Bex Wynter Box Set

by Elleby Harper

  “Afraid my NYPD experience will show up your lack of skills, Standing? Or do you have a problem with me because I’m a woman?”

  Quinn pressed his lips together in a thin, tight line as his nostrils flared with barely concealed irritation. “I’ll pit my skills against yours any day, Wynter. And I don’t have a beef with women. In general.”

  She took the last two words as a deliberate insult, but kept her tired, bloodshot eyes trained on him as she said, “Just as long as we women know our place, right?”

  “You said it, sweetheart.” He returned the quip without missing a beat, but the intensity of his stare belied the flippancy of his tone.

  “Well too bad for you that the place for this woman is above you on the food chain. So you’d better get used to that.”

  “Got you on the rebound, Quinn!” Reuben guffawed and she heard a ripple of uncomfortable chuckles from the others.

  Bex realized her temper hadn’t improved the situation, it had simply brought their warfare out into the open.

  She hung back as the four men crowded round the urn, spooning coffee and dangling tea bags into Styrofoam cups. There was some uneasy chatter between them about Andy Murray’s chances at Wimbledon and England’s prospects in the next Cricket Test series. Cricket meant nothing to her, but her father-in-law Neil was an avid tennis fan and she had picked up some knowledge of the grand slam circuit from him.

  She was sorely tempted to lob her own contribution into the conversation. You know, I wouldn’t write the Americans out of Wimbledon so quickly. I’ve heard Sam Querrey’s a dark horse who might be in with a chance. But that would look like she was spoiling for a fight, trying to antagonize Quinn unnecessarily.

  Instead she dallied by the counter, drowning her coffee in cream and sugar, stirring and re-stirring the muddy brown liquid. The smell barely passed the grade as coffee and she took a hesitant sip, unable to help screwing up her face as the liquid passed over her taste buds. Yep, going down it tasted even worse than it smelt.

  “What a bleeding bad cup of coffee.” Quinn looked as though he was ready to spit his mouthful out as he voiced Bex’s feelings. “Lousy cutbacks. The government’s pared the Met so far to the bone they can’t even afford decent coffee.”

  “If you don’t like the beverages provided, maybe you should get your barista wife to serve the coffee next time.” The words popped out of her mouth before she could censor her thoughts.

  Quinn turned slowly in his chair to look at her, his brow creased as if he was piecing together a complicated puzzle. Reuben paused with a cinnamon bun midway to his mouth while Idris and Eli averted their eyes in a very British way as if to avoid any further mortification on her part. Bex braced herself for Quinn’s retort.

  “If you’re talking about my barrister ex-wife, she’s the one getting flunkies to deliver her coffee after she comes out of court.” Quinn lowered a quizzical eyebrow and shook his head. The action struck her as both dismissive and disillusioned. “You’re doing a bang up job of proving my point,” he continued. “Face it. You don’t fit in here. What’s more, I’m betting your ineptitude is going to cost this team big time.”

  Without another word he thrust himself upright from the plastic seat at the tiny round table and flicked the contents of his cup into the sink before the white Styrofoam hit the garbage.

  “I’m going to check out the crash site.” He threw the words over his shoulder as he stormed out of the kitchen.

  Idris stood up as though jerked by a string. “I’ll head up to the third floor. Get started on that victimology for you.”

  Eli scraped his own chair backwards, following Idris, both of them exiting as silently and somberly as though leaving a funeral wake.

  Maybe they were. Maybe they had both been witnesses at the death of Bex Wynter’s attempts to pull Quinn into line and bind the five of them together as a team.

  Cramming the cinnamon bun into his mouth, Reuben flashed a grin at her. Tilting his chair back, he mumbled through a mouthful of sweet, sticky pastry, “Fireworks already. This new job is shaping up to be a shit load of fun.”

  Bex tried another sip of coffee, but, with a grimace, gave up and threw the swill into the sink, to follow Quinn’s brown trail down the drain. “I’ll make a note of your sadistic tendencies for future reference,” she said drily, before adding, “I still don’t get it. What did I say that broke up our happy party?”

  “I think what just happened is that you insulted hot-shot lawyer Isla Standing by calling her a coffee server.”

  “Didn’t you say she was a barista?”

  A guilty look washed over Reuben’s face. Bex’s stomach did a contorted flip flop that left her feeling tight-chested with anxiety.

  “I said she was a barrister. Bar-ris-ter,” he emphasized the “er” ending of the word. “You know, a lawyer who tries cases in court as opposed to a solicitor who hands out legal advice.”

  A cold wave crept up her spine. A sharp pain spiked above her right eye as the headache she had been staving off grabbed hold. She had never heard of the terms barrister and solicitor. “You mean she’s an attorney?”

  Reuben’s face cleared. “That’s right. I think we use different terminology here. Sorry, about that, I guess I’m going to have to be more careful in my choice of words.”

  Instead of making Quinn look like a dick and pull his head in, all she had done was make herself look like a dumbass in front of her team, lend credence to Quinn’s objections that she didn’t belong here and inflame his dislike of her. At least she thought it was dislike. Surely they didn’t know each other well enough for it to be hatred? She shivered, but that might just be too many espressos on top of her jetlag leaving her nerves jittery.

  Reuben’s skinny arm snaked around her to pluck another cinnamon bun from the platter and his next words helped her refocus her attention on the job. “So, based on Dresden’s intel, do you think we’re investigating a murder?”

  Bex fished in her bag for headache tablets, gulping two with a glass of water.

  “That’s what we’ve been tasked to gather evidence for, Reuben, to determine if there was pre-meditation.” She pushed herself away from the counter. “Let’s go. I need you to do some background checks on the Galliers and Evelyn Butterworth before we head out to interview them.”

  To hell with Quinn Standing, she had a job to do.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday, 5 July

  Bex was glad they’d given the rest of the team time to get ahead. A ride up in the elevator confined to their embarrassed and pitying company would have been too much to bear, she thought. They exited onto the third floor where a length of pristine white walls, the paint so fresh you could almost smell it, on one side and on the other glassed in offices like giant boxes encased in plastic wrap, stretched ahead to full-length windows offering a view of London.

  Over the heads of several groups, she spotted Eli and Idris seated side-by-side at one of the sparse white desks. It didn’t look like much of a space to run an investigation from, she worried. Reuben was already head-down over his phone when she happened to glance to her other side and caught a long-legged stride disappearing through a glassed door. It looked suspiciously like Quinn, but hadn’t he said he was heading to the crash scene?

  “Give me five minutes, Reuben. I just need to find a bathroom and freshen up. I’ll join you and the others back at the computers. Remember to call the Galliers to see if we can stop by later. And make sure we have a search warrant.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “We have witnesses claiming they saw Galliers’ aim his car directly at Clara Butterworth. It should be enough.”

  She scooted past circles of lime green easy chairs filled with clusters of uniformed officers, thinking she desperately needed to apologize to Quinn before matters slid further downhill between them. She ignored her reflection bouncing back from the glassed walls, slowing as she approached the door she had seen Quinn enter. Vertical blinds on the inside o
f the office shielded one side of the glassed space and she came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Quinn seated at Sophie Dresden’s desk. Quickly shuffling back a step, she hid out of their direct view, her heart picking up pace. What was Quinn doing in Dresden’s office?

  Someone passed by and she lowered her head to avoid eye contact, diving into her bag as though looking for her phone.

  “…your problem with DCI Wynter? The fact that she’s a woman or that she’s American?”

  “What I’m objecting to is that Wynter doesn’t know the first thing about British policing. It’s ridiculous to put her in charge of this team.”

  Quinn’s voice was raised enough to hear clearly. Dresden’s voice was softer. Bex brought the phone to her ear as though answering a call, and leaned her body casually against the glass.

  “You’ve made it obvious to everyone from the Chief Super down that you’re a vocal opponent of the Met’s new policy to instate overseas recruits into detective roles. But that’s no more ridiculous than recruiting civilians off the street to be detectives without any prior police experience, yet that’s what the Met is now doing. Standing, we have a staff crisis and the top brass want to explore a number of ways to alleviate the shortfall in detectives. Bringing on board experienced cops from overseas is one of those options. Get used to it. Wynter’s bound to bring some fresh ideas into the mix to shake things up.”

  “I repeat, she doesn’t know the law of the land. Her appointment is a disaster waiting to happen. She couldn’t even concentrate on the video footage you showed us earlier. Her eyes were darting around like she was high on aimies. Trying to amp up her performance no doubt. If I had to be transferred here I deserved the lead role on the team.”

  Bex chewed her bottom lip in fury as Quinn accused her of taking drugs. She fielded a curious stare from an officer seated at a round white table by fumbling with the shoulder strap on her bag, upending the contents. She dropped to her knees, scrabbling through the carpet pile, picking up one item at a time, giving herself an excuse to stay in the same spot. Morally, she should move on, but she couldn’t resist the temptation to uncover more about Quinn’s opinions of her.

  Dresden’s voice rose in exasperation. “Listen, Standing, this directive comes from the top down. If you have any complaints take them there. My only part in this is the role I had in interviewing Bex Wynter for the position. And I’m breaking protocol in revealing this to you, but frankly, she’s very highly qualified with both academic qualifications and street performance.

  “She graduated in the top five percent of her academy, she has a bachelor’s in criminal justice from St John’s University with a specialty in juvenile crime. She’s had two citations while in uniform and another citation after joining the detective ranks. She was on the fast track to being made up to lieutenant, so the Met could have done much worse.”

  Bex felt her cheeks blazing. Dresden was being flattering, probably trying to pour cold water over Quinn’s concerns. The truth was her position at the Met had leapfrogged her promotion several rungs out of her comfort zone.

  “Maybe you should take a leaf out of her book, Standing, because I can tell you that you don’t come highly recommended to this team. Your reputation for recklessness, lone wolf behavior and thumbing your nose at authority precede you. The only reason you weren’t demoted is that Chief Superintendent Titus put in a good word for you and got you transferred sideways to this new department. I’m telling you to pull your head in because I won’t be as understanding as Titus since I have no family ties with you.”

  “So, you’re telling me that no matter how hopeless she is, no matter how little confidence the team has in her, we just have to suck it up and live with it?” Over Quinn’s angry voice she heard a chair scrape back and, in a panic, shoveled her belongings haphazardly into her bag.

  “The proof’s in the pudding, Standing. Close the door on your way out.”

  Hastily lunging backwards, Bex managed to stumble out of sight through a door leading to the women’s bathroom. Her heart was pounding at her close escape while her blinking eyes were swamped by the bright colors of the stall doors and wall tiling. The cheerful décor failed to improve her mood. The overheard conversation confirmed that Quinn was going to be a handful to manage and probably damn near impossible to integrate into the team dynamics. Dresden’s description of him as a “lone wolf” suited him to a T.

  What about the others? Was he just mouthing off or was there some basis for his claim that the rest of the team had no confidence in her? Their images jumped into her mind. If Quinn was a wolf, then Idris was a sleek, black panther, while Eli looked like a surly bear awoken from hibernation and Reuben reminded her of a mischievous puppy dog. And she was the broken doll of the team.

  Leaning over the basin she took a good, hard look at the face in the mirror. It was a stranger’s. Her long, nordically fair mane, which Zane had so loved running his hands through, had been hacked off. It had been too poignant a reminder of him to keep. Now she simply swept it straight back from her forehead, tucked behind her ears to snuggle into the nape of her neck, revealing how gaunt her features had become.

  She looked like Zane’s death had sucked the life and love out of her. She wore no make up and her skin felt flakey after her Transatlantic flight and no shower. Despite being bloodshot, her eyes were still her best feature. They were an almost translucent silver, their grayness so glittery the color looked like burnished metal. But heartbreak and jet lag had gouged deep purple moons under them. She blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the waterworks now welling up.

  Damn it, Zane! Where are you when I need you the most?!

  Her tears were coming thick and fast so she pulled some wads of paper towel to bury her face into.

  “Overcoming jetlag, Wynter?”

  Startled, Bex swung her bleary red eyes round to Sophie Dresden. She drew in a shaky breath, blew her nose and sniffed back the last of her tears. Had Dresden seen her eavesdropping outside her office?

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bex kept her answer succinct, her attention alert to any clues.

  “Well, I hope you find your feet quickly, Wynter.” Dresden’s voice was soothingly soft, like being smothered in down feathers. A tiny hope fired in Bex that perhaps Dresden, being another woman, was going to be a kindred spirit. Neither of them liked Quinn Standing, so that could be a common bond between them.

  “Youth Crimes is a fledgling unit that can’t afford to stuff up this case. All eyes will be on your team’s performance, especially since Standing was right: Viscount Dunreath has links to the top brass and those boys stick together like glue. I don’t want your first case to turn into the unit’s last case. PR have arranged a press conference tomorrow at four. Make sure I have something concrete to feed to the piranhas before they start feeding on us.”

  She reached out to tap Bex lightly on the shoulder, her nails immaculately French manicured. “One piece of advice, Wynter. You don’t have to cram your nationality down everyone’s throats as blatantly as wearing that T-shirt.”

  Bex glanced down at her chest. Despite buttoning her jacket the letter Y was perfectly visible between the V formed by the jacket lapels, with parts of the N and C noticeable enough to be recognized. NYC loud and clear.

  She swallowed her protests and excuses about having no time and no access to luggage. Perhaps I should have discarded the T-shirt altogether and simply bared my cleavage instead, since the language of tits was surely international? She repressed the cheeky remark, not sure if Dresden would appreciate her humor. Besides, this might be her boss’s idea of bonding.

  Dresden’s hand gave her shoulder a strong squeeze and then released her. Her attitude reminded Bex of Zane’s funeral director, a professional blend of sympathy topped with compassion. “Don’t let the boys get you down. Make sure you pull yourself together and finalize the investigation to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bex made her voice strong and decisive, but inside she wondered
if she’d bitten off more than she could handle.

  Chapter 9

  Wednesday 5 July

  Quinn listened to a replay of Andy Murray’s Wimbledon match against Dustin Brown as he made his way to Richmond Bridge. Andy Murray had played flawlessly to advance to the next round. Quinn wished his own performance in Dresden’s office had gone that well. Instead, his pride was still smarting from her harsh appraisal of his policing tactics. She had barely raised her voice as she cut him down like an unsatisfactory probationer.

  He knew he would have shaken off Dresden’s castigation easily if his emotions hadn’t still been boiling over from his chance meeting with Isla. She had simply held up her hand against his chest to enthrall him as no one else could. Her fingertips had burned through his T-shirt, as though sinking through his skin to grip and squeeze his heart. How the hell was she still able to do that?!

  She had wanted to know when he was going to collect the last of his things from her flat. Her flat. The bitter thought slammed into his mind that those two words pretty much summed up the two years of their marriage. They had their own individual homes while they were dating, but Quinn wanted them to start their new life together in a home they bought jointly.

  Isla had pretended to consider his suggestion, but in the end had been adamant that it made more sense for him to move into her place. It was newer. It was close to her work. And it was big enough for both of them. It had simply never become their place. Especially when he discovered that her father was still paying the mortgage. Twelve months into their marriage, that news had initiated an unending stalemate between them that eventually spiraled into the long, slow decline of their separation.

  The kicker was her last remark as they parted ways in the New Scotland Yard foyer.

  “Quinn, I’d really like it if we could stay friends.”

  That from a woman whose grace, beauty and sex appeal was known to bring a courtroom full of felons to salivating silence.