Kansas City Christmas

by Julie Miller

  “Rick, stop talking.” Holly’s warning confused the young man into silence and made Edward feel like some kind of weak invalid who needed people to tiptoe around the heartbreaks of his past.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Rick asked.

  “No, kid.” Edward shook his hand and pulled him out of his path in the same movement. What was he doing, getting involved with this woman? With any woman? He’d be lucky if he could make it as a cop again. He didn’t need to muddy up the job by getting personal with someone who could wind up getting hurt because of him. “Report the calls,” he said on his way out. “I have to go find out about a bullet.”

  Chapter Five

  “Hey, Jamal. Thanks for calling.”

  Edward was glad to have the chance to stretch his muscles and divert his attention to something other than Holly Masterson’s warm scent and frightened eyes. He hefted his cane and then picked it up altogether as he lengthened his stride to cross the crime lab’s parking garage in a limping gait that was just short of a jog.

  It was about time one of his old street connections he’d called got back to him. “Have you had any luck?”

  “Finding your ring? Heck, no.”

  Edward could imagine the black man’s occasional huffs for air meant he was chain-smoking another cigarette, not partaking of any physical activity. It had always amazed him how a man who spent almost his entire day sitting on a bench inside a barbershop could know so much about what was going on in the hidden corners and back alleys of Kansas City. “Then why are you wasting fifty cents on a pay phone?”

  Jamal’s croaking laugh turned into a cough. Several seconds passed before he spoke again. “You know, Kincaid—when you tell me to chat up my sources because you’re looking for a ring, but you can’t tell me anything about what it looks like except that it’s gold, that’s like telling me to find one particular piece of paper at the city dump. Do you have any idea how many rings are hocked around this city every day?”

  “What if I tell you that there may be more than one ring like it? And that it might be designed with or engraved with a Cyrillic Z.”

  “A what?”

  It was Edward’s turn to chuckle. “It’s fancy foreign writing. Looks like a number three.”

  “Why didn’t you just say a number three?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me why you called if you haven’t heard about any ring.”

  “I’ve been hearing some words about your brothers.”

  “Words?” Edward stopped beside his SUV. After walking so fast, his pulse rate had increased only a fraction, and he wasn’t breathing hard at all. The weight training and sobriety were paying off. But Jamal’s cryptic comment made his heart beat faster than the physical exertion had. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there’s not a brother on the street who doesn’t know your daddy got gunned down earlier this year. Folks around here were talkin’ about the deputy commissioner’s murder for weeks.”

  A steadying breath kept Edward from flashing back to the pain of his father’s funeral. “And…?”

  “News about that died down after a while. You know, as one thing or another gets to be more important around here. One of the gangs acts up…or the weather turns or…” Jamal wheezed into another coughing fit. Edward unlocked his Jeep and climbed inside to wait. “You still there, Kincaid?”

  “I’m here. Tell me what you heard about my family. If your info’s good I’ll make a call to guarantee you’ve got a bed in one of the city shelters every night the weather’s bad like this.”

  “Well, now that’s right nice of you. I do hate waitin’ in line whenever—”

  “Jamal.”

  “Right. What do I hear about the Kincaids.” Edward drummed his fingers atop the steering wheel, mentally bracing for the report. It wasn’t unusual for a criminal community that lived and worked on the streets to talk about a certain cop—but usually it was one who walked their beat or was running an investigation on a local crime, or one who was in the news for some reason or another. Talking about an entire family of cops was a different story. “Well, for one thing, somebody’s been asking about what your brothers are up to.”

  “Somebody? Who?”

  “Some woman. I haven’t had the privilege of talkin’ to her myself. I just hear things.” A quiet pause indicated he might be lighting up another cigarette. Or that he was about to drop a real bombshell. “It’s kinda funny, really. Some woman’s out there asking what your brothers have been asking folks about.”

  “Hilarious.” Whether this woman was keeping tabs on Sawyer, Atticus and Holden’s work assignments or looking for something more personal, that kind of scrutiny wasn’t a good thing. “Has this woman been asking about me?”

  “No. But then you ain’t a real cop no more, are you?”

  A real cop. His badge and gun were still locked up at home. But if it walked like a cop and talked like a cop…“You haven’t mentioned my name to anyone since I called you yesterday, have you?”

  “You know me better than that. I’m always discreet.”

  “Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want anyone to know that we’ve been talking.”

  “If you say so.”

  Edward turned the key over in the ignition. “Any chance you could get me that woman’s name, Jamal?”

  “I can do some asking myself.”

  Edward was too busy buckling up and backing out of the parking space to laugh along with him. “Consider your bed reserved.”

  “I thank you, sir. Anything else I can do for you?”

  He punched the Jeep into Drive. “You find me one of those rings, and I’ll buy you your own apartment.”

  HOLLY COULDN’T REMEMBER THE LAST time she’d worn a dress when the temperature was twelve degrees outside. But when she had seen Jillian walk out of the apartment in a red-sequined mini-dress and strappy silver heels, she had had a feeling her Santa Claus sweater and green corduroy slacks wouldn’t do the trick. She needed to fit in as a guest at Caldwell Technologies’ Christmas party, not stand out as the trespasser she was.

  In Caldwell Tech’s grand lobby she tugged self-consciously at the hem of her black silk shift and wondered if crashing a party in order to sneak her way into the back rooms of the CT building was the stupidest idea she’d ever had. No, wait—she’d already topped that list this afternoon in her office when she’d nearly burrowed into the inviting warmth of Edward Kincaid’s chest.

  A swell of compassion at seeing him transfixed by the empty autopsy room had quickly changed into a much more raw emotion when Unnamed had decided to call her again. If she’d ever considered the eldest Kincaid son weakened because of his injuries or moods, he’d laid that fallacy to rest. He’d read her fear the way a veteran cop read a suspect who was ready confess. He’d asked her tough questions, given her straight advice and…touched her.

  The man had to stand six-three or six-four, had shoulders like Achilles in fighting form, rasped his way through a conversation as though he was some gnarled old character actor—and yet he generated warmth and tenderness the way a gentle, caring man would. He’d earned a reputation as a tough cop who could hold his own with the bad guys in the hidden corners of Kansas City’s drug world. And yet the man who’d stroked her cheek and held her hand and calmed her fears had tempted her to forget common sense and decorum, and curl up inside his gentle strength.

  “Miss?” Holly snapped herself from her thoughts. Right. Since crashing the Christmas party was mistake number two, it should be a cakewalk by comparison. The man at the refreshment table had asked her a question. “What flavor of hot chocolate would you like?”

  Leaving the impulse to tell him to change the “Miss” to “Doctor” on her tongue, Holly smiled. “Amaretto, please.”

  While the tuxedoed server prepared her nonalcoholic drink, Holly tucked her chin and made a quick survey of the grand lobby, which had been converted into a festive reception area. Built more like a luxury hotel than an office building, Cald
well Tech’s marble lobby had been decorated with evergreen trees around its entire perimeter. Each draped with hundreds of white lights, they gave off a piney smell that should have reminded her of the season instead of the fact that her sister Jillian was here somewhere.

  Even with the lobby chandeliers dimmed, the place was bright enough to scan the faces of the hundred-plus employees and their guests. Holly wanted to make sure that she spotted Jillian before she or Blake Rivers spotted her so that she could avoid an awkward confrontation, an accusation that she didn’t trust her sister and was spying on her date—and the whole getting-tossed-out-into-the-snow part when the security guards stationed discreetly around the building discovered she was neither employee nor guest.

  Some of the women coming through the beveled glass doors of the first floor lobby were wearing fur coats and ankle-length gowns. They paused to greet their host, William Caldwell, a distinguished-looking man with silver at his temples and a serenely beautiful brunette woman by his side. A few of the guests went on to chat with a television reporter Holly recognized from the local news, Hayley Resnick. Though it seemed odd for a woman who seemed to be making a career out of reporting hard news to be at a posh society party, Ms. Resnick certainly fit in with with her elegant gown and sparkle of jewelry around her neck.

  Holly had managed to sneak in a side door with one of the servers who’d been outside on a break. Now she needed to blend in until she could locate the product development labs and snoop through some computer programs or file cabinets to find out more about bullets that couldn’t be traced.

  And she needed to do it without running into her sister, a television camera or security—and having to explain herself. Normally, she wouldn’t break the rules of etiquette any more than she’d break the rules of the state of Missouri. But when Edward Kincaid had mentioned that William Caldwell’s company had made a prototype of the bullet like the ones showing up in so many autopsies, she knew she needed to see one of those bullets, unfired and unscathed.

  “Here you go, Miss.”

  “Thank you.” Tucking her evening bag beneath her arm, Holly cradled the cup of hot chocolate between her hands and mimed a few sips to mask her face while she moved through the crowd to the elevator bank. Since she couldn’t very well ask for directions to the research section of the building, she’d have to rely on finding a directory and pray that the doors leading to other floors wouldn’t be locked.

  An hour or so later, Holly was about ready to give up and go home. She’d found her way to CT’s development section on the twelfth floor and had been able to go in and out of various offices, which had been left open for an open house tour. Upstairs, the building’s marble floors had been replaced with fabricated concrete, which looked modern and aptly state of the art for a technologies company. But the hard surfaces reflected every little sound, so Holly had traded cold toes for stealth, carrying her black pumps with her as she moved from office to office in her stockinged feet, carefully staying out of sight of the visitors taking a tour and the security guards who made routine sweeps of each level.

  But her daring impulse was turning into a wasted night. Each of the research labs had been locked up tight and required some kind of pass card or keyed-in code to enter. She’d searched through the open offices, but she lacked the know-how to get beyond their computer network’s security system. And all she’d picked up from the file cabinets she’d sorted through was a paper cut. She hadn’t found a single schematic or memo about the disintegrator prototype.

  Puffing out a sigh that lifted her bangs off her forehead, Holly called up the search command on Blake Rivers’s computer one last time. Located at the end of the hall farthest from the elevators and closest to the labs, Blake’s office had seemed like the ideal place to hide out while she looked for answers. But none of the logical request words had given her any leads—she’d type in bullet, ammunition, weaponry, disintegrator, bang and killer. Not found. Not found. Not found. Nothing. With the evening winding down and her frustration ratcheting up, Holly typed in one last search command. Z.

  “Then you’d better go back to finding answers through normal channels,” she admonished herself. “Science is one hundred percent more reliable than spying.” At least for her.

  While the computer searched, she tucked her feet beneath her and spun the plush office chair, taking in the cushy digs of a successful young man. More impressive to her than snagging a corner office, Blake’s neat space had a private access door to the lab itself. But repeated tries at opening it had proven just as successful as every other dead end she’d reached tonight.

  Either through daddy’s money, the prestige of an M.I.T. degree or actual hard work, Blake must have proved himself a valuable asset to the company. Maybe she’d done him a disservice this afternoon with her knee-jerk reaction to him asking Jillian to tonight’s party. If Jillian had turned her life around after her rebellious teenage years, maybe Blake had transformed himself as well.

  Her speculation into Blake’s grown-up character ended when a gray file folder icon appeared in the middle of the computer screen. “What the…?” Holly touched her toes to the carpet and stopped spinning. Beneath a row of red X’s was a pair of words that sped her pulse and made her think she was finally onto something. Access Denied.

  Should she print out the screen? What exactly did locating the file prove if she couldn’t open it? Should she try to punch in a password? What if a mistake triggered some kind of security alarm or system lockdown?

  “Cool it, Holly. Think.” She pressed her fingers to her lips and took in a deep breath. Finding a file marked “Z” might not mean anything. “Okay. Z doesn’t necessarily mean Z Group. This is a networked computer system, so the file could be on the server from someone else’s work station, not necessarily Blake’s. Yet I know he works in development. He’d have access to prototypes.”

  Trusting the idea that she needed to consult with someone who knew more about this than she did, Holly hit the Print command. She could show the paper to Edward Kincaid—to Lieutenant Kincaid. Heck, not only was he a detective, but he was a high-ranking one. Wouldn’t running an “unofficial” investigation jeopardize his career? What would happen when he was ready to go back to being a cop? Or didn’t he want to be one anymore? He seemed like such a natural. As surprisingly skilled a cop as he was an enigma of grumpy moods and tenderness.

  The distinctive beep of the elevator echoed around the corners of the stone hallways. “Someone’s showing up now?” The printer whirred as it prepped to produce the single page document. But now that she finally had something to show for her efforts, she could hear the elevator doors opening to the sounds of footsteps and laughter. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Giving one last longing look at the private access door to the lab, Holly sprang from the chair and shut off the lights. With only the illumination from the computer screen and the hallway to guide her, she shut down the computer, slipped into her shoes and grabbed her purse, all the while urging the printer to print faster. “Come on.”

  She at least had to look like a guest checking out the architecture and decor of the place instead of Dr. Snoopy Pants, creeping around where she shouldn’t be. “Thank you!”

  When the picture of the Z file finally kicked out, Holly stuffed the paper into her purse and ran out the door. If she could reach the supervisor’s office two rooms down, where there were professionally designed decorations actually lit up to admire, then she’d have a logical excuse for being up here.

  She tried to run on the balls of her feet, but her heels clacked against the floor and made so much noise and, oh, my God—

  Laughter. “Blake, stop it.” Jillian.

  “You stop looking so hot and I’ll stop nibbling on your ear. I’ve got a sofa in my office.”

  “You said you were going to show me the view of Kansas City from up here.”

  “You’re the only view I want to see.”

  They were coming this way, straight to Bla
ke’s office. Holly mouthed a curse and whirled around, looking for a place to hide.

  Automatically, she retreated from the voices and laughter nearing the corner up ahead. She’d better start rehearsing some good excuse or just accept that her sister was going to be pissed off at her for—

  A large hand clamped over Holly’s mouth as she was lifted from behind and dragged back into Blake’s darkened office.

  Barely able to breathe, her screams ringing inside her head, she twisted and kicked as the door closed in front of her and the darkness swallowed her up.

  Finally, her heel connected with an instep and her captor stumbled. Something long and hard bounced off her knee and onto the carpet.

  “Woman, stop fighting me.”

  The muffled words against her ear were raspy and deep and blessedly familiar. But relief was short-lived. Edward Kincaid must have realized what her suddenly submissive squeaks and squiggles were trying to tell him. Their unwanted company was coming here.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Without releasing her, he carried her to a closet and stuffed her inside. By the time she’d fumbled her way through lab coats and the dark to find the knob, the door was jerked from her hand. She glimpsed a slice of light as the outer door opened a split second before she was pushed against the back wall. The closet door closed and the hand came up to silence her warning cry.

  Holly was trapped, pressed from chest to toe between the unforgiving wall and the unmoving body of Edward Kincaid.

  “I can feel your heart racing, Stick. It’s Ed.” He leaned forward and breathed the warning against her ear. “Don’t scream. Don’t say a word. I’m going to uncover your mouth, okay?”

  She nodded, wanting him to understand that she knew who he was, that she’d been unnecessarily startled, but she wasn’t afraid.