by Gibson, Mira
When Hans called for a wrap, having captured every angle of a blond bombshell modeling fur coats in the nude, Tasha didn’t waste a second to clean every inch of the studio, lock up, and spill out into the dusky evening.
Kevin had been on her mind all day, and though during her various breaks she had looked up the Avandeyev crime family on her cell phone—the Coney Island based Russians were at the top of the mob pyramid and rumored to have killed over thirty people in the last ten years—she didn’t feel as rattled about her predicament as she had prior to her night with Kevin. It was as though all of the anxiety she had felt had been washed away and replaced with thoughts of this new man in her life. And the best part was that she trusted him. Sure, she would have to keep her guard up and be hyper vigilant about staying safe and in the company of her friends if not locked in her apartment, but she was confident that Kevin would make things right, arrest Vishnevsky, and with a little luck, send a message to Avandeyev to leave her alone.
But was it wishful thinking?
She didn’t know, but couldn’t live in fear.
And she was dying to gush to Greer and Jennifer about her night with the sexy cop.
Chapter Eight
Kevin was seated behind the steering wheel of his beat-up sedan, staring across the street at a rundown brownstone—Alexi Vishnevsky’s last known address—and daydreaming about his night with Tasha.
He had angled his vehicle along the curb, having parallel parked.
The building was dark and the street quiet, which didn’t come as a huge surprise considering this neighborhood on Coney Island had suffered the brunt of Hurricane Sandy's destruction years back. Most of the buildings were still damaged and abandoned, while others were filled with squatters who stayed hidden until the sun went down.
His gut told him that Vishnevsky wasn’t inside, but unless Tasha contacted him to say she had seen the Russian again, he figured the most productive plan was to keep an eye on the place until the stalker eventually returned.
If and when he did, Kevin would cut him off before he reached his stoop and arrest him, not that he had permission to take it that far. Sergeant Reilly didn’t have a clue as to what he was up to.
He’d been sitting out here for hours.
So long in fact that he didn’t so much see the brownstone anymore, but Tasha in his mind—her smooth skin and gentle curves, her dark curls and full lips, the way those lace panties had hugged her hips, the feel of her supple breasts in his hands...
He had not seen that coming and yet it had been exactly what he wanted.
Seeing her again—and the sooner the better—was at the forefront of his mind.
But so was Vishnevsky. He wanted to rough him up, give him a reason or two to back off. Enduring a serious beat-down was well above the Russian's pay grade and if Kevin could throw his weight around in just the right way—arresting the man—he was confident that the message it would send to Avandeyev could convince the crime boss that none of this was worth it.
Kevin began rolling up his sleeves, the plaid button-down he wore having caused him to overheat. He’d gone home to his apartment after watching Tasha disappear into the subway station. He’d showered and changed his clothes, but the spring weather was unpredictable, some days unusually warm, others chilly well into the afternoon. He had dressed for a chill that never came.
A black Cadillac crawled down the street and Kevin eyed it closely. Its windows were darkly tinted and he couldn’t see the driver with the glare from the late afternoon sun bouncing off the windshield. It pulled up, double parking in front of Vishnevsky’s building, but before anyone could climb out, Kevin’s cell phone began vibrating in the front pocket of his jeans.
Leaning back, he freed his phone and saw the precinct’s general number flashing.
“Wright,” he said, answering the call.
“Hey, man, it’s Taite. You busy?”
“It’s my day off,” he pointed out, implying he was otherwise disposed.
“Reilly asked to see you,” he said, the familiar bustle of the station house muffled in the background. “Can you come by?”
He really didn’t want to. The time he’d spent waiting in his car and watching the apartment had been an investment that he needed a return on, so he told him, “I’m in tomorrow at nine, that’s not soon enough?”
“Sorry, buddy,” said Taite, sounding very close to the receiver.
“It’ll take me some time...”
“Why? Where are you?”
Kevin had developed a solid relationship with Taite over the past year. If Reilly liked busting Kevin’s balls, the brash man never missed an opportunity with James Taite. The two officers were in the outer circle and because of it, Kevin didn’t even consider masking the truth.
“Coney Island, so you can let Reilly know I’ll be there in about twenty-five.”
“What are you doing down there?”
Kevin snorted a laugh, grumbling, “Nothing now.”
“Keep that to yourself when you get here,” he advised.
“What? Why?”
“Coney Island?” When Taite went on, it sounded like he’d cupped his hand over his mouth and around the receiver. “Marshall told us that the telephoto camera wasn’t in evidence. Reilly’s been in his office all day with the door closed. Whatever’s going on is hitting him hard, which means he’s going to come down on us if we do anything out of the ordinary. He already suspects you’ve been poking around where you shouldn’t. And my friend, you know you have no business in Coney Island.”
“But Vishnevsky does,” he pushed back.
“I’m telling you as your friend, you've got to back off this thing, man. If you don’t, it’s not going to go well for you, and if my name’s dragged into it... I can’t get suspended, you know I’ve got a baby on the way and Molly would flat out kill me.”
“Your name’s not going to get dragged into it,” he cut in then considered the advice. “Is this what Reilly wants to talk to me about?”
Taite exhaled into the receiver, confirming.
Wrapping up the call, he said, “I’m on my way.”
When he heard the line go dead, he wedged his cell into his pocket, twisted the key in the ignition, and pulled out into the street, eyeing the black Cadillac as he drove off, but getting no clearer sense of who was inside.
A tense thirty minutes later—traffic had built on the FDR and no matter which lane Kevin chose the highway amounted to a parking lot of honking cars, drivers swearing out of their rolled-down windows, kids selling water bottles or limp-looking flowers and shouting fair rates—Kevin pulled into the precinct parking lot in the sub-basement of the 26th, climbed out, and made his way up to the ground floor.
Officer Taite was working the front desk and trying to calm down an elderly black woman who was irate about a search and seizure that had been conducted on her grandson and ultimately resulted in the kid’s arrest. He shot Kevin a quick nod and the older woman clapped her hands to get his attention.
Kevin passed behind the counter and through an open doorway into the precinct's bullpen where officers and detectives alike were conversing loudly, pouring over reports, and joshing around about some crazy case that had made their day for no other reason than it had given them a story to tell.
Sergeant Reilly’s door was closed, but through the window blinds, Kevin spied him hunched over his desk, his phone pressed hard to his ear, his expression a twisted grimace as though he were being raked over the coals for something he couldn’t control.
He knocked on the door and caught sight of Reilly’s gaze snapping up. They made brief eye contact through the blinds and the sergeant spat a few words through his teeth at whoever was on the other end of their call, slammed the phone into its cradle, hoisted himself to his feet, and lumbered towards the door.
“You wanted to see me?” asked Kevin the second his superior had invited him in.
“Have a seat.”
As Kevin settled into a stiff c
hair in front of his sergeant’s desk, Reilly closed the door and kept his eyes on the younger officer.
It was putting Kevin on edge.
Taking slow, deliberate steps around to the business side of his desk, Reilly said, “You shacked up with one of the victims last night?”
Wrestling down the paranoid sting that was setting his chest on fire, Kevin tempered his reaction, as the sergeant lowered into his chair.
Had Vishnevsky spied Kevin and Tasha leaving her apartment that morning?
And if so, how deep was Reilly in with the Russians that word had traveled back to the precinct?
When Kevin did nothing but study his superior, Reilly clasped his hands on the desk and went on, “You don’t want to get mixed up with the wrong girl.”
In delayed reaction, he asserted, “I thought there was no case, so how could Tasha Buckley be considered a victim?”
The sergeant both grinned and glared, and Kevin’s chest felt tight because of it.
“This isn’t the easiest jurisdiction to manage,” he explained companionably. “There are a lot of... businesses that have their own way of doing things around here, and because they’re holding their own and not committing the kinds of crimes we target-”
“They’re free to murder?” he challenged, knowing a split second after the question had flown from his mouth that it had been the wrong one.
“We couldn’t substantiate her allegation.”
“Then Tasha isn’t a victim,” he pointed out, rounding the bend of his point. “And it’s none of anyone’s business what I do with my free time.”
“I’m telling you, Wright. You want to walk away.”
Kevin narrowed his eyes on the older man, who was staring him down just as hard.
“You’re a good cop,” he continued, making light of the situation as if dismissing Kevin was on the horizon. “I’d like to send you out more, get you away from the front desk, and your father is pushing for that as well, but I can’t give you more time on the streets if I don’t trust you.”
“Buckley wants her camera back.”
“It was lost in the shuffle,” he shrugged. “Messy chain of custody. There’s no telling what happened to it.”
“Why is she being followed?” he shot back and in response Reilly leaned across his desk.
“She’s mistaken. It’s a big city. People look alike.”
“Why is a crime family based in Coney Island conducting questionable business in Harlem?”
When Reilly’s expression hardened, he knew he had pushed too hard, but what the sergeant said next came so far out of left field that Kevin could barely wrap his head around it.
“I’ve set up a meeting. I want you to go to this address,” he explained, writing quickly on a scrap of paper and sliding it across the desk. After picking it up, Kevin eyed it. “We don't live in a black and white world. It’s time for you to see for yourself what the gray area looks like.”
He wasn’t familiar with the address, but the cross streets indicated it was located in Coney Island and not far from Vishnevsky’s rundown brownstone.
As Kevin rose to his feet, tucking the scrap of paper into the back pocket of his jeans, Reilly warned, “Stay away from Buckley. You don’t want to get into something you can’t get out of.”
He kept his expression flat and his tone even as he said, “I’ll head down,” but when he left the sergeant’s office he didn’t immediately head out to his car. Instead, he made a beeline for the locker room where he changed into his uniform, being sure to transfer his GLOCK 27 from his ankle holster to his hip.
He wasn’t going to show up at Avandeyev’s in plain clothes and become one of the crime boss’s dirty minions. He’d go as himself, one of New York’s finest, and announce that not everyone at the 26th could be bought.
Chapter Nine
I can’t make it to the gallery. Something came up.
Vague. Elusive. Not even remotely flirtatious. Had he meant to blow her off? Tasha reasoned that honing in on Vishnevsky could’ve taken all of Kevin's time and effort, and she couldn’t fault him for that. She was glad someone was looking out. But hot off the heels of their night together, she had to wonder. Had things moved too quickly? Was this the classic disappearing act that guys tended to pull when the chase was over?
Wind rustled through the trees overhead, as she meandered through the north end of Central Park, following one of the cobblestone paths and holding her camera in her hands. This time the nylon strap was wrapped securely around her neck and though she was hunting for the right subject as she passed stone sculptures and dogwood in bloom, she kept her wits about her, using sly glances to note her surroundings and make sure she wasn’t being followed.
Earlier that day, just before she’d entered Windsor Fine Art, the gallery where her work would be exhibited next week, she had sent Kevin a text message, keeping things light by commenting on the art opening he’d missed and then adding a quick question about what he’d been up to last night. He had responded with banter, addressing how he wished he could’ve made it, but said nothing about how he’d spent his night.
It worried her.
She slowed her step, as a large rock came into view. It was protruding from the side of a hill and the homeless woman seated at its base and inspecting a limp sandwich looked perfect, especially since a pair of Catholic schoolgirls were giggling nearby. Angling her telephoto lens at the woman, Tasha set up her shot. The juxtaposition of wealth and poverty, the bliss and innocence of the girls contrasted with the struggling older woman in rags told the story of two worlds that would never collide.
She snapped a number of shots, at times lowering her camera to wait for a cloud overhead to slink by. The light was good—blazing orange and casting dramatic shadows on their faces—and Tasha was excited about how this photograph would look blown-up.
She was interrupted from the thrilled flow of her shots when her cell phone began vibrating in the back pocket of the jean skirt she wore. Gingerly, she lowered her camera, making sure the nylon strap around her neck wouldn’t betray her—the last thing she needed was to drop and damage her third camera—and grabbed her cell.
It was Kevin. His name along with a cop emoji were flashing across the screen—her way of noting which Kevin it was since she had a few friends with the same name—so she quickly swiped her thumb over the LCD, answering the call.
“Hey there,” she said breathily. Her heart rate had pitched through the roof and her hands felt shaky, nerves rattling through her to hear from the man who had been on her mind.
“I have the day to myself again.” Though his words had been inviting, his tone was flat, indicating that something was wrong. “Want to get together?”
“I’m in the park.”
“Riverside?”
“No,” she said with a nervous smile. “Central Park. You’re welcome to join me.”
She gave him the cross street that would get him closest to her end of the park and then described the large rock she was near, but he wasn’t familiar.
“I’ll walk over to 110th and Lenox,” she told him.
He said he’d see her soon and as she tucked her cell into her skirt, she started along the cobblestone path, walking through a flock of pigeons that cooed and flapped off into the air.
When she reached the edge of the park, she glanced around at all the people as she waited. There were a few tourists, but not many since out-of-towners weren’t eager to venture into Harlem. A juggler wearing stripes, his face painted white, was entertaining a group of school kids, and a Hispanic couple in their early twenties was making-out on one of the benches. No Russians. No reason to be on edge, though Tasha knew she couldn’t let her guard drop until Kevin was here.
In a matter of minutes she spotted him across 110th Street. He jogged towards the crosswalk, but missed the signal.
Like a heat seeking missile, his eyes locked on her and though he smiled, the sentiment didn’t reach his eyes.
Did she kn
ow him well enough to be certain he looked shaken up?
She wasn't sure she should trust her instincts and yet his expression, the way his shoulders seemed hunched and stiff, the fact that his hands were hidden in his pockets, told her that he had discovered something about Vishnevsky... and it wasn’t good.
The traffic light changed and Kevin walked briskly across the street, pulling his hands from the front pockets of his jeans. The denim fit him well, hugging his thighs, falling loose around his calves, the waistband riding low. He wore a light jacket, but it was unzipped down the front, affording her a peek at the gray tee shirt he wore, his chest firm beneath the taut fabric.
As he stepped onto the curb, he plowed his fingers through his dark hair and the smile he gave her had a degree of ease. She smiled back, feeling butterflies over whether or not they would kiss or hug or do nothing at all...
They neared one another and Tasha let out a small breath of relief that his gaze was traveling the length of her, lingering on the floral button-down and short skirt she was wearing. When his eyes snapped up again to meet hers, his hands drifted to her waist and he pulled her in so naturally that she wondered why she’d been nervous to see him.
She whispered, “That was fast,” as Kevin tilted his head, coming in for a kiss.
When their lips met, the kiss was slow and soft, nothing too passionate for public and yet it conveyed a deeper hunger.
He drew back, studying her face, and asked, “Taking photos?”
“As many as I can,” she said.
“I’m not interrupting you, am I?”
“That depends on what you had in mind.”
He cocked his head and a playful smile spread across his face. “What I have in mind probably shouldn’t be done in a park,” he said, grinning. “But if you want to keep taking photos, I’ll tag along.”
She snorted a laugh and squeezed his arm. “You are distracting,” she admitted before letting out a long sigh. “But you could make for a decent model.”