Police Business

by Julie Miller

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

  Yeah, he’d been riled at the sight of her backed into a corner by Rob Hastings—trying to be nice while keeping her feisty temper in check. A temper which, it seemed, she didn’t have any trouble unleashing on him. Who’d have thought a woman with Claire’s fragile beauty could have so much energy stored up inside her?

  It seemed he was the one losing control last night, and that just didn’t happen. Knowing what Dwight Powers was about to dump on her, listening to her family talk about her, all around her, but rarely straight to her, A.J. had sensed that Claire’s composure was about to break. His own patience was about to blow.

  So he’d grabbed her, escaped with her. Maybe he’d been rescuing himself from his own frustrations at seeing her treated like that. But she’d touched him, dammit. Those fingers, that skin—soft on the surface, like steel underneath—had cupped his face and demanded he notice her.

  He had.

  Maybe not in the way she’d intended, but he noticed plenty. The tight nipples budding beneath clingy, wet silk, slender curves of muscle 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.

  Marcus Tucker’s Humvee pulling into the driveway up to the house had prevailed.

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

  Even with this morning’s overcast sky cooling the air with the promise of more rain, A.J. felt hot and itchy inside his skin. He had to get that woman off his emotional radar, or he’d be more of a hindrance than a help to her.

  The insistent tug on his sleeve startled A.J. from his guilty introspection.

  “Is it broken?” A.J. rarely responded to anything with a huh. But he was thinking one as he looked down into the studious eyes of the young man in jeans, braces and hearing aids.

  The boy signed the question again, then pointed to the hinge. “Is it broken?”

  The kid slurred his words a bit more than Claire did when she spoke, but that wasn’t what confused him. What threw him was that he’d been so distracted from his work that a sixth grader with shaggy brown hair had gotten the drop on him.

  For a moment, he stared down at the drill and screw bit he held in his hands as though he couldn’t remember how they got there. But his years on the streets made him a master of faking cool, even when he wasn’t really feeling it.

  He nodded. “Looks like vandalism.” He pointed to the bent metal and gouged-out concrete behind it, but kept his face toward the kid—the way Claire had taught him—so he could be understood. “Someone tried to pry off the hinge. I have to remove it and replace the anchor so a new screw will stay in.”

  The kid nodded sagely at the explanation, then shook his head. “No one would want to break into our school. It’s old. It stinks in the basement. I hate when we have to go down there for tornado drills. My big brother says there are bodies buried down there. That’s why it’s so dark.”

  “Yeah?” Sounds like something he would have said to tease his younger sisters about twenty years ago.

  “I think they just need to change the lightbulbs. My dad says it would be cheaper to build a new school than to keep fixing up this one.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Zach, by the way.”

  “A.J.” Impressed by the kid’s confidence as much as he was amused by the rapid-fire change of topics, A.J. shook his hand.

  “You’re new.”

  “I’m temporary.” The precinct captain had given him the go-ahead to put all of his time in on the Winthrop investigation as he saw fit. “I volunteered.”

  “What happened to your face?”

  Police stakeout? Car bomb? Dead man? “I was in a car…accident.”

  A sniff of lavender buzzed his radar on full alert.

  “Zach.” The buffed, blunt-tipped nails of Claire’s hand appeared on the boy’s shoulder. God, he loved those hands. “Are you bothering this man?”

  “Hi, Miss Winthrop.” Zach barely had to tilt his head to look Claire in the eye. “This is A.J. He cut his face in a car wreck and he’s temporary.”

  “Is that so?” Despite the authoritative look in her eyes, Claire flashed the boy a smile that would have gotten A.J. to class every day of the week. “Run along, Zach. You don’t want to be late for first period.”

  Zach said goodbye and ran inside to catch up with a friend. “Sorry, about that. He can talk your ear off.”

  “I’m a good listener.”

  Her sweet smile turned into a frown of concern. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “My job.”

  “That’s a little vague, isn’t it?” She hugged her arms across the front of her blue tailored jacket, tucking her hands away to speak without signing. Her form of whispering? “Did something happen with Galvan?”

  A.J. wanted to reach out and soothe the worry lines that creased beside her eyes. Fortunately, he had his dusty hands full of tools, making it just doable to keep the conversation professional and his cover intact. “Josh and some friends from the precinct are already stirring things up this morning. They’re paying visits to known contacts of Galvan and the cartel he works for. Detective Banning, another good man, is doing in-depth research into your friend Valerie, trying to come up with a connection between the two.”

  Her matter-of-fact sigh tugged at his conscience. She swung her gaze straight out to the two bodyguards keeping watch from their car. “That explains them.” Her blue eyes came back and nailed him. “It still doesn’t explain why you’re here, dressed like a janitor.”

  For a brief moment, A.J. wondered if Claire saw any distinction between a woman of her class and a man who got dirt under his nails while he scraped out an honest living. When he was young and angry all the time, that kind of garbage used to really set him off. But he was a mature man now. And Claire’s personal opinions—would she have been so eager to kiss a janitor, or the son of a janitor?—didn’t matter. This was about work. It was about Dominic Galvan. It was about serving and protecting every citizen of Kansas City.

  Even the pretty, stubborn—rich—ones.

  “I’m glad your dad is springing for all the extra protection. I don’t think you can be too safe where Galvan is concerned. But ultimately, you’re KCPD’s responsibility. You’re a witness to a murder, so we’re going to keep an eye on you.”

  “You mean there are more of you around here? I don’t want to put these children in any danger. And some of them don’t respond well to disruptions in their routine.”

  “That’s why it’s just me.” He squeezed his fingers around the drill in lieu of taking her hand. “Keeping a low profile should be less disruptive. And being on the inside, I can stay close to you. Closer than you’ll probably even know.”

  He thought he detected a shiver go through her body. But she tilted her chin at a determined angle and stretched her body to a posture of graceful strength. “And what am I supposed to do while we wait for something to break on your case?

  “I’ve got your back, Claire. Just go about your day as you normally would. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the last handful of children entering the building. “You’ll keep them safe, too?”

  One man keeping watch over nearly two hundred students and staff? It was a mighty tall order, more like impossible. But it was the promise Claire needed to hear. “I’ll try.”

  He held himself still—didn’t blink, barely breathed—while those blue eyes studied the sincerity of his words. “Try hard, A.J. Try very hard.”

  Then she turned and walked into the building with a couple of girls who immediately welcomed “Miss Winthrop!” into their animated conversation. A.J. slowly released the breath he’d been holding.

  Claire seemed more natural and relaxed around these kids than she had in that fancy silk dr
ess and pricey house last night. She was scared, yes. Cautious in a healthy way. But she wasn’t anybody’s victim in this place. And here, no one overlooked her.

  Something eased a little in his chest at the revelation.

  At the last instant before she disappeared inside, A.J. remembered to scan the grounds and parking lot to see who else might be watching her as well. He cursed his lack of focus. Watching for Galvan or his accomplice should have been his first priority. He buzzed the drill and went back to work.

  He definitely needed to refocus his radar.

  YOU WON’T EVEN KNOW I’m here.

  Claire could have laughed out loud at the absurdity of that promise. A. J. Rodriguez was too darn hot to ignore. Even with the bulky coveralls and thick black glasses—that did nothing to disguise his beautiful eyes if you really looked—the man exuded strength, calm and something her limited relationship vocabulary could only describe as sexy.

  He’d lurked on the fringes of her awareness all morning—sweeping the floor outside her room, replacing the cracked window pane outside the principal’s office, joking with Mr. Lavery, their regular custodian.

  But no one else seemed to think he was out of place. Volunteers were nothing new to the school, so teachers and students alike had quickly welcomed him, then moved on with their usual routines. Maybe, in some karmic aspect of the universe, A.J.’s presence was keeping any hint of danger at bay. There were no men in black lurking about the grounds, no weird phone calls, nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever.

  Except the extra thump her heart seemed to give every time she caught a glimpse of him.

  Claire squeezed her hands into fists inside the pockets of her linen jacket and surveyed the lunchroom. She needed to move beyond her fascination with the man and concentrate on the danger at hand. At the very least, she needed to concentrate on the two young men butting in line ahead of the rest of their class.

  Shaking her head at the effects of budding testosterone on the adolescent male’s ability to follow the rules, Claire made her way through the rows of tables. One push had already led to another before she tapped each boy on the shoulder and signed, “Where do you belong?”

  She was escorting the two eighth graders to the end of the line when the fire alarm went off.

  Every muscle clenched at the first dull honk of warning in her ears. As if pierced by a gunshot, she clutched her stomach and gasped out loud. She whipped her head around, checking every window, every exit, for Dominic Galvan. A.J.?

  She nearly shouted his name out loud.

  But the startled, even frightened, looks on the students’ faces snapped her back to the reality at hand. She didn’t have time to be afraid or wait for anyone to rescue her.

  By the time most of them had noticed the visual warning signal, Claire had taken a deep breath and slowed her racing pulse. She told the two boys to head outside and quickly moved down the line to sign instructions to the other students.

  With the direction of the other lunchroom monitors and kitchen staff, most of the students were filing out the doors onto the basketball courts behind the school. But their fire drills had always been conducted during class time, and the students had a practiced route following their teacher from their room to an assigned area outside. The odd timing told everyone that this was no drill. This mass exodus was less orderly, and with the classes all mixed up, counting heads to make sure everyone was outside would take longer.

  Claire pointed students toward exits, offered calm reassurances. By now, there were so many panicked cries and nervous talking that her processors could no longer distinguish the sound of the alarm. As she quieted the students and kept them moving, she made a visual sweep of the cafeteria and connecting hallways. Everyone seemed to be heading in the proper direction. Except…

  A flash of movement down the corridor caught her eye. A glimpse of blue jeans and the soft close of one of the doors leading down to the basement.

  Oh, no. One of the students had mistaken the fire alarm for a tornado alert.

  He was going deeper into the building instead of outside to safety.

  “Anywhere but the basement,” she mouthed. Dread crept in and courage seeped out on a long, low breath. There were no flashing alarm lights in the basement. In fact, there were few lights, period. There was plenty of storage space and old pipework, two abandoned bathrooms and a heavy iron furnace that no longer worked but was too heavy to remove.

  It smelled of mold and dust down there, and she hated the darkness. It was the last place in the world she wanted to go.

  Yet, because these children were her responsibility, she grabbed a flashlight from the office and went after him.

  BY THE SECOND BUZZ of the fire alarm, A.J. was moving.

  Where the hell were Tucker’s men? Surely to God they didn’t take lunch breaks?

  All at once?

  But the sedan parked next to Claire’s Volvo wasn’t just empty. It was gone.

  A.J. ran.

  He dropped the trash bag he carried and unzipped his coveralls to put his gun within easy reach. He rounded the corner of the building and slowed to a quick, steady gait so that he didn’t panic any of the students filing out the front door.

  His first instinct was to locate Claire. A fire alarm was a classic diversionary tactic. He’d left her inside, working the lunchroom with a couple of parent volunteers so the teachers could take a break. He scanned over the heads of kids, looking for a grown woman who was just a few inches taller. She should be out here. Now. With them. Safe.

  Tucker’s men should be all over her right now.

  But there were no bodyguards. There was no Claire. A.J. pushed his way upstream, against the current of evacuees. He spotted a familiar pair of braces and tapped the young man on the shoulder to stop him. “Zach, have you seen Miss Winthrop?”

  “Last I saw, she was in the cafeteria, heading out the back door with some of the other kids.”

  “Thanks.” A.J. bounded up the steps.

  “Hey, A.J.! Wait!”

  Schooling patience that was in short supply, A.J. turned to see Zach charging up the steps after him. He put out his hands to catch the boy. “Whoa, amigo. You can’t go back in there.” He nodded toward the woman coming up the steps behind them. “You need to stay outside with your teacher.”

  Zach shook off the order. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at A.J., spilling his information so quickly that it was almost indecipherable. “I forgot. I saw Miss Winthrop come out of the office with a flashlight. The teachers don’t need flashlights when there’s a fire. The only time they need flashlights is during a tornado. And that’s because we go down to the stinky basement.”

  Definitely a diversion.

  “Thanks, Zach.” A.J. squeezed the boy’s shoulder.

  “You’re not really a custodian, are you?” Zach asked before A.J. could get away.

  The kid didn’t miss a trick. With his chameleonic ability to don a persona and blend in just about anywhere, A.J. had duped criminals who were now in prison for life. But a twelve-year-old?

  A.J. debated for all of three seconds before putting his finger to his lips in a hush sign that could be understood in any language. “I’m a cop.”

  Zach mimicked the gesture in man-to-man understanding. “Is Miss Winthrop in trouble?”

  “Not from me.”

  Zach bopped down the steps to rejoin his class, leaving A.J.’s cover intact.

  He’d deal with the incompetence of Tucker’s men later—and question why talking to a twelve-year-old boy made him think of his father.

  But he had to find Claire first.

  Thunder rumbled in the gray clouds overhead, an ominous portent of danger. But A.J. wasn’t thinking of the coming storm as he pulled off his glasses and ducked inside the building.

  WHY THE BASEMENT? Why the basement?

  The question droned in Claire’s head as she left the meager light on the landing inside the door and descended into the remodeled wrestling pit the Fo
rsythe School called a basement. Her world grew dimmer with every step. The repetitive snarl of the alarm faded and fell silent as her senses got swallowed up by the maze of shadowy objects and darkness before her.

  She searched the wall with the beam of her flashlight for the switch and flipped it up. A single bare lightbulb came on at the far side of the low-ceilinged room, at the base of the stairs leading up to the pit’s opposite exit. “Figures.”

  Her fear of those things that go bump in the dark swirled around her and tried to take hold. The smells of dust, tainted by damp and darkness, stung her sinuses.

  Crinkling her nose, she tried to recall the clean, leathery scents of A.J. and his car. It was enough of a distraction to remind herself that she didn’t have time to be afraid.

  Pointing her flashlight at the ceiling, Claire reached up to check the light at the base of the steps where she stood. Maybe the darkness was as simple as a bulb needing to be replaced. Or maybe it just needed to be tightened. Or…there was no lightbulb.

  Claire frowned. If there wasn’t a lost child and the threat of a burning building, she’d have marched back up the stairs instead of venturing forward into the fearful cliché of every horror movie she’d never been able to sit through.

  “Hello?” She stepped off the last stair into the darkness. There was little point in calling out if the blue jeans she’d seen going downstairs belonged to a deaf child. But talking gave her something to focus on while her pulse beat with the insistence of the fire alarm blaring upstairs. “It’s Miss Winthrop. You need to come upstairs with me and go outside with everyone else. There’s a fire.”

  She swept the beam of her flashlight back and forth across the stacks of storage crates and broken desks slated for repairs. She flashed her light past the abandoned furnace that sat like a hulking black hole against one wall. Not to check for signs of a frightened child, but to reveal her own presence. The students were trained to respond to the lights in emergencies, whereas a hearing child was trained to respond to the sound. But she called out, anyway. “Where are you?”