Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors

by Sharon Hamilton

  Joe made sure he wasn’t followed as he drove Wendy and Justin over to Broslin. He kept track of the cars behind him. No single vehicle kept popping up. The only way they were followed was if multiple vehicles were used in a tag team.

  They stopped at the store for diapers, and while he followed Wendy down the aisles, he called the captain and updated him.

  “They’ll be safest at my place,” he said into his headset. “Whoever is after her might know about her friendship with Sophie, could find her there. But he doesn’t know about me.”

  A moment of silence passed. “All right.”

  “Any development on Phil Brogevich? I’ll settle Wendy in, then I can come into work and help Harper finish processing the patient files.”

  Since nobody but the captain knew that Wendy was staying at his place, she should be okay alone. He had reinforced doors and windows, a pretty good security system. And he’d be less than a mile down the road at the station.

  “Harper can handle the files,” the captain said. “Chief Gleason wants you back in the city. He wants to make sure Ramos isn’t going to move on the Twentyniners without him knowing.”

  Joe had thought about that too, while sitting outside Wendy’s apartment half the night. He’d expected Ramos to make a move quickly. The gang war had to be stopped. Lil’ Gomez’s death had to count for something.

  “What is he waiting for? The guns I promised?” The gun shipment wasn’t going to happen. They’d never meant to fulfill that promise, only to string Ramos along with it.

  “See if you can figure out where Officer Tropper has gone,” Bing said. “The chief issued a warrant for his arrest yesterday, but Tropper didn’t show up for work and he’s not home either. Drop in on Ramos, shoot the breeze with the boys a little. See if anything comes up. Maybe Tropper figured out that the chief was on to him and he decided to hang out with his gang buddies.”

  “I should be able to leave in half an hour.” Joe paused as he stepped out of the store behind Wendy and Justin, the kid’s diaper stash refilled. “But I need to stay involved in the Brogevich case. I promised Marie.”

  “When Harper is done with the files, he’s going to the hospital in West Chester to check on people the victim worked with there before he opened his private practice in Broslin. If you’re back by then, you can go with him.”

  “That’s good. Thanks. Okay.” He’d make sure that happened.

  “Another thing,” the captain said. “Doris called in, Phil’s receptionist. In the excitement at the crime scene, she forgot to mention that the doc had weekly anger management group sessions at the hospital. He kept that even after he switched to private practice.”

  Joe’s ears perked up as he popped the trunk. “Sounds promising.” Someone with anger-control issues might deliver the kind of deathblow that had bashed in Phil’s skull.

  He talked another minute with the captain before hanging up and pulling out of the parking lot, checking once again for suspicious vehicles behind him. Nothing. Then Justin wanted to chat about Pirate Prince for the rest of the drive home.

  “I have to go in and get some work done,” he said as he pulled up the driveway.

  “Your friend’s case?” Wendy’s eyes softened with sympathy.

  “Something else.”

  “How many cases do you work at the same time?”

  “Depends on the overall workload. We split up whatever we have coming in.”

  “Plus you’re watching out for me. Wouldn’t it be easier to do one thing at a time?”

  “That’s pretty much prime-time TV show stuff, when all the detectives go off after the killer and push until the bad guy’s caught. In real life, police work is nothing but interruption after interruption. You prioritize. What’s on top can shift from day to day or even hour to hour. You try to get everything done while doing your best not to drown in the paperwork.”

  “That doesn’t sound as glamorous as on TV,” she said in a wry tone as she got Justin out of the car.

  “It has its moments.” He grabbed her bags from the trunk.

  “Do you miss football?”

  He stopped by the front door, looked at her as he turned the key in the lock. “A little. But I’m what I’m supposed to be. This is it for me. I’m part of the town. I work to make things better here. As sappy as that sounds, it makes me happy.”

  She watched him, considering the words. “It sounds good.” She followed him in. “You like your job.”

  He set her bags down in the hallway. “Do you like modeling?”

  She put Justin down, and the boy ran ahead to the living room, busy discovering.

  “What I thought was the most amazing thing and the best life ever at sixteen is not the same when I look at it at twenty-six. I’m not complaining,” she added quickly. “I have a job. It pays the bills.”

  “But you want more.”

  “Something different. Something that requires more from me than holding a pose or putting one foot in front of the other. I’m aging out of it anyway.”

  “At twenty-six?”

  Her lips stretched into a flat smile. “That’s like a grandmother in modeling.”

  “Sure. Come on, Grandma.” He grinned at her. “Let me show you to your rocker.”

  After he showed her around and settled her and Justin in, he showered and changed, switched to the Camaro, and drove into the city. He called Keith Kline’s arresting officer on the way, told him about the accident and the cut brake lines.

  “I’d like to have a list of people Kline had contact with since he’s been in jail, the ones who were released before yesterday.”

  “You think Kline hired someone? Doesn’t seem the type.”

  “Yeah. Maybe not.” Abusers were hands-on. Violence allowed them to let off steam. They fed off the fear of their victims. Battery was hot, uncontrolled anger, while hiring a hit man was cold and calculated. But still. “Kline’s the only one who makes sense right now.”

  Joe thought of the fear in Wendy’s eyes every time she said the bastard’s name. “To be on the safe side. I’m not going to rule out anything at this stage.”

  The officer promised to look into it and get back to him.

  Joe called his sister, Amber, next. “How is my favorite nephew?”

  “He just finished locking all his bad toys in jail.”

  Joe grinned. “Good boy.”

  “He used the toilet as a holding cell. His stuffed animals are in the washer right now. On the sanitize cycle.” Pause. “Don’t you dare laugh. Max pretends to be a police officer because he thinks you hung the moon and the stars.”

  “That was so long ago it’s barely worth mentioning.”

  “You think you’re funny. I think it’s time for a nephew-uncle weekend. See what Max can do at your house.”

  “He’s welcome anytime.” And that kind of brought Joe to the reason why he was calling. “So there’ll be a friend staying with me for a couple of days.”

  “Which one of your friends got kicked out by the wife this time?”

  “It’s not like that. It’s not a guy. You don’t know her.”

  “You’re living with a woman?”

  “Her name is Wendy Belle. Single mom with a son Max’s age. Justin.”

  “You moved a single mom with a kid into your house? Your bachelor sanctuary?” Her voice tilted up with incredulity. “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

  He chose to ignore that. “I thought you might want to stop by if you have some time. Maybe the boys could play.”

  Silence. Then, “Oh my God. You want me to meet her.” More stunned silence. “How long has this been going on? How serious are you about her?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “What is it like?”

  “I told you, we’re friends.” But that wasn’t the full truth. He cleared his throat. “She says she’s pregnant with my baby.”

  “Oh, Joe.” The words were infused with both joy and worry. “How do you feel
about that?”

  “It can’t be mine.”

  “I hope you didn’t tell her that. I mean, unless you think she’s a total liar like Erika. If she’s in your house, you must like her and trust her at least a little, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Joseph Peter Kessler.” She imitated their mother’s tone. “Did you make a complete mess of things?”

  “I might have.”

  She stayed silent for a moment. “Are you in love with her?”

  “No.” He didn’t do love. He did fun. Short. Consensual. That kind of thing.

  “You don’t normally mess up with women. I think she got to you. It’s serious.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “She’s expecting your baby and living in your house.”

  He blinked. Hell, she was right. How did that happen?

  He’d always been in control of his relationships. Always. How in hell had he dropped the ball here?

  “Can you see yourself with her? Long-term.”

  He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He could. Not only could he see it, but he liked the picture. “I hate when you ask me questions that I don’t like the answers to.”

  “That’s what sisters are for,” she informed him cheerfully. “I’ll stop by to check her out tomorrow. And then you and I are going to have a talk.” Then she hung up, before he could tell her that he didn’t need a relationship lecture.

  Joe drove down Route 95 to South Philly, through Tinicum Park then past the Navy Yard. He refocused on what he needed to accomplish in the next couple of days: stop the gang war and find the dirty cop, find Phil’s killer, figure out who cut Wendy’s brakes, find a way to keep Keith away from her permanently.

  He rolled his neck. He had a rough game ahead of him. Ready to tackle the first quarter, he turned down Brant Street.

  He found Paco in Ramos’s driveway, half under the hood of his car. Paco worked at a local garage under the table, mostly so he could use the tools and get discounts on parts for his lowrider. His electric-blue 1984 Buick Regal didn’t have much more than six inches of ground clearance. That car was Paco’s baby. Touch it and die.

  Rusty Cent was blaring from the radio. His rapping could be heard halfway down the street, a song about knocking out bitches.

  “Yo!” Joe strode up. “What’s up, bro?”

  Paco shot a surly look his way. “What the hell does it look like?”

  All right. Bad mood. Maybe he ran out of weed. Or had a fight with his girlfriend again about money for the kids. He was the father of two little girls. “Any word when we’ll be stoppin’ by to say hello to J.T.?”

  Paco shrugged and leaned back under the hood.

  Joe strode inside the house. Trigger ran to the front door to greet him, his entire body wagging.

  “You’re a good boy.” Joe scratched behind the dog’s ear, then handed him a treat.

  Only Rashard was lounging in the living room to the right of the entry hall. He didn’t stop playing his video game when Joe nodded at him.

  “Yo. S’up, man,” he said, but kept his eyes on the screen.

  Rodrigo was in the kitchen in the back, sitting on the linoleum floor with his back to the wall, a couple of empty beer cans scattered around him. He was twenty, with a fairly serious alcohol and crack addiction. “S’up, bro?”

  “Qué pasa, amigo?” Joe glanced around. “Where’s Ramos?”

  Rodrigo shrugged, his eyes glazed over. “They went out to pick up some guns. He got tired of waiting for you to bring the goods, eh?”

  Joe shrugged. “I’ll get the guns. No problemo.” But he wished he’d come sooner. He could have gone with them, figured out who their connections were. “Let’s hope they don’t get caught. I want J.T., man. Lil’ Gomez.” Joe shook his head. “I loved that kid. I’m not part of the crew, but you guys took me in when I needed help. You offered protection. I appreciate that. Your family is my family.”

  “Yo, bro.” Rodrigo nodded. “They’ll be back. Ain’t nothing gonna happen to them. We’ll get J.T.”

  “Yeah. Ramos has the devil’s luck.”

  “El Diablo.” Rodrigo grinned.

  “Maybe he’s got someone on the inside. Ever thought about that?” Joe grabbed a beer from the fridge, then sat on the floor across from Rodrigo. “That’d be nice. Having a friend in the PD. That’s what I need in Trenton, man. Should have invested more in protection.”

  But instead of giving up any information about Tropper and his whereabouts, Rodrigo finished his last beer, his head flopping over as the can dropped from his limp fingers. He was too far gone to answer.

  Joe pushed to his feet and headed toward the bathroom, leaving his beer behind unopened. When he was out of Rodrigo’s sight, he stopped in front of the door that led down to the basement. He turned the knob slowly, opened the door. It didn’t creak. Without making a sound, he padded down the stairs.

  If Officer Tropper was hiding in the house, he could be anywhere.

  But instead of the dirty cop, he found only an ancient washer and dryer at the bottom of the stairs. Dusty old boxes took up the rest of the space. He checked a few, Gomez’s aunt’s stuff: doilies and old clothes, picture albums. Joe left them and hurried back upstairs.

  He closed the basement door behind him, stepped into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, then backed out as fast as he could. The place stank to high heaven. Every once in a while, one of the guys would bring a girlfriend around who might clean up the dishes, but nobody cleaned back here.

  He headed back through the kitchen. “Things to do, people to see,” he told Rodrigo. “I’ll stop by later to catch up with Ramos.”

  Rodrigo gave no indication that he heard him.

  Rashard was still immersed in his game in the living room, his full attention on the shoot-’em-up on the big-screen plasma TV. Joe paused by the front door, glanced up the stairs to the second floor where Ramos’s aunt lived. As far as Joe knew, nobody but Ramos and Lil’ Gomez went up there. Upstairs was off-limits to the crew.

  But would Ramos stash a dirty cop up there?

  Joe backed toward the stairs, keeping an eye on Rashard, who was lost in mortal combat.

  He didn’t get far before Trigger appeared at the top of the stairs, tail wagging. Then the front door banged open.

  Ramos strode in, his cold gaze immediately snapping to Joe.

  Joe nodded at him. “Hey. I was gonna sit down here until you got back. Stopped by to see what’s up. If I can help with anything. When are we moving on J.T., bro? I’m ready.”

  Ramos stared at him for a long moment, that odd look in his eyes again.

  Joe kept his right arm loose by his side, ready to grab for the gun tucked into his waistband behind his back. If Ramos figured out that he was a cop—

  But then the gang leader finally said, “Tomorrow. Be here by eight. You’ll be with me. We’ll take your car. J.T.’s crew doesn’t know the Camaro. They know my ride.”

  All right. At last, specific details Joe could give Chief Gleason. “We’re splitting into teams?”

  Ramos shrugged. “Three cars, three houses to hit.” He went to sit by Rashard in the living room and joined the game.

  Joe left them, drove a couple of blocks, looped around, made sure he wasn’t followed, then drove back to Broslin, straight to the station to report to Chief Gleason through Captain Bing. Nobody on Gleason’s team knew Joe was working undercover, and the chief wanted to keep it that way.

  But when Joe walked into the Broslin police station, he saw only Leila, working behind the reception desk.

  He glanced at the bulletin board that looked like a rainbow, every notice printed on a different color paper. Best not to bring that up.

  “Hey.” He looked through the stack of messages.

  “She thinks we need more color around here,” Leila mumbled, her eyes dangerously narrow.

  A high school kid walked in before Joe had to pick sides, saving him.

  The kid looked at Leila
and adjusted his letterman jacket, flashed a smile that brought out twin dimples. “Hey, beautiful. Are you the angel who’s going to help me talk my way out of a parking ticket?”

  Joe bit back a grin. The kid had some moves, but he seriously had to learn how to read his target better.

  Leila raised a strict eyebrow. “Watch it, Romeo. I’m old enough to be your mother.”

  The kid flashed a grin. “Can I call you Mrs. Robinson?”

  “You can call me, Mrs. Please-don’t-throw-the-stapler-at-my-head. How is that?”

  He only widened the grin. “God, I love me a feisty older woman.”

  Leila pulled her spine straight, her eyes narrowing to slits as she leaned forward to give the kid a good look. “Aren’t you Brian Taylor? You know I go to church with your mother? She raised you to talk to your elders like that?”

  The kid shrank two inches, the cocky attitude sliding right off him. “No, ma’am.”

  Leila held out a hand. “Where’s that ticket?”

  The kid dug through his pocket, handed it over with plenty of reluctance.

  “You can pay this right here. Anything else?”

  Joe watched the transaction silently.

  “Kids these days,” he offered in support to Leila after the boy left.

  She scoffed. “What are you talking about? He reminds me of you at that age. You propositioned the vice-principal’s wife at the senior prom. Remember that?”

  Right. He winced. “She was such a pretty young girl. Completely wrong for him.” He cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t know by any chance when the captain is coming back, would you?”

  “Hasn’t said. He’s out at a fatal motorcycle accident. Might be a while.”

  “Who?” A couple of faces flashed into his mind, friends who rode bikes. Half the time, the bodies he had to scrape off the pavement were friends. That was the most difficult part of being a cop in a small town where he knew everybody.

  But Leila said, “Not from Broslin.”

  Harper lumbered forward from the back with a cup of coffee, nodded at Joe. “I need to check e-mail, then I’ll be heading back to the hospital to interview a few more of Brogevich’s ex-coworkers and look into those anger management classes.”