by Kylie Brant
“Did you get to the family dinner yesterday?” she asked with studied disinterest.
“Sure did. What did you do?”
“Not much.”
“Well, believe it or not, I spent much of the weekend on my knees.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Praying or begging?”
He laughed. “You have a wicked way of thinking, do you know that? I like that in a woman. Can’t you think of anything else I might have been doing? C’mon, Madeline, use your imagination.”
She did, and the images that floated through her mind gave her hot flashes. He was provocative just by being, damn him, and he knew it, too. “I can’t imagine,” she said indifferently, and he laughed again.
“I’ll have you know I was doing good deeds most of Saturday morning,” he informed her. “One of the tenants in the building where I live was moving out, so I helped him carry his things.”
“That wouldn’t have had you on your knees,” she blurted without thinking.
He grinned, amused that he’d caught her interest, despite her efforts to act otherwise. “No, that wouldn’t, would it?”
Their orders were placed in front of them, and he looked up from his grilled chicken breast to see her biting into a thick cheeseburger with huge enjoyment. “You’re a heart attack waiting to happen, lady,” he observed. And in more ways than one. When she’d shown up at work today wearing yet another jacket over tailored trousers, he’d been tempted to ask if she owned one of those in every color of the rainbow. But before eating, she’d slipped out of the cream-colored jacket and he was treated to the picture of her in a turquoise silk tank top, and the sight was impairing his ability to swallow.
Her arms were shapely and incredibly white. So was the skin above the rounded neckline of the top. When she put her sandwich down and reached for her glass, he was treated to the slightest hint of cleavage. He picked up his knife and fork and began sawing at his lunch with methodical precision. He needed something, anything, to take his mind off a mental picture of his own hand laid upon her chest. The contrast of his bronzed skin against her far fairer skin would be incredibly arousing. As a matter of fact, just imagining it was incredibly arousing, and he shifted uncomfortably on the stool. By sheer willpower he tried to push the flick of visual imagery from his mind and focus on eating. But somehow the simple process of chewing and swallowing wasn’t enough to keep teasing questions of what she looked like beneath that silky top from dancing across his mind. And when he heard her next words, sounding as if she were reading his every libidinous thought, he froze in the act of lifting the fork to his mouth.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”
Chapter 6
Cruz’s eyes went slowly, disbelievingly to hers. “What?” he croaked.
“Go ahead. Live dangerously,” she urged.
It seemed an eternity before his fantasy-filled brain correctly interpreted her meaning, and noticed the cheeseburger she was holding out to him. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “I think you’re the one living dangerously.” More dangerously than she knew, he thought grimly, because her words, on the heels of his very impure thoughts, were enough to incite a saint. Which he definitely wasn’t. “And I think it’s safe to say that you could tempt me very easily,” he added with blatant meaning. “But not with that cheeseburger.”
Madeline’s eyes, full of fun a moment ago, grew uncertain. She lowered the sandwich and reached for her glass of milk, her hand a little unsteady. What had caused such a drastic change in his mood? she wondered. One minute he was lecturing her about her eating habits and the next he was talking as if… well, as if food were the last thing on his mind. But surely he hadn’t meant his words to sound that way. Had he?
“When they haul you into the operating room to unclog your arteries, remind me to say ‘I told you so.’” He changed the subject purposely. The last thing he needed was to be sidetracked by his awareness of her. He was no longer certain he could keep that out of their partnership, but it would surely help if he could restrain his overactive imagination. He chewed reflectively. He’d never before had such a problem. He was a master at separating the different areas of his life into neat compartments and never letting them mix. No woman had been allowed to creep into his thoughts when he was working, and that made Madeline even more troublesome. It was impossible not to think of her when he was working by her side eight hours a day. But he was going to have to be sure that his thoughts of her pertained only to the case. A week ago he would have been positive that such a thing would be easy. Now he was not so certain.
He finished eating before Madeline did, and she knew it was because of the difficulty she was having swallowing. She was thankful when the meal was over because, although he seemed to have no problem reverting back to his usual carefree manner, it was hard for her to forget his words. But she must have mistaken his meaning. He didn’t seem bothered at all now, just slightly impatient as he waited for her to finish.
She rose. Cruz followed, and his gaze went to her plate. The lettuce and tomato that she’d taken off her sandwich were piled neatly in a corner of the otherwise empty dish.
“Don’t tell me,” he drawled. “You don’t eat red things, either.”
“I’m sure you can find more interesting things to worry about than what I eat,” she said. She would copy his indifferent manner if it killed her. But she was startled when, at the door, he turned to her and took her jacket out of her hands.
“Put this on,” he ordered brusquely. “It’s a little chilly outside.”
She allowed him to help her with the jacket and walked out the door, puzzling over his abrupt mood changes.
Madeline drove for the rest of the afternoon, at Cruz’s direction. Three times he ordered her to stop the car and they got out. Each time they talked to men who were unenthusiastic about their presence there. All of them professed to have reformed, swearing that they were currently living saintly lives. None admitted to having any information that would help the investigation.
The next few days were spent in much the same way. After several mornings of sifting through the pages of serial numbers, they admitted defeat. No match for the number of Stover’s gun could be found. Nor were they having any better luck following up Cruz’s idea in the afternoons. It seemed as if the case were leading them to one dead end after another, and that made suspicion bloom in Madeline’s mind.
Was Cruz doing this purposely? The people they’d talked to were small-time, and none of them admitted to hearing of any AK-47s being sold on the streets. She had to wonder if this was just a wild-goose chase Cruz was leading her on; something that wasted a lot of time and energy, but brought them no closer to the supplier. It was what she would do if she was involved in the deal-come up with ideas that led the investigation farther away from her.
Her suspicions were strong enough that on two nights she left headquarters, and drove directly to the Internal Affairs building. She spent hours poring over her data bases, bringing up the names of people in the area who’d been convicted for selling guns illegally. She eliminated those whose addresses were no longer in the Philadelphia area, and those still in jail. When she’d finished, she had a list of several names. Madeline was bemused to note that many of the names matched those of the people Cruz had found for them to talk to. But when she crossed them off the list there were still a few individuals she hadn’t heard Cruz mention.
She studied the information she could find on each of the people on the list, and finally decided that their best bet would be to check on one Jose Valdez. He had twelve arrests and nine convictions, all on charges ranging from illegal sales to possession of firearms. She decided to wait and see if Cruz would mention him.
Because if he didn’t, she would.
By midweek their search had yielded no results. Madeline frowned slightly as they pulled away from the last man they’d talked to. The similarity was a red flag to her. Things didn’t stay that quiet on the streets. There were
always people on the fringes, uninvolved but aware of everything that occurred. It was impossible for everyone they talked to to be ignorant of the gun sales. If gang members could get their hands on the weapons, the word had to be out there.
Which left a couple of possibilities. Either their hunch was wrong, and no one dealer was supplying the punks with those guns, or the supplier was someone so powerful that the thought of crossing him had scared everyone into keeping quiet.
She immediately discounted the first possibility. She didn’t believe in coincidence. Those gangs hadn’t all chosen the exact same kind of weapon by chance. So that left the second choice. An interesting idea, but it didn’t help pinpoint the supplier’s identity. There were numerous underworld toughs whose names alone would be enough to strike terror on the street. It could be any one of them. Or none of them.
It could even be… Her eyes slid to the man next to her. It was time, she thought, for her to change the course of this investigation. Cruz obviously wasn’t going to mention finding Valdez. Either he didn’t know of the man or he didn’t want her talking to him. So she would mention him, and closely observe Cruz’s reaction.
But before she could carry out that plan, he spoke. “Maybe we’ve been going about this all wrong.”
For a moment she wondered if he’d read her mind. “How do you mean?” she asked cautiously.
His face was pensive. “Maybe we’ve been approaching this too directly. If the supplier isn’t an unknown on the street, he could be someone no one is willing to tangle with.”
His thoughts so closely paralleled her own that Madeline was shocked. Finally she said, “You mean it could be someone people fear too much to cross?”
“Exactly. Let’s change our tactics. We’re going to have to be a bit more discreet in our inquiries. If our hunch is right, no one is going to talk to us unless they feel safe. We have to arrange to get the information from someone who won’t be afraid to risk his safety.”
“Do you have anyone in mind?”
“Maybe. I know of a snitch, Tommy Grady, who I’ve used occasionally. I think it’s time to check in with him.”
That name hadn’t appeared on the computer screen. “Has he been involved in arms sales before?” she asked.
“Nothing that big. Although he’ll go to great lengths to get enough money for a bottle, he’s mostly small-time. Been convicted a couple of times for breaking and entering.” He looked across the seat at her. “Want to go for it?”
“Sure,” she agreed, and settled back as he began to drive. She’d wait a little longer.
Cruz drove for several minutes before pulling over at a newspaper stand outside a hotel that had seen better days. He got out of the car, and she followed. She watched as he selected a paper and paid the vendor for it. As the money exchanged hands, she heard him murmur to the vendor, “Tell Tommy that Martinez is looking for him.”
The man gave no indication that he’d heard the words, and they got back in the car and drove off. “How do you know he’ll get the word to the snitch?” Madeline demanded.
“Turn around.”
She stared at him for a moment, then obeyed. She saw a youngster of about eight wearing ragged jeans and no shirt running down the sidewalk, away from the newspaper stand. She turned back. Cruz was watching in the rearview mirror. “The kid will get Tommy. All we have to do is wait for a while and give him enough time to find us.”
After driving aimlessly for over an hour, Cruz stopped at a convenience store and bought two ice-cream cones. He left the car in the parking lot and steered Madeline across the street, to a small, unkempt-looking park. It was little more than a square of patchy grass with a few broken benches scattered around it. Several children were playing in the area. There was no playground or equipment, but she noticed a game of stickball and another of soccer going on.
They walked in a seemingly desultory fashion, and then stopped at a huge oak tree. Cruz sat beneath it, propping himself against its trunk. “You may as well sit down,” he invited. “I don’t know how long Tommy will be.”
Madeline sat next to him, after first inspecting the area for insects. “How do you even know he’ll come?”
“He always does,” he answered, his eyes squinting as he looked across the park into the bright sunlight. “He’ll do anything for money.”
“If he’s that motivated to get paid, you can’t be sure that the information he gives you will be accurate,” she observed.
“Yes, I can.” He mocked her words. “Because he gets most of the money after I check out the information he gives me. Give me a little credit, Madeline. I’ve been around long enough to know how to work a snitch.”
She subsided and they sat in silence for a while. The breeze was cool beneath the shade, but pleasantly so. She finished her ice-cream cone and stifled a yawn. If Tommy didn’t show soon, she was afraid she’d fall asleep. Cruz looked as if he had already. His head was leaning back against the tree, and his chest was rising and falling evenly. She didn’t say anything about it, though. She’d learned that he took every available opportunity to rest, but his peacefulness was a sham. He always stayed very much aware of what was happening around him.
When a voice spoke from the other side of the tree, it was she, not Cruz, who started violently. Cruz merely opened his eyes and said, “Hi, Tommy.”
“Hey, Martinez, what you got for me, huh?”
Madeline studied the man who’d just moved in front of her. It was easy to see that the ravages of alcohol had taken their toll on him. He had a broad face, but it was puffy, and his nose, which looked as though it had been broken more than once, was crisscrossed with a tiny network of red veins. There were pouches under his eyes, and his hands shook as he attempted to take out a cigarette and light it. He squinted at the two of them through the smoke.
“How’ve you been?” Cruz’s tone was friendly as he got to his feet. Madeline followed suit.
“Fine, great, I really need some money, though, you know? I’ve got some things to take care of.”
Cruz was sure that Tommy most wanted to take care of his next drink, but he pressed a folded-up bill into his hand.
The man pocketed it in one sure motion, and Madeline blinked. As shaky as his hands had seemed a moment ago, the bill had disappeared with a surprisingly smooth movement.
“That ain’t enough,” the man mumbled, looking furtively to the right and left of them. “You know that ain’t enough.”
“You get the rest of it if you can tell me something that helps me out, just like always.”
“It ain’t enough for what you want to know, though,” the man argued. “A guy could get killed telling you what you want to know.”
Cruz’s gaze narrowed. “And you’re certain you know what information I’m looking for?”
“Sure I do,” Tommy bragged. He took short, quick draws on his cigarette. “I heard you been asking around about who’s been putting those fancy assault guns on the streets. Heard no one’s been talking, either.”
“You hear a lot,” Madeline observed.
“Enough to tell you who you should be alter,” he affirmed. His eyes continually darted from side to side. He ground his cigarette out beneath his heel and lit another one. “Enough to know I’d be crazy to be seen talking to you for less than a thousand bucks.”
Madeline’s eyes widened, but Cruz just laughed. “Get real, Tommy. You know that isn’t going to happen. You’ll get the same as always.”
The man wheedled, “C’mon, Martinez, this name you want, it’s the real thing. I’m going to have to lay low for a while, just to stay safe. What if someone sees us talking? Did you ever wonder why no one else on the street would say a word? They ain’t crazy. Me, I’m crazy enough to help you out, but you gotta make it worth my while.”
Craziness didn’t enter into it, Cruz knew. Desperation was more like it. Tommy would sell his grandmother for the sake of a drink. “We’ll see,” he said skeptically. He handed the man a couple more bill
s, and they vanished with the same speed as the first. “You aren’t getting any more until after I check out what you tell me. So what do you have?”
Tommy looked around nervously once more. He leaned closer and lowered his voice, although there was no one within two hunched yards of them. “You talked to a lot of people. Have you talked to Jose Valdez yet?”
Cruz pulled out his notebook and wrote the name down. “Who is he?”
“He served time in prison nine different times, all on firearm charges,” Madeline answered. “He’s been out for eight months.”
Both men looked at her in surprise. Cruz didn’t look pleased at her knowledge. He shot her a hard look before turning his gaze back to Tommy. “Where can we find him?”
Tommy mentioned a few places the man might be found, adding, “I don’t know where he lives or nothing.”
“Don’t worry,” Cruz answered dryly, “I’m sure Detective Casey can help me out with that.”
“Remember, you owe me, Martinez.” The second cigarette was snuffed out under Tommy’s well-worn sneaker.
“We’ll see.”
Without further words Tommy backed away, and then melted into the trees.
Cruz and Madeline walked through the park toward their car, which was parked across the street. “Would you mind telling me how you knew about Valdez?” he asked.
She recounted her research, choosing her words carefully to avoid telling him what had motivated her to look up the names in the first place.
“When were you going to tell me about this?” he asked tersely, and she looked at him warily. He seemed angry at this latest bit of news. His long legs were crossing the street in long strides. She wondered if it was because she hadn’t told him about the work she’d done on her own or if it stemmed from another, more ominous reason.
“Eventually.” She finally answered his terse question. “Once you were out of ideas of your own.”
