Hard to Stop

by Wendy Byrne

  Finally she turned her attention toward Max. The hint of familiarity clanked around his brain. He'd seen her before.

  She had long, dark, curly hair that came to the middle of her back and a take-charge attitude. She wore a Yankees sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and tennis shoes. He guessed her to be around five foot seven, slender, and somewhere around thirty years old. Judging by the deference with which the other cops were treating her, he'd guess she must be the detective in charge.

  "Officer Teems said you know the victim. Is that true?" She didn't bother to look him in the eye as she asked the question. Instead, she kept her nose buried in that notebook she scribbled in.

  "Yes." Emotion clogged his throat as he fought through the words. "Damon Rice. I was…talking…to him on the phone…when…" Max drew his hands through his hair as a whole host of emotions he didn't want to think about swirled through his brain.

  His gaze was riveted on the scene to his left, where the paramedics were working over Damon. Maybe he was wrong. Hope sprang for the briefest of seconds inside his chest. "Is he alive?"

  She glanced at him for the first time when she spoke. "I'm afraid not." Her voice had a detached edge to it, but her eyes held a hint of compassion. "Why did you leave the scene like that?"

  Max shook his head. The unemotional tone in the woman's voice unnerved him as much as it pissed him off. "Let me get this straight. You're giving me attitude instead of thanking me for tracking down one of the punks who's responsible?"

  "Careful, Mr.…" She glanced up from her notes to stare at him. "I'm sorry—I didn't catch your name." She gave him the once-over and grimaced.

  "Max Shaw." He folded his hands across his chest and stared back at her. "I'm not sure where the officer took the kid. But he should be your focus, not me."

  "Last I checked, I was running this investigation, not you." She rolled her eyes. "Now why don't you tell me what you saw so we can get to the real facts of the case instead of you jawing at me?"

  Max closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. What happened to Damon was his fault. Just like with his siblings. If it weren't for him, they wouldn't have become ensnared in Petrovich's web. What was the adage? He needed to keep making the same mistake until he figured out the solution.

  He needed to focus.

  Somebody was after him. Were they after his siblings as well? He couldn't speculate right now.

  Questioning what he'd done to deserve this kind of retribution was a no-brainer. He'd killed a couple dozen people. He'd like to blame Petrovich, but there must have been something in him that allowed him to be okay with it.

  He clicked off his list of the hits he'd perpetrated during his tenure with the man. Retribution could be coming from a relative from any number of victims. It wouldn't be difficult to find him, even though he'd been in the United States for nearly eight years now.

  It didn't matter. Apparently somebody had decided it was payback time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Mr. Shaw?"

  Hearing his name called brought him out of the machinations going on inside his head. The sooner he found the guilty party, the better.

  "Yes." He focused on the detective, who looked at him like he was a wad of gum she wanted to scrape off her shoes.

  "I'm confused. The guy who was killed was Max Shaw. That's what it said on his name tag."

  He pointed a shaky finger to the body the paramedics were covering in a bag. "I told you. That's my friend Damon Rice. He attended a benefit as me tonight."

  "Why's that?" She had her pen poised over that damn notebook.

  "I had a playoff ticket for the Rangers and asked him to go in my place." He was already tired of her questions, especially since he'd secured one of the culprits and she was letting the others get away.

  "I still don't understand."

  He drew in a deep breath as patience became a dwindling commodity. "I wasn't going to go, so I offered to let him go in my place. He accepted. Why aren't you asking your officers to go after the other two who got away?" His breath remained labored as he struggled between adrenaline and despair to right his emotional rollercoaster.

  "You're sure the one you caught is one of the three men who did this?"

  "Yes." He narrowed his gaze. "If you won't do your job, let me."

  "And what is it you do, Mr. Shaw?" Without waiting for him to respond, she continued, "Are you a federal agent?"

  He ground his molars together. "No, I'm a trader on Wall Street." He wanted to tear his hair out, or maybe hers, because his blood wouldn't stop pumping full throttle through his body. "You're letting them get away."

  "Calm down."

  "Why the hell should I calm down? My friend was murdered, and you're standing around writing in that notebook of yours instead of going after the bad guys. If this is how you normally solve cases, I can't believe you're still a detective."

  "I won't tell you what stocks to buy and sell, and you won't tell me how to run a murder investigation."

  "Then do your damn job instead of focusing on me." He growled and tried to intimidate her with his size. But that wasn't happening. Based on the way she carried herself, he got the sense that this woman didn't back down. Maybe ever.

  "I've sent some officers in that direction. They'll see what they can find."

  He swore and shook his head. "I could have had them."

  "Or you could have been killed as well."

  He couldn't shake off the thought of his part in Damon's death. He should have gone to the benefit himself, and none of this would have happened. While he might be a little rusty, he could have taken on the three of them without much trouble. "Let me go."

  "Not on your life. I can't have you going off like some kind of vigilante. That's not the way we do things around here."

  "Maybe that explains why the NYPD murder conviction rate is in the toilet."

  "Good one. But the same is not true for me." Her voice softened, but her steely gaze didn't lessen. "I understand your frustration, but nobody goes off half-cocked on my watch." She drew the hair away from her face with a clip she pulled out of her pocket. The memory of seeing her before bubbled into awareness.

  A couple of months ago he'd spotted her through the open doors of a room opposite from the one where he'd been attending a charity event. Standing on the stage in a long red dress that hugged every inch of her body to perfection, she was difficult to ignore.

  "Hey, Phil, do you know what's going on in that room?" He pointed across the hall to where he'd spotted the babe in the red dress.

  "Some sort of police benefit, I think."

  "That woman's a cop?" He gave her one last look and shook his head. Prior to that second, he'd had every intention of running into her sometime tonight and taking her out for a drink or two. "Are you sure?" A cop and a former assassin would never work, even if it were only for drinks and a roll in the hay.

  "I'm pretty sure they all are. Melissa warned me when I booked the room that we needed to be on our best behavior tonight."

  "Why is it that all the cops I ever run into are named Guido and are about a hundred pounds overweight?"

  Max remembered that night all too well.

  * * *

  Gianna Collini had heard the name Max Shaw before. He always seemed to get his pic in the society pages of the paper. And maybe that meant he thought he could run her investigation. But it didn't work that way. There were plenty of wealthy people in Manhattan. That didn't mean he or anyone else could tell her what to do and when to do it.

  She shook her head. Save her from rich socialites thinking they knew about what she should and shouldn't do. In her opinion, they watched too many Law & Order episodes for their own good. They all thought crimes got solved in an hour, like on TV. Not a one of them knew much beyond being a pain in the ass twenty-four seven. She'd be shocked if this one didn't complain to the mayor about the way she did things. Nine times out of ten, people in this guy's social stratum were BFFs with the mayor.

  Nights
were never slow in Manhattan, but this took the cake. Her brother, Michael, or Mick, as she usually called him, wasn't answering her calls, which put her in a bitch of a mood. He was sixteen now, and she'd nearly finished her mothering role with him, but the last couple of years had been brutal. He'd started hanging around with the wrong crowd, and she was up to her eyeballs trying to keep tabs on him.

  Now this Wall Street bozo thought he could tell her what to do. She knew his type. He thought his money and cuteness was the magical elixir to make him know everything. She cut the guy a break only because he looked like hell. His friend's death was hitting him hard.

  "Okay, let's start over again. What do you know about what happened to Mr. Rice?"

  "Damon is…" He cleared his throat. Emotion evidenced itself in his tight jaw. "Was my friend. We were talking on the phone when I heard him getting hassled. I—"

  "What did you overhear, Mr. Shaw?" There were pieces of information missing, and he wasn't saying.

  "I can't remember the exact words. Something like 'take my money,' or something to that effect." He drew his fingers through his hair.

  "Is that all?"

  "That's all I can remember. I was on my way to meet him for drinks when I spotted the scuffle and came running."

  She took in his attire. Dress shirt and tie, dress pants, wool overcoat. Not a jersey peeking beneath his coat. His Bruno Magli boots cost more than she made in a week. Not the way she or anyone she hung with dressed for hockey games.

  "I don't get it. You're at a Rangers playoff game that's gone into overtime, and you randomly call your friend to meet him for a drink instead of finishing up the game? Something about that scenario stinks, if you ask me."

  Instead of responding, he blew out a breath laden with exasperation and folded his arms in front of his chest. She had to wonder what this guy was mixed up with that would keep him buttoned up so tight. Somehow she got the sense he felt responsible. But why? Unless Mr. Shaw and his friend were involved in something illegal.

  Before she could contemplate the idea any further, Officer Clark called her over. "You're going to want to talk to the juvenile suspect Mr. Shaw brought in."

  "Is there a problem?"

  "You might say that." He didn't look her in the eye. "You'll want to talk to him before we go any further."

  "Just a minute, Mr. Shaw." She held up her finger. "I'll be right back."

  When she walked to the other side of the building, her heart stalled in her chest. Even from the back, she'd recognize him anywhere. Her younger brother, Mick, was standing beside the officer in charge, handcuffed. When he turned to glance in her direction, he looked guilty as hell.

  * * *

  Max didn't know what was going on, but something had riled up the detective. Based on the shouting coming from the area where they'd taken the suspect, Detective Collini had definitely lost her cool. He couldn't help but be curious.

  Not even a wizened-beyond-her-years NYPD detective would keep him out of this investigation. He might be a trader on Wall Street now, but at his heart he remained an investigator. And when friends or family were involved, no way in hell would he back down.

  Preoccupied with berating the young man, she didn't notice his presence when he strolled over. She was on a tirade the likes of which Max hadn't heard in a long time. He only knew bits of Italian—mostly curse words—but there was a whole lot of other stuff included in her dressing down.

  Finally she spoke in English. "Mick, what in the hell is the matter with you?" She sucked in a deep breath and wiped something from her cheek.

  Tears? She knew this kid. What were the chances she'd be impartial? Zip to none. If she didn't take herself off the case, he'd have to contact the mayor and have this case reassigned.

  To his amazement, there wasn't any macho posturing by the other officers. Rather than intervene, they sat back and let her do her thing.

  "I swear, G. I didn't do it. I—"

  She held up her hand, and to Max's amazement, the kid stopped talking. No doubt she knew this kid very well.

  When the kid glanced toward him, she turned around and faced Max, anger still blazing like a fire in her gaze. "Mr. Shaw." Her jaw locked tight. "This doesn't concern you. I asked you to stay put."

  "And I thought you wanted me to identify the murderers."

  When she shot the kid a look, the young man's expression morphed. It turned from defiant into one that resembled a kid whose puppy dog had just gotten run over Almost like a visual reprimand from a mother. But she looked too young to be the kid's mother, unless she had him at fourteen or so. But their looks were very similar. Dark, curly hair and dark eyes, slight builds—but backed by muscle.

  Max glanced from one to the other. Even in the dim evening light, the resemblance couldn't be disputed. "Holy crap. This kid's your brother?" Even though he said it as a question, there wasn't one iota of doubt in his mind. That had to be the only explanation.

  "That's none of your concern, Mr. Shaw." She had this take-charge thing honed to an art form.

  But she'd met her match in him. He never backed down. Never. "It damn well is. How can you investigate this matter if your brother is the chief suspect?" His body nearly vibrated as thoughts tumbled around inside his head. His friend was dead because of him, and a detective related to the suspect was supposed to find the guilty party.

  Not. On. His. Watch.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was those coal-colored eyes. Gia watched as Max Shaw stared at her brother in a way that terrified her more than she could have imagined. This guy had a past, based on the way he seemed to note every detail before him and commit it to memory in a way that felt calculating. Based on his posture and the way he carried himself, she suspected he might be former military—maybe Special Forces. It wasn't his dark hair or his over-six-foot size alone that made him imposing. There was something else there that she couldn't quite pinpoint.

  Some of his word choices made her believe he'd done investigative work before, which set off her radar. The man had a past. And it wasn't based solely on the way he glared at her brother like he wanted to beat him until he was bruised and bloody. Revenge wafted around him like a kind of fog.

  She needed to do more background when she got the chance. Some deep, dark past, or maybe even a suspicious present lingered around him and followed him all the way to his trendy, uberrich Upper East Side address.

  "Let's keep to the focus of this investigation, Mr. Shaw." She tightened her jaw. "How far away were you when you spotted the suspect?" To use the word suspect and her brother in the same sentence tore a fissure in her heart. Was she naïve to think her brother couldn't possibly have killed someone? Even thinking about it made her want to do something completely out of character, like burst into tears. Instead, she held her breath and awaited his response.

  He rocked back on his heels and examined Mick with a mercurial eye. After an inordinate amount of time, he shook his head in a move so slight it could be easily misinterpreted. No doubt that was his master plan. "I can't be sure. Many young men dressed like him roam the streets of New York."

  "I'm confused. Are you sure about the identities?"

  "I was about a half block away when I spotted them standing around Damon."

  "But you couldn't have seen their faces from that far away unless you had binoculars. Did you?"

  "No, but they ran away from me when I told them to stop. I was able to grab him as they split up." He gave her a pointed stare.

  "People run from me all the time, but that doesn't mean they're guilty, does it?" The unspoken words between them wafted in the air. She didn't need him second-guessing her decisions. She did enough of that herself, especially as it related to her brother.

  Being both Mick's mother and father figure since she was twenty-two had been rough. But they had each other. Born and raised in Brooklyn, they were able to stay in their grandmother's home after their parents' death. Many times food was scarce, and she'd cried herself to sleep more times
than she could count, worried and stressed over her parenting role. But, for the most part, he hadn't given her a lick of trouble, except in the last year.

  It started out with one friend, Joey. Joey had an arrest record and had quit high school. His uncle ran numbers for the local bookie. She knew it. He knew she knew. It forced her to keep a vigilant eye on the situation. She didn't want Joey hanging around, especially when he knew she'd be at work.

  But she knew her brother. And she knew he was up to something tonight. And she'd bet a whole lot of money it had something to do with Joey. What she didn't know yet was if it had anything to do with Damon Rice's death.

  "Mr. Shaw, since you cannot make a positive ID at this time, let's meet at the station in the morning, and we can discuss the case further."

  His dark eyes flitted back and forth from her to Mick and back again before he finally nodded. Reluctance played out not only in the delay in his response but in the tight clench of his jaw. "What time?"

  "Does nine a.m. work for you? I'm at the Midtown station on Thirty-Fifth Street."

  "I'll be there."

  Without another word, he strode away, leaving little doubt this would be one of her most difficult cases. He wasn't very forthcoming, and she could sense he would remain that way. Mr. Shaw had some secrets he didn't want uncovered. And she had every intention of making sure she found out everything she could about him before he got to the station.

  After she grounded her brother and threatened to send him off to military school. Again.

  "I'll take Mick with me." She nodded to the police officers and grasped her brother's shoulder.

  "Gia, I—"

  "You do not get to talk. Not now. Maybe not for an hour until after I've had my say." She pushed him toward the passenger-side door. "Get in."