Another reason he despised her and her friend Sinclair was their money. Jerry had grown up the hard way, having to struggle for everything he ever had. After two marriages and two nasty divorces leaving him paying a fair share of his salary in alimony and child support, he was still struggling to make ends meet. When he got to talking to Devereaux one night at the bar, Frank had let him in on his little money-making scheme. Devereaux figured that having someone in IA involved made it virtually impossible to get investigated without some forewarning. Neither of them had figured on Midnight Chevalier or that she did things her own way, using people she trusted.
Devereaux, McCaffery, and Gaston were meeting to discuss what to do. McCaffery arrived first, giving Frank the whole story on what little he’d been able to find out.
“She’s got that brother of Sinclair’s on it, and that little tease that used to work for Sinclair, the one that wants to be a cop,” McCaffery said with a sneer. He’d had any number of fantasies about Jeanie Franco, but of course she’d never even given him a second look. At forty-five he wasn’t much to look at, with brown curly hair that always looked like it needed cutting and ordinary brown eyes, the rest of him as nondescript as the suits he wore. Sure, she’d always smiled at him and been nice when he’d requested reports from Sinclair’s files, but that was all. He’d never been fool enough to make a pass at her, knowing that Sinclair had a soft spot for her. Yeah, McCaffery had always thought crudely, he’s probably fucking her too. McCaffery, like Devereaux, was sure Midnight and Sinclair were still an item, and that Sinclair screwed every woman he came into contact with. Why else would they all defend him tooth and nail whenever a word was said against him?
McCaffery had had to deal with Jessica Ako again that day. She’d been working with Internal Affairs in an effort to gain experience for her sergeant’s exam. McCaffery knew better than to mess with that one either way; he’d had one run-in with her husband, nicknamed Tiny. The huge Samoan had been displeased about a sexual comment he’d inadvertently made to Jessica on their first meeting, something pertaining to her being a “natural redhead.” She’d mentioned it to her husband. Tiny had cornered Jerry in the parking lot one night after work, shoving him against his car and staring down at him, every inch of him the gang member he had once been.
“You made a comment to Jessica Ako today,” Tiny had rumbled. “You make a comment like that to her again and I’ll hand you your lungs. You got that?”
Jerry had stared up at the big man, terrified. He had never been a very brave cop, but in the face of such naked fury he had merely nodded meekly, praying the big guy wouldn’t decide to remove a less necessary but still painful-to-remove body part.
“Yeah?” Devereaux was saying irritably. “Well, watch the rest of ’em. You know she’s got that damned gang of hers willing to lay down and die for her…” He trailed off as he thought of his own run-ins with members of FORS, when he’d made the mistake of voicing too loudly his dislike of Chief Chevalier. A particularly nasty-looking Laotian and an equally dangerous-looking white guy named Dibbins had backed him into an interview room minutes later when no one was looking.
“You got a problem with the chief?” Spider Nguyen had said, his eyes narrowed.
“Yeah,” Dibbins put in, leaning far too casually against the door, “’cause we kinda like her.”
“And we’re not real fond of assholes like you mouthin’ off about her,” Spider said, looking like the gang member he’d been years before.
“Everybody’s gotta like someone, now don’t they?” Devereaux said, his bravado strong.
“Yeah, well there’s a little sayin’ we like,” Dibbins said. “Opinions are like assholes—everyone’s got one.”
“And if you don’t want yours jacked up, you better watch your step where Midnight’s concerned,” Spider said very seriously.
Devereaux hadn’t replied to that, not willing to push his luck. After a long, threat-laden pause, Dibbins had pushed away from the door to the interview room, gesturing in an exaggeratedly polite manner for Devereaux to proceed him. After a moment’s hesitation he had, watching his back the entire time. He’d avoided vice for a while after that.
“So Curtis is working with her. Well, that figures,” Devereaux said, clearly annoyed. “Hell, considering who his sister is, he’s probably dirtier than we are.” He laughed.
“Yeah, maybe we should bring him in,” Jerry said, laughing too. “That’d really piss Chevalier off, if one of her own fucked her over.”
“Yeah.” Devereaux shook his head. “But it’s too risky—you never know, that good-cop bullshit might be real.”
“Don’t count on it, his ass was almost up on charges.”
“For what?” Frank asked, always interested when the “best and brightest” got into trouble.
“For punching David Jones out at 10-7,” Jerry said, having read the file just that morning.
“No shit?” Devereaux said.
“Yeah, but of course he got off. Ain’t nothin’ Chevalier won’t whitewash for Sinclair, ya know,” Jerry said, conveniently forgetting that it was Chevalier and Sinclair that had initiated the investigation into the incident.
Rico Gaston arrived a few minutes later, shadowed as ever by his bodyguard. He wore a black suit with a deep-purple banded-collar shirt, and too much gold. He stood at a mere five foot seven inches, so wore high-heeled leather boots to appear taller. He sat at the booth, looking disgusted by his surroundings. “We could have met somewhere decent,” he said, his nose twitching.
“Look, we don’t got time to go runnin’ down to the marina to your daddy’s yacht every time somethin’ comes up, okay?” Devereaux said, getting tired of the Puerto Rican’s superior attitude.
“So what is it now?” Rico asked.
“Well, there’s a potential problem,” Jerry said, still intimidated by Gaston; he’d seen one too many episodes of Miami Vice.
“Chevalier’s runnin’ some sort of investigation,” Devereaux said.
“Well, why don’t you know what sort of investigation?” Gaston asked. “I thought you were cops? The best… right?” His tone indicated he thought anything but.
“Yeah, well normally Jerry would, since he’s IA,” Devereaux said. “But she’s not runnin’ it through IA, which is not normal.”
Gaston nodded. “How close do you think she is?”
“Nowhere near,” Devereaux said. “I think she’s just fishing at this point.”
“Good.” Gaston narrowed his eyes as he thought about what to do. “I think we should send Chief Chevalier a message, don’t you? Maybe if she thinks this investigation might be detrimental to the health of someone close to her, she might just quit while she’s ahead.”
“What kind of message?” Devereaux asked, looking cynical. “You don’t know this broad—she’s like a fucking pit bull when she wants to be. It’d have to be a pretty serious message.”
Gaston looked back at the veteran cop calmly, his almost-black eyes indicating no emotion. “So make it a serious message.”
Devereaux looked back at the man for a long moment, then nodded, sure he knew what the Puerto Rican meant. He and Jerry McCaffery left a few minutes later.
Christian and Susan’s second time together in a car wasn’t quite as adversarial as the first. Christian wasn’t feeling well, having caught a cold from someone at the department. It had been a month since he’d come to America, and he was finally feeling more acclimated. He’d gone out a number of times, as usual attracting extreme amounts of attention, including from men who were irritated that he received the attention from all the women in the club. He’d gotten into a few fights, easily able to hold his own. Randy had been appalled when he’d come home very early in a morning looking worn out, with a cut or a bruise. Joe laughed, reminded of his mother years before. He shook his head at Christian as the younger man looked to his cousin for assistance.
“You’re on your own, man,” Joe would say, still grinning.
Randy had proceeded to make sure he cleaned the cut or went off to bed after having eaten something. She had turned into quite the mother since the children had been born. Even though Christian was only seven years younger than her, she still felt the need to watch over him.
Now, Christian was driving Susan to the store to pick up some items that were needed at the house. Randy had a paper to write and Joe was still working on paperwork from the hiring process he was conducting, so Susan had decided to help out, and since she still didn’t have a driver’s license she had found it necessary to ask Christian to take her. Sitting in the car next to him, she waited tensely for the comments to start. They didn’t come. After a long while she realized something was amiss. The stereo was low, and he was quiet. He did sing when a song he liked came on; she noted that he had a very nice singing voice. One song in particular caught her attention. Especially disconcerting were the words; they were of a direct sexual nature, and considering the conversation they’d had the last time they were alone together, she couldn’t help thinking about those words. It made her wonder who he was thinking of as he sang along. It was a song by Meredith Brooks called “What Would Happen?”
When it ended, Christian glanced over at her and noticed she was watching him. He caught her look and widened his eyes slightly, as if asking, “What were you thinking about?” But he said nothing. They pulled into the store parking lot and Christian opted to stay in the car. When Susan returned she was surprised to find him asleep. She touched his shoulder gently, whispering his name to wake him. He was slow in responding, and she began to suspect that he was indeed feeling sick. On the drive home she watched him. At one point she reached over, touching his cheek gently.
“Christian, you’re burning up. You shouldn’t be out,” she said, her voice that of a mother’s.
“Too late,” he said drily.
When they arrived back at the house, he went to his room, which was in the old carriage house at the edge of Joe and Randy’s property. The building had been used by the previous owner for his butler’s quarters. After the first week at the house, Christian had talked to Joe about moving out to the separate building. He had explained that he was used to living alone and that suddenly being with so many people was a little too close for him. Joe had understood completely, offering to help him clear out the carriage house. The two men had spent a weekend dragging out old furniture and boxes and tidying up in general. It had been hard work, but it had also been good bonding time for the two men.
Christian lay on his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. He’d taken the time to kick off his boots and pull off his sweatshirt. He hadn’t bothered to remove his jeans; he just didn’t have the energy. He was almost asleep when he heard a soft knock on his door.
“Come,” he said, his voice gravelly.
The door opened and Susan stepped inside. “Christian,” she said hesitantly. “I brought you something to take for your cold.” She walked over to the side of the bed, holding her hand out. She held two green gel caps.
“What’s that?” he asked, regarding her hand but making no move to take the pills.
“It’s Nyquil. It’ll help you sleep.”
“I don’t need help sleepin’,” he said, curling his lips in wry grin. “I need help breathin’ and keepin’ my head from exploding.”
“This will help,” Susan said solicitously.
Christian looked at her for a long moment, narrowing his light blue eyes as if indicating that she was getting on his nerves. “Fine,” he said finally, getting up. He took the pills and went to a cabinet at the far side of the room. He reached inside and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. Popping the pills into his mouth, he washed them down with a long drink from the bottle as Susan looked on aghast.
“Christian!”
“What?” he said, taking another drink from the bottle then replacing it in the cabinet.
“You’re not supposed to take medication with alcohol. It’s dangerous.”
Christian rolled his eyes as he moved past her, throwing himself on the bed. He looked back at her cynically.
“You don’t believe me?” she asked, disbelieving.
“Not really.”
“Christian Collins,” she said, placing her hands on her hips and sounding very much like his mother. “It is a clinical fact that alcohol and medication can cause a myriad of traumatic stresses on your circulatory system.”
Christian was laughing by the time she was through with her tirade. “Good God, I guess I really am walking on the wild side, aren’t I?” He widened his eyes dramatically.
“Christian…”
“Susan, I’ll be fine.” He rolled to his side and glanced up at her. “Thanks for the medicine.” He closed his eyes then, as if dismissing her.
“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head.
Christian opened one eye. “Well, you’re cordially invited to wait around to see if I’ll die, but I’m goin’ to sleep.”
“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest defiantly.
Christian woke an hour later to find her sitting on the bed next to him.
“What’re you still doin’ here?” he muttered.
“Watching to see if you’ll die,” she replied curtly.
He shook his head and closed his eyes again. A little while later, he moved closer to her, reaching out to rest his arm over her legs. Susan looked down to see that his eyes were still closed; she wasn’t sure if he was asleep or not. She put a hand on his shoulder and found that his skin was cold. Moving carefully so as not to wake him, she pulled the covers over him as best she could; they only reached the middle of his back.
Susan sat with his arm draped over her legs for almost an hour. At one point she shifted in an attempt to get more comfortable. Christian stirred, moving closer to her, actually resting his head on her stomach. Susan looked down at him again, surprised by his action but intrigued too. She moved her hand over his hair, stroking it as she would one of the children’s if they were sick. His reaction was to tighten his arm around her, putting his hand on her waist. It was a reaction so unlike what she’d have expected based on what she thought she knew of him; it appealed to her in some strange way she didn’t understand.
She knew she should be appalled that this man, who was at best a stranger, and an adversarial one at that, was treating her so familiarly. Of course, he was probably deeply asleep, considering the medicine he had taken. She wasn’t sure why she was making excuses for his behavior, but she found she didn’t want to move away either.
Eventually Susan found herself dozing off, the combination of his warmth next to her and the rhythm of his breathing lulling her. In an attempt to get more comfortable again, she found it necessary to shift Christian carefully. She moved down ever so slightly and leaned her head against the headboard, closing her eyes.
Susan woke a couple of hours later, forgetting at first where she was. She stirred, disturbing Christian; she realized belatedly that her hands were on his shoulder and back, and when she stretched her arms, flexing her fingers, her nails grazed his skin.
It was the sensation of nails on his bare skin that roused Christian from his deep sleep. The hand that rested on her waist tightened, as if to keep her from moving away. His other arm, which now rested under her back and around her, tightened as well. Susan stilled, trying not to disturb him further. It didn’t work; Christian continued to stir. Susan shivered when his hand slid from her waist up her side, pulling with it her blouse, which had come untucked from her skirt. It disconcerted her to note that his hand now rested on bare skin. As if even in his sleep he sensed her thoughts, his hand slid back down her side, making her shiver again. She thought she’d die when he moved his head, his lips nuzzling her skin intimately.
He obviously thinks he’s with someone he knows, she thought. Again, however, she found that she didn’t want to stop him. His words from days before were still hanging in her mind.
She thought about what he had
said then. She thought of her relationship with Warren, the man she was engaged to marry. Christian had been right about Warren being the first man she had slept with. It had irritated her that Christian assumed their sexual relationship must be dull if she didn’t understand a strange term like “slang.” She also knew that he had meant much more than that when he’d said what he’d said. Her relationship with Warren was comfortable. They shared a lot of the same interests and got along well.
She had met Warren in her child psychology class. He confided to her that he had taken child psychology as one of his sciences because he figured it would be easy. She’d laughed at him, telling him he obviously didn’t spend very much time with children. The friendship had begun there. It had moved on to her helping him study for exams. Eventually he had asked her out. They’d had dinner and gone to a movie. After the second date he had asked if he could kiss her, and she had agreed happily. His kiss had been fair, not what she had expected, but she’d chided herself for expecting too much.
When they had moved to making out, she had convinced herself that she wanted him to make love to her. They’d made love for the first time at his parents’ house, in his room. It had been painful and not anything close to what she had always dreamed lovemaking would be. But she had consoled herself with the thought that no one really enjoyed their first time. The subsequent unions had been better, but still not the fireworks she’d always heard sex was. She figured everyone had been exaggerating. Or that maybe things would improve after she got to know Warren better. Things had gotten a little better after he asked her to marry him. She’d been so happy and was so sure that she loved him that it had translated to their lovemaking. It still hadn’t been fireworks, but it had been better; she’d finally achieved an orgasm after a great deal of effort from Warren. She’d begun to wonder if something was wrong with her.
For all Intents and Purposes (MidKnight Blue Book 6) Page 19
