Intimate Danger (Empire Blue)

by D. C. Stone

  He lifted his brows and didn’t say anything, so she went on.

  “Well, so far it’s a bunch of smaller incidents, but I have this feeling that they are linked. It’s just…something about it, you know? I don’t know what I’m even trying to say.”

  “How about you start with what the cases are actually about first.”

  She set down her fork and rolled her eyes up with a shrug. “Well, there’s that. Okay, so the first was that Peeping Tom, right? Nothing really outrageous about those crimes, other than the fact that they happened. We got shoe prints outside some of the windows, and a very brief and plain description from the victims. Nothing much more, no witnesses, no leads. And I mean, think about it, in our town, even with it growing so much in the past few years, when was the last time you heard about anything dealing with some pervert sitting outside a woman’s window?”

  He shook his head. “Never?”

  She nodded. “Well, yeah. So tell me how odd is it that we have three additional Peeping Tom calls pop up this past week? And now, today a B&E where the woman’s lingerie goes missing. Think about it. When it hasn’t happened in so long, and now all of a sudden there’s bam, bam, bam. Four, five, maybe even six cases. Very out of the norm for our town. Don’t you think they just might be related?”

  Dwayne took a drink of his water and set the glass in the sink. “There could be something there, but then again, it could be completely coincidental. You gotta find the link, Charlie. Any prints from the B&E?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well,” he said, “that sucks. Let me know if you need any help. I’m heading out to catch up with Hailey before I go on shift.”

  Charlie smiled, an image of the cute little redhead popping in her mind. “How’s Hails doing? A junior this year right?”

  A soft smile spread as he unrolled his shirt, buttoned the cuff links, and grabbed his matching blue jacket. “Yeah, she’s got a full plate going on, too. Made varsity softball this year, and is driving her mom insane with talk of dating some boy.”

  Despite not being the girl’s father, Dwayne had stepped in years ago for a friend in need to help Hailey’s mother, Brooke, with her daughter. Speaking of Hailey, dating didn’t seem like something Dwayne was too keen in letting the teenager do. “The man with more women in his pocket is having a hard time dealing with his little girl’s dating life? Ha! Oh, this is going to be so fun.”

  He reached over and tweaked her nose. She batted him away.

  “She’s a smart girl,” Dwayne said. “I’m going to hang this kid by his balls before he figures out what they’re good for.”

  She was still laughing, completely amused.

  Dwayne shook his head and left with a wave over his shoulder.

  Fink continued to play in the background, and Charlie sobered, listening to his soulful words. She was surrounded by friends, not family, but friends she considered a part of her life, and yet still, she felt so alone.

  Chapter Three

  Special Agent Trent Rossi stepped inside the building and blinked, the difference between the shadowed room and the harsh sun causing him to take a few moments. He scanned the area, his mind working slower than his body, which was pulling overtime fighting with the caffeine-laced java he had thrown down on the way from the City to Nyack.

  “This way, gentlemen.” Chief Woolsey’s grumbling voice grabbed his attention and he fell in step behind Special Agent in Charge Dillon Echols, his supervisor and assigned partner for this trip. Trent pulled at his black tie, still uncomfortable with contraptions that resembled nooses. The damn things felt like they were a hair’s breath from choking the ever-living shit out of him.

  He grunted as fresh oxygen rushed down his windpipe and feigned ignorance when Echols glanced back in question. The slight tilt of Echols’ lips, and the man’s gaze falling to the hand at his neck, had Trent wanting to follow up with a smart-ass remark. However, they were supposed to be professionals here. Big, bad, federal agents from New York City. He gave the mental equivalent of a snort. If they only knew.

  Walk into his office any day of the week, you’d find many sitting around televisions watching—depending on who it was—CNN or Maury. If they were not doing that or working on the cases, working out in the gym and surfing the internet topped the list.

  Cool air greeted them as they stepped into the chief’s office, and he wanted to weep with relief. Wearing a black suit, a long-sleeved light-gray dress shirt, and all his gear made for one very sweaty man. And not in a good way. Cotton stuck to his back, and with each step, he chaffed in unmentionable places.

  Unmentionable places.

  He scoffed under his breath. Whoever came up with that term needed to be shot. He liked talking about the opposite sex’s unmentionables often. Liked working his way into them even more. But with him, right now, he’d kill for some talcum powder.

  “Agent Rossi.” Echols voice held a hint of irritation.

  Trent snapped his attention up and followed the ASAIC’s pointed glance.

  The chief motioned toward two chairs in front of a brown desk that had seen better days.

  He walked over, and with a shake and wiggle every man should master, he rearranged—meaning he removed things from sticking to the sides of his legs—and slid into a wooden chair, taking his first real view of Woolsey.

  He was a bear of a man, running about two hundred and fifty. He had a large build, one who used to be in shape, but had packed on weight over muscle, someone who clearly enjoyed his sugar. Trent topped six-foot four, and when he had stood next to the chief, Woolsey fell inches shy. The chief had silver hair. His eyes seemed as though, with one look, he could see right through you. Alert, vigilant, ready—it was no wonder why Benjamin Woolsey had held office for so long and would likely continue to for years to come.

  Trent unbuttoned his suit jacket and bit back a moan as wintry, cooled air rushed beneath the heavy material.

  “Like I said on the phone, Chief,” Echols began, “our superiors sent us here, because it seems recent activity matches that of an old case of ours.”

  The only response was the lifting of a bushy brow.

  Echols sat back and glanced at Trent with a nod, as if to say, “Take it away, man.”

  Hell… Trent nodded, rested his elbows on the chair, and jumped into the high-level brief. “Three years ago, we had a rash of break-ins occurring in the Metro D.C./Tri-State area. Activity included homes broken into, typically single females, age ranges between nineteen and forty years old.” He paused and shifted, the chair creaking beneath his weight.

  “You say typically, Agent?” the chief asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, there were a few instances where the homes broken into had teenage daughters. Some as young as fourteen.”

  The chief let out a foul word.

  “My thoughts exactly. Anyhow, in all of these instances, evidence shows signs of forced entry through either the backdoor or a window in the home. In all of them, women’s lingerie was reported missing.”

  Woolsey sat back with a heavy, drawn out breath and scrubbed a meaty palm down his face. “Christ.”

  Trent thinned his lips. Christ about summed it up. “You see, Chief—” He sat forward and cool air brushed against his soaked back. “We think what’s going on here in Nyack may be related to what happened in D.C.”

  Woolsey shifted his gaze past Trent, looking out the window over his shoulder. “Hell, guys, this isn’t good. Not good at all.” The man turned his knowing stare back and Trent fought not to fidget. Jesus, this guy could get a priest to confess his sins. “Any suspects? Eyewitnesses? What about the crimes, they ever escalate?”

  The man fired off questions faster than Trent could answer.

  Echols sat forward to interrupt. The ASAIC looked cool, calm, unruffled. With a scowl, Trent focused on his partner, who ran a hand through his blond hair.

  “None currently, and no escalation. The perp seems content with helping himself to female underwear. Howev
er, one of those victims was the daughter of none other than Congressman Jones from Florida.”

  The chief balled his large fist and snapped it down on his desk. The wood beneath drummed. “Well, what do you think the FBI can offer here? What are you looking to do? And don’t bullshit me with this juris-my-dicktion crap. Give it straight, fellas.”

  Echols cleared his throat. His voice took on a soothing quality. Almost as if dealing with someone who was about to jump off a bridge. “Not at all. We’re only going to tag along for now. Work directly with your department. Our goal is the same. To get this guy off the streets and behind bars where he belongs. The FBI doesn’t take too kindly to terrorism, and what this guy is doing feels like what we hate…terrorizing on American soil.”

  The chief scrunched his face as if he’d swallowed something sour. “Terrorism.” The word was stated like a fat man would claim his love for exercise.

  “Yes,” Echols replied.

  Again with the scrunched face. He shifted his big bulk forward and laid heavy arms on the desk. “Fellas, I have no clue what kind of agenda is going on here, but you’re going to have to do a bit better if you want in on this case. Terrorism is something that happens like with those towers in the City, causing a mass group of people stark fear, or harm, or death all at once. What this asshole is doing is far from what I would consider terrorism. I wouldn’t think a local cop would have to explain that to you federal cops.”

  “Now, hold on—” Echols tried to cut in.

  “No.” Spoken brisk and final.

  Trent fought a grin, liking Woolsey more with each passing second. He didn’t seem one to hold anything back, was blunt and to the point. It was refreshing in an age where many danced around politics.

  “If, and that’s a big if, gentlemen. If you want in on my investigation, you’ll have to do this the right way. And,” he sang, drawing the word out, “as I see it right now, there’s really no reason for you to be involved at this point. Unless you’re holding evidence from me? Something that isn’t an assumption?” He looked between them and shook his head. “No?”

  Trent shook his in return, somehow agreeing despite what he knew.

  Woolsey stared at both of them for a few moments, his thick fingers drumming a beat on the top of the desk. Pondering.

  Trent didn’t want to force the FBI’s involvement in this, but being the lead investigative agency and having complete jurisdiction in the United States, they could push their weight in and take over if needed. He hoped it didn’t come to that point.

  “Okay, then,” the chief said, relenting. “Here’s how it’s going to go. You’ll both tag along with Detective Lopez.” Woolsey glanced between them.

  Trent spoke, answering the unasked question. “No, sir, just myself. Although Agent Echols will be monitoring for the time being, giving us a direct path for whatever resources we may need.”

  The chief drew a breath between his teeth. “All right, but I don’t envy you, son.”

  He frowned, confused. “Sir?”

  “Charlie, that’s Detective Lopez, isn’t going to take too kindly to the fed’s creeping in on this case.”

  “Well, sir—” Trent shifted in the uncomfortable chair again, wishing for a pair of cargo shorts. “I’m not looking to take any case from Detective Lopez. I just wish us all to work as a team on this. I have a history in criminal profiling, and I believe I can be an asset to what you are working on here.”

  The chief held up a hand. “You don’t need to sell me, Agent Rossi. I’ve got faith that you are as you state. It’s Charlie you are going to have to convince.”

  Woolsey sat back, a huge grin spreading across his face. “The last guy to try and get one over on Lopez still doesn’t have full use of his left arm.”

  Trent frowned. “Sir, I’m not looking to get into a pissing match with Detective Lopez. But I think I can handle myself.”

  The man chuckled and shook his head, turning toward his computer. “Of that I hope you’re right, son. Charlie sits in the back. Maybe you should go make Detective Lopez’ acquaintance.”

  Hearing the dismissal, he stood, a frown pulling at his mouth. Jesus, what kind of department was this? He didn’t get what kind of warning the chief was trying to imply. As far as he was concerned, federal kind of trumped local LEOs, and while they wanted to play nice, get everyone on the same team, there was only so much bullshit he’d put up with.

  Agent Echols leaned back and gave a minute nod toward the door. Trent refrained from cursing. It seemed as though he was on his own with this famous Detective Lopez. Fabulous.

  He stepped around Echols, setting his hand on the doorknob.

  The chief sounded from behind. “You play nice, Agent Rossi.”

  Trent glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes as the man rubbed his arm with a grimace—the left one at that.

  Just. Fucking. Great.

  He stepped out of the office and sounds bombarded him from all angles. Radio’s squawked, deep timber voices argued in excited inflections, men laughed with hearty chortles, phones rang, and subjects lined against a wall cursed beneath their breath. He grimaced at the smell. The same smell wrapped itself around every precinct across North America—burnt coffee, sweaty armpits, leather, and the underlying sweet acidic scent of gunpowder.

  He couldn’t imagine he smelled any better, especially after being stuck in traffic for over two hours on a ride that took all of an hour tops, normally. That was the thing about New York, though. Just like crimes, the traffic was unpredictable at best. It would not have been so bad if the government-issue car-screaming-cop had a functional air conditioner. But no, that would have been too easy and would have made sense, since two FBI agents were traveling north in ninety-five plus degree heat.

  Stepping away from the chief’s office, he rounded a corner of old wooden desks, and followed the linoleum tile separating the rows. Trent kept his head high, returning the stares of each officer he passed. Yeah, he was a stranger, one unwelcome in yet another precinct and they probably had questions about what the fuck he was doing here. Visions of dogs marking their territory filled his head, only instead of a tree catching the urine, it was his own leg. And, instead of dogs, each of the faces he passed took the place of the animals. He frowned, understanding he would feel the same way if someone stepped on his turf. However, right now there was a huge difference. He was FBI and had a reason for being here. One he damn sure hoped would work itself out.

  He tore his focus away from a large, round male detective who had a dire need of some Tide with bleach, and stopped at the last desk, frowning with impatience at the young woman sitting behind it. Head tilted, she read something from a sheet of white paper lying across her desk. Off to the side was a manila folder, some suspect’s name etched in red ink across the top. Gum snapped between her teeth, the popping filling the air.

  “Excuse me?” he asked with no amount of small irritation.

  The woman glanced up and his gut clenched like a python had its grip. Dark, curly hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, tight tendrils escaping captivity at her temples. The pieces fell along her neck, caressing the skin. An itch developed in his palm. He wanted to reach out and touch a strand to see if it was as soft as it looked. Her eyes were a sweet hazel, although that wasn’t quite the color he would use to describe them. Holding a slight slant on her heart-shaped face, her spellbinding gaze stood closer to a dark whiskey, with specks of green scattered throughout, a start to Spring and grass peeking out to touch the sun.

  He focused on her lips as they moved, but no sound reached past the whoosh of a pulse in his ears. Everything slowed while he stared at her mouth. Her bottom lip puckered out slightly as if pinched to perfection. Full, round, and wide enough to fit with all kinds of fantasies.

  She lifted a hand and snapped fingers in front of his face, breaking the spell.

  “Can I help you?” The woman frowned as if he was interrupting her.

  He cleared his throat. “Yea
h, uh, I’m looking for a Detective.”

  Yeah, uh? Dude, you totally are rocking the vocabulary today. He kicked himself mentally.

  The look she tossed him reiterated his thoughts.

  “Well, sir, look around. In case you’re lost, this is the police department. There’s a whole room full of them, so I think you’ve come to the right place.” She raised a brow, waiting.

  “Uh,” he answered, at a loss of words and clearly with a full head of nothing.

  She tilted her face to the side with another expression that screamed he was wasting her time.

  Christ, get it together, Rossi.

  He tried again. “I’m uh, actually looking for a Detective Lopez.” He pulled his shoulders straight. “If you could point me in his direction, I’d appreciate it.”

  Something flitted across her face, but the expression was gone before he blinked.

  “Okay.” She lifted her hands and pointed at her head. “What do you need?”

  Trent scowled, perplexed, a little turned on, and a lot pissed off. He didn’t have time for games, and while he liked to play with women at times, with everything going on, he didn’t like his reaction to this woman. Not now. First, it was too damn hot in here. And second, he had too much on his plate. Some other time maybe… “I need to discuss that with Detective Lopez.” Two could play at being a smart ass. And before he could let his mouth catch up to the warning of his brain, he sprouted more crap. “But I do have something you could possibly help me with.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And that would be?”

  Jesus, he should be looking for this Detective Lopez, but his body screamed for this woman. He fought the urge to fidget, cursed the hours he had been working, unable to get any kind of companionship. He would have to work quick and then find Charlie. “I’m Agent Rossi with the FBI.” He leaned against the desk, gave her the look that had gotten him into pants faster than any of his college buddies, and held out a hand. She looked at his palm as if it were a serpent ready to strike.

  “And? How can I help you, Agent Rossi?” She rose from her chair and crossed her arms under her breasts. He tried—and failed—to ignore how the movement pushed her plentiful mounds up toward her chin.