Police Business

by Julie Miller

  Standing outside in the rain with Claire last night, A.J. hadn’t been thinking like a cop…

  He hadn’t been thinking of her as a witness who could break a case wide open for him, hadn’t been thinking of her as an heiress who was way out of his league. He hadn’t been thinking of her as a kid who was more than a decade younger than him and twice as innocent about the world.

  He’d been thinking of Claire as a woman. A damn sexy, irresistible woman.

  And she’d touched him. Those fingers had cupped his face and demanded he notice her.

  He had.

  Maybe not in the way she’d intended, but he noticed plenty. Clingy, wet silk, slender curves beneath his hands, dewy lips begging to be kissed. She’d asked him in every way without actually saying the words.

  And he’d almost done it.

  But common sense had prevailed. His training had prevailed.

  So, no kiss. But he hadn’t been right since.

  POLICE BUSINESS

  JULIE MILLER

  For Maxie Fireball Miller, my faithful writing companion. You make me get up and walk, you always tell me when the UPS man is here, you let me know when it’s time to go get the boy after school and you keep life interesting.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

  Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

  Books by Julie Miller

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  588—ONE GOOD MAN*

  619—SUDDEN ENGAGEMENT*

  642—SECRET AGENT HEIRESS

  651—IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE*

  666—THE DUKE’S COVERT MISSION

  699—THE ROOKIE*

  719—KANSAS CITY’S BRAVEST*

  748—UNSANCTIONED MEMORIES*

  779—LAST MAN STANDING*

  819—PARTNER-PROTECTOR†

  841—POLICE BUSINESS†

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  45—INTIMATE KNOWLEDGE

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  A. J. Rodriguez—A legend in undercover work at KCPD. This son of a custodian used to be the one causing trouble out on the streets. Now he’s the one taking the trouble right to the criminals’ doorsteps. No matter what side of the tracks they live on.

  Claire Winthrop—A sheltered society princess who’d like nothing more than to break free of her wealthy father’s overprotective shadow to get a real job and have a real life. But witnessing a murder wasn’t the type of reality she was looking for.

  Cain Winthrop—Self-made multimillionaire. His love for his hearing-impaired daughter might get her killed.

  Deirdre Gunn-Winthrop—Cain’s second wife. She didn’t marry for love.

  Gabriel Gunn—He’s ready to take over his stepfather’s business empire.

  Gina Gunn—Claire’s stepsister. Is she on the fast track to earn her own cool million? Or is she after something else?

  Marcus Tucker—Chief of Security for Winthrop Enterprises.

  Amelia Ward—The office temp.

  Peter Landers—An old friend on Winthrop’s board of directors.

  Rob Hastings—Executive hotshot with an eye on the boss’s daughter.

  Dominic Galvan—He always gets his man—or woman.

  Antonio Rodriguez, Sr.—Former custodian at Winthrop Enterprises, whose murder is the only one his son, A.J., has never been able to solve.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Detective A. J. Rodriguez sank low behind the steering wheel of his sleek, black Trans Am and peered over the restored leather dashboard into the neon glare and masking shadows of the drizzly Kansas City night.

  He hated stakeouts. His coffee was cold, his bladder was full and his left shoulder ached from sitting still for so long in the damp, chilly air.

  But he didn’t complain. He’d given up the luxury of whining about the challenges and discomforts of life almost two decades ago.

  Instead, with his endless patience and chameleonlike ability to blend in with his surroundings, he knew he was well-suited to such a job. That patience was a testament to his father’s spirit and sacrifice, while his undercover expertise was a by-product of the years he’d wasted before coming to understand that Antonio Joseph Rodriguez, Sr. was a better man than any of the cool cats or hotshots on the street could ever hope to be.

  A.J.’s father had been a better man than he could ever hope to be.

  Static buzzed in the tiny earphone he wore beneath the black knit cap that masked his equally dark hair. His slow smile was the only movement giving any indication that his partner, Josh Taylor, was about to speak. “Hey, A.J. You got anything down at your end? This has got to be the slowest damn nightclub I’ve ever seen. I’ve only counted one couple going in during the past hour, and no one’s come out. You think it’s the band or the booze that sucks?”

  “I’d say it’s the two hours we’ve been watching the door.”

  “I’m supposed to be the comic relief, remember?” Since Josh was hiding out, too, his laugh was barely a whisper in A.J.’s ear. “Our informant said the meeting was at midnight. It’s nearly that now.”

  “Give it time, amigo.”

  For eight months, they’d had nothing but time, it seemed. Somebody was running drugs out of the Jazz Note, the umpteenth incarnation of a nightclub to occupy the same building in the tony arts and entertainment district of KC known as Westport. And while the club’s current owner seemed legit, KCPD hadn’t been able to pinpoint anyone who frequented the place often enough to make it a profitable distribution hub. The investigation had grown cold.

  Until one of the patrons had been found stabbed to death in the men’s room. Not just any patron. But Mort Firth, a two-bit dealer from the seedy KC neighborhood known as no-man’s-land, who’d been infringing on someone else’s territory. Suddenly, a case that had been the drug squad’s purview for so long had been reassigned to homicide. And A.J. and Josh had been called in to investigate.

  Mort had been the third small-time dealer taken out in a murder that wasn’t gang-related in as many years. A.J.’s streetwise gut told him that the perp was no vigilante cleaning up the streets of KC. This was something bigger. An unknown scourge was moving in and killing off the competition.

  Slowly, subtly taking over.

  And it was up to KCPD to stop it. A.J. spared a glance at his watch. Straight-up midnight. Their informant, Edgar Vaughn—Mort’s former business associate—said that turf negotiations were going to take place at midnight at the Jazz Note between a dealer nicknamed Slick and an unknown suspect. All A.J. and Josh had to do was follow Edgar’s dealer inside the club and find out whom he met with. One picture—and maybe a fingerprint and some eaves-dropping—would be worth a thousand words when it came
to breaking open the case.

  The low-pitched hum of a well-tuned engine passed by and A.J. lifted his gaze in appreciation as much as curiosity. A pricey steel-gray sedan pulled into an empty parking space across from the Jazz Note. The car itself was polished enough to fit in with the neighborhood’s cruise-by clientele of affluent baby boomers, yet nondescript enough to avoid drawing too much attention from the locals.

  But the guy who climbed out didn’t fit either category. His dark, pin-striped suit and the silver tie he adjusted as he scanned his surroundings weren’t casual enough for the club. And no way was he one of the working class residents of the area.

  Slick. A.J. scooted up in his seat, his blood pumping quicker in even-paced anticipation. “Josh.”

  “I see him.”

  He didn’t need Edgar to step from an alleyway and follow the dealer in for A.J. to know their man had arrived. With a brief glance up and down the empty street, he got out of the car, straightened his black leather jacket over the bulge of the guns at either side of his waist and strolled toward the front door of the Jazz Note.

  “I’ll come in through the alley entrance and try to spot him from that direction.” Josh was moving, too.

  Once through the club’s glass door, A.J. paid the cover charge and slipped inside. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark interior, though the heavy scents of smoke and alcohol were a little harder to get used to. He let the lazy beat of the electric bass onstage set the rhythm of his movements as he followed the suspect at a discreet distance. First, an uneventful trip to the men’s room. Then to the bar.

  Slick ordered a double scotch. Neat. His furtive glances over the rim of his glass before he bolted the amber liquid were a dead giveaway to A.J.’s trained eye. The man was nervous. Probably had never been to the Jazz Note before. Maybe had never even met his contact.

  His nervous energy put A.J. on guard as he tailed Slick to an empty booth away from the stage.

  A.J. found a seat at a table nearby and ordered a beer. With a wink and a decent tip for the waitress, he took an obligatory sip and tapped his foot in time with the soulful, driving music. Josh stood at the end of the bar, using the mirror behind the bartender to keep their man in sight.

  A half hour later, the crowd began to thin out.

  Slick was on his third scotch. And the mystery guest he was supposed to meet hadn’t showed.

  “Edgar’s heading for the door.” Josh’s voice whispered over the radio. “You think we’ve been set up?”

  A.J. had memorized the face of every person in the club, from the teenager bussing tables to the blind, balding maestro working magic at the piano. Something deep in his bones was trying to tell him that this didn’t feel right. That there weren’t enough people here for a club that played music this hot. It was as if he were watching a play, and each patron and employee was an actor carefully placed around the stage.

  “I think our man’s been set up.” Suffused with an instantly wary energy that didn’t change his outward appearance, A.J. shoved aside his warm beer. He used a subtle nod at the buxom waitress for a fresh drink as an opportunity to scan the room one more time. What he was looking for, he wasn’t sure. Trouble. Someone else keeping a curious eye on their man. He tossed a five onto the table and whispered into his microphone. “You follow Edgar. I’ll stick with Slick.”

  In the minutes that followed, the band played its last number and started to pack up. Odd. The lights didn’t come up. There was no announcement about the last call for drinks—as if someone didn’t want the few remaining patrons to move. Slick checked his watch and made a call on his cell phone that was more about cursing than conversation.

  After hanging up, Slick downed the last swallow of scotch and shot to his feet. He grabbed his forehead and swayed a couple of steps as the booze hit him hard. Great. He’d fished his keys out of his pocket. Drunk drivers were about as high on A.J.’s list as drug dealers. As Slick staggered past him, he wondered if the waitress or bartender would say something. He wondered if he could stop Slick somehow without giving away his presence.

  Hell. A.J. blinked and cast the thoughts aside. This wasn’t about a personal agenda. He had a job to do.

  By the time Slick had stumbled through the front door, A.J. was close on his heels. He lingered out of sight beneath the awning over the Jazz Note’s door and kept his man in sight. “He’s outside, Josh. Our boy’s been stood up.”

  “I see him.” Josh would be hiding somewhere in the shadows as well. “Edgar grabbed a cab about five minutes ago. He seemed pretty eager to get of here.”

  “I don’t blame him. Something’s going down.”

  Figure it out, A.J. Figure it out. He scanned every inch of the street, studied empty storefronts, read license plates, shook his head at the drunken man cursing the car that nearly ran him down in the middle of the street.

  Slick dropped his keys to the pavement before squeezing them in his grip and unlocking the car door.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Talk to me, A.J.” A.J. left the shadows. He reached for his gun, feeling the threat in the air like a hand at his throat. “We’re gonna lose our guy.”

  “A.J.?”

  “This is a hit.”

  Slick fell in behind the wheel and slammed the door.

  “A.J.!”

  A light sparked beneath the hood of Slick’s car and the silver sedan exploded in a thunderous crash that slammed A.J. to the sidewalk and rained down a cloud of flying debris and rolling flames.

  Chapter One

  “Daddy…”

  No. Though that had been the pet name Claire Winthrop had called her father all twenty-three years of her life, it wasn’t professional enough for the request she intended to make.

  Hearing the ding of the elevator only as a metallic buzz, she watched the lights marking each floor blink on and off above the doors as she rode up to the executive suites on the top floor of Kansas City’s Winthrop Enterprises Building.

  She rehearsed the beginning of her well-planned speech, trying to keep the excitement she felt from blurring the careful articulation of her voice. “Dad. The Forsythe School asked if I would be interested in working for them full-time next semester. As a middle school counselor. They’re pleased with my volunteer work with the adolescents.”

  Opening her hand, Claire smiled at the proof of her success in her palm. A gold smiley-face pin with Forsythe etched into the back. It was probably gold-plated. Well, maybe just gold-colored since it had been a gift from the students themselves. But it was every bit as precious as her mother’s pearls she wore around her neck.

  Claire fastened the pin onto the lapel of her pink silk suit. Her father hadn’t been able to attend the school awards banquet that night; but then, he was such a busy man. That was the excuse she used, at any rate, to take the sting out of his dismissal of her need to work. She lifted her chin again, to watch the floor numbers fly by. She was proud of her paraprofessional and tutoring work with special needs preteens and teenagers. Thrilled to discover she had a knack for listening.

  She almost laughed at that one. But her father wouldn’t see the ironic humor. So she went back to practicing what he did understand—facts and numbers and a concise presentation.

  Clenching her hands into fists to keep them still at her sides, she continued. “I would need to go back to school to earn my graduate degree, Dad. And take a test to be licensed for therapist’s certification. But they’re willing to pay for my classes. This is an opportunity for me to make a career for myself.”

  Too many Rs. Claire puffed out a nervous breath and raked her chin-length swath of hair away from her temples. Just as quickly, she smoothed the straight, champagne-colored strands back into place, covering up the tiny speech processors most people mistook for hearing aids that were hooked behind her ears.

  She was always self-conscious when she spoke out loud, knowing her dull R sounds and practiced consonants were a dead giveaway to her hearing loss. But her father didn’
t like to sign. He claimed the visual expression only pointed out the shortcomings he already felt so responsible for. And while she could read lips, he needed to hear the actual words in order to communicate clearly with her. Speaking like a normal person would go a long way toward convincing him that she was ready to do more than volunteer part-time at the school.

  Claire stretched her neck in the swan-like arch that fifteen years of dance lessons had given her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, straightening her petite body to its utmost height and easing the tension that had gathered in her muscles.

  She could do this. She would do this.

  Cain Winthrop might want his daughter to stay at home, host quiet dinner parties and stay out of the limelight until some handsome young man whisked her away to stay at his home to host quiet dinner parties and stay out of the limelight, but Claire had different plans in mind. She had the money, brains and desire to pursue any career she wanted—or ramrod the success of any charity. She could make a difference in the lives of people who needed someone to make a difference.

  If her father would let her.

  If he’d trust her to make smart decisions.

  If he’d believe she could be safe in the world without his well-meaning protection shadowing her every step of the way.

  But she had a lot of years of love and ingrained habits to overcome. Cain Winthrop was used to doing things his way. Running his business empire his way. Taking care of his daughter and stepchildren his way.

  Claire intended to change that. Just a little. It was time to make a place for herself in the world.

  Her way.

  Feeling the gentle roll of her stomach that told her the elevator was slowing its ascent, Claire opened her eyes and watched the number 26 light up. She took a deep breath, clutched her purse beneath her arm and fixed a smile on her face. “Okay, Dad.” She crossed her fingers and added a prayer. “Please listen.”