by Nina Bruhns
“Maybe.”
“Joseph Peter Kessler.” She imitated their mother’s tone. “Did you make a complete mess of things?”
“I might have.”
She stayed silent for a moment. “Are you in love with her?”
“No.” He didn’t do love. He did fun. Short. Consensual. That kind of thing.
“You don’t normally mess up with women. I think she got to you. It’s serious.”
“No, it’s not.”
“She’s expecting your baby and living in your house.”
He blinked. Hell, she was right. How did that happen?
He’d always been in control of his relationships. Always. How in hell had he dropped the ball here?
“Can you see yourself with her? Long-term.”
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He could. Not only could he see it, but he liked the picture. “I hate when you ask me questions that I don’t like the answers to.”
“That’s what sisters are for,” she informed him cheerfully. “I’ll stop by to check her out tomorrow. And then you and I are going to have a talk.” Then she hung up, before he could tell her that he didn’t need a relationship lecture.
Joe drove down Route 95 to South Philly, through Tinicum Park then past the Navy Yard. He refocused on what he needed to accomplish in the next couple of days: stop the gang war and find the dirty cop, find Phil’s killer, figure out who cut Wendy’s brakes, find a way to keep Keith away from her permanently.
He rolled his neck. He had a rough game ahead of him. Ready to tackle the first quarter, he turned down Brant Street.
He found Paco in Ramos’s driveway, half under the hood of his car. Paco worked at a local garage under the table, mostly so he could use the tools and get discounts on parts for his lowrider. His electric-blue 1984 Buick Regal didn’t have much more than six inches of ground clearance. That car was Paco’s baby. Touch it and die.
Rusty Cent was blaring from the radio. His rapping could be heard halfway down the street, a song about knocking out bitches.
“Yo!” Joe strode up. “What’s up, bro?”
Paco shot a surly look his way. “What the hell does it look like?”
All right. Bad mood. Maybe he ran out of weed. Or had a fight with his girlfriend again about money for the kids. He was the father of two little girls. “Any word when we’ll be stoppin’ by to say hello to J.T.?”
Paco shrugged and leaned back under the hood.
Joe strode inside the house. Trigger ran to the front door to greet him, his entire body wagging.
“You’re a good boy.” Joe scratched behind the dog’s ear, then handed him a treat.
Only Rashard was lounging in the living room to the right of the entry hall. He didn’t stop playing his video game when Joe nodded at him.
“Yo. S’up, man,” he said, but kept his eyes on the screen.
Rodrigo was in the kitchen in the back, sitting on the linoleum floor with his back to the wall, a couple of empty beer cans scattered around him. He was twenty, with a fairly serious alcohol and crack addiction. “S’up, bro?”
“Qué pasa, amigo?” Joe glanced around. “Where’s Ramos?”
Rodrigo shrugged, his eyes glazed over. “They went out to pick up some guns. He got tired of waiting for you to bring the goods, eh?”
Joe shrugged. “I’ll get the guns. No problemo.” But he wished he’d come sooner. He could have gone with them, figured out who their connections were. “Let’s hope they don’t get caught. I want J.T., man. Lil’ Gomez.” Joe shook his head. “I loved that kid. I’m not part of the crew, but you guys took me in when I needed help. You offered protection. I appreciate that. Your family is my family.”
“Yo, bro.” Rodrigo nodded. “They’ll be back. Ain’t nothing gonna happen to them. We’ll get J.T.”
“Yeah. Ramos has the devil’s luck.”
“El Diablo.” Rodrigo grinned.
“Maybe he’s got someone on the inside. Ever thought about that?” Joe grabbed a beer from the fridge, then sat on the floor across from Rodrigo. “That’d be nice. Having a friend in the PD. That’s what I need in Trenton, man. Should have invested more in protection.”
But instead of giving up any information about Tropper and his whereabouts, Rodrigo finished his last beer, his head flopping over as the can dropped from his limp fingers. He was too far gone to answer.
Joe pushed to his feet and headed toward the bathroom, leaving his beer behind unopened. When he was out of Rodrigo’s sight, he stopped in front of the door that led down to the basement. He turned the knob slowly, opened the door. It didn’t creak. Without making a sound, he padded down the stairs.
If Officer Tropper was hiding in the house, he could be anywhere.
But instead of the dirty cop, he found only an ancient washer and dryer at the bottom of the stairs. Dusty old boxes took up the rest of the space. He checked a few, Gomez’s aunt’s stuff: doilies and old clothes, picture albums. Joe left them and hurried back upstairs.
He closed the basement door behind him, stepped into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, then backed out as fast as he could. The place stank to high heaven. Every once in a while, one of the guys would bring a girlfriend around who might clean up the dishes, but nobody cleaned back here.
He headed back through the kitchen. “Things to do, people to see,” he told Rodrigo. “I’ll stop by later to catch up with Ramos.”
Rodrigo gave no indication that he heard him.
Rashard was still immersed in his game in the living room, his full attention on the shoot-’em-up on the big-screen plasma TV. Joe paused by the front door, glanced up the stairs to the second floor where Ramos’s aunt lived. As far as Joe knew, nobody but Ramos and Lil’ Gomez went up there. Upstairs was off-limits to the crew.
But would Ramos stash a dirty cop up there?
Joe backed toward the stairs, keeping an eye on Rashard, who was lost in mortal combat.
He didn’t get far before Trigger appeared at the top of the stairs, tail wagging. Then the front door banged open.
Ramos strode in, his cold gaze immediately snapping to Joe.
Joe nodded at him. “Hey. I was gonna sit down here until you got back. Stopped by to see what’s up. If I can help with anything. When are we moving on J.T., bro? I’m ready.”
Ramos stared at him for a long moment, that odd look in his eyes again.
Joe kept his right arm loose by his side, ready to grab for the gun tucked into his waistband behind his back. If Ramos figured out that he was a cop—
But then the gang leader finally said, “Tomorrow. Be here by eight. You’ll be with me. We’ll take your car. J.T.’s crew doesn’t know the Camaro. They know my ride.”
All right. At last, specific details Joe could give Chief Gleason. “We’re splitting into teams?”
Ramos shrugged. “Three cars, three houses to hit.” He went to sit by Rashard in the living room and joined the game.
Joe left them, drove a couple of blocks, looped around, made sure he wasn’t followed, then drove back to Broslin, straight to the station to report to Chief Gleason through Captain Bing. Nobody on Gleason’s team knew Joe was working undercover, and the chief wanted to keep it that way.
But when Joe walked into the Broslin police station, he saw only Leila, working behind the reception desk.
He glanced at the bulletin board that looked like a rainbow, every notice printed on a different color paper. Best not to bring that up.
“Hey.” He looked through the stack of messages.
“She thinks we need more color around here,” Leila mumbled, her eyes dangerously narrow.
A high school kid walked in before Joe had to pick sides, saving him.
The kid looked at Leila and adjusted his letterman jacket, flashed a smile that brought out twin dimples. “Hey, beautiful. Are you the angel who’s going to help me talk my way out of a parking ticket?”
Joe bit back a grin. The kid had some moves, but he serious
ly had to learn how to read his target better.
Leila raised a strict eyebrow. “Watch it, Romeo. I’m old enough to be your mother.”
The kid flashed a grin. “Can I call you Mrs. Robinson?”
“You can call me, Mrs. Please-don’t-throw-the-stapler-at-my-head. How is that?”
He only widened the grin. “God, I love me a feisty older woman.”
Leila pulled her spine straight, her eyes narrowing to slits as she leaned forward to give the kid a good look. “Aren’t you Brian Taylor? You know I go to church with your mother? She raised you to talk to your elders like that?”
The kid shrank two inches, the cocky attitude sliding right off him. “No, ma’am.”
Leila held out a hand. “Where’s that ticket?”
The kid dug through his pocket, handed it over with plenty of reluctance.
“You can pay this right here. Anything else?”
Joe watched the transaction silently.
“Kids these days,” he offered in support to Leila after the boy left.
She scoffed. “What are you talking about? He reminds me of you at that age. You propositioned the vice-principal’s wife at the senior prom. Remember that?”
Right. He winced. “She was such a pretty young girl. Completely wrong for him.” He cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t know by any chance when the captain is coming back, would you?”
“Hasn’t said. He’s out at a fatal motorcycle accident. Might be a while.”
“Who?” A couple of faces flashed into his mind, friends who rode bikes. Half the time, the bodies he had to scrape off the pavement were friends. That was the most difficult part of being a cop in a small town where he knew everybody.
But Leila said, “Not from Broslin.”
Harper lumbered forward from the back with a cup of coffee, nodded at Joe. “I need to check e-mail, then I’ll be heading back to the hospital to interview a few more of Brogevich’s ex-coworkers and look into those anger management classes.”
“I’ll follow you over,” Joe said. He could call the captain on the way and report in. Call Wendy too, and check on her.
The phone rang. Leila picked it up. Her eyebrows snapped together as she listened. “You tell him he better not leave the house. He’s grounded.” She set the phone down pretty firmly.
When she used that tone, it usually had to do with one of her boys. She was a widow with three teenage sons.
“Anything I can help with?” Joe offered.
“Put my kids in lockup till they grow a brain?” She gave a growl that would have done a cougar proud. She wasn’t the type to sigh. “Zak has his first girlfriend. Tad decided it’s a good idea to sneak smokes behind my back. Bobby wants to drop out of sports.”
That last one seemed like the worst problem to Joe. “He can’t quit. He’s good at football. I saw him play.”
Leila shook her head. “Even with the part-time help here, I’m still not home with them enough. And when I’m home, I’m either cooking or cleaning, and they have their heads in their cell phones and the Internet.”
“I could take them to a game in Philly.”
Her face softened. “You’re a good man, Joe,” she said after a moment. “They’d love that. With all your pictures and trophies in the glass cabinets at the high school, they think you’re da man.”
“I try not to brag about it,” he said modestly.
“For some reason, they think you’re not lame like the rest of us adults. Apparently, I don’t know anything anymore. I’m out of touch and all that.” She shook her head, a nostalgic look coming into her eyes. “They were such sweet little boys. What happened?” Then she answered her own questions. “Testosterone tornado. And I’m in my own hormone hurricane.”
Joe cleared his throat, and before Leila could move on to something to do with menopause, he quickly said, “It’s tough to be a single mother.”
“Being a mother is a full-time job. Being the mother of more than one is like juggling chain saws.”
If anyone he knew could actually juggle chain saws, it’d be Leila, Joe thought as he nodded. Then he thought of Wendy, because he wasn’t able to go five minutes these days without thinking of her. Wendy would soon be a mother of two. With a violent ex, who was possibly out to have her killed.
The second he had his list from the jail in Wilmington, the names of the men Keith Kline had interacted with after his arrest, he was going to set everything else aside and jump on that. Since at the moment he couldn’t help Wendy, he might as well help Leila with whatever small thing he could do for her kids.
“I’ll get tickets for the next game. You tell the boys.” He knew them pretty well. They came for the Broslin PD fund-raiser cookouts, and occasionally they stopped by to see their mother during her shift when they needed something.
Harper came up. “Ready?”
As they walked out, Joe pulled his cell phone to call the captain, but the phone rang before he could dial.
“Courtesy call. Cop to cop,” Officer Conti, one of the cops who’d processed Wendy’s apartment after the break-in, said. “Keith Kline was released on bail.”
Joe thanked him and hung up, turned to Harper, who was waiting for him. “Can’t go to the hospital right now. Something else came up.” Shit. He needed to get active in the homicide investigation. He owed that to Phil and Marie, but he needed to tell Wendy about Keith in person. “I have to run off on another case.”
“No problem.” Harper nodded. “I’ll let you know if I find anything. Might all turn out to be a giant waste of time anyway. Running down a thousand bad leads before we get the one that takes us somewhere.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Joe hurried to his Camaro, his mind on Wendy and her son as he called the captain and filled him in on both the planned gang hit and Keith Kline.
“I appreciate the update. I’ll pass on the intel to Chief Gleason.”
“I’m going back in tomorrow night.” The undercover gig was his. He wanted to see it to the end.
“Are you sure?”
“All I know is that Ramos is going to hit J.T.’s crew at three locations. I don’t know where. If I can get that and pass it on, the chief can have SWAT teams waiting. Catch everyone with the guns. Intent to commit murder, gang activity, illegal weapons charges, probably some drug charges.” Since some of the guys would be fortifying themselves. Paco for sure. He never went into a job sober.
“I’m sure Chief Gleason will appreciate that. You be careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll make sure there’ll be someone at your house to keep an eye on Wendy and the boy while you’re gone.”
“Thank you, sir.” He’d been about to ask for that.
Deathblow: Chapter Thirteen
Wendy cleaned away the remains of Justin’s post-nap snack, hunting down all the rolled-away oat loops, trying to keep Joe’s house as neat as possible. She could still barely believe that they were here.
She didn’t want to be living with Joe. She’d worked incredibly hard to escape Keith’s lair. She’d let Justin cry at night. Then she’d begun by saying she would stay with a friend for the weekend. Then for the week. She’d said and done everything just right. She’d escaped the penthouse.
Or she’d thought she had. But there’d been no escaping Keith.
Coming to live under Joe’s roof certainly wasn’t the path to independence. She didn’t like the idea of bouncing from man to man.
Broslin’s favorite son had a simple home on a quiet street, nothing like Keith’s bachelor pad in the city. The eighties colonial had been converted to open floor plan, the kitchen and dining room combined into a huge eat-in kitchen with cherry cabinets and gleaming black granite countertops. The family room and living room had been opened together to create one large space, with a floor-to-ceiling fireplace, a large-screen TV, and comfortable, masculine furniture.
The upstairs bedrooms had been updated too. Two of them had been made into one spacious master suite, the bathr
oom with an oversize shower that had more showerheads than she’d know what to do with, and a large tub with jets she was developing some serious daydreams about.
The remaining bedroom was set up as an office, but it did have a pull-out couch. She could sleep there with Justin, she decided.
Everything was low-key, homey, and welcoming. Joe had evidently put thought into the design, renovated the house for himself, not for bragging rights. Her first impression of him had been that he was a jock, but the house showed a different side of him. She’d expected a party palace. Instead, he lived in the kind of home that she as a single mom has been dreaming about, and that surprised her.
But what surprised her the most was the fancy cedar swing set, complete with a playhouse, in the backyard.
“Who’s the swing set for?” she asked Joe when he finally walked through the front door.
“My nephew, Max.” He glanced at Justin, playing in the hallway with Pirate Prince, the neighbor’s cat.
“Hi, Joe.” Justin looked up, but only for a second, lost in cat-petting bliss.
“Hey, kiddo. Want to feed Pirate Prince some treats?”
That put a big smile on her son’s face. “Yes!”
Joe walked to the kitchen and pulled a handful of treats from the corner cabinet. “There you go. You can lay them down in a line, and he’ll follow them. Sometimes that’s how I get him to go home for the night when I’m ready to go to bed.”
Justin grabbed the treats, dropping only a few. The rest he started lining up, one by one, a foot apart, toward the living room. He laughed with glee as Pirate Prince followed, eating each treat.
Wendy shifted on her feet. “I hope you don’t mind that I let the cat inside.”
“I let him in all the time. He’s big on the whole my-house-is-your-house thing.”
“As soon as I cracked the back door open, he shot right in.”
“He knows where the goodies are. Max is in love with him too. That cat gets pretty spoiled.”
“Max is your sister’s son?”
He nodded, looking distracted. “Same age as Justin. They might stop in tomorrow. I’m going to stick around the house for a while. I’ll have to go out tomorrow night, but there’ll be someone else here from the station.”
