Steal Me

by Lauren Layne

  Tired, and a little lost.

  So instead of cleaning, she let herself curl into the fetal position, where Duchess promptly curled up against her belly, snout resting on Maggie’s bent arm.

  “Tomorrow,” she whispered against the dog’s head. “Tomorrow I’ll be strong and brave. But—”

  A warm hand rested against her head. His hand. His fingers skimmed her temple.

  Maggie’s eyes fluttered shut.

  “You are strong,” Anth said, his voice gruff. “And you’re brave too.”

  She gave a derisive laugh. “I’m not. You want to know something terrible?”

  The mattress sagged as he sank down beside her, his hip warm against her back. “Tell me.”

  She smoothed a hand over the dog’s head, wondering if it was as soothing for Duchess as Anthony’s hand on her head was.

  “The truth is,” Maggie started. “The truth is, sometimes I look at my life. I really look at it…and I wish that all of the bad stuff would just go away and I could start over. Go back to when I was eighteen, back before my family got in the habit of relying on me for money. Back before I let Eddie trick me into thinking he was a good guy. Back before I gave up on the idea of college and started waiting tables because my dad had finally decided to get clean and needed money for rehab, stint one…”

  He didn’t interrupt her. Just kept up the soothing motion of his palm against her scalp and let her continue.

  So she did.

  She kept talking.

  “Every time something happens with Cory or with my dad…every time, I tell myself that it’s the last time. But it never is. I just keep making these same mistakes over and over again, and then I have to wonder…am I even capable of making different choices? What if I’m just…pathetic?”

  They were silent for several seconds, until finally Maggie let out a little laugh. “So, Captain, this is the point where you tell me I’m not pathetic.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, here’s what I know. I know that I’m pretty fucking great. And since I’m, basically, the greatest guy around, I can tell you for an absolute fact that I wouldn’t be here if you were pathetic.”

  She shifted slightly to look up at his face. “What if it’s the other way around? What if you’re only here because I’m pathetic? Because you feel bad for me?”

  He stared down at her. “That’s not why I’m here. Trust me.”

  “Then why are you?”

  His eyes drifted over her face, but instead of responding, he reached over to her nightstand and picked up her laptop.

  Then he opened it.

  “Hey, what are you—”

  “Either you read me your story, or I read it myself. Your choice.”

  She glared at him. Knew that if she told him to, he’d close the computer without question. And a part of her wanted to. A big part of her wanted to slam the laptop shut and toss it out the window where her book would never see the light of day. Never be exposed to criticism.

  But maybe…

  Maybe the shift from meek to brave wasn’t one big, explosive transition.

  What if it was born of teeny, tiny moments like this one, where you opened yourself up, just a little, to a complicated man who absolutely shouldn’t be here, but was anyway?

  “Okay,” she said quietly.

  “Okay what?”

  “You can read it,” she said. “To yourself, though. Not out loud.”

  Her bravery had limits.

  He nodded, shifting on the bed so that his back was to the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him.

  He turned the laptop toward her, and wordlessly she pulled up her manuscript. Scrolled to chapter one.

  He smiled reassuringly, and then, as if she wasn’t already melting enough from the fact that he’d driven her to freaking New Jersey, waited in a horrible hospital waiting room, driven her home, walked her dog, cooked her dinner, and then cleaned up, he had to go and bump it up a notch. He opened his arm to her. “Come.”

  So she did.

  She curled against him, her cheek against his chest, her arm draped across his waist as his wrapped around her back.

  “What about the car outside?” she whispered. “They’ll wonder what the heck you’re doing up here.”

  “They will.” He turned his head slightly so his lips were against her hair. “But I find I don’t care as much as I should.”

  The admission was a small one. Hardly romantic-comedy worthy. But for a man who’d made it perfectly clear that his career was of the utmost importance in his life, it was a big statement.

  And for a girl who was used to people choosing anyone and everything over her, it was a heart melter.

  “You going to read along with me?” he asked.

  “Nah. I know what it says.”

  She’d read it a dozen times. Hell, she could probably recite chapter one from memory.

  “You’re just going to lay here and let me read silently?” he asked. “You’ll be bored.”

  Maggie tilted her head up and met his eyes. “It’s been years since someone’s held me. Trust me, I won’t be bored.”

  His gaze softened before turning to the computer screen, where he began to read.

  Maggie waited for the rush of panic to set in. The rush of fear she got every time she thought about her book being exposed to the world.

  But there was no panic. No fear. There was only the steady heartbeat of an uptight police captain who, against all odds, was the first person in a very, very long time to care.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Son of a fucking bitch,” Anthony said, throwing the report back on his desk with so much force his pen cup slid off the back. “Damn it.”

  The report was from Greenwich, Connecticut.

  There’d been a break-in in some rich, uppity, gated community. As far as crimes went, it was a snoozer. Parents out of town, a teen that forgot to set the house alarm before sneaking out for a midnight rendezvous with her boyfriend. A picked lock, a couple stolen TVs, and a missing necklace.

  All boring as shit crimes, with one very crucial detail.

  There’d been a note.

  With one Goddamn yellow smiley-face sticker on it.

  “Yeah,” Anth barked at the knock on the door.

  It was his boss.

  Mandela’s eyes took in Anthony’s livid expression. “You’ve read it.”

  “It’s not him,” Anthony said, standing and locking his hands behind his head as he paced in circles. “It’s not Smiley.”

  “You read the file all the way through, right? Because the first responders found a note—”

  “It’s not our guy.”

  Ray Mandela kept his face blank and his voice easy as he dropped into one of Anthony’s guest chairs.

  “You’re thinking copycat?”

  “Yes.”

  Ray lifted his hands. “Why the hell would anyone want to copy Smiley? The guy’s a second-rate criminal at best. Not usually the ones to inspire fans.”

  “I disagree. For premeditated crimes, what’s generally the perp’s number one objective?”

  Mandela shrugged. “Depends on the crime. To rob the bank, to kill the guy who stole your wife, to hot-wire the car—”

  “Wrong,” Anth interrupted. “Your number one objective is not to get caught. That’s what the copycat is copying. He doesn’t care about the crime, he cares about the thrill of getting away with it.”

  Mandela leaned back in the chair and considered.

  Anthony charged on. “Eddie might be in the kiddie pool of criminals, but he’s not in the news because of that stupid yellow sticker. He’s in the news because there’ve been lots of those damn stickers. The guy’s dodged us for weeks, and the Cretans of the tri-state area are going to notice. They’re going to want in on the fun.”

  Ray scratched his head and looked skeptical. “It’s possible, I suppose, that there could be another player, but without any proof, we’ve got every reason to assume we’re dealing wi
th the same guy. The MO’s the same—”

  “It’s not,” Anthony interrupted, knowing he was out of line and not caring. “Eddie Hansen has hit ten homes, all on the Upper West Side. All within five tiny blocks of each other. And now he’s in fucking Connecticut? I don’t buy it. As far as we know, Eddie Hansen doesn’t even have a car. Also, this house has an alarm system. Eddie never touches the ones with alarm systems, regardless of whether the alarm systems are actually set.”

  “He’s a criminal, Moretti. A thief. He can damn well get a car if he wants one.”

  “But why would he?” Anth said more to himself than to his boss. “The guy’s been doing just fine with his current MO. Why would he change it up?”

  “Maybe he’s bored. Or hell, maybe he’s smart. Doesn’t want to push his luck, especially now that this sketch is all over the place. Speaking of which, are you telling me we haven’t had one damn person come forward and say that they’ve spotted this guy?”

  Anth grunted. “It’s worse than no one coming forward. Hundreds have come forward. I’ve got my people looking into it, but you know how it goes. We’re not exactly in Small-town, USA, asking the local baker to keep an eye on Main Street. According to the reports, Eddie Hansen’s managed to be on every possible subway platform from here to Jamaica all within the same hour.”

  “So you’re saying we’ve got nothing.”

  Anth sank back into his chair. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Wrong,” the deputy chief said, leaning forward to tap his finger against the latest file from Connecticut. “We have a brand-new case. The potential for prints…”

  “It’s not him.”

  Mandela breathed out long and steady, as though searching for patience. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on here? Why you’re being so bullheaded?”

  Anthony lifted a shoulder. “My gut says it’s not him.”

  “And I know that in our world, a hunch says a hell of a lot. But Moretti…you’re a captain now. You can’t afford to rule out a related case because of a hunch. In the past you could pass on your report to your superior and they’d make a note of it, but they sure as hell explored every option.”

  Anthony opened his mouth, but his boss cut him off. “You see this through. That’s an order.”

  Anth clenched his jaw in anger, although it was at himself as much as Ray. His boss was right. Beyond right. Anth would bet his entire pension plan that this wasn’t Smiley, but normally it wouldn’t do any harm to treat this latest Connecticut break-in like it was until proven otherwise.

  But this wasn’t a normal case. This was a high-profile, unsolved string of crimes…

  That had now just gone and crossed state lines.

  This was bad. Really bad.

  Because it meant…

  Mandela leaned back in his chair and gave Anthony a steady gaze. “The FBI wants in.”

  “Fuck,” Anthony said, shoving the case file across the table. “I knew it. Fuck.”

  It was exactly what he’d been afraid of, although no less than he’d expected. Any case that happened in Anthony’s precinct was his. Even if Smiley had hit another part of the city, it would still be his, if perhaps in partnership with another captain.

  But when a string of crimes crossed state lines, you could kiss your case good-bye.

  Because that gave the FBI jurisdiction. And when it was a case as high profile as Smiley’s had been in the local news lately, you could bet your ass they’d be all over it first chance that they got.

  “Ray, you’ve got to tell them—”

  His boss held up his hand. “I told them you had it handled, but Moretti…do you?”

  Anth spun around to glare. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that we have a name and a picture of the guy, plus the name and location of his ex-wife, and we still can’t catch the fucker. And then I’m hearing reports of you seeing Ms. Walker in your spare time…”

  Anthony groaned. The NYPD was worse than a high school hallway after lunch period when it came to gossip. Of course his and Maggie’s…relationship would get back to his boss.

  Because he was a fucking idiot.

  Anth pinched his nose, remembering the way he’d stupidly insisted on staying at her house last night.

  Remembered the way he promised himself reading just one more page of her story, just one more minute in her presence. Just one more minute of listening to her quiet breathing while she slept cuddled against him as though he were her everything.

  He hadn’t left until two a.m.

  He hadn’t glanced at the officers parked outside when he left. He’d merely sent up a silent prayer that whoever was on duty would keep his or her fucking mouth shut.

  God, apparently, had been focusing on things other than Anthony Moretti’s irrational obsession with Maggie Walker.

  “What’s going on, Moretti?”

  What was going on?

  Anthony wasn’t entirely sure that he knew. For years now—his entire life—he’d had an unshakable focus. It was this clarity of mind that had gotten him to where he was today.

  The same ambition that had him wanting to eventually follow in the footsteps of the man in front of him, and beyond.

  An ambition he hadn’t thought about in days.

  Not since he kissed her.

  Anthony took a deep breath to steady himself, extending his hands in front of him and resting them lightly on the desk. Focused himself to refocus on the goal, and work was the goal.

  Smiley was running circles around the NYPD. No, running circles around Anthony. And so far, he’d let him.

  No more.

  This was what his father had been trying to tell him. That this case, while seemingly harmless, was a crossroads of his career. If he handled the case flawlessly, it would likely soon be forgotten; it wasn’t big enough to register in anyone’s memory.

  But if he failed; if he fucked it up, they would remember that. A captain who couldn’t handle even the simplest of cases was exactly that. A captain. Always. There would be no promotion if he lost this case to the Goddamn FBI. He’d be starting from scratch.

  Anth met his boss’s eyes. “Ray. I need time.”

  Mandela shook his head. “You’ve had time. We need fresh eyes. It happens, Moretti. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “So you’ve had the FBI take over your cases?”

  “No,” Mandela said, causing a sinking feeling in Anthony’s stomach. “No, but I’ve had them try to take them away from me once or twice.”

  “How’d you keep the case?”

  His boss shrugged and stood. “I offered to partner with them. Let them consult, even though I ran the ship.”

  Anth nodded even though the thought of partnering with anyone chafed mightily.

  “This Connecticut case,” Anthony said before his boss could leave. “If it’s not Smiley, they’ll have no jurisdiction, right?”

  “Sure,” his boss said slowly. “But, Moretti…treat it like it is Smiley. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but get your head out of your ass.”

  Anthony drummed his fingers against the desk.

  “And in the meantime,” Mandela said, leaning back and motioning someone out in the hallway. “This is Agent Garny.”

  A short blond man in glasses appeared in Anthony’s doorway, and Anth would have known who he was dealing with even without his boss’s use of the word “agent.”

  The FBI wasn’t just closing in on him. They were here.

  “Captain,” the man said, stepping forward and extending a hand.

  Anth stood, shaking the man’s hand even though he wanted to order him out of the office. Agent Garny’s handshake was firm and efficient, his gaze shrewd and alert.

  His expression was friendly without being condescending.

  Damn it. Nothing to dislike about the man. So far.

  “Captain Moretti, I appreciate you working with us on this one. I hope we can proceed without the ster
eotypical animosity between the FBI and the local law enforcement.”

  “‘Local law enforcement’ makes it sound like I’m a sheriff in a one-horse town in the Wild West,” Anth muttered, gesturing for Garny to take a seat. “We’re the NYPD.”

  Translation: We have nearly as many resources as you do. And probably more television shows based on us too.

  “All the same, now that Eddie Hansen has moved beyond the city—”

  “Allegedly.”

  Agent Garny’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t think it’s him?”

  Anthony glanced at the doorway where Ray Mandela mouthed partner! before disappearing.

  “No, sir, I don’t,” Anthony said, shifting his attention back to the agent.

  Garny leaned back in his chair. “You’re new, right?”

  Shit. Not this.

  “New to the title of captain, yes. New to the NYPD, no.”

  “Related to retired Police Commissioner Moretti?”

  “His son,” Anth said.

  Garny nodded. “Never met the man myself, but he’s a legend. Didn’t like us coming in on his cases any more than you do.”

  “No, Agent.”

  “Drop the Agent. Garny’s fine. Or Craig.”

  Anthony sat forward, folding his hands. “Well, Garny, respectfully, let me lay this out. I’m well aware of the fact that from the media’s standpoint—and probably the FBI’s—Eddie Hansen is running circles around us. But we’re close. I swear to you, we’re close.”

  To Anth’s surprise, Garny didn’t argue or even look surprised. He merely nodded. “The wife, right?”

  “Ex-wife.” Honestly, why did nobody remember to add that crucial first bit?

  “Margaret Walker. Waitress, Brooklyn resident. And still very much the obsession of Smiley.”

  “Ms. Walker is our only link to Eddie,” Anthony agreed. “And we’re fairly sure he knows where she works. Probably knows where she lives.”

  “Good.”

  Again, Garny surprised him.

  “Sorry?” Anth said.

  “I’ve read the reports that you’ve got her under surveillance. That’s good. But I think we bump it up a notch.”

  “Increase her protection?” Anthony asked, surprised at the suggestion. Not that he would argue with it, but resources in cases like this were iffy considering it was a nonviolent criminal they were dealing with.