by Kylie Brant
“Neither have I,” mused the captain, “but I’ve certainly heard of him.” He eyed her shrewdly. “Surely you’ve heard of him, Casey.”
Madeline shook her head.
“Supposed to be a great detective,” the man informed her. “One of the best. His captain’s not the only one who thinks so. But I would have figured that you would have at least heard the rumors about him.”
Her lips thinned. “I’m not much for listening to rumors, Captain.” Actually, that was a huge understatement. Having been the subject of ugly speculation herself, she detested anything that resembled gossip. But she knew that wouldn’t stop Brewer from repeating his, and he did so, with obvious relish.
“He’s earned himself some interesting nicknames. Latin Lover. Casanova.” The captain smirked. “I understand he’s quite a player. His reputed success with women is famous throughout the department.”
Madeline schooled her features into an impassive mask. “What does that have to do with this case?”
“Nothing,” the man said with deceptive mildness. “Just thought you’d be interested. It wasn’t included in that file you read on him, was it?”
Although her spine remained straight, her gaze unswerving, Madeline could feel her control slip a notch or two. The man was really incredibly irritating. “No, sir.”
“I assume you’ve already memorized the file’s contents?”
She nodded shortly, bored with his little games.
Brewer picked up a flat piece of granite that he used as a paperweight from his desk top. Leaning back in his chair, he began tossing it from hand to hand. “And?”
Feeling somewhat like a trained circus seal, she quickly recited what she’d learned. “A couple of weeks ago an informant told one of our men that a cop was involved in these arms sales. A cop who was also involved in one of the investigations having to do with their use. By finding out what was being investigated, and who was assigned, you came up with a list of five detectives, any one of whom might be the cop the snitch was talking about. Each of the five is being paired with an undercover detective from Internal Affairs. I’m to find out how Martinez lives, if he seems to have an extra source of income and who his associates are.” She stopped here, her face showing none of the distaste she felt for the case. Hers was an inherently private nature, and everything in her shrank from the obvious prying that would have to be done here, especially to another cop. She had a question of her own to ask. “How reliable is the snitch?”
“He’s proven reliable in the past, but we won’t be using him again. Three days after he gave us that information he was found in a Dumpster, full of bullet holes.”
“Then how do you know he wasn’t wrong, or feeding you a line?”
This time it was the captain’s turn to shrug. “We don’t. Which is why we can’t get warrants to look at the detectives’ bank accounts without more info. But this could be potentially damaging enough to the department that we have to check them all out. The brass will be breathing down my neck if we don’t find something soon.”
“If Martinez is as great a detective as we hear,” she observed, “he would surely be smart enough to hide any money he had gotten illegally.”
Brewer looked impatient. “Maybe, maybe not. You just do your job. If you uncover something in the course of the case that points to Martinez’s involvement, turn it over to us and we’ll have him removed from the assignment, pending a thorough investigation. You of all people should know how it works, Casey.”
Her lips tightened at the gibe. Yes, she knew how it worked. He could have been referring to her five years’ experience working for Internal Affairs, but she doubted it. The captain had a knack for returning to unpleasant memories, like touching a bruise over and over. She would have liked to make a scathing retort, but she swallowed it. Her voice was even when she asked, “Is there any other information you have on Martinez that I should know about?”
The granite piece made a slap against the man’s palm as he tossed it back and forth. “Not much. I have heard that he grew up in the barrio, on the northeast side of the city. That’s part of his local-boy-makes-good mystique.”
“He wouldn’t be the first person to grow up motivated to succeed.”
The captain stopped his game of catch and stared hard at her. “He wouldn’t be the first to grow up to want more, either. A lot more. I’m not making judgments about whether he’s a dirty cop. That’s your job. You find out and report to me. If he’s clean, fine. If not, we’ll nail him. At the same time you’ll find the dirt bag arming every two-bit punk in the city. Just watch yourself, Casey. From what I’ve heard, Martinez is one smooth operator, on and off the streets.” The rock flew in an arc again, and he caught it with his other hand.
She ignored his smirk, as well as his suggestive words. Not trusting herself to say anything more, she rose and turned toward the door.
“Oh, and Casey, I’ll expect complete written reports from you weekly.”
She gritted her teeth. Paperwork was the bane of any detective’s job, and she hated it with passionate intensity. She left the room, wishing darkly that the piece of granite would slip and knock Brewer on the head.
Hard.
Cruz stretched his long legs out in the recliner, sipping the beer Michele Easton McLain had just handed him. Michele sat on the couch next to her husband, Connor.
“To what do we owe the honor?” inquired Connor lazily, referring to his best friend’s unexpected appearance.
“Connor, don’t be rude,” his wife admonished him. “Cruz is welcome here anytime.”
“That’s right, pal,” Cruz echoed. “Anytime.” He winked at him. “And don’t you forget it.”
“Well, not anytime,” Connor corrected him, a glint of amusement in his pale green eyes. “Michele still insists on getting me to bed pretty early, you know.” He heaved a mock sigh, ignoring his wife’s narrowed look. “Marriage! What can I say, I have to do what I can to keep her happy…” His words were muffled by the pillow she swatted him with.
Cruz laughed along with them. “Yeah, I can see what a strain it’s putting on you. I was just telling Michele how weak you were looking. If you need any help in that area, just give me a call. I’m always ready to help out, buddy.”
“Forget it,” Connor shot back. “I’m sure your services are in great demand elsewhere.”
“Well, since you’re out of circulation, amigo, there are lots of devastated women out there, and they are so lonely. I do what I can.”
From long practice Michele ignored their bantering. “Are you still dating Jill, Cruz?” she inquired. “You haven’t brought anyone around since we all got together to celebrate your promotion.”
“I still see her occasionally. But I’ve been pretty busy lately.”
“The department has been keeping his nose to the grindstone,” Connor informed his wife. Addressing Cruz, he added, “I heard you picked up those cases on the drive-by shootings.”
His friend grimaced. “They were my cases. Not anymore, as of today.”
“Why, what happened?”
“I was summoned to the captain’s office today.” His brows lowered again just thinking about that interview. “He more or less ordered me to drop the case and concentrate on the supplier of the guns. He’s reassigned my caseload, so I guess I don’t have any choice. But what I want to know is, why me?”
“Must be your ‘atta boy’ file,” Connor said, only half joking. Cruz’s personnel folder was impressively filled with commendations, and Connor knew firsthand what a good cop the man was. They’d been rookies together, then partners. Their friendship had grown until they were as close as brothers. Later they had chosen different paths in the department, Cruz gravitating toward undercover work and Connor working his way up the officer ranks. But when Cruz had returned to plainclothes duty a couple of years ago, they had ended up in the same district. Whenever Connor was given a particularly sticky case to supervise, he always requested that Cruz be part of
the investigation. He was among the few men on earth whom Connor trusted implicitly.
Cruz interrupted his thoughts. “Yeah, he started on that bullshit, talked about my record, but I still wonder…” He shook his head. “Heck, you know me, I guess I just can’t stand to have investigations yanked when I’m just getting into them. Plus,” he added morosely, “he assigned me a partner.”
Connor smiled in commiseration. “Bad luck, friend. I know you like to work solo.” He picked up Michele’s hand, threading their fingers together. Turning to her, he said in an aside, “I’m sure his new partner won’t be as handsome as his first one.”
Cruz slouched deeper into his chair. “Has your ugly mug beat hands down,” he contradicted mildly. “And he’s a she.”
“Your new partner is a woman?” Michele asked interestedly.
“Ritter obviously doesn’t know as much about you as he claims to,” Connor gibed, “or he would have heard that no female is safe from you.”
“Can I help it if I’m friendly?” His two friends laughed. The phone rang then, and Michele went to the kitchen to answer it.
“Who is she?” Connor asked. “Maybe I know her.”
“I doubt it. Beautiful redheads were never your type. Her name is Madeline Casey.”
“Casey?” Connor thought a moment then shook his head. “Haven’t heard of her. How experienced a detective is she?”
Cruz shrugged. “That’s just it, I don’t know. She’s transferring in, and I’m stuck with her, unless Ritter changes his mind.”
“Ritter?” Connor echoed. “Change his mind?” He shook his head. “Give up that hope. Sounds like you and Casey are joined at the hip, at least for the time being.”
Michele rejoined them and said to Connor, “That was your mother. She wants us to come to dinner on Sunday. Your sister is going to be home.”
“Sherry?” His interest was captured. “We haven’t seen her since our wedding.”
As his friends’ conversation turned for a moment to family, Cruz tuned out. Joined at the hip. That wouldn’t have been his choice of words, though it brought something anatomically close to mind. Madeline Casey was too head-turning to escape attention. Amid the male atmosphere of the basketball game, her cool, composed beauty had stood out in vivid contrast. She had presented a dispassionate pose throughout the day, but when he’d looked closer he’d been able to see hints of the woman beneath. Though her face had remained impassive throughout the meeting with Ritter, there had been a slight twist to her mouth when the man had mentioned Cruz’s record with the department. Of course, he acknowledged silently, he wouldn’t have noticed that small hint of emotion if his attention hadn’t strayed, again and again, to those shapely lips.
He stared unseeingly at the empty beer bottle in his hand. He wouldn’t be happy about having any partner assigned to him, but the fact that this one was a woman didn’t have anything to do with his bias. He didn’t doubt his ability to concentrate on the case at hand, regardless of whom he worked with. He’d been accused in the past of having a one-track mind, and that was probably true, when it came to his work. Every case was like a jigsaw puzzle with just a jumble of pieces at the beginning, each clue, each piece of information to be joined to reconstruct the whole picture. His analytical mind enjoyed the challenge, his determination was the drive that solved most of his investigations. He’d also been at it long enough that he trusted his own instincts, and didn’t relish having to explain them to a partner. He hadn’t worked with one for any length of time since Connor.
His mouth kicked up at one corner. But if he was going to be saddled with one, he thought wickedly, it sure didn’t hurt that she was so easy on the eyes.
His gaze shifted to the couple on the couch across from him. When their heads moved closer together, Cruz felt an uncustomary stab of envy. He was damn happy for Connor’s good fortune in meeting Michele. It was a miracle that the other man had finally found a woman he trusted. And the way they’d met had seemed predestined. Michele worked as a child psychologist, but it wasn’t in her professional capacity that she had come to district headquarters to speak to Connor a year ago. They’d been investigating a rash of kidnappings in the area and Michele had information to give them, information revealed to her through her clairvoyant senses. Connor had fought believing her, and in her psychic dreams. But in the end it was Michele who had helped solve the case and save Connor’s life.
He didn’t begrudge his friend his wife, and Connor damn sure deserved some happiness. Cruz didn’t suffer from loneliness often. But occasionally with Connor and Michele, or watching his own parents who’d been married almost forty years, he experienced an indefinable yearning for… something. Something more.
He shook off the unfamiliar melancholy impatiently. His life was perfect just the way it was. He knew a lot of people, and his leisure time was as social as he wanted it. He’d never met a woman yet who couldn’t be forgotten easily when he became involved in a case. Most of the females of his acquaintance didn’t seem to mind waiting around until he had time for them again. And those who did mind weren’t missed.
Connor spoke then, interrupting his thoughts. “C’mon, Cruz, settle our argument. Michele still thinks of those little family discussions we get into at my parents as fights. Explain to her the dynamics of sibling conversation.”
“You’ll never understand,” Cruz told Michele patiently, “being an only child yourself. But there’s no such thing as arguing among brothers and sisters. It’s all the art of negotiation and compromise, and merely improves our communication abilities.” His eyes twinkled. “Surely you’ve read that in those child psychology texts of yours.”
“What I have read,” Michele replied dryly, “tells me that you two are full of it. You both just enjoy getting things stirred up and then sitting back to watch the fireworks.”
The men laughed. “I think she’s got your number,” Cruz told Connor, “although she’s completely wrong about me.”
“Yeah, right,” Connor retorted good-naturedly. “Can I get you another beer?”
Cruz shook his head and rose. “I think I’ll be heading home. I’ve got a new partner to break in tomorrow, remember?” He said goodbye to Michele and then Connor walked out to the porch with him.
“Don’t get too chummy with Madeline Casey,” his friend advised him. “Sounds like this could turn into a high-profile case. You don’t need any distractions.”
“Your concern is touching, but I can take care of myself,” Cruz responded. “Especially,” he added in a drawl, “where women are concerned.”
“Do not,” stressed Connor, staring hard at him, “start thinking of her as a woman. That would be your first mistake”
“Sorry, buddy.” Cruz slapped him on the shoulder and headed for the car. “But it would be impossible to think of her as anything else.”
Chapter 2
Madeline hurriedly scraped her long wet tresses back from her face with a wide-tooth comb. She winced as she hit a snarl, and rapidly braided the mass, pinning it up off her neck. She walked quickly out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, checking the clock to see if she had time for coffee. She grimaced when she saw the hour. A phone call from her father had upset her daily routine, and now she had just barely enough time to get to work. She didn’t like to hurry, not in anything. And she detested being late. She picked up the blazer that matched her navy slacks and slipped it on over her white blouse. Scooping up her purse, she found her keys and headed out the door.
As she drove toward the Southwest District headquarters she reflected upon that phone call. Her father had called to summon her-there was no other word for it, she thought darkly-to his home for dinner. She looked forward to their monthly dinners with the same anticipation she reserved for root canals, and had valiantly attempted to come up with a legitimate excuse to cry off, to no avail. People didn’t say no to city councilman Geoffrey Casey often. He didn’t allow it.
After thirty years of practice, the man could
make her feel guilty with a single word, or with one meaning-filled moment of silence. Even knowing she was being manipulated didn’t make it possible for her to turn those feelings off. It was easier to give in to the inevitable and try to prepare herself for the ordeal of spending an evening with him and get it over with.
Or that’s what she’d told herself. But after hanging up the phone she’d mentally berated herself for failing to stand up to him. Not for the first time she wished that she, like her older brother, had moved far away from Philadelphia. Not that Kevin had moved, exactly; fled would be a better word. If being Geoffrey Casey’s daughter was unpleasant, being his son was intolerable.
Madeline pushed aside thoughts of her family as she parked the car and strode toward the building that housed the Southwest District headquarters. She had left Martinez a message yesterday that she would meet him there. After inquiring about his whereabouts at the front desk, she made her way through the maze of desks and cabinets, and found him propped against the edge of his desk, talking to several other officers. One of the men noticed her first, and stopped in midsentence.
“Well, hello,” the officer greeted her in a drawl, his gaze sweeping her figure appreciatively. “Can I help you?”
Some women might enjoy having four men watch her approach with avid interest. Madeline wasn’t one of them. She ignored the look, and the suggestion in the man’s voice. “No.” She turned to look at Cruz. “Are you ready to go to work?”
“Sure,” he answered, a slight smile on his face. He noticed the other men’s curiosity and made introductions. “Madeline, meet Officers Brent, Nolan and Detective Ryan.” He indicated each man in turn. “Guys, this is Detective Sergeant Madeline Casey. She’s new to the district.” He allowed that to sink in before adding, “She’s also my new partner.”
“Yeah, right, partner in what, Martinez?” jeered Brent, the man who had greeted her. “This will be department business, won’t it, kids?”
