by Dianne Emley
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
For my husband,
Charles G. Emley, Jr.
Country walks in springtime…
A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
My heartfelt gratitude goes first to my brilliant editors and pals, Linda Marrow and Dana Isaacson. Thanks for your unwavering faith, never settling for less than my best, and demonstrating that an astute editor’s guiding hand in a writer’s career is not a relic of the distant past.
A great debt of thanks is owed to Gina Centrello and everyone on the Ballantine team, in particular Dan Mallory (fellow Highsmith fan), Kim Hovey, Cindy Murray, and Rachel Kind.
Huzzah to my wonderful agent and champion, Robin Rue, and everyone at Writer’s House, especially Diana Fox.
Though the people and events depicted in this book are fictitious—the handiwork of my imagination—I could not have written this story without the generous assistance of many law and order professionals. Any errors in police procedure or criminal law are solely the fault of this author.
Officer Donna Cayson of the Pasadena Police Department was particularly helpful, taking time from her busy schedule to answer my questions. Thanks also to the PPD officers who graciously allowed me to ride along on their patrols: John Buchholz, Mary Hooker, and Gil Ortiz. You’ve given me an eye-opening appreciation for the tough and skillful work required to hold that thin blue line.
I am indebted to the Davidson brothers: retired Police Captain Steve Davidson and retired Sheriff’s Office Lieutenant Herb Davidson for their assistance. Special acknowledgment to Steve Davidson for his abundant and invaluable advice concerning the methodology, personalities, and politics of the police world.
The Tucson Police Department’s Lieutenant Mark Napier and Lieutenant Mike Pryor were wonderfully hospitable in showing me their facility and answering questions.
Karla Kerlin, deputy district attorney, Los Angeles County, deserves hearty recognition for amiably answering scads of questions, usually posed by me in e-mails that naively began: “Here’s a quick one for you.” Thanks for giving me a crash course in Criminal Law 101.
On the other side of the legal fence, my appreciation to criminal defense attorney Dan Davis for his perspective.
Also of great help were my readers and amigas Jayne Anderson and Mary Goss. Your perceptive insight into plot quirks and ability to catch typos that everyone else missed saved my bacon. Cheers to my buddy Ann Escue for the psychologist’s insight. Chère amie Leslie Pape, for showing me the lesser-known corners of Tucson, je t’embrasse.
Last, but never least, thanks to my family, my constant supporters, who love me anyway. And of course, to my husband Charlie, my safety net, my love.
O N E
N O ONE KNEW HER HERE. NO ONE SHE KNEW WOULD SHOW UP AT THIS joint near LAX where the music was loud enough to muffle the roar of jets. There were usually no cops here. She could make a cop no matter how good the cover. She was an attractive female alone in a strip club but no one would bother her. Her uniform, gun, and badge repelled that sort of nonsense. A guy she figured for the manager asked if he could be of assistance. She said she was waiting for someone. She would only be there a couple of minutes. Thanks. He retreated to his stool at the bar and was giving her a dirty look. A police officer had a chilling effect on business. A female cop was especially vexing. Frankie Lynde enjoyed the power she had to disturb this tough guy and she kept on her game face, her take-no-prisoners face. It was fun. A prelude to the night of fun ahead.
It was midnight. She had finished her shift, letting the last guy she could have collared for solicitation go home with a warning because the arrest and the paperwork would have made her late. That was okay with her team. One was taking off the next morning for the Colorado River with his family. The others were just plain ready to resume their lives. The john was scared out of his wits anyway. He was a clean-cut family man kind of guy who probably had a job where people looked up to him. Frankie doubted he’d ever again seek action along that stretch of Sunset near Gower.
In the station locker room, she’d taken off the silver wig and leather miniskirt. She’d unzipped and peeled off the over-the-knee boots she’d bought at Frederick’s purple flagship store on Hollywood Boulevard. She didn’t have to go to such effort to costume herself. The other female undercover cops who posed as streetwalkers wore tight jeans and belly shirts, looking as if they could be waiting for their boyfriends to pick them up to go to the movies, like many whores working Sunset’s east end. For the whores, their sexy-but-regular-girl clothing bolstered their innocent excuses when cops questioned them about why they were loitering. “My car broke down over there.” “I had a fight with my boyfriend and he took off and I’m gonna see if he’s at his mom’s house over here. Around the corner. Up there.”
Frankie liked to dress like a hooker. She had a dozen wigs and outfits. She told the other vice detectives that by changing her look, the hookers and johns wouldn’t make her. She told about having picked up the same john three times, wearing three different wigs. There were rumors around the department that Frankie got into her role a little too much. She didn’t deny it. It was pointless, made her look weak, and gave the rumors credibility. Her numbers spoke louder than talk. Any night she was on the street, she made three times as many collars as the other female officers. She knew how to stand with her legs apart, moving her hips back and forth as if she had an itch.
She was tall and good-looking. Too good-looking to be standing on a street corner. If she were a hooker for real, she’d be a highly paid call girl, not a streetwalker. The johns never put that together. They saw. They wanted. They pulled over. When they started talking specific fees for specific favors, she’d lean toward their car to give them a glimpse of her cleavage and yank the hem of her skirt with both hands, the signal for her backup to move in for the arrest.
Bottom line, she roped them in, that’s all they needed to know at the station. They had no idea how much truth there was to the rumors. That was for Frankie to know and the others never to find out.
At home, she’d peeled off the metallic tube top that she had not removed in the locker room in front of the others. She didn’t want glances and whispers about what she was hiding there. She’d scrubbed off the heavy makeup and shampooed and blow-dried her long, blond hair. She’d pinned i
t into a tight bun at the back of her head and applied conservative makeup. She wasn’t conservative in her choice of earrings, selecting the diamond studs. He’d asked her to wear them. The large diamonds seemed to have inner life, radiating when touched by light. Most definitely not regulation.
She’d strapped on her Kevlar vest. One never knew. The last thing she needed was someone with a cop grudge taking a potshot at her. Finally, she’d put on her uniform, crisp and fresh from the dry cleaners. Flying the colors while not on police business was in violation of department policy. If caught, she’d be formally reprimanded and possibly suspended. It was worth the risk. She wasn’t going to get caught.
Even with the bust-flattening vest, hip-obscuring slacks, and waist-eliminating equipment belt, Frankie knew she still looked hot. It was common cop knowledge that if a female managed to look hot in uniform, she’d look three times as hot in street clothes.
“What’ll you have?” The bartender’s surgically enhanced breasts ballooned from her tight, low-cut top.
“Diet Coke.” That was part of the game. There would be plenty of drinks later.
From his seat at the end of the bar, the manager watched the bartender shoot cola into a glass from a nozzle.
Frankie set a five-dollar bill on the bar and turned to watch the stage, an oval set in an arena of chairs and small tables. Three women wearing only G-strings gyrated around poles, spinning, hanging upside down. Their enlarged boobs defied gravity. It was Friday night. The club was crowded with businessmen, guys with buddies, guys alone, and a few couples out to spice up their sex life.
Two men wearing dress shirts with the top buttons undone and no ties entered the club. They were loose and loud. They had started drinking somewhere else.
“Hey, hey…Lookie here. A po-leece woman. Howya doin’ lady cop?”
“Fine. How are you?”
“Never better,” reciting the mantra of the party guy.
The other one, unsteady on his feet, pointed at Frankie’s chest, nearly touching her. “You wearing a bulletproof vest?”
“Please step away, sir.”
“Oooh…Hey. Okay, officer, okay.” He held up his fists, wrists together. “Arrest me.”
That started them guffawing. The goofball closest to Frankie did not comply with her request. He looked like the kind of guy who took crap all week long. On the weekends, he got drunk and dished out some of his own. Some cop, some time, somewhere had done something to piss him off and now Frankie had to deal with the residue.
She gave him her dead-eye gaze.
“You’re kinda cute. I could maybe have a thing for a woman in uniform.”
In the blink of an eye, she pulled her nightstick from its ring on her equipment belt, flipped it by the handle, and assumed an aggressive stance. The polished cherrywood was an old-time weapon passed to Frankie from her father, who’d received it from his father. It did the trick. If party boy moved an inch closer, she’d shove the rod into the soft spot below his rib cage.
He made a motion as if to grab the nightstick.
“Sir, I asked you to step away.”
She kept her eyes on him as he tentatively backed off, reaching to slide his beer from the bar. Saying “Let’s beat it” to his buddy, he moved toward the stage. She heard him mutter “Bitch” under his breath.
Frankie resisted smiling as she picked up her Diet Coke.
Customers eyed her uncomfortably. The manager dropped a foot from the stool rung and was about to step off when a young, attractive woman darted into the club.
She stopped short when she saw the nearly nude dancers, even though the club’s giant sign, visible from the 105 freeway said “XXX Marks the Spot.” She let out a yelp of surprise as she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and whirled around. She spotted Officer Lynde.
“Oh, Officer, Officer. Help me, please.”
She ran to Lynde, wringing her hands.
Frankie stepped forward, her feet shoulder distance apart in a ready position. “What’s the problem, ma’am?”
The woman’s demeanor was as oddball as her appearance. She was wearing a masculine pantsuit, a white button-down shirt, a rep tie, polished wingtips, and a billed chauffeur’s cap. From beneath the cap, a platinum blond braid dropped to the middle of her back. White frosted lipstick set off a deep tan. Heart-shaped, red plastic sunglasses obscured her eyes.
“My boss was robbed. He was robbed,” she wailed in a high-pitched voice. “A man, with a gun.”
“Where?”
People turned their attention from the dancers to watch this show.
“Outside. In the parking lot. Please help us. Please.”
“When?”
“Just now. Come out. I’ll show you.”
“Is the man with the gun still there?” Frankie’s stoic demeanor cracked and she appeared bewildered.
“No, no. Just come out.” The chauffeur didn’t wait but bolted out the door.
Frankie jogged after her, quickly catching up. “My boss was robbed. What kind of crap is that, Pussycat?”
Still running, one hand holding her hat on her head, the other cradling her large breasts to keep them from bouncing, Pussycat let out a squeal. “Your acting stinks.”
“I thought we were meeting inside.”
“Change of plans.”
Pussycat’s voice was airy and her speech rapid.
Frankie couldn’t see her eyes behind the heart-shaped sunglasses. “How high are we?”
Pussycat gave her a big, open-mouthed grin. “I’m having a real good time.”
“Maybe a little over-amped, huh? You’d better check yourself.”
“Oh, Officer Lynde. You just can’t stop being a cop, can you?” She squealed as they approached a limousine that was parked in the farthest corner of the lot and laughed with abandon when the passenger door dropped open.
Panting from the run, Pussycat resumed the ruse. “He’s in there, Officer. My boss is in there.”
Frankie climbed into the back of the limo and the chauffeur, giggling, closed the door after her.
“Good evening, Officer Lynde.”
He was immaculate in a white tuxedo with tails, a red rose in his lapel.
His wife climbed behind the wheel and pulled the limo into the street. The entrance to the 105 was less than a block away. She got on heading east.
He took Frankie’s breath away. He always did, but tonight…Something was different tonight. Something was special. He had requested that she wear her uniform. The only other time she’d been with them in uniform was when they had first met.
John Lesley had walked into her life at the best and worst time for debauchery. She was in a moribund relationship, each waiting for the other to drive home a stake. She suspected her inamorato was covertly doing just that as she’d gotten wind that he was stepping out with someone else. This hurt and infuriated Frankie in equal measure. The SOB didn’t have the balls to end it like a man. Prick bastard. While at an endless luncheon banquet, she’d received a text message from him canceling their date. CNT 2DAY. L8TR. She sought solace in a cigarette outside.
John Lesley was seated at a table on the hotel patio, drinking a glass of beer and smoking a cigar. She took note of him, as she did everything. She took in his expensive suit and the way his physique filled it just right, his stylish dark hair flecked with gray, and his profile, like that of a matinee idol from the days of black-and-white movies. She kept moving to the garden wall that bordered the pool and hiked her hip onto it.
She took out a cigarette and he was beside her, gold lighter in hand. She guided his hand with the flame and their eyes locked. They stood silently, smoking. She saw he was not wearing a wedding ring.
She held out her cigarette and turned it in front of her face. “We’re a couple of outlaws.”
“These days.” Holding his beer, he raised it in a way that asked if she wanted one.
She declined.
He gave her a crooked smile and leisurely looked
her over, returning to her eyes. “No drinking on duty.”
“That’s the rule.”
“Do you always follow the rules?”
“When it works for me.”
“You know what they say about rules.”
She dragged on her cigarette. “I think I broke that one, too.”
Standing too close, he sipped the beer and watched her, openly and unapologetically, with no attempt to hide his thoughts. She read his thoughts. His gaze alone made her tingle. She had no trouble imagining what his hands, mouth, and body would do.
She took the beer from him and finished it all at once. She handed the empty glass back to him and licked her lips. Walking back inside, she felt his eyes on her.
She took her seat at the banquet table. Shortly, he came in and sat a few tables away, next to a pretty woman with long hair dyed an assertive shade of auburn. He and the woman chatted in that casually intimate but disinterested way of old friends or married couples. They both gazed at her across the tables that separated them. The woman twirled a strand of hair and Frankie caught the glint cast by her wedding rings.
After a further exchange of disagreeable text messages with her lover, Frankie pushed aside her dessert plate and excused herself. She was staring into the restroom mirror, lip gloss poised in her hand, when the woman with auburn hair entered. She toured the room, glancing beneath stalls, and returned to stand beside her. She wore a simple black dress and understated, real jewelry, but she somehow made the ensemble look provocative and a whiff trashy. The two women fussed with their hair, neither speaking.
A toilet flushed. A woman emerged from a stall and washed her hands. Soon Frankie and the redhead were alone. She stepped close enough to fill Frankie’s nostrils with an alluring mixture of delicate perfume and money. She came right to the point.
“I’m Pussycat. My husband and I like you. We want you to come with us. We’ll have caviar and champagne or cocaine or whatever the hell you want and we’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before.”
Frankie had heard of vice detectives who had become too close to the Job. When she’d first started working vice, the thought was outrageous to her. She’d planned to do her year or so then work on moving into homicide. Three years later, she was still in vice and had no intention of leaving. The Job had worked on her. Made her see things about herself. It was tough, trying to keep people from pursuing their basic urges, restraining their unhealthy impulses when she was having the same struggle herself.