by Cecy Robson
Again, Rosana shakes her head. Detective Melo stretches his foot out and taps mine lightly. I don’t want to overwhelm Rosana, but like Detective Melo, I realize Rosana is starting to see us as the enemy. She’s never going to make it through trial like this.
“Rosana,” I say, “I know you don’t want to talk about the pictures or what happened when he took them right now. And that’s okay, we can talk about it when you’re ready. But could you tell us if he took them with his phone?”
She shakes her head.
I hold up a hand when Declan stirs. “When you say, no, do you mean you don’t want to talk about it, or that he didn’t use his phone?”
For a long moment, Rosana sits with her arms crossed, appearing to shield herself from the world. Declan starts to say something, but I hold my hand out, hoping he trusts me enough to take the lead. One of the hardest things about working with victims who suffer severe trauma is you have to be patient. It’s the only way they’ll open and trust. Sometimes, it takes them an outrageous amount of time until they finally speak.
When I start thinking that today won’t be the day she’ll tell us, a thick tear rolls down her cheek. “He used an old camera. The one where the picture comes out of it.”
Which means he wanted a hard copy and nothing we could trace on his phone.
“Did he keep the pictures?” I ask.
She nods.
“Where are they, Rosana?” I ask.
Her gaze goes blank. “There’s a loose floorboard under his bed where he used to sleep. He keeps them there.”
“In the apartment above yours where your uncle rented him a room?” I ask. At her nod, Declan and Detective Melo exchange glances.
“What else is in there?” I ask.
“A video camera,” she says.
Shit. “Did he ever use on you?” I ask.
She shrugs like she doesn’t know, but I’m sure that she does.
When it becomes clear that Rosana is done talking, Declan turns to the detective. “Go see Botsko, tell him I need a search and seizure ASAP and that I want it in front of the judge within the hour.”
“For just the room?” Melo asks, his eyebrow puckered slightly. He’s pushing for more, but respects that Declan is the one who calls the shots.
“No,” Declan replies. “I want the entire apartment searched.”
“That’s my brother’s apartment,” Vilma says, her voice shrill following the interpreter’s translation. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
It takes some effort for me not to react. She’s trying to protect her brother from what the search and seizure might turn up. I only wish she was that protective of her daughter.
Declan fixes her with a knowing stare and tight smile. “Then he has nothing to worry about, does he?”
Melo excuses himself. I turn to Vilma and start asking her about her hometown in Honduras. I’m trying to keep her here. If I don’t, she’ll warn her brother and God knows who else. Rosana confided in me that she told Vilma about the sexual assault. Vilma, an undocumented immigrant, was scared to get officials involved. Aside from telling her daughter to lock herself in their apartment, she did nothing about the incident, forcing her to interact with Iker at family functions to “keep the peace”.
I don’t like Vilma. Her weakness and ineffective nurturing put her daughter in harm’s way. She reminds me of my birth mother in that respect, and sometimes it takes a great deal for me to remain calm and not lash out at her. But Vilma is afraid, and despite her mistakes and everything she’s done wrong by Rosana, I know she loves her daughter. Even though she does a shitty job of showing it.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” the interpreter says on Vilma’s behalf.
“Can it wait?” Declan asks, staring right at Vilma.
“No,” Vilma says.
Like I suspected, her English isn’t as limited as she told us. Declan smiles. It’s not a friendly smile. “Fine, one of my detectives will escort you just so you know where it is.”
Vilma scowls. “I can go, too,” the interpreter offers.
“I don’t need an interpreter for that,” Vilma says.
Ah, yes, her English is just fine.
“No problem,” Declan says, keeping his smile and lifting the receiver to his phone. “Detective Hernandez speaks plenty of Spanish should you suddenly need an interpreter in the bathroom―Oh, hey, Valencia, it’s Declan. Could you do me a favor? I have the guardian to one of my lead witnesses here and she needs to use the restroom. Do you mind escorting her?” He sighs. “Yeah, ordinarily I wouldn’t ask, but I have this pesky search and seizure request going before the judge involving her brother’s place within the hour, and I can’t spare anyone.” He grins. “Thanks, Valencia. I owe you.”
Vilma’s scowl fades and she begins speaking rapidly. “Am I under arrest?” the interpreter asks for her.
“Not at all,” Declan responds. “Consider it a friendly service here at the D.A.’s office.”
He barely finishes responding before Detective Valencia Hernandez knocks on the door and pokes her head in, smiling brightly. “Hey, Declan.”
“Hey, V. This is Ms. Secco. Would you mind showing her to the restroom?”
“I’d love to,” she says before turning to Vilma and speaking in Spanish.
Vilma walks out in silence, but not before making it clear she doesn’t want Rosana questioned outside her presence. The interpreter meets Declan with a grin. She’s young, clearly impressed and already in love with him.
Declan glances over at me, pausing when he realizes that no, I’m not impressed, and that unlike with the interpreter, his performance didn’t make my panties wet.
I turn to Rosana. “Did you finish your art project?” I ask. “The one with the clay?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet,” she admits. Although she isn’t looking at me, something shifts in her features and she smiles. “I finished the one with the spray paint. My teacher really liked that one.”
“Will you show it to me sometime?” I ask.
“Yeah. But it’s dark,” she says. “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“Is it darker than the first one you showed me?” I try not to cringe when I recall the sketch she did of a woman stabbing a man.
She laughs and finally looks at me. “You know I was just trying to scare you right, Miss Fenske?”
“Oh, and you did,” I admit, laughing.
“You like art?” Declan asks.
Rosana’s attention returns to the floor. “Little bit,” she mumbles.
No, she actually loves it. I don’t correct her, giving her a moment to connect with Declan.
“You think you can draw something for me?” he asks.
“You want me draw you a picture?” Rosana she asks, her voice challenging.
“Yeah,” he says. “Why not?”
She narrows her eyes, wondering it seems if he’s placating her. “What do you want me to draw?”
“How about me?” he says.
“You?” she repeats.
“Sure. Draw me as you see me,” he says. “Or, I don’t know, on a white stallion with the sun setting behind me. Just be sure to catch my right side.” He turns a little, showing his profile. “It’s my best side.”
It’s taking all I can not to roll my eyes, especially when the interpreter starts laughing. “Oh, D.A. O’Brien, you’re so funny!” she gushes.
Rosana shoots me a quizzical look and huffs. “This is the guy who’s gonna save me?”
She laughs at my smirk. “Just be sure to catch his good side, Rosana.”
CHAPTER 5
Melissa
I manage to hold onto Rosana and her mother a little longer in my office. But it’s not enough time for Judge Bronson to agree to the search and seizure motion.
Declan raps on my door about an hour later. “Can I come in?”
I put my pen down on my desk, watching him as he shuts the door. “You’re pissed at me, aren’t you?” he asks,
his expression clearly that of a man who would expect no less of me.
“I’m not angry at you, Declan,” I begin.
“Didn’t seem that way back in my office,” he interrupts.
Wow. For someone who’s accusing me of being mad, he’s the one acting testy.
“I was trying to help Rosana,” he says continuing. “And I was trying to connect with her.”
“By attempting to be charming?” I ask, crossing my arms.
Something in my face causes him grin. “Believe it or not, most women think I pull it off pretty damn well.”
“I have no doubt. But today you didn’t quite manage.”
“I wasn’t talking about you,” he fires back. “I already know what you think of me.”
I gasp. “I wasn’t talking about me either.”
His face reddens, but I don’t wait for him to speak. “Iker was a family friend,” I begin. “He gained Rosana’s trust by paying attention to her, listening intently to everything she said, and making her laugh, in other words, charming her.”
He lifts his chin, the muscles along his jaw tensing. “She’s a sweet kid, who’s had a really rough life,” I tell him. “That doesn’t make her your sweetie, like you called her. Because if you remember the last man who gave her a pet name, who paid attention to her, and who claimed to want to help her, convinced her to let him into her apartment when her mother was away and assaulted her.”
“I wasn’t trying to remind her of Iker,” he snaps. “That wasn’t my intention―”
He stops as I shake my head. “I know you didn’t mean to come across this way,” I say softly. “And that you were only trying to bond with her. But with a kid like Rosana, who can’t even trust her own mother to help her, you have to earn her trust by being genuine and keeping some distance.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I’m certain that like Rosana, he’ll shut me out. But then he says, “I’m sorry.”
The sincerity in his features and tone is like a tangible force, holding my attention longer than it should and warming my heart in a way he’s not supposed to.
I avert my gaze. “I’m sorry, too,” I say. “I’m not trying to insult you or tell you how to do your job. But all those cases you’ve tried, however challenging, didn’t involve victims like Rosana.”
“I realize that now,” he agrees quietly.
The quiet spreads between us, but it’s not uncomfortable or tense, and maybe something we both need at the moment. The mental exertion of keeping up with the conversation earlier, and the stress from the cases I handled today alone, hits me all at once. Not that it stops me from thinking matters through.
I blamed Declan for the way he came across, but had I met with him ahead of time, we could have discussed how best to approach Rosana. He’s handled a plethora of cases and met with multiple witnesses and victims. But the victims in this unit are a different breed and so very fragile.
“I should have prepared you for the meeting and warned you she was defensive,” I admit. I take him in from his meticulous cut wavy blond hair to shiny expensive shoes, trying not to judge this future politician standing before me. “I just never expected you to be so . . .” I shake my hand at him. “You.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says, the corners of his mouth stretching into a way-too sexy grin that causes his blue eyes to shimmer.
For some reason, I blush. I’m not someone who blushes because she’s shy or easily embarrassed―especially around someone like him who would enjoy it too much.
I shuffle the papers around my desk, trying to hide my face and not cringe when instead of walking out he edges closer. He stops directly in front of my desk, leaning forward so that his elbows rest across the smooth surface. “Are you blushing?”
“I don’t blush,” I assure him, gathering random sheets of paper on my desk and making more of a mess than anything.
He angles his head, trying to peer at my face. “I don’t know,” he says like he’s giving it some thought. “I’ve made plenty of women blush in my life . . .”
“Oh, I’m sure you have, counselor,” I say, my face growing hotter.
“. . . and I’m pretty sure that’s a blush you have going on. Hmm, it might be one of my best ones yet.”
I slam the stack of screwed up notes against my desk and glare at him. “Is there something you need help with Assistant District Attorney O’Brien? I’m very busy.”
He straightens, cocky grin firmly in place, lean muscles flexing just enough to show he works out, and again looking way too good in a suit. Damn it, does he have to be this attractive?
“No, I just came in here to see if you’re mad at me,” he says, adding a well-rehearsed wink. “Nice to know you’re not.”
I push away from my desk and open my bottom drawer, reaching for my purse. “How about dinner―?”
“I don’t date men I work with,” I say, my grip to my purse strap way too tight.
“I wasn’t asking you out,” he says, his voice fading with every word.
If I wasn’t blushing before, I certainly am now. For a moment, I simply freeze, my mind racing with how to respond.
My fingers clench around my purse strap hard enough to hurt. I lift my chin as he carefully straightens. The arrogance initially so vivid in his features is gone as well as any hint of flirtation.
“Look, I don’t date women I work with either.” He crosses his arms, appearing embarrassed for me. “We were supposed to discuss the Morris Miller case following our meeting with Rosana. With everything that went down, we never had the chance.” He speaks slowly, as if trying to make sure I understand that our relationship is strictly business. No, I’m not humiliated or anything. “I know you often work late so I thought we could have something delivered and go over the case then.”
He does a one shoulder shrug, trying to appear casual. Based on his far too rigid stance, he doesn’t quite pull it off.
I have two choices here: Say no and all but admit that I’m too mortified to be alone with him―after wrongfully assuming he wanted to date me―or pretend to be strong and take the meeting.
“In that case, count me in,” I say, beaming.
He puckers an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Of course. Maybe when we’re done with the case, I can cover some aspects of victim trauma and discuss interview skills that may help you in the future.”
“Sure,” he says, eyeing me in a way that tells me he can see right through me. “Thai sound good?”
“Sounds great,” I say, standing.
Oh . . . gawd. Why would I think he was asking me out?
I force another smile and plop my giant bag on the desk, spilling the contents across the surface when the front closure pops open.
If this were a romantic comedy, my desk would be littered with tampons, condoms, and an extra pair of panties. I wish I was that lucky. Any of those items would be welcome over the tattered paperbacks spread across the slick wood: bare-chested men and their come-hither stares firmly in place, groin muscles bulging.
Declan stills in place, his gaze traveling across each model gripping his ladylove mid-swoon. “My Lusty Highlander?” he asks, reading off the titles. “My Pirate, My Lover?” He reaches for the last before I can snatch it away from him. “The Naked Cowboy who Deflowered Me?” He lifts his chin. “You―” He pauses, as if gathering his words. But when he swallows hard enough to bounce his Adam’s apple, it’s clear he’s just trying not to laugh. “You like this sort of thing?”
“Of course not!” I insist.
Oh, and there’s that cocky smirk I could have done without. “Then why do you have them?”
“I picked them up at used bookstore.”
“They sell crotch-less panties at that bookstore?” he asks, laughing.
My face is officially on fire. “There’s a woman I met at the domestic violence shelter who loves them,” I say. It’s true, but so do I. And no, she’s not getting these bad boys.
“So y
ou purchased them for this woman?”
“I wanted to give her a treat,” I say, lying my ass off. I throw in a flirty shrug and teasing grin, trying to give the impression that I think it’s hilarious that there are actually women who read this sort of thing, even though, I am, indeed, one of those women. “It’s just the kind of gal I am.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, his humor fading.
My playfulness dwindles. The way he’s looking at me isn’t in that mocking way he was before. This look is alluring, daring me to get closer, and promising me sweet, sexy things if I do. But that can’t be right. Not when he made it clear he wasn’t asking me on a date.
A knock on my door breaks our eye contact. “Come in,” I say. I’m thankful for the distraction until I see who it is and why she’s here.
“Hi, Declan.” Stephanie’s dazzling smile lights up the room when she sees him. She glances briefly in my direction. “Hi,” she tells me with a lot less dazzle.
She tosses her hair back in a way I’m sure she’s practiced a thousand times. “Detective Melo has been looking for you,” she says, focusing fully on Declan. “Something about the search and seizure. I told him I’d find you.”
Declan frowns. “Where is he?”
She backs away, luring him out. “At his cubicle. He’s on the phone and seems flustered.”
They take off, neither glancing back.
Stephanie barely acknowledged me. Given my position, I expected her to show me a little more respect. It stings that she didn’t though I recognize that like many women who work here, Declan’s mere presence has her enthralled. But the sting is still there, no matter how much I wish it wasn’t.
Stephanie is pretty, stunning even. She reminds me of all the beautiful girls I went to school with, who like her, barely glanced my way. My accomplishments never impressed those girls, neither did my hard work. I tried to be friendly and often gathered my courage to say, “hi”.
Aside from a few obliged “hellos” back, they didn’t offer much more. Instead they’d stare at my mouth, unable to get past the way I spoke. They didn’t understand, and probably didn’t care, that I speak how words sound to me, and despite the intensive speech therapy I received, this was my normal.
