by Kylie Brant
That didn’t turn out to be the case. When they reentered the room Powell brusquely informed them, “My client has no knowledge of the shootings you mentioned. And he isn’t going to answer any more of your questions. If you manage to work something out with the D.A., he might have some information of interest to you regarding the person who sold him the gun.”
Officer Lee escorted Stover back to his cell, and Madeline and Cruz walked out.
“How much pull do you have with Brad Jacobs, the D.A.?” she asked.
Cruz shook his head as he guessed her reason for asking. “None, and even if I had some, it wouldn’t be enough to convince Jacobs to give up a high-profile, sure conviction just to help our investigation.”
“Maybe he would,” Madeline argued. “After all, if Stover could help us nail the supplier, that would be an even bigger fish for Jacobs to prosecute.”
“The operative word here is ‘if.’ But if you want to give it a shot, I’ll talk to Ritter about suggesting it to him.”
They were moving through the station house now, and both were intent on their discussion. Madeline didn’t even notice a man standing nearby until she heard him call out, “Hey, Romeo.” Cruz didn’t miss a stride, although she turned her head to look at the man curiously.
“Martinez! I’m talking to you.” The man stepped in front of them, halting their progress.
“What do you want?” Cruz’s voice was emotionless.
The man Cruz addressed smirked. He was almost as tall as Cruz, and his thin brown hair was slicked back. “You weren’t going to leave here without saying hi to your old buddy, were you, Detective?”
Madeline’s eyes bounced back and forth between the two men, mystified. Something was going on here; the undercurrents of animosity were evident.
Cruz said sardonically, “Yeah, sure, buddy, how you doing? Shoot anybody lately?”
The other man’s smile slipped a notch. “Nobody who didn’t deserve it. But then, I never did shoot anyone who didn’t deserve it, did I?”
Cruz struck so quickly that Madeline didn’t even see him move. One minute he was standing motionless beside her, the next he had the man by the shirt, pushed up against a nearby wall. “Stay out of my face, Baker,” he said in a soft but deadly tone, “or I’ll rearrange yours.”
A long second crawled by. Baker must have sensed the same danger that Madeline could feel emanating from Cruz, because he kept his mouth shut. Slowly Cruz loosened his grip and moved away.
When they were a safe distance from him, Baker called after them loudly, “Better watch that temper of yours, Pretty Boy. It wouldn’t look good for you to get hauled in on assault charges so soon after your promotion. People might get the wrong idea. Or should I say, the right idea?”
Madeline started to turn once more to look at the man, but Cruz grasped her elbow, guiding her inexorably through the maze of desks and out the front door. Once outside she pulled free. He walked quickly down the steps toward the car. She followed more slowly, trying to assimilate this new facet of his personality. She knew as well as anyone that a person couldn’t be judged by surface charm. Duress always brought out well-hidden, sometimes darker sides of their personalities. But even knowing that, she couldn’t help but be stunned by the suddenness of his fury. There was much, much more to this man than his easy manner and glib charm would suggest.
She got into the car and adjusted her seat belt. Cruz threw one arm across the back of the seat and turned his head to back out of the parking place. His gaze met hers.
“Friend of yours?” she asked blandly.
His face was expressionless. “Yeah, we’re real close.”
“Who is he?”
She didn’t think he was going to answer, he was silent so long. Finally he replied, “Detective Gerald Baker.”
Madeline realized she’d just witnessed firsthand the reason for his initial reluctance to interrogate Stover. He must have known Baker was stationed here, and wanted to avoid the possibility of encountering him. The preliminary file she’d read on Martinez had included the reason for his animosity toward the man. But he would expect her to wonder about the scene she’d witnessed, so she asked, “How do you explain Baker’s devotion to you? Did you donate a kidney for him or something?”
One side of his mouth quirked. “Or something,” Cruz agreed as he navigated the car through the congested downtown traffic. “He shot me.”
Her stomach clenched at the terse words, despite her prior knowledge of the incident.
Cruz explained, “I was working undercover at the time. Baker was with the transit police then. I’d busted a white-collar drug ring operating out of a train terminal, but one of the perps took off. I chased him through the building and I saw Detective Wondercop. I identified myself as a police officer, but he ordered me to stop. When I continued the chase, he shot me. The perp,” he added wryly, “got away.”
“So… he thought you were a crook?” Madeline had no doubt that, undercover, Cruz Martinez could look like a very dangerous customer indeed.
His mouth twisted. “So he claimed. And Internal Affairs cleared him of any wrongdoing. They called it a ‘clean shoot.’” He laughed without amusement. “A clean shoot. Imagine hearing that after you’ve had two surgeries to repair the damage he did.”
“They must have believed him.” She defended the bureau’s decision automatically.
“Oh, I’m sure they did.” His tone was mocking. “He was damn convincing. You can be certain they never saw the side of him we just had the privilege of observing. I.A. didn’t want to consider the truth of the matter, though-that the reason Baker shot me was because a Hispanic was chasing after a well-dressed Caucasian. I mean, what could look more suspicious, right?”
She was uncomfortable in the face of his charge of prejudice. “Well, I’m sure it seems that way to you, but it is the department’s job to remain objective…”
He gave a snort. “Objective? Let me tell you something, Detective Casey. There’s nothing objective about having two bullets removed from your leg. Or having one crease the side of your skull. I suppose I should be grateful that Baker is a damn poor shot, as well as a bigot, or I’d be taking a dirt nap right now.”
Her stomach, normally not the least bit queasy, turned over at his words. “Is that why you quit undercover work?”
“That was a big part of it,” he affirmed. Undercover he’d often worked alone, and he’d accepted the risk he took in his work. It had seemed a fair exchange for being able to get some of the garbage off the street. But after the shooting he’d had to face the fact that cops like Baker were at least as dangerous to him as the dirt bags he’d been investigating. He couldn’t do his job constantly looking over his shoulder, and what he despised Baker for the most was taking away any real choice Cruz should have had about his career.
They rode silently for a time, engrossed in their own thoughts. Madeline looked up after several minutes and said, “The turn you want is right ahead.”
“Naw, it’s the next one.”
“I’m telling you, Martinez, this corner is where you should… have turned,” she ended as they passed the corner in question.
“Don’t worry,” he said patiently. “I did the driving on the way over, remember? I know which way we came, and this next corner is the one we take.”
Madeline threw him an impatient glance but sat back to wait. Cruz took several more turns, and they ended up in a dilapidated neighborhood she didn’t recognize. He stopped the car, pulled a map of the city out from under the seat and studied it.
“Very scenic,” she drawled. “I guess this means we’re skipping lunch.”
A grunt was her only answer as he wadded up the map and shoved it beneath the seat again. As he began backtracking, Madeline said mildly, “One thing you need to learn about me, Martinez.” She paused a heartbeat. “I’m never wrong.”
He spared her barely a glance. “One of your most endearing qualities, I’m sure.”
She allow
ed herself a tiny smile. He sounded positively ill-humored, and something told her that that was rare for him.
Once back at Cruz’s desk, they planned the next step of their strategy. “You’re going to talk to Ritter about going to the D.A., right?” she asked.
“First thing in the morning,” he promised. “And I’ll let Ryan know what went on today. My cases were reassigned to him. He may want to follow a possible link between Stover and the drive-by shootings. In the meantime, since we followed your hunch today, tomorrow we’ll follow mine.”
Madeline eyed him curiously. “Which is?”
“Ramsey Elliot is due to be released from the hospital soon. Since he was the first of the Lords to be shot, I think we need to concentrate on him, and on the rest of the gang, to see if we can get a feel for which way they’re beaded.”
“They’ll retaliate.”
Cruz nodded at her statement. “I’d be surprised if they didn’t. And I’d love to know if they’ve already gotten their hands on the weapon of choice, or whether they’re currently dealing on one.”
“If they haven’t gotten it yet, we may be in time to track down the supplier as they deal on one,” Madeline said hopefully.
Cruz raised his eyebrows. “Wishful thinking, I’m afraid, Maddy, my girl.”
“Do not-”
“Call you Maddy,” he finished in unison with her.
She glared at him, but the look of amusement on that handsome bronze face was hard to resist. “Martinez, I have the feeling that you are one hell of a pest.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And I have the feeling that you are one hell of a…”
“Yes?” she prompted when he didn’t finish.
Distraction. But perhaps it wouldn’t be wise for him to admit that to her. Instead he improvised. “Detective.” He finished the sentence. “Especially if your sense for police work is as good as your sense of direction.”
They made arrangements to meet the next day, and Madeline left. Other than the incident with Baker, she had little to put in her report to Brewer. And of course her boss already knew about the Internal Affairs investigation that had cleared Baker of any wrongdoing. No doubt the incident was another reason Martinez was under suspicion right now. Aside from the fact that he had been one of the five detectives investigating a crime related to the AK-47s, he also had reason to be carrying a major grudge against the department. To outward appearances, that didn’t seem to be the case, of course. He had continued his work, had even started moving up the ranks of officer. But she couldn’t shake her uneasiness as she remembered Cruz’s abrupt switch of moods when dealing with the other man.
How deep did his animosity toward Baker run? Deep enough to include the department because they’d sided with him? One thing she’d learned about Martinez today-he had a ruthless streak that she never would have suspected. She still wondered how deep that streak ran.
And whether he was ruthless enough to be involved in trading lives for cash.
Chapter 3
Madeline left her car in the long circular driveway in front of her father’s house. As she approached the luxurious brick home she didn’t even notice the flawlessly manicured lawn and neatly trimmed shrubs. Perfection was something Geoffrey Casey demanded; he would accept nothing less. She let herself in the front door and headed to the study.
As expected, she found him seated behind his walnut desk in the darkly paneled room. She crossed the plush Oriental carpet, and he rose, looking pointedly at his watch. From long experience Madeline ignored his silent disapproval. She knew she was on time for dinner, just as she was aware that he liked to enjoy a leisurely cocktail a half hour prior to dining. It was her custom to skip that part of the evening if she could.
“Father,” she murmured, kissing his cheek perfunctorily. “How have you been?”
“Busy, as usual. You’re looking well, Madeline. It’s a shame we can’t manage to see each other more often than our monthly dinners.”
Mentally disagreeing, she said, “Well, with our schedules, I guess we’ll have to take what we can get.”
“You’re too late to join me for a drink,” he continued. “I’m sure the cook has dinner ready.”
Together they walked to the dining room. Madeline had never been able to understand why her father insisted on dining every night in the coldly elegant room, at a table that could easily seat twelve. But then the thought of him eating in the kitchen, or anywhere less formal than one of his many clubs, was equally incongruous. Geoffrey Casey was one of those people whom Madeline couldn’t imagine doing any of a number of routine things in the course of a day.
They made small talk as the cook entered the room wheeling a cart. She began removing the steaming dishes from it and setting them on the table. Geoffrey abruptly fell into silence at her arrival, but Madeline smiled warmly at the woman serving them.
“Jenny, everything smells wonderful, as usual.”
The short, dark-haired woman threw her a quick smile, never pausing in her work. “You were never a tough one to please, Miss Madeline, but thanks, anyway.”
“How’s Bob?” Madeline inquired solicitously about the woman’s husband.
“Last doctor visit he got a clean bill of health. The doctor said there’s a little permanent damage to his heart, but he’ll be back on his feet in no time.”
“Tell him I said hello, and to take care of himself.”
“I’ll do that, miss.” The cook shot a wary glance at Geoffrey, who was eyeing her coldly. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
He waved a hand, dismissing her. “That will be all, Mrs. Parks. We’ll call you if we need anything.” The cook disappeared through the kitchen door. He waited until she was out of earshot before saying disapprovingly, “Really, Madeline, I would think that by now I would no longer have to remind you about engaging in banal conversations with the hired help. You’ve been taught better and it’s most unbecoming for you to treat them as-”
“As human beings?” Madeline finished for him in a tight voice.
He frowned at her interruption. “You know perfectly well what I mean. There’s no need to be disrespectful.”
She mentally began to count to one thousand, striving to hold on to her rapidly escalating temper. She knew from experience that arguing with her father never did any good. He detested what he referred to as emotional outbursts, and she suspected that what he really hated was emotion, period. Every word he uttered was delivered in the same smooth, level tone Anger, joy, frustration-it didn’t matter. His expression rarely altered, his voice never rose.
Where had she come from? Certainly not from this frigidly proper man Nor could she see much resemblance to Lorraine Casey, her mother, who’d been killed in a car accident when Madeline was a teenager. Her mother had been blond and beautiful, as proper and devoid of feeling as her husband. Always concerned with appearances, she’d never made a move without first weighing its possible effect on her husband’s career.
They certainly had gotten more than they bargained for in Madeline. She had been a squalling baby with a shock of red hair and a temper to match. The Caseys must have doubted that they’d been given the correct infant at the hospital. Even worse, a severe case of asthma had made it impossible for her to be packed off to a boarding school, as her brother, Kevin, had been. No, they’d been forced to keep Madeline at home with them, had to deal with her childish chatter and deplorable manners. Almost every word she could remember either parent directing at her when she was growing up was in the form of a command or a reprimand. She would have grown up thinking that hers was a normal family if it hadn’t been for the people hired to run the household, such as Mrs. Parks. The occasional glimpses she’d had into their homes had shown her otherwise.
A huge genetic mistake, that’s what she was. She was no longer a child, but she knew her reactions to her father were firmly based in the roots of her childhood. She had grown accustomed to masking her emotions in his presence, or at least m
aking the attempt. The only way her father would listen to her was if she could remain as cool and calm as he did.
Not that he made a habit of listening to her. Geoffrey Casey had never lost his aptitude for engineering everything and everybody around him to suit himself, his daughter included. She’d made it her life’s work to not be manipulated by him, but it was grueling going sometimes.
“I understand you’ve been assigned to a new case.” Her father interrupted her thoughts.
Madeline could feel herself bracing for what was to come. One reason she avoided him was that he insisted on making her business his own. He wouldn’t ask what she was working on like other fathers. He would use his contacts through the city to make it his business to know. And since he’d spent nearly twenty years on the city council, his contacts were numerous. Then he would proceed to instruct her on the best way to handle her case, and herself, until she was ready to scream.
I will not do this, she promised herself. No matter what he says, I will not be sarcastic. She answered cautiously, “Yes, I’m investigating an arms supplier.”
Her father nodded, as if he already knew. “So I hear. Brewer assigned this case to you?”
“Yes.”
He nodded again, chewing reflectively. “You’ve been paired with a Cruz Martinez for the duration of the case?”
She gritted her teeth. His information was accurate, as always. “Yes.”
“What’s he like?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Why, do you know him?”
“It’s impolite to answer a question with another question,” he admonished her. “But, no, of course I don’t know him. That’s why I asked you.”
She shrugged, knowing the casual gesture would annoy him. “He’s all right, I guess.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to link him to the gun sales?”
Madeline froze in the act of raising her fork to her lips. Then slowly she replaced it on her plate. “Where,” she asked in carefully measured words, “did you get that information?”
He waved her question away nonchalantly. “I have my sources, Madeline, you know that. Now, please answer my question.”
