* * *
Detective London Gold opened the closet door and took one last look at herself in the full-length mirror. Her long navy-blue blazer, heather-gray scoop-neck tee, charcoal slacks, and navy square-heel boots were the very definition of business casual. This was the big day. Everything had to be perfect.
She reached behind her neck and fastened a gold chain with a small cross pendant—the one her parents gave her for her first communion. Even though she hadn’t seen her parents in over a decade—their choice, not hers—she wore this necklace, faithfully, every day. Part of her was sad they weren’t here to celebrate with her. Someday, maybe they’d change their minds.
With eight years under her belt as a patrol officer, she’d finally been promoted to detective. The timing couldn’t be better. A spot had just opened up in Homicide.
Becoming a homicide detective had been her dream since she could remember. But she was even more excited about the opportunity to learn from Reid Sylver. The woman was legendary. Not a single homicide case that crossed her desk in the last thirteen and a half years had gone unsolved. Those statistics were simply unheard of.
Reid was confident, intelligent, beautiful, and—if London’s gaydar was functioning properly—gay.
London’s heart picked up speed at the thought of spending her first few months as a detective with this incredible woman. Rubbing the cross between her fingers, she shook her head and sighed. Don’t mess this one up, London. Keep your crush in check.
Chapter Two
Armed with her favorite travel mug, Red Sox ball cap, and the darkest pair of sunglasses she could find, Reid stepped off the elevator and made a beeline for her desk. The World’s Ugliest Dog followed at her heels. With any luck, no one would even notice they were there.
“Hey, guys,” Marino bellowed. “Look what the dog dragged in.”
“What’s with the sunglasses, Sylver? Tie one on last night?” Boggs winked.
“We can make these lights a little brighter if you want,” Garcia said, jumping on the bandwagon.
“Talk a lot louder, too,” O’Leary added at a volume that made her wince and wish she had earplugs.
“Fess up, boys.” Reid calmly set her mug on the desk, took a seat, and spun around in her swivel chair to face the barrage of comedic detectives. “You missed me.”
“Right.” Marino scowled. “Missed you like bad BO.”
“Yeah.” Boggs laughed and gave Marino a high five. “Missed you like a plumber’s ass crack.”
“Like a kick in the nuts,” Garcia pitched in.
Everyone looked at O’Leary and waited as he crossed his arms and stared at the floor in thought. Long seconds ticked by.
O’Leary finally looked up. “We missed you like a maggot-riddled cadaver on a hot summer day,” he said, beaming and clearly proud of himself.
No one said a word as they continued to stare at O’Leary.
“What?” O’Leary shrugged. “I’ve been taking that creative writing class, you guys. C’mon. That was the best one!”
Undoubtedly, word had spread that she’d found the captain’s body. She’d worked alongside these detectives for over a decade. Perverted as it was, this was their version of a warm welcome back. The more you were razzed, the higher their respect for you. She shook her head. Like it or not, this was the world she lived in.
Reid slid open her desk drawer and reached inside for a new tennis ball. Only five balls left. She made a mental note to replenish her stock soon. She picked up her trash can and held it under Mug’s chin.
He looked at her suspiciously.
“Don’t worry—I’ll give you a new one,” she assured him.
With a few more chews for good measure, he spit out the old ball and accepted the new one.
Boyle stepped out from the captain’s office. “Sylver, a word?”
What the hell was Boyle doing in there? She took a swig of coffee, stood, and made her way across the room.
With Mug at her side, she stepped inside the captain’s office. Boyle closed the door behind them. The smell of fresh paint slapped her in the face and made her hangover-induced nausea swell to seismic proportions. In stark contrast to the white walls that had yellowed with age, Cap’s office was now a distinguished and very masculine dark blue.
She looked around, stunned. Everything was different. New desk, new chairs, new leather couch, new cherrywood file cabinet. Even the wood floors looked different. She’d never seen them so…shiny.
The only two things that remained the same were the clock and Mug’s dog bed in the far corner of the room—Boyle’s way of saying that she and Mug belonged here. The realization hit her hard. She was thankful for the dark glasses as her vision clouded.
Boyle took a seat behind the desk as Reid reached forward to pick up the new nameplate: Lieutenant Adam Boyle.
He watched her as she studied it. “Cap hounded me for years to take the exam. I finally did”—he shrugged—“just to shut him up.”
Reid nodded but said nothing. She couldn’t bring herself to speak just yet.
“Listen, Sylver. I’m not claiming I can fill Cap’s shoes—”
“Good. Because you can’t.” She felt a surge of righteous anger.
He fell silent and studied her once again.
The concern in his expression pissed her off even more. “Jesus, Boyle. What’s done is done. So if you’re finished with this kumbaya shit”—she stood—“I have cases to solve.”
“I know what Cap asked you to do,” Boyle said gently. “He told me.”
Shocked into silence, she sat back down.
“That’s why I took the exam. Cap wanted me to step in for him, when the time came.”
Cap’s old walnut clock ticked in the resultant quiet. Curiosity got the best of her. “What else did he say?”
“Said you’re the best detective he ever knew. Made me swear I’d have your back, no matter what.”
“And?” she asked suspiciously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Made me promise to quit smoking. Said to tell you I’m taking his place for the morning workouts.”
She laughed. Like that would ever happen. Boyle had been smoking a pack a day for as long as she’d known him.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeve to show her the nicotine patch on his arm. “Oh, and I like oatmeal muffins just fine,” he added with a knowing smile.
Damn. She wasn’t even that crazy about Boyle. “Fine. Be here at six a.m. tomorrow.”
“He told me you’d try that. Schedule stays the same. See you at zero four thirty. Sharp.”
“But shift doesn’t start till seven.”
“Rules are rules, Sylver. I’m not about to go back on my word to a dead man.”
“Fine.” Damn you, Cap. “But don’t come crying to me if you keel over from a heart attack after the first lap.”
Boyle called Mug over, pointed to a stainless-steel dual-compartment trash can, and stomped on one of the pedals. The lid on the left side popped up, revealing a treasure trove of bright yellow tennis balls. “Anytime you need a new one, pal, you just come in here and help yourself.” He showed Mug how to step on the pedal with his paw. “And if you run out, there’s always a backup supply.” When Boyle stomped on the right-side pedal, the lid lifted to reveal an equally well-stocked compartment.
Prancing in place excitedly, Mug poked his head inside, plucked a tennis ball from the lot with his mouth, and hurried over to deposit it in Reid’s hand. He promptly returned to the trash can, stepped on the pedal like a pro, and reached in for seconds.
Six years ago, Boyle had taken an instant liking to Mug. If Reid hadn’t adopted him, she knew Boyle would have.
She and Boyle had been on their way back to the precinct, stopped at a red light at the corner of Mass Ave. and Melnea Cass. They’d watched from across the busy intersection as a heavyset man with a tattooed head and long beard poured gasoline over a puppy and set him on fire. They’d bolted fro
m the car—Boyle tackled the bastard to the ground while Reid worked frantically to douse the flames with the fire extinguisher she’d grabbed from the trunk.
When patrol officers arrived, they turned over the handcuffed perp and drove to Angell Animal Medical Center with lights and sirens the whole way. She and Boyle enlisted fellow detectives to take shifts at the hospital. From the time he was admitted, Mug was never without a BPD detective by his side. They held his paw as he whimpered in pain, spoke soothingly in the once-floppy ears that were burnt to nubs. That’s when Mug’s tennis ball obsession had started. He held the ball in his mouth like a pacifier. It stopped him from whimpering. It kept him calm.
Reid had had no intention of keeping Mug. She’d never even owned a dog before. Boyle—along with everyone else on the planet—wanted to adopt him. It was Mug who chose her. His bandaged tail thumped loudly against the sides of his metal crate whenever he heard her voice. He wouldn’t eat for anyone but Reid and wouldn’t allow anyone else to change his bandages.
She’d always wondered if Mug somehow sensed they’d been through something similar. As crazy as it sounded, she’d lay down her life for this dog. She knew he’d do the same for her.
Boyle pointed to the trash can. “I’ll keep the right side stocked,” he told her. “You take the left.” He grimaced as Mug deposited a slimy ball in his hand and went back for thirds. “You could probably feed a small country with all the money you’ve spent on these things.” He handed the ball to her and wiped his hands on his pants. “Figured the least I can do is share the expense.”
“Thanks,” Reid said, touched by the gesture. She stood, called Mug to her side, and turned to leave.
“One more thing, Sylver.”
“What?”
“Fundraiser’s this weekend.”
Every year around Thanksgiving, organizations representing Boston’s police and firefighters hosted a weekend-long softball tourney to raise money for Christmas gifts for homeless kids. She’d been pitching for Cap’s team for the last thirteen years. They’d never lost a single game. “I’m not playing this year,” she told him. It just wouldn’t feel right without the captain.
“Maybe this’ll change your mind.” Boyle yanked open a desk drawer, pulled out Cap’s old glove, and tossed it to her. “He left it in his locker.”
“So?”
“Turn it over.”
She did. In black marker, Cap had crossed out his name and added hers.
She felt the tears well up and spill down her cheeks against her will.
“Left this, too. Gave us each one.” Boyle stepped over and held up two navy-blue T-shirts. One had Boyle’s name and team number on the back. Team Captain was printed on the front breast pocket.
“Good for you. You deserve it,” she said sincerely, her cheeks still wet.
“Read yours.”
With her name and team number on the back, hers looked the same as always. She flipped it over and read the fine print on the left breast pocket: Co-Captain, aka Boyle’s muscle. Watch out, she’ll kick your ass if you don’t listen to Boyle.
Laughing through the tears, Reid finally removed her sunglasses.
Boyle grinned and slapped her on the back. “Practice is Wednesday. Same place and time.” He returned to the other side of his desk. “One more thing, Sylver.”
“You already said that.”
“Then…one more thing in addition to that other thing.”
She slid the well-worn leather glove over her hand, grateful to the captain for leaving it to her. “What?”
“You’ll call me Lieutenant from now on.”
“Fuck.” She wrapped the T-shirt around her neck and pretended to strangle herself. “You can’t be serious.”
“Dead. And I’m assigning you a trainee.”
“That’s not one more thing. It’s two.” If the new lieutenant couldn’t add, then they were in serious trouble. “Boyle, there’s no way in hell—”
“Lieutenant,” he said, a biting edge to his voice. He set his hands on his hips. She’d seen that look before. He meant business. “You’ll address me as Lieutenant from now on.”
“With all due respect, Lieutenant, I’m not cut out to be anyone’s babysitter.”
“Her name’s London Gold. She was just promoted to detective. Exemplary record. Solid cop. We’re lucky to have her. You’ll show her the ropes. Teach her everything you know.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I guess another spot just opened up in Homicide,” he said, unflinching. He threw a glance over her shoulder at the window facing the squad room. “She’s sitting at your desk. Go make nice.”
* * *
London watched as Detective Sylver stepped out from the lieutenant’s office and marched straight toward her. She stood from the wooden chair. “London Gold,” she said, extending her hand with a smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Detec—”
“Can you run in those things?” Reid made no move to return the handshake.
“Run?” she asked, frowning.
“Those things you call shoes.” Reid glared at her square-heeled leather boots. “Can you run in them?”
“Oh. I…” London followed her gaze. “I don’t know. What do you mean by run?”
Reid sighed impatiently. “Can you do three miles on a treadmill?”
She looked up. Reid was even more beautiful up close. Short black hair accentuated piercing, bright green eyes. Even in flats, Reid was taller by at least a few inches. She looked strong, fit, and in control. “Probably not.”
“Then why the hell would you wear those here today?”
“Are we running on a treadmill?” she asked, confused. “Because I have workout clothes in the locker room.”
Reid set her hands on her hips. “If I have to chase after a suspect, will you be able to keep up during a foot pursuit in those?” Without giving London a chance to respond, Reid extended her index finger. “Lesson number one on how to be a good detective: dress for the job.”
London glanced at Reid’s sweatshirt. I’m with ugly was written across the front. She raised an eyebrow. “I was told business casual was appropriate.”
“Sure, if you’re working IA. Did you want to work for IA? Maybe you’re in the wrong place.”
She met Reid’s green-eyed gaze. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. And I’m excited to work with you, Detective Sylver.” She picked up her leather briefcase—the one she’d splurged on when she got the call about the opening in Homicide. Her initials were monogramed on the side. “Give me a minute. I’ll go change into my sneakers.”
She headed off to the locker room, determined not to let Reid’s lack of enthusiasm diminish hers. Fellow officers had already warned her about the detective’s abrasive temperament, but London couldn’t be knocked off course. Her mission to be the best homicide detective she could be was already locked and loaded in her mind. The surest path to being the best was to learn from the best. She’d had a feeling this partnership would start out rocky. She was prepared to deal with whatever Reid dished out.
She tossed her boots into the locker, laced up her Adidas running shoes, and headed back to the squad room. Reid was nowhere to be found. The dog that went everywhere with her was also gone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the elevator doors slide shut. She watched as the indicator to the floor below lit up. Reid, it seemed, had used the shoes as an excuse to duck out and ditch her.
Without bothering to grab her coat, she headed to the stairwell and jogged down the four flights of stairs to the rear parking lot where detectives kept their unmarked vehicles. She already knew which vehicle was Reid’s. It was impossible to miss—the only black 1980 Camaro Z28 in the lot. London was already leaning against the car with her hands in the pockets of her blazer by the time Reid and the dog sauntered over.
Keys in hand, Reid looked up and sighed. “You again?”
“Me again.”
“Thought I left you upstairs.”
&n
bsp; “You did. But I’m fast in these.” She gestured to her running shoes. “If you were trying to lose me, you should’ve kept me in the boots and sent me on a bogus coffee run.”
Reid shook her head and sighed. “I’ll keep that in mind for tomorrow. Get in.” She opened the car door and pushed the passenger’s seat forward.
London stepped aside for the dog to jump in, but the dog merely sat beside Reid and looked up at her quizzically. Nobody moved. They all just stared at one another.
“You getting in or what?” Reid asked.
“In the back?”
“Where else? Front’s only big enough for two.”
Without argument, London climbed in and contorted her body to fit in the tiny space. Reid released the front seat, and it sprang back and pressed painfully against her knees. The dog jumped in and promptly turned to stare at her. Whatever it takes, she reminded herself.
Reid walked around the car, slipped behind the steering wheel, and started the engine. London was about to ask where they were headed when Reid turned on the radio, surfed some local rock stations, and finally settled on “Another One Bites the Dust.” She cranked the volume to high.
Not missing the irony of the moment, London rode in the back seat, silent. She only hoped her eardrums would still be intact when they reached their destination.
Chapter Three
Reid tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel to the beat of the music as she drove. She couldn’t believe the rookie had figured out her plan so quickly. Looked like this one was smarter than the average bear. She’d make a point to remember that moving forward.
London Gold. Maybe that’s why Boyle had insisted on torturing her with this rookie. Sylver and Gold. Wasn’t that just cute?
Who the hell named their kid London, anyway? Talk about a snobby, highfalutin name. Sounded like she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Reid glanced in the rearview mirror as London gazed out the window. Ramrod straight, silky blond hair was cut in a perfect bob. She was the epitome of the wholesome all-American girl next door—large brown eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and a petite nose with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge. Manicured nails. Obviously smart, professional, well-mannered. Reid thought back to the Italian leather boots and expensive monogrammed briefcase. The rookie had Ivy League written all over her. Classic overachiever. What the hell was she doing at the BPD?
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