Cuff Me

by Lauren Layne

  “If you’re okay with that,” he said slowly, flicking his eyes to her.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my partner?”

  He said nothing, and she punched his arm. “No, seriously. I don’t even recognize this thoughtful guy who brings me caffeine and asks my permission before interviewing someone.”

  “We’re partners,” he said roughly. “Of course I need your permission.”

  Jill laughed. “Since when? Since when have you done anything other than bark out directives and expect me to go along?”

  He sighed as he rubbed a hand over his hair. “That makes it sound like I don’t respect you.”

  “Yeah it does, doesn’t it?” she teased.

  But then her smile slipped, because he looked troubled.

  She hadn’t meant it that way. It was true that Vin could be an ass, but he was never chauvinistic. Had never made her feel like less than an equal despite his penchant for taking charge when he had a hunch.

  “For the record,” she said, “whenever you do utter your grumpy directives… I trust you.”

  That too was true.

  Sure, his bossiness had grated in their first months together when they were trying to figure out their rhythm, but over the years she realized that he’d never boss her around for the sake of being bossy.

  When he insisted they do something, it was always with good reason. The man was very nearly always right, which was why…

  “Okay then,” Jill said with a shrug. “The sister it is.”

  “Good. She already knows we’re coming.”

  Jill smiled, and they fell silent for the rest of the drive to Lenora’s sister’s place.

  To a non–New Yorker, Dorothy Birch and her now deceased sister were practically neighbors. Dorothy lived on Eighty-Ninth and First, Lenora had lived on Eighty-First and Fifth.

  On a map, they were close.

  But in New York reality? They were worlds apart.

  Not that Dorothy Birch lived in a hovel, by any means. Her Yorkville apartment building was a lovely prewar mid-rise with a doorman and carefully laid flowers outside.

  It just lacked the splendor and prestige of Lenora’s Upper East Side brownstone.

  As Jill stepped out of the car and looked up at the building, she wondered how much that distinction bothered Dorothy.

  Yesterday when they’d come to deliver the sad news of her sister’s passing, Dorothy had been as distraught as one might expect.

  Disbelieving at first. Followed quickly by shock.

  Jill wondered if Dorothy had moved into grief yet. That was always the worst part… seeing the moment a family member moved beyond the shock and into the heart-wrenching reality that their loved one was really, truly gone.

  It was easily one of the worst parts of Jill and Vincent’s job.

  Vincent came to stand beside her. “What’re you thinking?”

  Jill tilted her head back to look at him. “Why her? Why start with the sister?”

  He shrugged. “Only surviving relative, save for the ex-husbands.”

  Jill blew out a breath. “So no magical Spidey sense? Not one of your legendary hunches?”

  Vincent shook his head. “Nope. Just good old-fashioned by-the-book investigating.”

  “That’s the worst kind,” Jill muttered as she followed him into the building.

  Dorothy Birch had indeed moved into the grief stage, if her puffy eyes and red nose were any indication, but she was remarkably poised as she carried a tray over to the coffee table.

  Jill sat on the love seat and watched the older woman carefully.

  Like her more famous sister, Dorothy Birch was tall, slim, although not frail, despite the fact that Jill knew her to be sixty-six.

  Two years younger than Lenora had been when someone had shoved her to her death.

  “You two are certainly up and at ’em early,” Dorothy said with a faint smile as she set down an antique gold tray on the table.

  Dorothy had told them she was making tea for herself, and although she’d offered to make a pot of coffee as well, Jill hadn’t wanted to burden the grieving woman so she’d accepted tea on behalf of herself and Vincent as well.

  A fact Vin was clearly not pleased about, judging from the glare he gave Jill when, with a sweet smile, she handed him his dainty teacup.

  His big hand dwarfed the feminine-patterned china as he accepted it.

  “Ms. Birch—”

  “Dorothy, please,” the woman said as she settled onto the love seat opposite Jill. Vincent retained his standing place against the window. He’d never been good at sitting.

  “Dorothy,” Jill said sincerely, “let us just say again how sorry we are for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” The woman’s lips pressed together firmly, a trick that Jill knew could be quite effective in staving off a crying bout. “I don’t—Lenora is all I have. Had.”

  “You never married?” Vincent asked rudely from behind Jill.

  It was all Jill could do not to roll her eyes at his lack of sensitivity.

  But Dorothy merely gave him a mild look. “No, Detective. Never married.”

  “But Lenora was,” Vincent pressed. “Several times.”

  Dorothy’s smile was genuine. “Yes, four times. Engaged two more than that, although those never came to pass. She always kept our last name though. Never took her husband’s on account of her being so famous.”

  “Did you resent her for that?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Jill could shake the man.

  “Well, resentment would have been pointless, now, wouldn’t it?” Dorothy said, leaning back, lost in thought. “Some say my sister was rivaled only by Marilyn Monroe in terms of her legendary appeal for men.”

  “That must have been—”

  Jill cut Vincent off before he could further insult a grieving woman who’d been nothing but cooperative and kind thus far.

  “Did Lenora keep in contact with any of her exes?” Jill asked.

  They’d spoken with Lenora’s latest beau yesterday. A wealthy widower who’d only recently moved to the city from Dallas.

  Of everyone they’d spoken with, he’d been the most visibly upset by the news. Really, truly upset. And as they weren’t married, he had no financial motivation to kill her. Even if the man weren’t loaded himself—and he was definitely loaded—he had to have known that he wouldn’t earn a penny from her death.

  But money could be a powerful motivator for her exes. If she was on good terms with any of them, there was always a chance they could end up in her will.

  “Oh, goodness no,” Dorothy said with a dismissive wave. “As skilled as Lenora was at drawing men to her, she was equally adept at driving them away when she tired of them.”

  “Tired of them?” Vincent asked. “They’re not shoes.”

  Jill silently echoed the question.

  It was an odd way of describing a failed relationship. It spoke of a woman who entered relationships to stave off boredom, or a woman prone to fits and starts of passion as little more than a whim.

  “No, of course men aren’t shoes, Detective.” Dorothy took a sip of her tea. “But for Lenora, they may as well have been.”

  “She was… fickle?” Jill asked, searching for the right word.

  Dorothy’s lips pursed. “More like… Hmm, how do I say this? Lenora was always very aware of how removed she could be from other people. Men in particular. She tended to throw herself into one relationship after another in hopes of connecting with someone.”

  “Did she ever? Connect, I mean?” Jill asked, taking a sip of her own tea to be polite. She didn’t have to turn around to know that Vincent probably hadn’t touched his.

  “Oh, for a time she would. A few months. A couple years, with some of them. But they always wanted more than she had to give. They’d get jealous. Demanding. Needy. And that’s when Lenora would move on.”

  “So it was always her that ended the relationship?” Jill ask
ed.

  “Generally, yes.”

  Jill silently cursed.

  It wasn’t ideal for crime solving. She’d hoped for one ex in particular that had been discarded. It would be a starting point. But from the way it was looking, they had four ex-husbands, two ex-fiancés, and an unknown number of unnamed lovers that could have been wooed and discarded by the famous Hollywood siren.

  “Well except for Clayton Wallace,” Dorothy said as she pulled a delicate macaroon off a china plate and took a tiny nibble.

  “Clayton Wallace?” Vin asked.

  “Her third husband,” Jill said.

  She’d done her homework last night when she couldn’t sleep.

  “And he was different from the others?” Vincent prompted, the impatience in his voice seeping through as it always did.

  Dorothy carefully wiped her fingers on a cloth napkin. “Only in that he was the only man who ever dumped Lenora.”

  Jill leaned forward. “Why?”

  Perhaps Lenora had cheated, or there’d been some sort of scandal. Perhaps one that Clayton Wallace hadn’t let go of, even after fifteen years…

  Dorothy lifted one slim shoulder. “He was gay, of course. He and Lenora remained the best of friends, though. I believe he’s living in California now.”

  Jill had to stop herself from slumping. A gay ex-husband with whom the victim was “the best of friends” was not exactly a prime suspect.

  Vincent came around to the two women then and sat down beside Jill.

  They weren’t touching… not quite. But suddenly Jill was distracted, because he smelled… like soap.

  Not fancy cologne, no expensive aftershave.

  Vincent Moretti smelled like soap, and it was… nice.

  Had he always smelled like this? Maybe he’d gotten new soap. Maybe…

  “Detective?”

  Vincent was staring at her in confusion, and too late Jill realized that she was all but leaning into him. And judging from the expectant look on both of their faces, a question had been directed at her and Jill had missed it because she’d been too busy—

  “Sorry, what?” she asked.

  Vincent’s gaze dropped to her mouth for a single moment before his dark eyes lifted back to hers. “Ms. Birch asked if you’d care for more tea?”

  “Oh. Oh! Yes. I’d love some.”

  He lifted an eyebrow and flicked his eyes to her cup. It was nearly full.

  She ignored this—and him—as she extended her cup and saucer to Dorothy, who politely didn’t comment on Jill’s full cup as she added just the tiniest splash from the pot.

  “Yesterday you said that my sister had fallen—was likely pushed,” Dorothy was saying, her voice remarkably steady.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Vincent said.

  “And there was no chance it could have been an accident?”

  “We don’t think so,” Jill said quietly. “The height of the railing… it would have taken some force—”

  She broke off, not wanting to go into more details than she had to about this woman’s sister’s death.

  Vin leaned forward. “Of course, we can’t officially rule it a homicide until we rule out suicide—”

  Dorothy gave a delicate, feminine snort. “Don’t be ridiculous. Lenora was far too fond of herself to take her own life. And even if she had, she wouldn’t have done so in such a messy manner.”

  Dorothy Birch’s words echoed Jill’s from yesterday. She resisted the urge to kick Vincent and mutter, I told you so.

  The older woman sighed and set her cup aside. “I suppose you’re here because you want to know if I have any ideas on who might have done it.”

  “Yes,” Jill said quickly before Vincent could inform Dorothy that they were actually here to see if she might have done it.

  “Well, I have no idea,” Dorothy said.

  Jill didn’t even bother to sigh. It was about what she’d expected.

  “But if I were to hazard a guess…” Dorothy continued.

  Jill and Vincent sat up straighter.

  “… I’d start with Malcolm Torres.”

  “Her second husband,” Jill said, mostly for Vin’s sake.

  “Yes,” Dorothy said, taking a sip of her tea.

  “Why him?” Vincent asked.

  “Because of the death threats, of course.”

  Vin and Jill turned to stare at each other. Of course.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Vincent spotted his two brothers the moment he walked into the completely generic sports bar.

  Both Luc and Anthony were already halfway through their beers, so they’d obviously been here awhile, despite the fact that Vin had arrived five minutes earlier than when Anthony had told him to show up.

  The fact that they were deep in conversation confirmed Vin’s fears: they were talking about him.

  This was confirmed when they ended their conversation the moment they saw him approach.

  “Having a nice gossip session, girls?” he asked, dropping onto the stool across from them.

  Neither had the decency to look the least bit apologetic.

  Anthony glanced over at the bartender, signaled another round.

  Vincent shrugged off his leather jacket as they moved to a table, and set it on an empty seat. “Tell me again why we’re grabbing beers at this crap hole when we’re supposed to be at Elena’s in”—he glanced at his watch—“twenty-five minutes?”

  Anth jerked his head in Luc’s direction. “Ava tipped Luc off that Elena has been experimenting with a signature cocktail.”

  “Ah,” Vin said. “Say no more.”

  Their sister was a decent cook; hard not to be with the way their mother had determined to raise her only daughter to learn every Italian cooking tip she had flowing through her veins.

  But for reasons that nobody understood, Elena could never be satisfied with just serving wine and beer when she hosted the family.

  For that matter, she wasn’t satisfied with just basic cocktail ingredients either. Martinis. Manhattans. Gin and tonic. All fine.

  No, Elena had a penchant for trying things like Elderflower Spritzes, and Parsley Lemongrass Margaritas.

  In other words, his little sister had a serious skill for messing up good booze.

  “Thanks,” he muttered to the bored-looking bartender who delivered three beers to their table.

  He took a long sip. Then another. It wasn’t that he had to be plied with alcohol before family gatherings, but for this one…

  He took another drink.

  “Thanks,” he said to his brothers. Not thanks for the beer, so much as thanks for, well… understanding.

  Understanding that he needed this for what was to come.

  Jill’s boyfriend—no, fiancé—was in town.

  Tom Whatshisface had arrived last night, and Elena had been planning his “welcome to the family” party all week.

  Vin knew that he’d have to meet the guy eventually. Hell, he wanted to meet him, so he knew what he was up against. It was just…

  He wasn’t looking forward to it.

  “So you ready to talk about it?” Luc asked.

  Vincent glanced up to find both brothers watching him, their expressions more serenely patient than usual.

  “Talk about what?” Vin asked.

  Anthony linked his fingers, set them on the table, and leaned forward. “Honestly, Vin? Cut the bullshit. We did this the other night, the whole dance around the topic. You’re our brother. We know you.”

  Vincent opened his mouth to argue, but Luc picked up where Anth stopped. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we’ll respect that, but don’t pretend it’s nothing. Don’t pretend that you’re thrown off by the fact that your woman is getting married to someone else.”

  Your woman.

  He’d known, of course, that his brothers thought of Jill as his.

  Knew that his whole family thought that. The Morettis, as a group, were not inclined toward subtlety.

  But had Vincent ever known it?


  He wasn’t sure.

  He only knew that when faced with the prospect of her walking down the aisle toward another man…

  His stomach clenched.

  He took a deep breath. “Jill’s moving to Chicago.”

  “No,” Anthony replied immediately, and the same second Luc let loose with, “The hell she is.”

  “Yup. Fancy Pants Fiancé is opening up a hotel there or some shit.”

  “And she’s going to what, just pack it up and follow him?” Anth said. “Become the little woman? Because that’s not—”

  “She’s apparently got connections at Chicago PD. Or Tom does,” Vincent said, staring at the table. “She’s not done being a cop, she’s just done being a New York cop.”

  Done being his partner.

  Luc shook his head. “This has gone too far. What’s your plan?”

  It took Vincent a moment to register that Luc was directing the question to him. “What makes you think I have a plan?”

  What makes you think I have a say?

  Anthony again leaned forward, his sanctimonious Big Brother face still firmly in place.

  “Luc’s right. Enough with the playing-dumb bullshit. Are you in love with Jill Henley, or are you not?”

  Vincent choked on his beer.

  Cleared his throat, tried to talk, and started coughing again.

  “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to freak him out,” Luc said under his breath to Anth.

  “He can handle it,” Anthony said with a shrug.

  “Look at him!” Luc pointed at Vincent. “He looks ready to pass out.”

  Vincent felt ready to pass out.

  How the hell had his brothers got it in their heads that he was in love with Jill? Or with anyone?

  Vincent wasn’t even sure he knew what love was.

  Family love, sure. He loved his parents. His sister. Loved his brothers, when they weren’t being delusional morons. He was crazy about his grandmother, and even Ava and Maggie, who were new to his life, but might as well be sisters…

  But in love was a different animal altogether.

  One that Vincent had never encountered.

  He’d dated, sure. Not so much recently. Okay, so it had been a couple years since he’d done more than hook up with random women.