Steal Me

by Lauren Layne

  That would just have to wait. Everything else would have to wait.

  She’d been waiting over a decade. What were a few more months if it meant seeing her father finally get clean?

  “Sure, Dad,” Maggie said, forcing a brightness into her voice. “I’ve got a little bit.”

  Her dad’s relief was palpable. “Thanks, Bugs. I’d ask Cory, but he’s been having trouble finding work. He keeps getting screwed over…”

  Maggie tucked the phone under her chin and picked at a cuticle. She couldn’t muster even a sympathetic grunt for her brother’s “plight.” The guy was twenty-seven but hadn’t held a single job for longer than a few months. He couldn’t afford his own cell phone bill, much less rehab for their father.

  “I’ll come out next weekend,” Maggie said. “We can talk details.”

  There was a too-long beat of silence. “I’d like to get started as soon as possible. I don’t want to waste another second on the bottle. Maybe you could just send a check…”

  Maggie swallowed. It’s for a good cause, she reminded herself. It’s for a great cause.

  “Sure, Dad. I’ll mail a check.”

  “Bugs. I owe you one.”

  Actually, you owe me thousands of ones.

  “Maybe I can drive you out there,” she said, hating her voice for sounding so needy. “Help get you settled?”

  “No need. Cory already said he’d give me a lift. Look, Bugs, I gotta run, but I appreciate it. Thanks for taking care of your old man. Love ya.”

  “Of course,” she said softly. “I love you too.”

  But he was already gone.

  Maggie let the phone drop to her side before walking numbly to the bed and sitting down.

  Duchess propped two paws on her shoulder and licked her ear.

  “It’ll work this time, right, baby?” she said, absently rubbing a hand over her dog’s little body. “He’s going to get sober? Be a real dad? Maybe even pay me back someday?”

  Duchess dropped to her belly on the bed and rested her snout on Maggie’s thigh, her big brown eyes mournful and sympathetic.

  Maggie pressed her lips together and hoped like hell her dog was wrong.

  Chapter Three

  At thirty-six years old, after thirteen years in the NYPD, Anthony had seen some pretty gnarly shit. The kind of stuff that kept a man up at night. Haunted his dreams. Things that could destroy a soul if you let them.

  Anth had heard stories of seasoned officers throwing up on the scene of a crime. Hardened sergeants retiring after a particularly rough case. Cops on every side of the NYPD food chain just losing it after seeing some of the city’s worst horrors.

  So in the grand scheme of things, Anthony’s current case was nothing. A PG crime through and through.

  It’s not that the crimes were insignificant. More serious than jaywalking, certainly; home invasion was a serious offense. But Smiley wasn’t dangerous. And in a city that could turn vicious on a dime, that was something.

  Oddly enough, it was Smiley’s relative harmlessness that made his elusiveness all the more annoying. That, and the fact that the guy left a literal calling card with every place he robbed. It was cocky, obnoxious, and stupid.

  And yet, Anth hadn’t caught him yet. He had all his best people working on it, but nobody knew when Smiley would strike next; nobody knew how he targeted his victims.

  The cards he left were standard-issue card stock, the simple, yellow smiley-face stickers you could buy at any drugstore.

  No fingerprints. No hair at the scene.

  He was both consistent, and yet not at all.

  Best as they could tell, he struck within minutes of his well-to-do victims leaving their house. Which meant he watched them leave; knew whether or not they had an alarm system (he never struck if they did, which told Anth he wasn’t experienced enough in home invasion to disarm one).

  Smiley’s loot varied. Laptops and other small electronics were common. Jewelry, although he didn’t discriminate between costume jewelry and precious gemstones, so he either didn’t know the difference or didn’t care.

  Wine and booze were also high on his wish list, but again, there was no method to which bottles he took. Sometimes it was a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne, other times it was an eight-dollar Merlot.

  But one thing was always constant: He helped himself to something from the pantry or fridge, whether it was a glass of Chardonnay from the fridge, a slice of cake from the counter, a portion of leftover takeout. And next to the used wineglass or carton, he left the note.

  Thank you written plainly across the front. Inside was always the same play on an old idiom:

  Su casa es mi casa.

  Your house is my house.

  They were dealing with an asshole with an entitlement complex, clearly. Someone who thought that other people’s belongings were his for the taking.

  The case just plain pissed Anth off on every level.

  But…

  They’d had a break. Sort of.

  An elderly neighbor of one of the more recent break-ins had come forward claiming to have seen a man “loitering” on the street the evening of the break-in.

  Thank God for nosy neighbors.

  Granted, they had no way of connecting the man to the crime, but it was telling that he’d stayed on the street for nearly an hour, walking back and forth. No dog, no destination…

  “More coffee?”

  Startled at the interruption, Anth glanced up into a pair of pretty green eyes.

  Maggie.

  “Please,” he said gruffly. On instinct he moved all papers to the far side of the table from the slim hand holding the coffee, but he promptly regretted it when he heard her exhale in embarrassed dismay.

  Still, he refused to feel guilty. The woman did seem to have a remarkable knack for spilling on him. All of the documents he was working with were copies, but still…

  “Meeting someone?” she asked. “I can bring another mug.”

  He knew why she asked. The Morettis came as a family every Sunday, and he and one or more of his brothers had been known to stop for a late-night dinner or early-morning breakfast. Hell, he and Luc had come at least a couple times a week before his little brother had met Ava and started spending most of his time at her place downtown.

  But rarely did Anth come alone. Not because he didn’t like the solitude; he relished time alone to think.

  But in recent months he hadn’t come here.

  Because of her.

  Back before Helen had retired, he’d come here all the time to catch up on things, to think, or just to read the damn newspaper in peace.

  But whereas Helen’s presence had been as soothing as his own mother’s—perhaps even more so, since Helen never pried—Maggie’s presence was distinctly…

  Well, not soothing.

  In fact, truth be told, he’d been half-hoping that she wouldn’t be working when he’d stopped in today. She was too damn distracting.

  “No, it’s just me,” he said, his voice more curt than he intended.

  She nodded and gave a smile. Forced, if he was reading it correctly. “Okay, no problem! Just coffee? Or I can bring you a menu if you’re hungry.”

  “Don’t need a menu.”

  Her smile disappeared altogether.

  Damn it. You ass.

  “I just mean, I’ve got the thing memorized. Been coming here for years,” he said, his voice even more gravelly than before.

  “Is that supposed to be an apology?”

  The question was as tart as it was direct, and definitely not expected.

  Well, well, well, he thought, leaning back in the booth. The pretty kitten had claws.

  He studied Maggie curiously, and although she blushed, he gave her credit for not looking away. Nor did she apologize for the little burst of sass.

  “Do you think I owe you an apology?” he asked, keeping his tone mild.

  She pressed her lips together and took a step back. “Never mind. I was out of
line.”

  He reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could move away, startling both himself and her with the unexpected contact. He dropped her arm immediately, but not before he registered that the pale skin was impossibly smooth against his rougher fingertips.

  “You think I’m an ass,” he said.

  She laughed delightedly at his statement, and that response too was unexpected.

  Anthony frowned. He didn’t like surprises.

  “Do you actually think you’re not an ass?” she asked. She had a low, melodic voice.

  His frown deepened. “It’s hardly my fault that you’re always spilling all over me, and that you’ve ingratiated yourself to my family.”

  She crossed her arms, the effort surprisingly graceful considering one hand still held a coffeepot. “Ingratiated myself?”

  He waved a hand awkwardly. “You know. Smiling, flitting around them, making them think you’re so wonderful just by being nearly competent at your job.”

  Her mouth opened, but instead of responding, she merely touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip for a split second before narrowing her eyes.

  “My answer to your previous question is yes, Captain. I absolutely think you’re an ass.”

  Anthony didn’t even flinch. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before. From his brothers. His sister. Ex-girlfriends. Even his mother, although Maria Moretti had never used the word “ass” in Anth’s hearing.

  And God knew he’d heard plenty of it from Vannah over the course of their doomed relationship. He took a sip of coffee to avoid the memories. To avoid the guilt over a woman he’d neglected too often. Until it was too late.

  “That was probably uncalled for,” Maggie muttered when he didn’t respond. “I apologize.”

  He nodded, knowing full well that an apology on his part wouldn’t exactly be out of line, but sorry had never been an easy word for him. Not for an oldest sibling who’d grown up with the heavy expectation that he be right at all times.

  She gave him a bright smile he didn’t deserve, as though she hadn’t just called a customer an ass to his face. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll check back in a few. Or just flag me down if you need me.”

  If you need me.

  The words caused an inconveniently sexy mental image. Anthony couldn’t help his gaze from drifting over her figure, the ugly orange uniform doing nothing to detract from enticing curves.

  It was probably long past time Anthony accepted the real reason he was so irritated by the mere existence of Maggie Walker.

  Awareness.

  A highly inconvenient sexual awareness.

  Maggie didn’t roll her eyes at his complete lack of verbal response, but he got the sense she wanted to. Instead she walked away without ever losing that falsely bright smile.

  “Just say the word. Captain.”

  He forced himself not to watch her walk away.

  Anthony knew nobody would ever describe him as charming, but he’d never hurt for female companionship. Much to his sister’s proclaimed confusion, women seemed to enjoy his brusqueness.

  Most of them didn’t even seem to mind that he started every date with a very blunt proclamation that he had no intention of entering a long-term relationship. Ever.

  Hell, most of them seemed to get off on the fact that the only relationship he did have was with the NYPD.

  How many times had he seen the worshipping gleam in a woman’s eye before she all but licked her lips and informed him that she loved a man in uniform…and out of one.

  Truth be told, Anth wouldn’t mind, just once, being seen as a man instead of a cop. Wouldn’t mind skipping the frisking puns, the handcuff jokes, the only-half-joking suggestions of role-playing.

  His eyes flitted around the diner until he saw Maggie slip into a booth across from an elderly couple and laugh heartily at whatever story they were telling.

  He jerked his gaze back to his papers. No need to worry about that one having a case of hero worship. The woman had managed to pack a shit-ton of disdain into the single utterance of the word “captain.”

  Anth ran a hand over his face and picked up the case file on Smiley’s most recent hit. He practically had the Smiley case files memorized, but he still pored over them on a daily basis, desperate for that one detail they were missing…the one connection that would lead them to motive, or some sort of pattern that would help them catch the damn guy.

  So he read them all. Start to finish.

  His coffee cup emptied, and he vaguely registered the smell of…oranges?…as Maggie drifted by to refill his mug. Vaguely remembered saying thank you. Or maybe not.

  When he finally glanced at his watch—an expensive gift from his family after passing his captain’s exam—he was surprised to see that over an hour and a half had passed.

  He was beyond hungry.

  Anth set his pen aside, rubbing his eyes briefly before looking around for a waitress. He half-hoped that Maggie’s shift had ended, but no, there she was. She’d pulled her hair back into a messy bun thing that was annoyingly cute, and seemed to sense that he was finally ready to eat because she lifted her eyebrows and headed his way.

  “Captain?” she said. Her smile and tone were deferential, but there was a slight gleam in her eye.

  He probably should tell her to just call him Anthony. She called the rest of the Moretti family by their first names. And Helen had always called him Anth. Or Antonio. Or Baby.

  Somehow he thought baby coming out of Maggie’s mouth would be quite a different thing altogether.

  He put a hand over his cup when she went to refill it, grateful she stopped before dumping scalding liquid all over the back of his hand.

  “I’ve had plenty of caffeine,” he said gruffly. “Can I get a sandwich? Turkey or ham is fine. Whatever’s back there.”

  “White? Wheat?”

  His gaze had drifted down to a copy of one of Smiley’s mocking thank-you notes.

  “Captain?” Her tone was gentler this time.

  “Hmm?” He glanced up.

  “White or wheat for that sandwich? And do you want fries?”

  “Whatever is fine,” he muttered. Like he’d taste any of it anyway.

  Narrow, unpainted fingertips touched his sleeve. “Hey, you okay?”

  He let out a little laugh.

  Was he okay?

  Hell no, he wasn’t okay.

  He hadn’t slept in weeks, and he was likely on the verge of losing the confidence of his superiors, and even worse, the men and women who worked for him.

  Adding to the sting was the fact that he had nobody to talk to about it.

  Vincent was too wrapped up in his own homicide caseload to care about mild home invasions, and Luc, who’d been his roommate for the past six years, was all but moved into his girlfriend’s place.

  Even Nonna, his meddlesome grandmother with whom he shared the Upper West Side home, was gone more often than not, either with his parents on Staten Island, or with her latest “beau.”

  He felt…alone.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said in response to Maggie’s question.

  She gave him a little smile shadowed with sadness. “Sure. I know all about that kind of fine.”

  They exchanged a look that felt too personal for two strangers in a crowded diner, and Anth was surprised by the sudden urge to ask her if she was okay.

  “I’ll get your sandwich order in,” she said, stepping away and ruining the moment.

  Anthony began gathering up his various folders. Organization didn’t come naturally to him, but his father had warned him that it was a necessary skill if he hoped to move up the NYPD food chain.

  So he’d done his best to develop a system. The files went into piles by category. Then by date. Then he put big rubber bands around each of them and lined them up neatly in his briefcase. Then—

  “Motherf—”

  Anthony caught himself before the full gust of profanity could burst out of his mouth, but the swearin
g continued in his head as he picked up half a piece of turkey that had just been dumped unceremoniously in his lap, the mayo leaving little oily splatters all over his uniform pants.

  “How the hell am I supposed to believe you’re not doing this on purpose?” he asked, glancing up angrily at Maggie.

  But to his surprise, the pretty waitress didn’t look appalled, embarrassed, or apologetic. Nor smug. Her expression was completely wrong for a woman who’d just dumped a customer’s order all over them for what had to be the twelfth time in three months.

  She looked horrified. And scared.

  “Hey,” he asked, forgetting all about the sandwich as his fingers touched her arm. An arm that shook as it reached out for one of his papers.

  “You okay?” he asked. Stupid question. She obviously wasn’t okay.

  Her fingers closed on a piece of paper. Evidence he really shouldn’t have had out on the table in the first place, much less let a civilian touch.

  But Anthony hadn’t gotten to where he was by following the rules exactly; he’d gotten where he was by following his instinct. And instinct told him that whatever Maggie Walker was thinking and feeling at this moment was important.

  Vital, even.

  So he let her pick up the paper.

  “Maggie?” he asked as gently as he could, the name feeling strange on his tongue. For as often as he thought it, he couldn’t remember ever saying it aloud directly to her.

  “How do you have this?” she asked, her voice small.

  He glanced at the paper held between her fingers. It was the police sketch of Smiley. Or what they thought might be him. Hoped.

  When Anthony looked at it, he saw an average, nondescript, thirty-something white dude. A guy that could have been one of a million people walking Manhattan sidewalks every day.

  But Maggie saw something different.

  “You recognize him?” Anthony asked, his voice losing all gentleness in its urgency.

  Her green eyes never strayed from the piece of paper.

  “You could say that.” She blew out a long, slow breath, as though steadying herself. “Seeing as I was married to him.”