Fallen Dom

by Lexxi James

  Delaney’s kind grin did a piss-poor job of concealing his concern.

  She laughed, waving off his worry. “I’ll just have a nice goose egg for a few days. Nothing a little good old-fashioned aspirin or two can’t cure.”

  “Are you comfortable staying here tonight?”

  Disappointed, she looked around at the work ahead of her. It would take more than a few minutes to get everything back in place. First thing tomorrow.

  “I’ll hunker down. Looks like they got everything they came for. And if they wanted to hurt me more than they did, I’d be on the eleven o’clock news. Besides, several neighbors saw your festive red lights and have offered to help with whatever I need.”

  Delaney pulled out his card and handed it to her. “Here. My direct cell’s on it. Call me anytime, day or night.”

  Noticing the bright gold band on his ring finger, she asked, “Doesn’t your wife mind when random strangers call you at all hours?”

  “Nah. She’s a lawyer with the DA’s office in Colorado Springs. She knows the drill, and the reason I’m here. Your company’s a long-time consultant to them. I guess your boss is worried.” When Kathryn gave him a defiant teenage eye-roll, he said, “Let me do one more check to secure all your windows, and then we’ll head out.”

  She rubbed an especially stiff knot in her neck. “Thank you,” she said, grateful but ready for some peace and quiet.

  After all the drama of a bizarre, stressful day, she bypassed the shower after Delaney and his team left and spent half an hour soaking in the tub. With her cabernet long gone and the delicate weight of slumber tugging at her eyelids, she got out. Her skin was a nice pink, holding the heat of the water.

  Curious, she glanced in the mirror, twisting to get a better view of the slap marks on her butt. Her eyes gleamed as she admired the red hue of her new friend’s handprints burning across it.

  She measured her own hand against the outline.

  Well, if foot size and butt stamps are any indication, this guy will be a hell of a lot more than a handful.

  Nine

  Early the next morning, Kathryn tackled the catastrophe of a crime scene. Coffee in hand, she put everything away bit by bit, hiding all evidence of the botched break-in. Looking around, she couldn’t shake it. Something felt wrong.

  Her gaze lingered on the desk that seemed bare without her laptop. She knew the insurable value of it far exceeded the street value, which would be $200, tops.

  Her puzzled gaze swept back and forth across the room. If the culprit’s loot was limited to an inexpensive laptop and a few business cards, something was off. She bit her lip, grabbing her purse to reinspect it. In order to grab the business cards, they’d have to ignore the credit cards and the stack of twenties neatly tucked in her wallet.

  “At least they left my souvenir.” She pulled the kitten-tamer note to her chest, then slipped it back behind the twenties.

  It was a lot of cash to carry around, especially for Kathryn. In her defense, she hadn’t planned to return home with it. Not wanting to be rude or make assumptions, she’d made a hasty stop at the ATM before meeting Paco that night. He’d assured her all expenses were covered, but she wasn’t sure if that included all his friend’s . . . services.

  Innocently, she’d asked her mystery man if a situation like this required a tip. He’d refused with a charmed laugh, caressing her cheek and taking nothing more than one last kiss. “Good night, Kathryn,” was all he said before heading out.

  She licked her lips, his taste still fresh in her mind. Her fingers brushed her lower lip, then pressed against her temples to relieve her head. The intrusive throbbing was getting worse. Another couple of aspirin would be great, but would have to wait for whoever was knocking at her door.

  The delivery man handed her a box that was the perfect size for a new laptop, but couldn’t be—it was way too light. It required a signature, and she recognized the return address as Excelsior/Centurion, a long-term client of Wolff Investigations.

  Intrigued, she closed the door and lightly shook the box, hearing only the slightest rustle.

  After tearing open the box, she laughed out loud. Delighted, she pulled out the Four Seasons bathrobe and hugged the plush, pristine terrycloth. Swinging the slice of heaven around her, she could almost forget the headache nagging for attention. But almost wasn’t good enough.

  At least they didn’t steal my coffee.

  After downing a couple of generic pain relievers, she took her coffee with her to the balcony to wait for the meds to kick in. A gust of brisk air hit her as she stepped outside. She swaddled herself tighter in the plush bathrobe and tugged the collar to her nose, breathing in memories of the night before. As she took a seat in her all-year wicker patio lounger, the chill swept away her grogginess. Her alertness and focus returned.

  Methodically, she studied the balcony.

  It presented one hell of a jump to access, as it hung one-and-a-half stories over the garage. From every angle, she couldn’t figure out how anyone could know that the balcony’s sliding door was unlocked. The nighttime below-freezing lows kept all her windows shut.

  Lucky guess?

  Even so, rolling the dice in the hopes it would be unlocked was a crazy gamble for a burglar.

  And why?

  There were a dozen other condos in her building, practically gift wrapped as easy marks. She peered over the railing. Two condos down, one neighbor opted for the carefree Colorado life, hardly ever bothering to close their garage door. It remained open around the clock.

  Plus, the back alleyway always had someone coming and going, leaving their home or returning to it. A parked car might not have drawn suspicion, per se, but would have fired up a busybody or two on the condo association. Hell, half of her immediate neighbors were on the board. Nothing filled their lives like hanging out with family, potlucks, and waving the hundred-page association rule book in a neighbor’s face.

  Friendly reminders, my ass.

  So, the perpetrator or perpetrators had to have walked, which would be inconvenient for a hasty escape. And piled on the risk.

  Kathryn thought for a second. This wasn’t a random or impulsive act. It was specific. Deliberate. And targeted.

  On me.

  A sudden dizzy spell forced her to ease back into the chair and close her eyes. Petting the expensive plush sleeves covering her arms, she quietly mumbled to herself, “They went to an awful lot of trouble. They’re looking for something, maybe related to a case. If I had my laptop—”

  A series of loud knocks at her front door snapped her from her thoughts.

  Perfect timing.

  Slowly, she stood, careful at first. Confident she could pick up the pace, she quickened her steps.

  The knocking broke through again.

  “Coming,” she shouted. The computer would require her signature, and a delivery person would only wait so long.

  She gazed through the peephole, pleasantly surprised to see the man holding the package. Opening the door wide, she said, “Detective Delaney. Moonlighting with Best Buy?” She smiled as he handed the plain brown box to her. “Come in.”

  “Thanks.” He entered as she tore open the cardboard and worked her way through the Styrofoam padding to unwrap the computer and power cord. “I went ahead and signed for it.”

  Amused, she teased him. “Wow, they let just anyone sign.”

  “Almost anyone. This helps.” He grinned as he flashed his badge. “And Tony delivers for us too. Listen, we seem to have a break in your case.”

  She plugged in the laptop, pausing when she spotted his frown. “Then why do you sound less than thrilled?”

  He scratched his head, and a strange uncertainty transformed to a low scowl. “One of the fingerprints turned up in our database. I’m not sure how to say this . . . but I know the guy. Well. Really well. He’s a volunteer emergency medical technician—”

  “An EMT?”

  Delaney nodded. “I’ve worked with him for years. Not th
at any of that would make an impact on the case. It’s just . . .”

  Hesitation shadowed his expression, and that bothered her.

  The laptop forgotten for the moment, Kathryn made herself comfortable on the sofa while the detective took his choice of comfy chairs. “It’s just what?”

  Wringing his hands, he shook his head. “He says he’s innocent.”

  “Standard answer,” she said, knowing the detective probably heard that on a regular basis.

  “And he needs to see you to prove it.”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s different. He wants to convince me?”

  Shrugging, Delaney continued. “Look, I’m going out on a limb here—big time—but if there’s a chance he didn’t do it, I’d hate to keep him locked up. And, to the great disappointment of my wife, I’d bet my house he’s innocent. But he won’t talk to me, and he’s always talked to me. He says it has to be you.”

  Contemplating the bizarre request, she looked away.

  “I know how it sounds. And all I’ve got is a hunch. How about this?” Delaney said. “I can drive you to the precinct, and you can check him out from behind a two-way mirror, then decide if you want to speak with him or not. Nobody will tell him you’re there. And if you do decide to speak with him, I can accompany you. Afterward, no matter how it goes, I’ll bring you back.”

  Kathryn couldn’t put her finger on why, but she trusted Detective Delaney’s judgment.

  Nursing had taught her the finer points of peeling back onions. Symptoms were never the biggest threat—the underlying cause was. It took discipline, diligence, skill, and sometimes a little something most people chalked up to as luck. But she thought of it as something else.

  After three years of investigating insurance fraud, she’d honed her skills even more. When it came to working a case, she trusted her intuition.

  Sniffing out the truth became her superpower, like a bloodhound catching whiff of prime rib. But sometimes, at the end of the day, she’d be left with a shit-ton of nothing more than her gut feelings, and trusting her instincts always paid off.

  She looked at Detective Delaney. Here sat a man betting the bank on a hunch because he’d been right case after case. And at the end of the day, a gut feeling was good enough for her.

  “No,” she said, “I can drive myself and meet you there. The last thing I want to do is incarcerate an innocent man. And I’m as curious as you are as to why he’d want to see me.”

  Through the glass of the two-way mirror, the man handcuffed to the hard, steel table was, well . . .

  Gorgeous.

  In worn-in jeans and a black T-shirt that molded across him too perfectly for words, he sat. Patiently waiting, casually almost, as if he were on a park bench enjoying the day. His impressive good looks and the tousled waves of his hair gave him an easygoing air. Natural.

  “Wow,” she said softly.

  “What?” Delaney gave her a curious look, and the quick small shake of her head satisfied him.

  She couldn’t see the entire tattoo peeking out from beneath the man’s sleeve, but its significance was clear. Memorial ink. A silent tribute to fallen soldiers close to one’s heart.

  “Do you know him?” Delaney asked.

  Turning, she met the hopeful eyes of a detective who looked like he’d gone weeks without sleep. She turned her attention back to the man awaiting her verdict. “I’m not sure. I need another minute.”

  Her stall tactic was just a ruse. She had nothing. But taking her time was deliberate, and she didn’t want to make a hasty decision. After all, he might need to leave here for his underwear shoot with Calvin Klein. The public outcry would be too much. She had to be sure.

  But at this angle, he didn’t look familiar. She’d interviewed dozens of people for several ongoing cases. Maybe he was one of them.

  After a few minutes, her staring started to feel invasive. Here was a man worried about going to jail, and all she did was ogle him. About to shake her head in defeat, she paused when something on his neck caught her eye.

  The scar was long and smooth. Far from a run-of-the-mill flesh wound, it streaked up across the muscle of his neck.

  As if he could feel the heat of her stare, the man rubbed it. From its closeness to the jugular vein, whatever had injured him had come way too close for comfort. Evidence that something had been within an inch of taking this man’s life.

  Needing to be sure, she nearly knocked her head into the glass as she stared harder.

  I know that scar.

  It came from a bullet . . .

  And me.

  Scars are a snapshot in time, but don’t always come from just one source. This one might have been born of a rogue bullet but was sealed by medical stitching, and she’d been his seamstress.

  Closing her eyes, she remembered her patient’s body, certain that this man’s shirt concealed four more wounds scattered across his torso. Badges of bravery branded on his skin from his last-ditch attempt to save others . . . and a lifelong testament to what he’d survived.

  He turned toward the mirror. Startled, she grabbed her mouth, failing to hold back a gasp.

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I know him.” Turning to the detective, she asked, “Can I speak with him?”

  Delaney’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be watching you from here. He’s secure; just stay on your side of the table.” He nodded toward the door. “Through there.”

  The interrogation room was clean and uncluttered, but cold with hard lines and a bleak gray tone. A little intimidated, she stayed near the door. As it shut, she spoke slowly.

  “I know you, don’t I?”

  The man nodded, half standing in an odd gentlemanly manner for someone shackled to a table. She took the metal chair opposite him. When she pulled it out, the legs screeched against the floor.

  Cringing, she planted her butt quickly on it, then blurted out, “Next time, I’ll ask for wheeled chairs.”

  “Leather and reclining, if you’re taking requests,” he said.

  She swallowed, trying to peel her gaze from him.

  God, you’re good looking. Please be innocent, she thought, then reconsidered. Okay, “innocent” isn’t exactly the right word.

  “Your neck.” She pointed to below his left ear, and he tilted his head to give her a better look. “You got that scar during a mission where you nearly died. Or technically, did die before you were resuscitated. You’re Sergeant First Class Russo, aren’t you?”

  He nodded again. “Jake,” he said, inviting her to a more casual conversation.

  Choked up, she reined in her tears. “I can’t believe I’m seeing you in the flesh. Right in front of me. You look . . . amazing.”

  As she relaxed, wiping her eyes and now laughing at her own forward comment, he chuckled.

  “I mean, oh . . . you know what I mean. The last time I saw you, you—” She stopped herself, swallowing her grim words. Relieved, she smiled. “And here you are. Good as new. Better, even.”

  Without thinking, she leaned closer and her hands nearly touched his, but froze at a tapping on the glass. Kathryn turned, catching a glimpse of herself and Jake in the mirror, and she yanked her hands back.

  Clearing her throat, she asked, “But why did you break into my place? If you need money—”

  Jake sighed out a laugh, giving her a good look at his mesmerizing hazel eyes. “I’m good on cash, but I appreciate the gesture. And I didn’t break into your place. I have an alibi.”

  “But they have your fingerprints,” she said, her worry bleeding through.

  He nodded, conceding the unfortunate discovery. “Yes. Yes, they do. And there’s a reason.”

  Jake clasped his cuffed hands, and she waited.

  Whatever he was struggling to say was taking forever. With a gentle voice, she spoke. “Look, I promise we can work it out. I won’t press charges, and I’ll make sure my company doesn’t. I’d really like to help. If you’ll let me.”

  “Kathryn . . .�
�

  His voice sent a shiver through her. She couldn’t escape whatever was happening between them. His eyes seemed darker than a second ago.

  God, what I wouldn’t do for you, she thought, just as he spoke again.

  “You’re my alibi.”

  Okay, I might draw the line at lying to the cops.

  “Me?” She leaned toward him. “Hey, I really . . . really want to help you out, but,” she whispered closer, “I can’t tell them that. Even if I wanted to cover for you, I wasn’t anywhere near here. Before I got to my apartment, I was halfway across town in a public place. People saw me . . . alone.”

  Well, at least that’s what people saw.

  “Maybe you’ll think it’s less of a leap when I tell you where I was.” He steepled his fingers straight at her, and with a squint and a smirk, he repeated her words. “Halfway across town . . . public place . . . people saw me.”

  Confused, she stared at him. The echo of her own words wasn’t exactly helping.

  He finally said softly, “Taming a kitten.”

  Her squinted eyes flew open wide. “Oh my God,” she blurted, jumping to her feet.

  She darted to the mirror, giving it a few swift knocks.

  “He’s innocent. It wasn’t him. I can vouch for him. I—” She turned to Jake, her face scorching from the roaring heat of an unforgiving blush. “I’m so sorry. I—oh my God, and I—and you—”

  She spun around as Detective Delaney entered the room.

  Once the cuffs were removed, Jake rubbed his wrists. He towered over her with a meaningful stare that held her still. She dropped her gaze, desperate not to die right there on the spot of suffocating embarrassment.

  Delaney shook Jake’s hand. “Well, glad this all worked out. But I didn’t catch everything you said. What’s the alibi?” The detective’s inquisitive glance bounced between the two.

  Kathryn jumped in. “He was on a . . . uh . . . blind date. He was the blind date. That I’d set up. Through a friend.”