No more Miss Softie.
Robert squeaked next to her but didn’t faint, so Kinsey felt safe leaving him alone when she finally hopped down and crossed to Jordan. He spun sideways, gasping air, grinning at her.
“How was that for a show, baby?” His voice was still harsh from his throat being compressed by the torn sheet he’d used to hang himself. She told him it was a bad idea, but stood there anyway, forced to watch as he did the deed. It made her oddly giddy when he thrashed and died, but Kinsey had no idea why. Maybe because she knew he was going to be okay? Or maybe she was just turning into a sicko.
Hot lips settled over hers and, for a moment, she let them, savoring his taste, the heat of his newly woken skin. But, Kinsey pulled away long before Jordan was ready, from the pout he gave her.
She turned and met Gerri’s eyes, calm and confident. “He can’t go to prison.”
The detective just watched her. “Why is that?”
“I heard enough chatter at the desk when they were processing him.” Cops loved to gossip, a bunch of old women. “I know the FBI are here to take him in.”
Gerri groaned. “Tell me this little show wasn’t your idea?”
“No,” Kinsey said. “I tried to talk him out of it.” After he told her he was in witness protection. Wouldn’t he be safer with the FBI?
Jordan nodded. “My old boss at the Dark Continent in Vegas was accused of killing a cheater. And Ryan pulled the trigger.”
Kinsey squeezed Jordan's knee while Robert slowly approached to check his vitals. Ray had allowed her assistant to do the preliminary once over, to assure the agents who hovered and waited that yes, this time, Jordan Michaels was really dead. Before sending them on their way. The tall leader—Foster, Kinsey thought he said his name was—seemed skeptical, but took Robert’s word for it, only after checking for a pulse himself. The odd, intense—if silent—exchange between he and Gerri made Kinsey wonder, but only for a moment.
They’d left in time, at least. Before Jordan could come back to life.
“You said you told me everything.” Gerri didn’t sound happy and, frankly, Kinsey didn’t blame her.
“I lied.” Jordan sighed. “I do that a lot.” His eyes met Kinsey’s. “Sorry.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Laughed and patted his leg again. “That’s okay,” she said. “As long as I know you’re a liar, I can work with that.”
He beamed her a grateful smile before hopping down from the slab. “Thank you, all of you.” Jordan inhaled happily. “Now that the Feds think I’m really dead, word will get around. I can have a new start after all.”
“Don’t you care who killed Ryan?” Kinsey’s heart hurt. He didn’t care, she knew that. Could tell when he turned around with a flicker of annoyance before hiding it behind sorrow.
“I’m sorry he’s dead,” he said. “But I can’t help him anymore. And the longer I stay in Silver City, the more danger I put all of you in.” He reached out, touched her cheek. “ Especially you , Kins.”
“Tell you what,” Gerri said, standing up, dusting off, a small, tight grin on her face. “I’ll personally drop you off at city limits with a hundred bucks in your pocket, if you tell me who killed Ryan Beecher.”
Jordan wavered. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Oh,” Gerri countered, striding closer, the light overhead reflecting down on her, casting shadows over her face, making her appear almost demonic, “I think you do. And you’re not going anywhere until you tell me.”
***
INT. – SILVER CITY MORGUE – AFTERNOON
Gerri jotted down the final name Jordan gave her, all leads to check out into Ryan’s murder. He didn’t appear happy about giving up information, but she really didn’t give a shit what he wanted.
Not while her stomach was clenched in fury her gut had failed her. Worse, the fact she was stuck protecting this nasty piece of work if only because exposing him to the Feds would be a giant, colossal mistake she would regret the rest of her life. If she thought explaining things to the captain would be awkward, imagine telling Supervisory Special Agent Hotness his witness was a paranormal who couldn’t die and, apparently, knocked himself off for kicks? As Gerri tucked her notebook into her jacket, she just hoped Ray and Robert could work out a way to cover this up, or the Feds would be all over her the minute they found out Jordan wasn’t in the morgue any longer.
“I’m going to run these,” she said, turning and heading for the swinging doors. “You three keep him,” she jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, “out of sight until I get back.” Her boots thudded on the tile floor, carrying her to the guard desk. And a heart attack. Foster looked up from where he was signing the clipboard, amber eyes darkening slightly, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. She gulped down her first instinct—to panic—and her second—to jump him—in about the space of time it took her to reach his side.
“Detective.” His murmured greeting warmed her up, she had to admit it. And while she was a firm believer in passion, this was ridiculous. “Our dead body safely dead back there?”
Gerri burst into a laugh. “Couldn’t be deader.” Dear God, this was insanity.
“Thought I’d take a look,” he said. “Double check. Just to be on the safe side.”
That was impossible and she had to stop him somehow. No, not by kissing him in front of the watching guards. Think of something. Think of—
“I could use some backup.” She hoped the words didn’t come out of her mouth as rushed and anxious as she thought they did. Foster paused on his way around the desk, waited with his black brows over his deep-set eyes, dark hair spiked at the front, catching some of the light with blue glints. He’d been somewhere warm recently, a tan browning his skin, the barest hint of shadow on his cheeks. He’d broken his nose at some point, the bridge twisted just off center.
Why was that so sexy?
And, was it just her, or did they spend far too long standing there, staring at each other?
“I’m all yours.” He had to say so in that exact tone, didn’t he? Foster joined her as she headed for the door. Gerri exhaled with a smile that had to be full of desperate gratitude.
Damn it, this wasn’t her at all. But she had to roll with it.
“I have some names I’m running down in the Beecher case,” she said, following him to his car, shuddering at the thought of taking the clunker the desk officer saddled her with. She blamed Jordan for her lost Charger and would stomp on his grave personally until she got her baby back. “And since you so cleverly picked up on the fact my partner and I don’t play nice…”
“The FBI is more than happy to assist the SCPD,” he said, white teeth flashing as he settled behind the wheel. “Where are we going?”
***
INT. – FREDDY’S BAR – AFTERNOON
It didn’t occur to her until they were half way to Freddy’s Bar she should be irritated he was driving. Yes, it was his car. But she always drove. Always. Something was horribly wrong with her.
“As I see it,” Foster said as he expertly maneuvered through traffic, almost as well as she would have, “there are three possible suspect pools.”
“The Divinities.” Gerri checked them off on her fingers, grateful for the shop talk to distract her. “We’re off to see them now.”
“The O’Reilly family.” Foster pulled up across the street from Freddy’s.
“And Peter Ashmore, owner of the Dark Continent Hotel and Casino.” Gerri stepped out into the heat. “I’ve personally seen the gang attack, so they are my primary suspects at this point. But those two boys seem to have a habit for trouble.”
“Seemed.” Foster frowned slightly, amber eyes darkening to deep gold. “Past tense.”
Gerri didn’t comment, crossing the street with her usual confident stride, traffic stopping for her. She kept up her pace until she reached the door to the bar, turning to find Foster grinning at her.
“So, you’re that kind of cop,” he said.
&nbs
p; “If you mean the kind that gets the job done,” she grasped the handle to the door and pulled it open, “guilty as charged.”
The agent preceded her into Freddy’s as she held the door for him. Her turn to check out his ass on the way in. Hard to see the full design under his dress jacket, but he cut an impressive figure. She could work with those long, muscular legs…
The quiet of the bar tapped on her instincts and broke her out of her fascination with Foster’s backside. He half-turned his head, waiting for her to catch up. Gerri ignored Joey behind the bar and the sawed-off shotgun he kept loaded by the cash register. He’d stay out of things as long as she didn’t bust up his place.
She was actually surprised the Divinities hadn’t found a way to oust the old bar owner yet. She’d teased him the last time she was here that he should change the name to match his own.
“Daddy’s name stays on this bar,” he’d grunted two weeks ago as he handed her a beer in a glass that could have been cleaner. A beer she refused to touch. “Till the day I die.”
Not that she’d ever strike murder off the Divinities list of failings, but it seemed Joey was partial enough to live and let live the bikers were happy to share the sentiment. At least, for now.
Gerri crossed to the back of the bar, winking at the two bikettes with their badly bleached hair and skimpy leather bikini tops, tats from neck to fingertips. She had nothing against them, except for the pair of middle fingers they shot her.
So much for trying to make friends and play nice. She was absolutely heartbroken.
She spotted a familiar face at the back booth, not surprised Oswald Tyler—nicknamed Oz by the gang—got up and split the moment she came close. Gerri knew his secret, one this particular biker association would never accept. He fell in love with a transsexual dancer once upon a time. And, it was likely his tastes hadn’t just up and changed on him.
Oz didn’t go far, just to the door to the kitchen, watching her with hooded eyes. He had to know she held his life in her hands. It was a power trip she wasn’t prepared to follow up on. If only he knew she’d go to her grave before she’d tell. Not because she cared one scrap about him. But because he deserved to love whoever the hell he wanted.
The old man at the booth with two more girls snuggled against him, on the other hand, she’d toss under a bus at the first opportunity. Chigger Bothom was the lowest kind of scum she’d ever investigated. Gerri’s dip into the Divinities after the deaths of Aisling and Roxy from the Starlet Lounge left her with a bad taste in her mouth and the powerful desire to smear the gang all over the streets of Silver City.
Chigger grinned up at her, leaning back against the padded upholstery, one hand over the shoulder of a girl so young and thin she had to be under age, dark circles and hopelessness around her eyes. The other had her hand in his crotch and was actively performing some kind of service she didn’t seem concerned Gerri might witness. The detective purposely stayed just to the left where the table surface blocked the view.
She just didn’t want that image in her mind ever.
“Detective Meyers.” Chigger’s cold, black eyes flickered to Foster and back again, the deep, crater wrinkles on his face shifting as he spoke, like a rocky hillside moving in an earthquake. His bristling gray brows poked out in all directions, hanging heavy over his beady gaze, thin, gray braid hanging over one shoulder, the end brushing his withered nipple where it showed past his leather vest. Sagging skin galore. Gerri’s throat burned with bile. “You brought a friend.”
“We’re here about Ryan Beecher and Jordan Michaels.” It impressed Gerri that Foster let her speak, refraining from bullying his way into the conversation.
Chigger’s momentary irritation was all the answer she needed. “Never heard of them,” the biker leader said, looking away, while her gut whispered the unnecessary.
Liar.
“That so.” Gerri grinned back at him, hands on her hips, exposing her gun and badge. “Since a few of your boys shot up my car to get to Jordan Michaels, maybe you’d like to reword your answer. While my unis pick up each and every one of you for opening fire on a police vehicle.” Did he know yet, she’d begun the sweep? Obviously not, from the tightening around his eyes. “Not sure how things work in LA,” she said, “but in Silver City, you shoot at cops, you get your asses hauled in.”
“You got proof it was my boys, Detective?” Scum bag.
“Saw them with my own eyes.” She knew better. Sure, they’d do the sweep, pull the Divinities off the street. But, without license plates, these assholes and their high-priced lawyers—not to mention the judge they probably had paid off or were blackmailing firmly in their pockets—would be back on the street in less than twenty-four hours. Still, it was nice to poke the bear with a stick from time to time.
“Well, I’m sure it was a set up,” Chigger said. “Some other gang wearing our colors. You know, to discredit us.”
What she wouldn’t give to be able to just pull her gun and put one between his eyes. She’d just have to settle with pissing him off until she had enough on him to bring him down. Which she would, eventually.
“You have yourselves a nice day, now.” Chigger grunted as the girl worked harder. Gerri turned her back before the inevitable. They’d get nothing from the biker leader and she hadn’t really expected much. Police work was like that sometimes.
Except confirmation in her own mind he ordered the hit.
***
***
EXT. – SILVER CITY STREET – AFTERNOON
Foster remained silent until they left the bar, all the way to his car. When he settled into the driver’s seat, he finally turned to meet her eyes, his full of respect and a little of what she liked to think was awe.
“That,” he said, “was the most disgusting interview I’ve ever been part of.”
Gerri grinned, buckling up. “You’re welcome.”
Foster smiled back, wry and rather sexy. “I take it you got what you were after?”
“He wasn't going to admit anything.” The agent nodded agreement. “I just wanted to see his face when I brought it up.”
“Can you make charges stick?” The engine purred as he hit the ignition and drove off.
“If only.” Gerri stared out the window, happy the weird attraction thing had settled to a dull ache in the center of her chest. Lower than that, too, if she was willing to admit it. Much, much lower. “But, his days are numbered. For now, we’ll keep him and his gang occupied by pulling them off the street and harassing them. They think they can get away with shooting at cops. Not going to happen in my city.”
Funny. When did she start thinking of it as hers and not just some place where she worked?
The rumble of a motorcycle engine turned Gerri’s head at the next stop light. She glanced out to find Oz staring back at her. He jerked his head toward the right turn and cut through the red.
“Looks like we might get some information after all.” Gerri pointed, but Foster was already following, despite the anger of his fellow drivers. Moments later, the two exited the car and approached the parked bike, Oz perched on it with a nervous expression.
“Hey, Oz,” Gerri said, bright and cheerful. “How you been, buddy?”
He scowled at her, shaven head sporting some new tattoos. Guess he used ink to hide his broken heart. “You were asking about Beecher and Michaels.”
“You have information for us?” Foster finally found his voice.
Oz glared before turning back to Gerri. “For her,” he said.
Foster took the hint, backing off while the detective leaned in. “What’s up, Oz? You’re taking a risk being here.”
He shrugged, scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “I guess, I feel I owe it to you. To Aisling. Something.” Oz sighed, the scent of old tobacco and beer on his breath. “Chigger knows about the little dying act Michaels seems to be so good at. He’s waiting for him to come out of the morgue before taking him out personally.” Oz glanced at Foster. “You trust the suit?
”
She shrugged. “About as much as I trust you, Oswald.”
The biker snorted. “We didn’t kill the Beecher kid, though,” he said. “Bets are off on Michaels, but Beecher was the O’Reilly’s. I only know because Chigger threw a fucking fit over it when he found out the Micks were in our town.”
That had to rub wrong, a New York gang running their plays in Divinities territory.
“Fight brewing?” That was all Gerri needed, a gang war over Jordan fucking Michaels.
“Naw,” Chigger hocked and spit on the street. “Chigger knows better. Them O’Reilly boys’ll kill you and fuck you while you die just for kicks.”
Classy. “Thanks for the tip.”
Oz fired up his bike. “Don’t think I’m making a habit of it.” He roared off while Foster joined her.
“Interesting company you keep, Detective.” His golden eyes glinted in the sunlight. “The O’Reilly’s certainly have an old grudge against Ryan Beecher. They've been tracking him for a long time. He’s kept powerful enough company they’ve stayed out of his way, but if he did steal from the Divinities, if he turned on his boss at the casino, it’s possible Beecher lost his protection by being a stupid asshole.”
Gerri laughed. “I like how you think.”
Foster met her gaze with his. “I like more than how you think,” he said. Then coughed as she blushed.
God damn it. She blushed. What the bloody freaking hell?
She either had to just screw this guy and get it over with or get as far from him as she could.
Number one was her ideal choice.
***
INT. – McGINTY’S PINT – AFTERNOON
Their next destination took them only a few blocks from Freddy’s, though McGinty’s Pint wasn’t much more to look at. Gerri again let Foster lead, but when he didn’t wait for her this time, she hurried to catch up, stopping at the bar while the big FBI agent leaned over a stool and rested his elbows on the wood, grinning at the young man nursing a half-empty beer.
Try Dying (Episode Six: The Nightshade Cases) Page 6
