by Jamie Hill
Costa nodded in understanding. "Because the items taken were stolen goods."
"Bingo," Brady agreed. "It's hard to complain to the cops that you were robbed…of stuff stolen from someone else."
"Unless you want to wind up on one of those 'dumbest criminals' shows." Lt. Forrest picked up his coffee and took a drink. "Damn, this is bad stuff. Did you make this, Marshall?"
Brady shook his head. "Junior's turn to make coffee."
Forrest gave Costa a scorching look. Their lieutenant was a full head taller than the younger detective and twice as broad. His dark hair was silver at the temples and his eyes were steely gray. A friendly look from him was intimidating.
Costa squirmed.
"This is bad, Junior, really bad." Forrest set his cup on the counter. "Have Marshall show you how to make it right, and bring a fresh cup to my office." He headed out of the bullpen.
"We need to go over these locations again," Brady called after him.
Forrest waved him off. "I need coffee!" he growled.
Brady chuckled and turned to his partner. "Okay, Junior, we're going to go through this one more time. Dump the old grinds out. Use a new filter." He strolled to the counter where the ancient coffee pot steamed.
"I might do a better job if you'd stop calling me 'Junior'," Costa answered curtly.
"Be thankful that's the nickname you're stuck with. One guy was christened 'Stinky'. Believe me, that's not a name you want." He inserted a new filter and held the basket as Costa measured scoops of coffee. "Four," Brady reminded.
"I know!" Costa snapped, and shoved the filter basket back into the machine.
"Then why was that last batch so gawd-awful?"
Costa sloshed some water into the coffee maker and pushed the 'on' button, scowling. "Maybe I didn't empty the grounds before I added more coffee."
Brady reached for a paper towel and wiped the counter off neatly. "It pays to do things right the first time, Junior. That's one of the most immediate things you need to learn."
Costa faced him in the aisle. "Look, Marshall, I'm not a rookie. I was on patrol six years before making detective. I've been around the block."
"I spent that long on patrol, after three years as a fireman. I've put in another six in Special Investigations. Forrest has ten more years than me. There's always going to be someone who can teach you something, Junior. You need to remember that."
Kicking the edge of a cabinet, the younger man exhaled. "I know it. I just get frustrated, sometimes."
"Think how poor Stinky felt." Brady looked at Costa and they both laughed.
"You got me, there. So what nickname did you get when you moved up here?"
"Wally." Brady moved across the bullpen and dropped into his desk chair.
Costa's eyes clouded. "Wally?"
"Yeah. You know, the clean-cut kid from the old Leave it to Beaver TV show?"
Costa's face was blank.
"Everybody's favorite big brother?"
Another blank stare.
Brady sighed. "Damn, you are young, Junior. Never mind. Start cross-checking those warehouse addresses in the computer, will you? After you take the lieutenant his coffee, that is."
"Yep." Costa rolled his eyes and walked away.
Brady leaned back in his chair, half thinking about the list of warehouses, and what his next move should be. It hadn't seemed like much of a case when he'd been assigned to it. Last week, he'd been involved in a sting operation that netted a huge amount of cocaine and a significant number of arrests. Those types of cases got his blood pumping. This stolen goods thing seemed tedious, but there was a missing element that piqued his interest. There was more to the case than met the eye, he could feel it, and was determined to figure out what it was.
The rest of his thoughts involved the beautiful Gina Morris, and how difficult it had been to leave her on the doorstep Saturday night. He'd called Sunday to thank her again for the wonderful evening, and after just a few minutes, they agreed to have dinner again on Monday. She sounded just as luscious as she'd tasted the night before, and he'd wondered if he could survive another twenty-four hours without seeing her. They made small talk because neither seemed particularly in a hurry to end the call. He promised to phone the next day so they could firm up the details.
Not the only thing firming up. Brady shifted in his seat and shoved paperwork around on his desk. He needed to put her from his mind and get back to work. When his partner brought him a list of warehouse addresses retrieved from the computer, Brady realized he'd been sitting, staring at his phone, for over an hour. "Christ!" he muttered under his breath.
"I'm sorry?" Costa spoke up from the desk next to his. "That not what you wanted?"
Brady studied at the list and shook his head quickly. "No, it's fine. There's something I need to take care of real quick. I'm going to take a break, have a cigarette and I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Sure," Costa agreed. "When you get back, I might run out for some crullers."
He chuckled. "Whatever you say, Junior." A quick pat on his jacket pocket reassured Brady that his cigarettes were there. He rode the elevator down to the ground floor of the WPD detective's station, wondering which vice was more hazardous to the health, nicotine or sugar. Still chuckling, he strolled around to the patio in back where people were permitted to smoke. A woman was just coming inside, and he nodded at her. "Hey, Mary."
"Marshall," she acknowledged. "How's it going?"
"Great," he replied, without much thought. That was his pat answer, unless he was in the middle of a gut-wrenching case when the word seemed too flip. It'd been a while since one of those, and for the last several months, he'd promoted himself as 'great' to anyone who asked.
But is life really that great? He hated to admit how bored he'd become dating different women all the time. His buddy Jack, a former detective, liked to tease him about how rough he had it. Jack had been a ladies' man in his day, and even married a couple of them before finding the perfect woman and settling down. He and his wife, Crystal, had the three children he'd told Gina about. After a particularly harrowing case, Jack opted out of police work for something less dangerous, and now sold security systems for homes and businesses.
Brady smiled, thinking about their family as he smoked a quick cigarette. While grinding out the butt he flinched, knowing he really should stop smoking. It was a filthy, expensive habit.
He took his cell phone out and punched Gina's number up on the screen. A wave of nausea hit him, and he remembered why he still smoked. After lighting another cigarette, he inhaled in an attempt to calm his nerves. It was incredible how simply thinking about the woman had his body in turmoil.
The second butt extinguished and his break nearly over, Brady hit the 'call' button on his phone and held his breath.
She answered on the second ring. "Hello, Detective." Her voice was smooth as fine whiskey, and he couldn't help but smile. Thank God for caller identification. After only two phone conversations, he wondered if he needed to tell her who was calling, but hated to sound foolish.
"Hello." His greeting came out more like a squeak. So much for not sounding foolish.
"I'm glad you called."
"I told you I would. Oh, shit." What an idiot.
Gina chuckled. "Why do you sound so nervous, donnaiolo?"
"What did you call me?"
Still laughing, she replied, "Donnaiolo. It means womanizer, or flirt."
"I guess I deserved that. But I certainly don't feel that way when I'm talking to you. Not sure what you do to me, Miss Morris. Some kind of a topsy-turvy thing. All of a sudden, with you, I'm a nervous, inexperienced kid. I'm not used to this."
Her chuckle was low and sultry. "Che peparuolo. What a pepper."
Brady bit back a groan. His stomach knotted, his erection threatening to make a return appearance. What else is new? He'd maintained a semi-erect hard-on since the first time he met her.
"So, about tonight. I could make you dinner."
&nbs
p; He recalled her sparse kitchen. Cooking didn't seem like a regular occurrence for her. "I'd hate to put you to any trouble. I could bring pizza."
Her chuckle deepened. "You looked in my fridge, didn't you? I can cook. I usually choose not to. But pizza sounds lovely. Anything from Mama Rosa's works for me."
Her light tone eased his nervous tension. "Mama Rosa's it is. What do you like on your pizza?"
"I'm Italian. If the pie is good. I'll eat anything."
"I'll remember that. Looking forward to it, Gina."
"Me too. See you around seven?"
"Yes, you will. Seven sharp." He looked at his phone for a moment before disconnecting the call. He'd been so uncertain about calling, but Gina sounded as sweet and sexy as the last time they spoke. Brady felt happier than he had in ages.
When he walked inside the building, he brushed shoulders with a detective from the homicide division. "Hey Stone," he remarked.
"Marshall. How you doing?"
"Great," Brady replied, and headed for the elevator. Pressing the button to the fifth floor, he smiled. It wasn't an absent response. For the first time in a long time, he felt great.
* * * *
"Pineapple…on pizza?" Gina looked at him in amazement.
"You said 'anything'. I got it from Mama Rosa's, like you requested. But I distinctly remember your saying 'anything' when I asked about toppings."
"Oh for Christ's sake. Get in here." She opened her front door wider and took the pizza box. "I guess I can pick the disgusting stuff off."
"Next time, don't say 'anything' if you don't mean it." He grinned and followed her in.
She shrugged. "Next time, you'll know." Gina set the box on the coffee table, and went to the kitchen for plates. "Bring you a beer?"
"Sounds good."
She pulled two bottles from the fridge and returned to the front room. Brady had tossed his jacket on the back of a chair and settled on the sofa. She nudged the cat off her perch beside him so she could sit there. "Move, Pussy." The animal stood, stretched, and with an exasperated snort, sauntered to the chair. She climbed on it and lay down, eyeing them with irritation.
Dropping onto the sofa, Gina set their drinks on the coffee table and handed Brady a plate. She dished them each up a couple slices, and made a show of knocking the pineapple off hers.
He grinned and leaned in to her, holding up his plate. "Come on, now, be a sport."
She stared at the slice he held in front of her. "It has pineapple on it."
"Try it," Brady urged.
Gina made a face and locked eyes with his as she took a small taste.
"Well?"
She scowled. "It's good, damn it. I can't believe I'm eating pineapple on pizza." She took another bite and glared at him. "Don't you dare say 'I told you so'!"
"I would never," he replied, and continued to feed her pizza, taking alternate bites off the same slice.
When they reached the last of the crust, Gina nibbled his fingers.
He closed his eyes.
She took the opportunity to remove the plate from his hands and set it on the coffee table next to hers. With quick, smooth precision, she climbed onto his lap and slid her arms around his neck.
Brady opened his eyes and gazed at her. He finally whispered, "This feels like a bad idea."
Gina ground her ass into his burgeoning erection. "Does it? It feels pretty good to me."
He groaned and shifted his hips beneath her. "Not exactly what I meant. I'm just not sure we're ready—"
"I'm ready," she murmured, pressing her lips to his.
"Gina." He pulled back. "Going slow is a new thing for me, so bear with me while I try to explain."
"I'm listening." Her lips trailed a warm path to his ear.
Brady squirmed. "The easy thing to do would be to rip your clothes off and make love to you, right here and now."
"You wouldn't have to rip them." She sucked his lobe into her mouth.
He pressed her shoulders back gently. "I can't."
She stared at him in amazement and blinked. "Excuse me? I thought we were getting along pretty well."
"We are. Please don't question that. It's just—ah, hell." He looked down then back into her eyes again. "I've never met anyone like you, Gina. You're different. Amazing, dazzling. Damn, I could sit here all night coming up with adjectives. The bottom line is, I don't want to have casual, meaningless sex."
She chuckled. "Why not? Sounds like fun."
Brady smiled. "I'm sure it would be, but you deserve better. You're beautiful—no, gorgeous—smart, and absolutely incredible. I'm not sure about much, but I am sure I don't want a quick roll in the hay with you. I want more. I think we could have so much more."
A tear welled in the corner of her eye and Gina swiped it away. "No one has ever said anything that sweet to me."
"You definitely need a better class of friends." He fingered one of her long curls. "Someone like you should be sweet-talked regularly."
She rolled her eyes. "Maybe you just need to get the fairy dust out of your eyes and see me for who I truly am. I'm not that amazing, Brady. I'm just an Italian girl from Riverside, nothing that special—"
He pressed two fingers to her lips. "I don't care where you're from. I think you're very special. I sense something astounding in you, Gina Morris, and I'm not just saying that. I've never said it to anyone before." He touched a spot on her chest, above her heart, in a nonsexual way. "It's like a light, inside you, and it comes from here."
She blinked rapidly, holding back the tears.
Brady gazed into her eyes. "I need some time to figure this out. I refuse to rush this one. It feels too important. Are you with me?"
Gina nodded, losing the battle with the waterworks as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Don't cry." He brushed the drops away with his thumbs. "Although I'm not sure what turns me on more—your feisty, smart ass attitude or this new, soft, tender side."
"Saputa." She raised her chin proudly. "Mi fai impazzire."
"Oh yeah?" He raised his eyebrows.
Gina smiled. "I said you're the smart ass, and you're driving me crazy."
Brady grinned, wrapping her into his arms and holding her tightly. He nuzzled her ear. "All part of my master plan."
* * * *
Brady shifted uncomfortably in his seat. A small conference room, with twenty other officers seated around the table, was no place for a raging hard-on. In the past three weeks he'd been dating Gina, sometimes he thought about her and couldn't help himself.
Thinking about her was much more interesting than the case. The burglaries in the warehouse district continued, and things suddenly got more serious when a security guard was killed a few days earlier. With a homicide connected to the case, the level of urgency increased.
Lt. Forrest stood with his back to the table and made notes on the large white dry-erase board. A small piece of paper folded into a triangle flew toward Brady, and he snatched it into his hand. The lieutenant glanced at the table for a moment before returning to the notes.
Brady grinned and flicked the paper football across the table to Melanie Curtis. She made a face at him and grabbed the paper toy, dropping her hand to her lap. When it became obvious she wasn't going to play, the detective next to her quietly wrangled the football from her hand and continued the game down the table.
She stuck her tongue out at Brady and he merely smiled and winked. Mel rolled her eyes, and he nodded suggestively. When the lieutenant twirled quickly and grabbed the paper football from the detective nearest him, Brady gulped. Mel cast him an 'I told you so' look, and he shrugged sheepishly.
Forrest examined the paper and shook his head. "This is the sorriest paper football I've seen in a long time. Who made this? Marshall?"
"Don't look at me!" Brady protested, holding his hands up.
The other officers snickered and Forest tossed the football in the trash. "'Course not, innocent as always. Okay, people, I know this case seems about as fa
scinating as watching paint dry. But we've got shipment after shipment of goods getting ripped off, and with the recent death of Security Guard Damon Jones, we now believe there are drugs changing hands out there, too. Let's take this seriously for a few days and see if we can't get somewhere on this thing."
"The homicide division always takes its cases seriously, Lieutenant." Detective Henry Stone spoke up. The short Asian officer pushed his black framed glasses up on his nose.
Brady checked out the man and noticed—yep, just as I suspected—a plastic pocket protector to hold pens in the front of Stone's shirt. Exchanging eye rolls with Mel, he tried not to chuckle.
"I'm sure you do, Stone," Lt. Forrest said dryly. "Get on this, people. Keep me posted."
The meeting broke up and Mel followed Brady to his desk in the bullpen. "Oh my God!" she murmured in a hushed voice.
Brady sat and stretched his legs out. He'd forgotten about his erection for a moment, but thankfully it was gone when he glanced down. "Is Stone always such an ass kisser?"
"Yep." Mel crossed her arms. "He finally got an ID on the body behind that strip joint a couple weeks ago. Did you hear about that?
"No." Brady raised his eyebrows with interest. "Anybody interesting?"
She shrugged. "Roy Watts. He had a short record. Seems he got into trouble years ago, but he'd cleaned up his act. He was the comptroller for some import/export company doing business in the warehouse district."
"No shit?" He thought about that. "You know which one?"
"Not offhand. I could find out. You think it means anything?" An expression of surprise crossed her face. "Ah, fuck. The burglary case."
"Well, duh." He rolled his eyes.
She slapped his arm. "Today was the first briefing any of us in homicide had on that one." She held up the thick file. "I've got plenty of reading material. I'd have made the connection."
"Sure you would have," Brady teased. He knew Mel was a good cop, but he couldn't resist giving her static any chance he got.
