by Nora Roberts
His head was beginning to buzz. “No.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing. You’d probably really enjoy the Jade-Storm-Brock story line. Storm’s a cop, you see, and he’s falling in love with Jade. Her emotional problems, and the hold Brock has on her, complicate things. Then there was a miscarriage, and the kidnapping. Naturally, Storm has problems of his own.”
“Naturally. What’s your point?”
“Oh, sorry. I get offtrack. I write for ‘Secret Sins’ daytime drama.”
“You’re a soap-opera writer?”
“Yeah.” Unlike many in the trade, she wasn’t bothered by that particular label. “And I like to get the feel of the situations I put my characters into. Since Jade is a special pet of mine, I—”
“Are you out of your mind?” Alex barked the question as he leaned over into her face. “Do you have any idea what you were doing?”
She blinked, at once innocent and amused. “Research?”
He swore again, and Bess found she liked the way he raked impatient fingers through his thick black hair. “Lady, just how far were you intending to take your research?”
“How—? Oh.” Her eyes brightened with laughter. “Well no, not quite that far.”
“What the hell would you have done if I hadn’t been a cop?”
“I’d have thought of something.” She continued to smile. He had a fascinating face—golden skin, dark eyes, wonderful bones. And that mouth, so beautifully sculpted, even if it did tend to scowl. “It’s my job to think of things. And when I spotted you, I thought you looked safe. What I mean is, you didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d be interested in…” What was a delicate way of putting it? she wondered. “Paying for pleasure.”
He was so angry he wanted to yank her up and toss her over his lap. The idea of administering a few good whacks to that cute little butt was tremendously appealing. “And if you’d guessed wrong?”
“I didn’t,” she pointed out. “For a minute there, I was worried, but it all worked out. Better than I expected, really, because I had a chance to ride in a— Do you still call them paddy wagons?”
He’d been so sure he’d seen everything. Heard everything. With his temper straining at the bit, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Two hookers are dead. Two who worked that area.”
“I know,” she said quickly, as if that explained it all. “That was one of the reasons I chose it. You see, I plan to have Jade—”
“I’m talking about you,” he interrupted in a voice that had her wincing. “You. Some bubbleheaded hack writer who thinks she can strut around in spandex and a half a ton of makeup, then go home to her nice neighborhood and wash it all off.”
“Hack?” It was the only thing she took offense to. “Look, cop—”
“You look. You stay out of my territory, and out of those slut clothes. Do your research out of a book.”
Her chin shot out. “I can go where I want, wearing what I want.”
“You think so?” There was a way to teach her a lesson. A perfect way. “Fine.” He rose, tugged the tote out of her hands, then took a firm grip on her arm. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To holding, babe. You’re under arrest, remember?”
She stumbled in the three-inch heels and squawked, “But I just explained—”
“I hear better stories before breakfast every day.”
“You’re not going to put me in a cell.” Bess was sure of it. Positive. Right up until the moment the bars closed in her face.
It took about ten minutes for the shock to wear off. When it did, Bess decided it wasn’t such a bad turn. She could be furious with the cop—whoever he was—but she could appreciate and take advantage of the unique opportunity he’d given her. She was in a holding cell with several other women. There was atmosphere to be absorbed, and there were interviews to be conducted.
When one of her cellmates informed her that she was entitled to a phone call, she demanded one. Pleased with the progress she was making, she settled back on her hard cot to talk to her new acquaintances.
It was thirty minutes later when she looked up and spotted her friend and cowriter Lori Banes, standing beside a uniformed policeman.
“Bess, you look so natural here.”
With a grin, Bess popped up as the guard unlocked the door. “It’s been great.”
“Hey!” one of her cellmates called out. “I’m telling you that Vicki’s a witch, and Jeffrey should boot her out. Amelia’s the right woman for him.”
Bess sent back a wink. “I’ll see what I can do. Bye, girls.”
Lori didn’t consider herself long-suffering. She didn’t consider herself a prude or a stuffed shirt. And she said as much to Bess as they walked through the corridors, up the stairs and back into the lobby area outside the squad room. “But,” she added, pressing fingers to her tired eyes. “There’s something that puts me off about being woken up at 2:00 a.m. to come bail you out of jail.”
“Sorry, but it’s been great. Wait until I tell you.”
“Do you know what you look like, dear?”
“Yep.” Unconcerned, Bess craned her neck. The chair behind Alex’s desk was empty. “I had no idea that so many of the working girls watched the show. But they do work nights, mostly. Uh, excuse me…” She caught the sleeve of one of New York’s finest as he walked by. “The officer who uses that desk?”
The cop swallowed the best part of a bite of his pastrami sandwich. “Stanislaski?”
“Whew. That’s a mouthful. Is he still around?”
“He’s in Interrogation.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Come on, Bess, we’ve got to pick up your things.”
Bess had signed for her purse and its contents, still keeping an eye out for Alex. “Stanislaski,” she repeated to herself. “Is that Polish, do you think?”
“How the hell do I know?” Out of patience, Lori steered her toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. The place is lousy with criminals.”
“I know. It’s fabulous.” With a laugh, she tucked an arm around Lori’s waist. “I got ideas for the next three years. If we decide to have Elana arrested for Reed’s murder…”
“I don’t know about having Reed murdered.”
With a sigh, Bess looked around for a cab. “Lori, we both know Jim isn’t going to sign another contract. He wants to try the big leagues. Having his character offed is the perfect way to beef up Elana’s story line.”
“Maybe.”
Bess slyly pulled out her ace. “‘Our Lives, Our Loves’ picked up two points in the ratings last month.”
Lori only grunted.
“Word is Dr. Amanda Jamison is going to have twins.”
“Twins?” Lori shut her eyes. Soap diva Ariel Kirkwood, who played the long-suffering psychiatrist on the competing soap, was daytime’s most popular star. “It had to be twins,” Lori muttered. “Okay, Reed dies.”
Bess allowed herself one quick victory smile, then hurried on.
“Anyway, while I was in there, I was picturing the elegant, cool Dr. Elana Warfield Stafford Carstairs in prison. Fabulous, Lori. It’d be fabulous. I wish you’d seen the cop.”
They’d walked to the corner, and there wasn’t a cab in sight. “What cop?”
“The one who arrested me. He was incredibly sexy.”
Lori only had the energy to sigh. “Leave it to you to get busted by a sexy cop.”
“Really. All this thick black hair. His eyes were nearly black, too. Very intense. He had all those hollows and planes in his face, and this beautiful mouth. Nice build, too. Sort of rough-and-ready. Like a boxer, maybe.”
“Don’t start, Bess.”
“I’m not. I can find a man sexy and attractive without falling in love.”
Lori shot her a look. “Since when?”
“Since the last time. I’ve sworn off, remember?” Her smile perked up when she spotted a cab heading their way. “I’m interested in this Stanislaski for stri
ctly professional reasons.”
“Right.” Resigned, Lori climbed in when the cab swung to the curb.
“I swear.” She lifted her right hand to add impact to the oath. “We want to get into Storm’s head more, into his background and stuff. So I pick this cop’s brain a little.” She gave a cabbie both her address and Lori’s. “After Jade gets attacked by the Millbrook Maniac, Storm isn’t going to be able to hold back his feelings for her. More has to come out about who and what he is. If we do have Elana arrested for Reed’s murder, that’s going to complicate his life—you know, family loyalty versus professional ethics. And once he confronts Brock—”
“Hey.” At a red light, the cabbie turned, peering at them from under his fading Mets cap. “You talking about ‘Secret Sins’?”
“Yeah.” Bess brightened. “Do you watch it?”
“The wife tapes it every day. You don’t look familiar.”
“We’re not on it,” Bess explained. “We write it.”
“Gotcha.” Satisfied, he punched the accelerator when the light changed. “Let me tell you what I think about that two-timing Vicki.”
As he proceeded to do just that, Bess leaned forward, debating with him. Lori closed her eyes and tried to catch up on lost sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
“My wife went nuts.” Judd Malloy munched on his cherry Danish while Alex swung in and out of downtown traffic. “She’s a big fan of that soap, you know? Tapes it every day when she’s in school.”
“Terrific.” Alex had been doing his best to forget his little encounter with the soap queen, but his partner wasn’t cooperating.
“Holly figures it was just like meeting a celebrity.”
“You don’t find many celebrities turning tricks.”
“Come on, Alex.” Judd washed down the Danish with heavily sugared coffee. “She wasn’t, really. You said so yourself, or the charges wouldn’t have been dropped.”
“She was stupid,” Alex said between his teeth. “Carrying a damn water pistol in that suitcase of hers. I guess she figured if a john got rough, she’d blat him between the eyes and that would be that.”
Judd started to comment on how it might feel to get a blat of ammonia in the eyes, but didn’t think his partner wanted to hear it. “Well, Holly was impressed, and we got some fresh juice out of Rosalie, so we didn’t waste our time.”
“Malloy, you’d better get used to wasting time. Stanislaski’s rule number four.” Alex spotted the building he was looking for and double-parked. He was already out of the car and across the sidewalk before Judd found the NYPD sign and stuck it in the window. “We sure as hell could be wasting it here with this Domingo.”
“Rosalie said—”
“Rosalie said what we wanted to hear so we’d spring her,” Alex told him. His cop’s eyes were already studying the building, noting windows, fire escapes, roof. “Maybe she gave us the straight shot on Domingo, and maybe she pulled it out of a hat. We’ll see.”
The place was in good repair. No graffiti, no broken glass or debris. Lower-middle-income, Alex surmised. Established families, mostly blue-collar. He pulled open the heavy entrance door, then scanned the names above the line of mailboxes.
“J. Domingo. 212.” Alex pushed the buzzer for 110, waited, then hit 305. The answering buzz released the inner door. “People are so careless,” he commented. He could feel Judd’s nerves shimmering as they climbed the stairs, but he could tell he was holding it together. He’d damn well better hold it together, Alex thought as he gestured Judd into position, then knocked on the door of 212. He knocked a second time before he heard the cursing answer.
When the door opened a crack, Alex braced his body against it to keep it that way. “How’s it going, Jesús?”
“What the hell do you want?”
He fit Rosalie’s description, Alex noted. Right down to the natty Clark Gable moustache and the gold incisor. “Conversation, Jesús. Just a little conversation.”
“I don’t talk to nobody at this hour.”
When he tried to shove the door to, Alex merely leaned on it and flipped open his badge. “You don’t want to be rude, do you? Why don’t you ask us in?”
Swearing in Spanish, Jesús Domingo cracked the door a little wider. “You got a warrant?”
“I can get one, if you want more than conversation. I can take you down for questioning, get the paperwork and do the job before your shyster lawyer can tap-dance you out. Want a team of badges in here, Jesús?”
“I haven’t done nothing.” He stepped back from the door, a small man with wiry muscles who was wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts.
“Nobody said you did. Did I say he did, Malloy?”
Enjoying himself, Judd stepped in behind Alex. “Nope.”
The building might be lower-middle-class, but Domingo’s apartment was a small high-tech palace. State-of-the-art stereo equipment, Alex noted. A big-screen TV with some very classy video toys. The wall of tapes ran mostly to the X-rated.
“Nice place,” Alex commented. “You sure know how to make your unemployment check stretch.”
“I got a good head for figures.” Domingo plucked up a pack of cigarettes from a table, lighted one. “So?”
“So, let’s talk about Angie Horowitz.”
Domingo blew out smoke and scratched at the hair on his chest. “Never heard of her.”
“Funny, we got word you were one of her regulars, and her main supplier.”
“You got the wrong word.”
“Maybe you don’t recognize the name.” Alex reached into his inside jacket pocket, and his fingers brushed over his leather shoulder harness as he pulled out a manila envelope. “Why don’t you take a look?” He stuck the police shot under Domingo’s nose and watched his olive complexion go a sickly gray. “Look familiar?”
“Man.” Domingo’s fingers shook as he brought his cigarette to his lips.
“Problem?” Alex glanced down at the photo himself. There hadn’t been much left of Angie for the camera. “Oh, hey, sorry about that, Jesús. Malloy, didn’t I tell you not to put the dead shot in?”
Judd shrugged, feigning casualness. He was thinking he was glad he didn’t have to look at it again himself. “Guess I made a mistake.”
“Yeah.” All the while he spoke, Alex held the photo where Domingo could see it. “Guy’s a rookie,” he explained. “Always screwing up. You know. Poor little Angie sure got sliced, didn’t she? Coroner said the guy put about forty holes in her. You can see most of them. Poor Malloy here took one look and lost his breakfast. I keep telling him not to eat those damned greasy Danishes before we go check out a stiff, but like I said…” Alex grinned to himself as Domingo made a dash for the bathroom.
“That was cold, Stanislaski,” Judd said, grinning.
“Yeah, I’m that kind of guy.”
“And I didn’t throw up my breakfast.”
“You wanted to.” The sounds coming from the bathroom were as unpleasant as they get. Alex tapped on the door. “Hey, Jesús, you okay, man? I’m really sorry about that.” He passed the photo and envelope to Judd. “Tell you what, let me get you some nice cold water, okay?”
The answer was a muffled retch that Alex figured anyone could take for assent. He moved into the kitchen and opened the freezer. The two kilos were exactly where Rosalie had said he’d find them. He took one out just as Domingo rushed in.
“You got no warrant. You got no right.”
“I was getting you some ice.” Alex turned the frozen cocaine over in his hands. “This doesn’t look like a TV dinner to me. What do you think, Malloy?”
By leaning a shoulder against the door jamb, Judd blocked the doorway. “Not the kind my mother used to make.”
“You son of a bitch.” Domingo wiped his mouth with a clenched fist. “You violated my civil rights. I’ll be out before you can blink.”
“Could be.” Taking an evidence bag out of his pocket, Alex slipped both kilos inside. “Malloy, why don’t you read our fri
end his rights while he’s getting dressed? And, Jesús, try some mouthwash.”
“Stanislaski,” the desk sergeant called out when Alex came up from seeing Domingo into a cell. “You got company.”
Alex glanced over toward his desk, seeing that several cops were huddled around it. There was quite a bit of laughter overriding the usual squad room noise. Curiosity had him moving forward even before he saw the legs. Legs he recognized. They were crossed at the knee and covered almost modestly in a canary-yellow skirt.
He recognized the rest of her, too, though the tough little body was clad in a multihued striped blazer and a scoop-necked blouse the same color as the skirt. Half a dozen slim columns of gold danced at her ears as she laughed. She looked better, sexier, he was forced to admit, with her mouth unpainted, her freckles showing, and those big green eyes subtly smudged with color. Her hair was artfully tousled, a rich, deep red that made him think of a mahogany statue his brother had carved for him.
“So I told the mayor we’d try to work it in, and we’d love for him to come on the show and do a cameo.” She shifted on the desk and spotted Alex. He was frowning at her, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of a leather bomber jacket. “Officer Stanislaski.”
“McNee.” He inclined his head, then swept his gaze over his fellow officers. “The boss comes in and finds you here, I might have to tell him how you didn’t have enough work and volunteered to take some of mine.”
“Just entertaining your guest, Stanislaski.” But the use of the squad room’s nickname for their captain had the men drifting reluctantly away.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, I—”
“You’re sitting on a homicide,” he told her.
“Oh.” She scooted off the desk. Without the stilettos, she was half a head shorter than he. Alex discovered he preferred it that way. “Sorry. I came by to thank you for straightening things out for me.”
“That’s what they pay me for. Straightening things out.” He’d been certain she would rave a bit about being tossed into a cell, but she was smiling, friendly as a kindergarten teacher. Though he couldn’t recall ever having a teacher who looked like her. Or smelled like her.
