smooth that she felt herself floating towards him, he said, “Let me talk to my guy in evidence. I’ll text you.”

  There wasn’t one part of Tasha that didn’t want to invite him up, rip his uniform off, and make up for the many months she’d gone without a man in her life, but she held her tongue and breathed a sigh of relief when he glanced at his wristwatch.

  “You won’t be late?” she asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, holding her gaze.

  She lingered, trying not to be obvious about drinking in the sight of him, and just as she felt the urge to cave, lean in, and press her lips to his no matter how impulsive it would seem, she turned for the door, feeling his eyes on her as she keyed into the building.

  The glass door drifted shut, as she glanced over her shoulder at him. He was watching her too, tucking his hands into his slacks and clenching his jaw in a way that reminded her of the danger she might be in.

  But her last thought before padding off through the lobby for the stairs was of the hope that he might text her before she fell asleep.

  Chapter Five

  Tasha examined the sleek telephoto lens in her hands from where she stood in the Canon DSLR section of B & H Photo—the largest photography store in Manhattan—and couldn’t believe its price tag. After doing some quick math in her head to figure out whether or not she could swing it, she decided she would have to and placed it in her shopping basket next to the Canon camera body she had already sele
cted.

  As she meandered down the aisle, weaving between browsing shoppers, Kevin’s alarming text message nagged at her from the back of her mind.

  Asleep last night, she had been woken by the stark buzz of her cell phone, which she has set on her bed while dozing off. Bleary eyed and swiping the screen, she had recognized his number right away, but the message itself hadn’t computed. Not immediately.

  You’re right. You’re being stalked. I chased him to his vehicle and got the plate.

  She’d written him back almost instantly and spent hours waiting on edge for his response.

  It was four in the afternoon now and he still hadn’t gotten back to her.

  She glanced around the massive store, scanning the faces, but none belonged to the Russian man who had been trailing after her ever since she’d documented the murder at the pier. She would’ve liked to think that was because Kevin had tracked him down and arrested him, but she wasn’t feeling very optimistic about it.

  From the top of the escalator, Greer rounded into the DSLR section and soon Jennifer appeared, hurrying after her.

  Breathlessly, Greer said, “The train took forever,” and then eyed the contents of Tasha’s shopping basket. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us sooner.”

  Jennifer added, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, meeting each of their gazes. “I was a ways away from it all.” She was tempted to mention she was being stalked and quite frankly on edge because of it, but she didn’t want to worry them so instead said, “One of the officers at the station is taking an interest and handling things.”

  Jennifer angled her dark eyes up at Tasha and cocked her eyebrow, questioning her with, “Handling what? You’re buying a new camera.”

  Greer shot their Asian friend a steely glance as if to say, You're not helping, then asked, “Will you get your camera back eventually? Because you can always sell it and offset the cost of this one.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” she said, trying not to sound defeated. As she led them through the aisle, doubling-back towards the escalators, she vented over her shoulder. “Those cops, man. They took one look at me and thought the worst.”

  Stepping onto the escalator, she turned to face her friends. Greer hopped on next, and after a slight hesitation, Jennifer followed, asking, “What are they, racist or something?”

  “Or something,” Tasha grumbled.

  It was Greer who supplied, “But not this one cop.”

  She bit her lip so she wouldn’t smile, but her friends knew her too well.

  “Ah,” said Jennifer, knowingly.

  “He believes me,” she pressed then blurted out, “who wouldn’t believe me? I showed them hard evidence.”

  “Hence your camera,” said Greer, but Jenn was still focused on the new man in the mix.

  “So... are you going in for a follow up or whatever it’s called?”

  “Actually,” she said, stepping off the escalator and starting for the long line of customers at the checkout counter. “We exchanged numbers. He’s keeping me posted. We met last night.”

  Greer seemed too surprised for words, but Jennifer didn’t have that problem. “Met, as in...?”

  Her response tumbled right out of her, “No, God no. Nothing like that. We talked at a diner.” The weight of them staring with interest caused her to declare, “New subject, next topic... Jenn, how’s your painting coming along?”

  “What does he look like?” she asked instead.

  Greer had a few ideas of her own to rattle off. “Tight uniform? Authoritative orders? A gun at his hip?”

  Smiling, Tasha glanced ahead at the line that was inching along and mumbled to herself, “God, get me out of here.”

  “We’ll stop,” said Greer. “Calm down. We’re just glad you’re okay.”

  When finally it was Tasha’s turn to step up to one of the eight cashiers, she handed him her basket and held her breath anticipating the total, tax and all. The figure flashed in red on the sales monitor. It was worse than she’d thought. She glanced over her shoulder at her friends and fished her wallet out of her purse. They were discussing the upcoming art openings around Chelsea that they wanted to hit later this week, giving Tasha a chance to lean over the counter and discretely tell the cashier, “I have six cards I’d like to spread the balance on.”

  He didn’t look pleased, but didn’t complain, taking her credit cards and proceeding to divvy up the charges.

  By the time Tasha and her friends were passing through the sliding glass door that opened with a whoosh, she had maxed out her credit and as unnerving as it was, it didn’t compare to the paranoia that was suddenly overcoming her.

  Kevin should’ve caught the guy by now, she thought, glancing up and down the sidewalk then across the street—feeling eyes on her but unable to spot the Russian. If he had the license plate number, he could’ve easily ran it through his system, tracked down the owner, and paid him a visit...

  But Tasha’s gut told her that he hadn’t.

  “Something wrong?” asked Greer when they hadn’t moved in any direction.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you?”

  Tasha feigned a smile that felt stiff, asking, “You guys want to head up to Riverside Park? I’ve got everything I need to take some decent shots.”

  The girls exchanged a regretful look then Greer broke the news. “We want to hit the Thornstein Gallery before the complimentary wine ran out.”

  “Hey,” said Tasha easily. “Then don’t let me keep you. I’m just behind on my photos and stressed.”

  Jennifer asked, “You sure you don’t want to come?”

  “She doesn’t need the distraction,” said Greer, speaking for her friend. “We’ll see you later.”

  Greer took a few steps back, motioning to head out, as Jennifer insisted, “If you meet up with the hot cop, then you have to let us know.”

  “I never said he was hot,” she laughed.

  “But your face did,” Jenn pointed out, taking a few strides towards Greer.

  Tasha watched them make their way to the downtown A train, as she approached the crosswalk post and pushed the button. When the walk signal appeared, she made her way across the avenue, her wedge-heeled sneakers tapping lightly against asphalt, and came to the uptown train. After padding down the stairs, she swiped her MetroCard, passing through the turnstile, and jogged along the platform, as an incoming train came to a noisy stop.

  She slipped into the crowded car, rode the train ten stops north, and impulsively hopped off. She was slightly too far south for the park, but her gut was telling her that she ought to check out the pier.

  So that’s where she went.

  When she reached the street, having heaved up two long sets of subway stairs, she walked briskly, crossing three avenue-wide blocks, until she reached a row of benches that spanned directly across from the industrial-looking pier.

  Wind was rolling in off the water, as she sat, opening the plastic bag containing her brand new purchases. It took her all of three minutes to attach the telephoto lens to the camera body and slip a fresh memory card in. She discarded the bag in a nearby trashcan, and started for Pier 12.

  She kept her guard up and her eyes down, though she stole sly glances this way and that to be sure that the few people who were around weren’t taking a threatening interest in her.

  As she came to the area where she had seen those two men throw that guy into the water, she noticed the wooden slats of the pier seemed discolored—dark and damp—with what appeared to be...

  Blood?

  For a frozen moment she wracked her brain, thinking back to the other evening. The Russians had strangled that guy, but she couldn’t recall them spilling blood. Then again, if this was blood, there wasn’t much of it.

  Quickly, she angled her lens at the stain, pressing the camera to her eye, and grumbled. Damned telephoto lens. All she could see were the individual wood grains. She adjusted the aperture anyway then brought
the image into focus, having forgotten to throw the camera's nylon strap around her neck.

  Just as she was placing her index finger over the shutter, preparing to take a series of shots, she was shoved from behind.

  The force knocked the wind right out of her and before she could process what was happening, her palms and knees slammed badly against the ground. She grunted and was vaguely aware of her attacker sprinting off.

  Lifting her eyes, as the momentum of her fall caused her to roll onto her side, she saw him—black windbreaker, dark hair, sneakers, a blur—as he ducked around a row of cars.

  She struggled to her feet, her palms stinging and her right knee smarting, and was about to push off, ignoring the pain in order to chase after him, when she realized her camera was gone.

  “No!” She yelled, scanning the pier in desperate hope it was still here. She even looked down at the water’s surface, hunting for ripples, but there were none. “Motherfucker!”

  He'd stolen it.

  As she fumbled for her purse—it had fallen as well, her personal belongings strewn across the wooden slats—her hands began trembling, as adrenaline surged through her in delayed reaction.

  She collected her things and with her cell in hand, dialed the only person who she knew would both truly care and be able to do something about this.

  Kevin picked up on the first ring.

  Chapter Six

  He walked with purpose, using fast strides and weaving between pedestrians as they shuffled down the block, Tasha burning into the forefront of his mind—her glowing complexion, its brown alluring color, her hair a plume of black curls, those flowing tee shirts and tight jeans, those curves...

  It had been another long and rough day of dodging his sergeant in order to make headway on the Russian, the vehicle, the reasoning behind his department brushing a murder under the rug, or as Reilly had put it, refusing to believe one had even occurred. When his sergeant had caught onto the fact that Kevin had been using police resources to go off on what he had deemed a rogue tangent, Reilly had sent him off to the projects to rectify the mystery of Willy Blackwell and the disappearing flowerpots, punishing Kevin to four hours of brutal, dead end questions that ultimately chipped away at his sanity and not the allegation at hand.