by Kylie Brant
“Believe whatever you want, Martinez,” she invited breezily, returning her gaze to the scenery flying by.
“Oh, I will,” he said with certainty. “And I believe that right now it’s killing you. It’s eating you alive. You want to drive this car so badly you can’t stand it.”
“Pay attention to the traffic,” she instructed him, and deliberately changed the subject. “You never told me where we’re going.”
“The usual places Cantoney hangs out. First we’ll look at his apartment, though. With any luck he’ll still be sleeping off the effects of last night. I suspect that the Lords have been trying to establish drug turf. Their attempts probably sparked the shooting of Ramsey. The gang was more penny-ante until Cantoney became involved with them. He’s got a taste for the stuff himself, and a few of the members have recently been nailed for possession with intent to deliver.”
“That’s why you think the real target of the shooting was Cantoney.”
Cruz nodded. “Fastest way to take out the competition would be to get rid of the brains of the operation. A hit like that would be difficult for the Lords to recover from quickly. From what I know of them, they don’t have much of a chain of command. Cantoney’s ego is too big to allow any of the other members to have much say. Makes him king of the hill, but if he’s out of the picture, the Lords would be fighting among themselves for control, and then the new leader would have to reestablish drag contacts. Yeah, if someone were to get rid of Cantoney, the Lords wouldn’t be a threat for some time.”
They rode in silence for a while before Cruz reached to turn on the radio. He glanced at Madeline, fully expecting her to protest when a country song filled the air. Surprisingly, she didn’t.
After a moment she asked nonchalantly, “Who sings this song?”
He thought for a moment. “Keith Urban.”
“No way. You’ve forced me to listen to this stuff enough now that even I know it isn’t Keith Urban. I think it’s Brantley Gilbert.”
“Who’s the expert on country music in this car, you or me?” he inquired. “I’m telling you I’m sure it’s a new one by Urban.”
Her head turned slowly to pin him with a gaze. “Care to make a little wager on that, Martinez?”
He caught on quickly, his face becoming instantly wary. “What kind of wager?”
“On the identity of the singer. If I’m right,” she said, grinning wickedly, “I get to drive your car all the way back to my apartment.” She almost laughed at the expression of terror that crossed his face. “If you’re right…” She shrugged.
“If I’m right, what?”
“You name your prize,” she suggested ingenuously. She cast him a sidelong gaze. What he might come up with if he won didn’t bear thinking about, but she wasn’t going to have to worry about it. She knew she was right.
Cruz thought quickly. There was no way, under the circumstances, that Madeline was getting behind the wheel of his car. Unless, of course, she was sitting on his lap. Both possibilities were equally unlikely. She might have an incredible sense of direction. Her memory might soak up every bit of information she absorbed from her cases and research. But he doubted very much that she’d even listened to a country song before they’d become partners. He sent her a speculative glance.
“I can name anything I want if I win?”
“Anything. But that’s an awfully big if, Detective. You don’t seem all that sure of yourself.”
He swiftly calculated the odds. He couldn’t lose this bet. Madeline Casey had grown entirely too sure of herself. For once she was going to be proven wrong. He was going to prove her wrong. And then he was going to torture her by letting her wonder for a long, long time just what prize he would choose. His mouth curled in anticipation. All the possibilities were too much to resist.
“You’re on,” he told her smugly. “But don’t worry. I’m a very gracious winner.”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” she replied calmly. “But you should be,
He shook his head at her self-assurance. But his disbelief quickly became chagrin when she brought out her cell phone and brought up the Soundhound app. Smiling smugly, she held the screen out for him to read. “Brantley Gilbert,” he croaked. “How the hell did you know that?”
“We heard it once last week.”
“One time? You’ve never listened to the music before, you don’t know any of the singers, and you hear the blasted song one time and remember who sings it?” he demanded incredulously.
She lifted a shoulder. “I can’t help it, it’s a gift.”
He muttered something in Spanish that sounded suspiciously like a string of curses.
She raised her eyebrows. “Want to go for two out of three?”
He shook his head ruefully. “I can’t afford to. Somehow I think I’d end up owing you my first-born.”
“Now why do I have the feeling that letting me drive your car is even more of a sacrifice for you?”
He aimed an aggrieved stare at her. “You’re dangerous. Your memory ought to be outlawed. I’m surprised you aren’t making your fortune counting cards in Vegas.”
“Outwitting you is a lot easier. Why didn’t you tell me you were such a poor loser?”
The remainder of the trip passed with Cruz trying to wheedle her into accepting another prize. “What would I want with a pair of your boots?” she asked once of one of his offers.
“You could use them to kick me the next time I walk into one of your traps,” he suggested disgustedly.
When the car pulled up to Cantoney’s address, Madeline whistled. “Nice neighborhood. How does he explain his ability to live in a place like this to his parole officer?”
“He probably claims he’s living with friends. Maybe he is. But he’s in something dirty up to his neck, you can bet on that,” Cruz said grimly.
They heard voices from the hallway even as they walked up to Cantoney’s door. The voices ceased when they knocked on the door. During the next few moments of silence Madeline knew they were being observed through the peephole on the door. “Detectives Martinez and Casey,” she called. “We’re here to speak to Dirk Cantoney.”
A full minute passed before the door swung open. Cantoney himself appeared. “Well, what a surprise. Look, men, it’s the poleece,” he said in an exaggerated drawl. “I’ll bet they’ve come to tell us they caught the guy that shot Ramsey.”
Cruz looked over Cantoney’s shoulder into the room beyond. Several Lords members were seated or standing in the area. “Hi, Ramsey,” he said evenly. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
The boy stared back at Cruz, saying nothing.
Cantoney spoke again. “You’ll have to make it quick, Detectives. We’re busy.”
Cruz reached into his pocket, extracted the picture of Valdez and held it out. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
Madeline watched Cantoney’s face carefully, but it revealed nothing. He looked expressionlessly at the photo, and then back at Cruz. “Can’t say I have. Why? Is he the shooter?”
“His name is Jose Valdez. We’re not sure what his connection to this case is,” Madeline inserted smoothly. “Maybe one of your guests will recognize him.” For a moment she thought Cantoney would refuse, but finally he reached for the picture and handed it to one of the young men in the room.
“That the best you can do, Martinez?” Cantoney asked disparagingly. “Bring us a pretty picture of someone who might have something to do with the shooting?”
“Think you could do better, Dirk?” Cruz asked him softly.
“Man, I know I could,” Cantoney retorted. “Another one of my friends could be shot before you find out anything.”
Madeline’s attention was divided between listening to their exchange and watching the faces of those who looked at the picture. She was disappointed, however. None exhibited any emotion at all when looking at it. Then one gang member exclaimed excitedly, “Hey! I think I know this dude!” Into the silence that accompanied his outbu
rst, he added, “Yeah, I think it’s my mama’s ol’ man.” Laughter filled the room and another grabbed the picture. “No, it ain’t. It’s my fourth-grade teacher.”
“Naw, it looks like my probation officer.”
The photo was handed back to Cantoney, who turned to face the detectives again. “Sorry. Guess you’re on your own. Show yourselves out. We’ve got to get back to work.”
“Just what work would that be, Mr. Cantoney?”
The man’s pointed look was chilling. “We’re involved in some charity work, Detective Casey. Getting poor youngsters off the streets.” An outburst of laughter from the room accompanied his words, and the door shut in their faces.
They were silent until they left the building. “Another dead end,” Cruz remarked dourly. “Did you catch that little dig about charity work?”
She had. “Taking poor youngsters off the street? If I had a suspicious mind, that would sound to me like he meant getting rid of one particular person for good.”
“He was referring to his plan to retaliate for the shooting. Bastard. He’s so cocky he practically came right out and told us what he was going to do.”
“What’s he been waiting for? Is it taking Cantoney this long to get his hands on the weapon of choice?”
“Could be. Or maybe it’s taking him this long to come up with a way to shoot down a rival gang leader without landing himself back in prison.”
“We’ve been pretty visible,” Madeline agreed. “He’s got to know that we suspect what he’s planning. So we can figure that however he strikes back at the other gang, Dirk Cantoney will have an iron-tight alibi.”
As they walked from the building and toward the car, Cruz took the keys from his pocket and reached for the door handle of the driver’s side.
Madeline’s hand got there first. When their eyes met, she said, “Aren’t you forgetting something, Martinez?”
Her question hung in the air between them. “What?” he asked, stalling.
“This.” She snatched the keys away and pushed him lightly. “I’ll take it from here.”
At any other time, under any other circumstances, Cruz would be delighted by that wicked gleam in her eye. It would bring about all sorts of fascinating fantasies about just how wicked, given the right provocation, she could be. But right now it drove his heart right down to the level of his boots. “Ah, c’mon, Madeline. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you? After the disappointment we just had? I can’t tolerate any more stress today.”
His attempt to play on her pity didn’t sway her. “Move aside and I won’t have to give you any.”
“It doesn’t have to be right now, though, does it? You could drive the car some other time, I promise. Let’s just put this off for a while.”
Madeline opened the door while he pleaded, buckled herself in and adjusted the seat. “Are you walking or riding?” It wasn’t until she turned on the ignition that he hurried. He almost sprinted to the passenger door and got in.
“You are merciless, do you know that?”
She grinned. “And you’re a big baby.”
The tires shrieked lightly as she pulled away from the curb, causing him to wince. “Take it easy,” he muttered, as anxious as a new mother. “This is a valuable piece of machinery. It’s not a police car.”
“I can tell. It’s a lot cleaner.”
Casting a glance at him, she was amused to note that his face had turned two shades lighter than normal. He was grasping the dash with clenched knuckles. As she turned onto the freeway, he didn’t relax a bit. If anything, he got even more uptight.
“Careful there. Look out for that car. Are you watching that semi? Slow down, for Pete’s sake!”
“I’m barely driving the speed limit,” she protested. She almost felt sorry for him. He looked downright ashen, and his knuckles were white. But his annoying directives didn’t make her feel particularly patient. In fact, they made her want to do something cruel. And take the long way home doing it.
“How fast did you say this car could go?”
He actually shuddered at the question. “Forty-five. Fifty-five, tops. Definitely no faster than fifty-five.”
“You’re kidding!” she said in mock amazement. “I would have bet that it would go ninety, easy.”
“Don’t even think about it,” he said through clenched teeth.
Her foot pressed down more firmly on the accelerator and the powerful car responded immediately. A delighted grin spread across her face.
“You’re truly an evil woman, do you know that?”
A laugh was her only response, and he grasped the dash more tightly. Wouldn’t you just know it? The first time he got to see Madeline Casey as loosened up as he’d always fantasized, she was behind the wheel of his precious car, doing twenty over the speed limit, putting him in the throes of cardiac arrest.
Someone up there, he thought darkly, had a hell of a sense of humor.
Chapter 10
Madeline snuggled more deeply into the soft, comfortable bed, a slight smile tilting her lips. She was having a wonderful dream, one from which she had no desire to awaken. She was driving Cruz’s car again, doing one hundred miles an hour, and he was pleading with her to slow down. Getting the upper hand over Cruz had been delicious, and reliving it in her sleep was almost as good.
Her bed moved then, and she frowned a little, her eyes fluttering open. There was Cruz, next to her, just as in the dream. Her eyes drifted shut again. After a long moment they snapped open. She stared hard at the man beside her, and then past him. This didn’t look like the inside of his car, this looked like her bedroom. Her eyes opened wider. It was her bedroom!
She sat up straight in bed, pulling the sheet with her protectively. It would only reach halfway up her chest. The rest was snagged beneath his jean-clad hips.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?” she demanded incredulously. She was still reeling from how easily he’d moved from her dream to her side. “How did you get in here? What do you want? Get out!”
His firm mouth curved at the way the words tumbled from her mouth. “You’re grumpy in the morning,” he observed. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Not that it will be morning much longer. It’s almost noon. As to how I got in…”
“Ariel,” she finished with him simultaneously. Her hand went to her forehead. Somehow she’d known that allowing her friend to badger her into giving her a spare key would cause only grief. She’d agreed to do so to guard against an emergency. But what was the prospect of an emergency compared to the possibility that Ariel would let a man into Madeline’s apartment? Especially this man!
“Yeah, she heard me knocking and informed me that you always sleep late on Sundays. But she was very accommodating.”
“I’ll bet,” Madeline muttered. She pulled ineffectually at the sheet again. “Would you please get up?”
Cruz rose to his feet and she snatched the sheet to her chin. “Now that I’ve got you moving, keep going until you’re out the door. And don’t come back.”
Now that she mentioned it, the idea of leaving her bedroom did have some merit. At least, if he wasn’t going to be involved in anything more than arguing with her. He’d watched her sleep for only a few moments, but the sight of her all soft and mussed and wearing a pale pink satiny thing was having a predictable effect on him. He knew that if he stayed one more instant his next move would be even more predictable. Right now she resembled the Maddy of his fantasies, and he knew he’d never think of her as Madeline again. Her scanty attire had his temperature rising, and rather than embarrass them both, he shrugged and said, “Okay, I guess you don’t want to hear about my idea.” He turned and walked out of the room.
Idea? She waited until he was out of sight of the bedroom door before bounding out of bed. Why did he always seem to get these leads for them to follow on the weekend? “Make some coffee.” She threw the order after his departing form and shut the door firmly. He wasn’t going anywhere or doing anything involving this investig
ation without her.
As she hurried through her shower and dressed, she mentally called him every rotten name she’d ever heard, and even strung a few together creatively. Applying her makeup in record time, she debated about what to do with her hair, and then left it down. She’d already spent twenty minutes, and she wasn’t certain how much time he’d allow before he left without her.
She smelled the coffee’s aroma as soon as she opened the door. Cruz was seated at the kitchen counter sipping a cup of the brew. He poured her a cup and pushed it toward her. He watched, amused, as her eyes closed in satisfaction at the first strong drink. His feeling of amusement quickly fled, however, when he noticed what she was wearing. The heat that mushroomed in his gut had nothing to do with the hot coffee. Black denim clung faithfully to her long slender legs, topped by a thigh length lightweight sweater. A pair of short leather black boots added a couple inches to her height. The leggings left little to the imagination about what lay under them. For the second time that morning he wondered just how bright he’d been to come here. His imagination didn’t need any more fodder for the wild fantasies it was capable of spinning about her.
He waited for half a cup to improve her mood before he spoke again. “Only heathens sleep late on Sundays. You should have been at church, repenting for the cruel way you treated me yesterday.”
She finished the rest of her coffee and poured herself some more. He held out his cup and she refilled it for him. It always took at least one shot of caffeine to jolt her awake in the morning. Today that job had been completed by the sight of him on her bed. The coffee calmed her nerves, which his presence had brought instantly, jangling awake. Dreaming about him, then seeing the object of her dream as soon as she had opened her eyes, was enough to send her senses spinning. Especially since she dimly recalled that the most recent dream had not been the only one in which he’d starred last night.
She drank deeply from the second cup and it was another moment before she responded to his remark. “I didn’t have a guilty conscience, so there was no need for me to pray for forgiveness.”
