It Must Be Love

by Rachel Gibson

  "Oh!" Gabrielle made her big green eyes go all wide with surprise. "Was that you? Except for the cranky part, I didn't know who they were talking about."

  He grabbed the paper sack he'd brought from the deli. "Be nice or I'll tell Doug you want your colon cleansed."

  Soft laughter spilled from her lips, catching him by surprise. He'd never heard her genuine laughter before, and the feminine sound was all sweet and breathy and so pleasant it curved the corners of his lips into an unexpected smile. "See you tomorrow morning."

  "I'll be here."

  Joe turned and wove his way through the festival to the lot where he'd parked his car. If he weren't careful, he might end up liking her more than was wise. He would see her as something other than a means to an end, and he couldn't afford for her to become anything more than his confidential informant. He couldn't afford to see her as a desirable woman, as someone he wouldn't mind stripping naked and searching with his tongue. He couldn't afford to mess up this case any more than he had already.

  His gaze scanned the crowd, subconsciously looking for the dopers. The crank users, the puffy-eyed pot smokers, and the jumpy, swivel-headed heroin addicts. All of them thinking they were maintaining, controlling their buzz, when the buzz was so obviously controlling them. He hadn't worked narcotics for almost a year, and there were times, especially when he was in a crowd, when he still viewed the world through a narc's eyes. It was what he'd been trained to do, and he wondered how long that training would stay with him. He knew homicide cops who'd been retired for ten years and still looked at everyone as either potential murderers or victims.

  The beige Chevy Caprice was parked on a side street next to the Boise public library. He slid behind the wheel of the unmarked police car and waited for a mirdvan to pass before he pulled out into traffic. He thought of Gabrielle's smile, the taste of her mouth, and the texture of her skin beneath his hands. He thought of the smooth thigh he'd glimpsed between the part in her dress. The heavy ache of desire pulled at his groin, and he tried not to think of her at all. Even if she weren't a kook, she was trouble. The kind that would get him busted back to a patrol cop working graveyard. That kind of trouble he didn't need; he'd barely survived the last internal affairs investigation. He didn't ever want to go through that again. Not for his job. Not for anything.

  It had been less than a year, but he knew he would never forget the Department of Justice inquest and interviews and why he'd been forced to answer their questions. He'd never forget chasing Robby Martin down a black alley, the blast of orange fire from Robby's Luger and his own returning shots. For the rest of his life, he knew he would never forget lying in an alley, the cool grip of his empty Colt.45 in his hand. The night air ripped apart by screaming sirens and the whirl of red, white, and blue bouncing off trees and the sides of houses. The warmth of his blood seeping through the hole in his thigh, and Robby Martin's unmoving body twenty feet away. His white Nike running shoes vivid in the darkness. He'd never forget his disjointed thoughts tick-tick-ticking in his head as he'd shouted at the boy who couldn't hear.

  It wasn't until much later, as he'd lain in the hospital, with his mother and sisters weeping on his neck, his father watching him from the end of the bed, his leg immobilized by a metal brace that looked like something a kid would build with an Erector set, that the evening slowed and played over and over in his head. He'd second-guessed every'move he'd made.

  Maybe he shouldn't have chased Robby down that alley. Maybe he should have let him go. He'd known where the kid lived, maybe he should have waited for backup and driven to his house.

  Maybe, but it was his job to chase the bad guys. The community wanted drugs off their streets-right?

  Well, maybe.

  If Robby's name had been Roberto Rodriguez, chances were no one but the boy's family would have cared. Might not have even been the top story on the television news, but he'd looked like a someday senator. An all-American boy. An all-American Caucasian boy with straight white teeth and an angelic grin. The morning after the shooting, the Idaho Statesman had printed Robby's picture on the front page. His hair shining like a surfer dude, and his big blue eyes staring out at readers over their morning coffee.

  And those readers looked at that face, and they began to wonder if it had been necessary for the undercover cop to shoot to kill. Never mind that Robby had run from the police, that he'd drawn first, and that he had a history of drug abuse. In a city struggling with growing pains, a city that had a blatant tendency to blame all its problems on the influx of foreigners and out-of-staters, a nineteen-year-old homegrown dope dealer, born at the hospital downtown, didn't sit real comfortably with the citizens' views of themselves and their city.

  And they questioned their police force. They wondered if the city needed a citizen review board to evaluate the police department's deadly force policy, and they wondered if they had a renegade undercover cop, running around killing their young men.

  The chief of police had appeared on the local news and reminded everyone of Robby's record. Toxicology had found significant traces of methamphetamine and marijuana in his blood. The Department of Justice and Internal Affairs had cleared Joe of any wrongdoing and had determined that deadly force had been necessary. But every time Robby's picture was flashed across the screen or appeared in the papers, the people still wondered.

  Joe had been required to see the police psychologist, but he'd said very little. What was there to say, really? He'd killed a kid, not even a man yet. He'd taken a life. He'd been justified in what he'd been forced to do. He knew with absolute certainty that he'd be dead if Robby had been a better shot. He hadn't had a choice.

  That’s what he'd told himself. That's what he'd had to believe.

  After two months of sitting on his ass at home and four more months of intense physical therapy, Joe had been cleared to return to work. But not to the narcotics division. He'd been quietly transferred to property crimes. That's what they'd called it, a transfer. But it had sure as hell felt like a demotion to him, like he'd been punished for doing his job.

  He pulled the Caprice into a parking spot half a block away from Anomaly and retrieved a can of paint and a sack filled with brushes and a roller and pan from the trunk. Although he'd been transferred, he'd never considered what had happened in that alley with Robby a mistake. Sad and unfortunate, and something he tried not to think about-something he refused to talk about-but not his mistake.

  Not like Gabrielle Breedlove. Now that had been his fuck up. He'd underestimated her, but really, who would have thought she'd come up with such a lamebrained plan as to lure him into the park with nothing more than an antique derringer and a can of hair spray?

  Joe walked into the back of the store and set the paint and sack of supplies on a counter next to the sink. Mara Paglino stood at the other end of the counter unpacking freight the store had received the day before. The shipment didn't appear to include antiques. "What do ya have there?"

  "Gabrielle ordered some Baccarat crystal." Her big brown eyes stared at him a little too intensely. She'd curled her thick black hair, and her lips shined a glossy red. Since the moment he'd met her, he'd been aware that she might have a small crush on him. She followed him around and offered to bring him things. He was a little flattered but mostly unnerved. She was only a year or two older than Tiffany, his niece, and Joe wasn't interested in girls. He liked women. Fully developed women who didn't have to be shown what to do with their mouths and hands. Women who knew how to move their bodies to create just the right friction. "Do you want to help me?" she asked.

  He took a paintbrush out of the sack. "I thought you were supposed to be at the park helping Gabrielle."

  "I was going to, but Kevin told me I had to unpack this crystal and get it out of the way in case you wanted to measure the countertop today."

  His carpentry skills didn't extend to replacing countertops. "I won't get to that until next week." Hopefully, he wouldn't have to worry about it next week. "Is Kevin in hi
s office?"

  "He hasn't come back from lunch yet."

  "Who's out front?"

  "No one, but I'll hear the bell if a customer comes in."

  Joe grabbed a brush and the paint can and walked into the small storage room. This was the part of undercover police work that drove him just south of sane-the waiting around for a suspect to make a move. Still, he supposed working inside the shop was better than sitting outside in an unmarked car and getting fat on Yankee Dogs. Better, but not by much.

  He covered the floor with a drop cloth and leaned the boards he'd cut for shelves the day before against the wall. Mara followed him like a puppy and chatted nonstop about the immature college guys she'd dated. She left once when the bell rang, but she reappeared shortly to assure him she was in the market for a mature, older man.

  By the time Kevin returned, Joe had just finished painting the two shelves and was preparing to paint the walls of the small room. Kevin took one look at Mara and sent her to help Gabrielle, leaving the two of them alone.

  "I think she has a crush on you," Kevin said as Mara cast one last look over her shoulder and walked out the door.

  "Yeah, maybe." Joe placed one hand on the back of his own shoulder and raised his arm above his head. As much as he hated to admit it, his muscles ached like a bitch. He kept his body in good shape. There was only one other explanation. He was getting old.

  "Is Gabrielle paying you enough to put up with sore muscles?" Kevin was dressed in designer everything and held a sack from a party outlet store in one hand and a bag from the women's underwear shop down the street in the other.

  "She pays me enough." He dropped his arms to his sides. "Money isn't all that important to me."

  "Then you've never been poor. I have, my friend, and it sucks. It affects your whole life."

  "How do you figure?"

  "People judge you on the brand of your shirt and the condition of your shoes. Money is everything. Without it people think you're trash. And women, forget it. Women won't have anything to do with you. Period."

  Joe sat on the edge of a trunk and crossed his arms over his chest. "Depends on what kind of women you're trying to impress."

  "Strictly high maintenance. Women who know the difference between a Toyota and a Mercedes."

  "Ahh." Joe tilted his head back and looked at the man before him. "Those women cost serious cash. Do you have that kind of money?"

  "Yeah, and if I don't, I know how to get it. I know how to get the things I need."

  Bingo. "How's that?"

  Kevin just smiled and shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  "Try me," Joe pressed.

  "Afraid I can't."

  "Do you invest in the stock market?"

  "I invest in me, Kevin Carter, and that's all I'm going to say."

  Joe knew when to back off. "What's in the sack?" he asked and pointed to Kevin's hand.

  "I'm giving a birthday party for my girlfriend, China."

  "No shit? Is China her real name or her stage name?"

  "Neither," Kevin chuckled. "She just likes it better than her real name, Sandy. I mentioned the party to Gabe this morning when I stopped by her booth. She said the two of you had made other plans."

  Joe thought he'd made himself real clear when he'd told Gabrielle she had to stop getting in the way of his investigation. Obviously, he was going to have to talk to her again. "I think we can make it to your party for a little while."

  "Are you sure? She seemed pretty set on spending the evening at home."

  Normally, Joe wasn't the sort of guy to sit on a bar stool and talk about women, his or anyone else's. But this was different, this was his job, and he knew how to play. He leaned forward slightly as if he were about to share a secret. "Well, just between you and me, Gabrielle is a nymphomaniac."

  "Really, I always thought she was a prude."

  "She's the closet kind." He leaned back and grinned like he and Kevin were of the same hound brotherhood. "But I think I can hold her off for a few hours. What time is your party?"

  "Eight," Kevin answered as he headed to his office, and Joe was stuck painting for the next two hours. After Anomaly closed for the evening, he drove to the police station and read over the daily report on the Hillard theft. Nothing much in the way of new information since that morning's roll call. Kevin had met an unidentified woman for lunch at a downtown restaurant. He'd bought party supplies and stopped at a Circle K for a Big Gulp. Exciting stuff.

  Joe reported his conversation with Kevin and let Luchetti know he'd been invited to Kevin's party. Then he grabbed a stack of paperwork off his desk and headed home to Sam.

  For dinner, he barbecued some ribs and ate the macaroni salad his sister Debby had left in his refrigerator while he'd been at work. Sam stood on the table next to his plate and refused to eat his bird seeds and baby carrots.

  "Sam loves Joe."

  "You can't have my ribs."

  "Sam loves Joe-braack."

  "No."

  Sam blinked his yellow-and-black eyes, raised his beak, and mimicked the telephone ringing.

  "I haven't fallen for that in months." Joe speared some macaroni with his fork and felt like he was taunting a two-year-old with an ice cream cone. "The vet said you need to eat less and exercise more or you'll get liver disease."

  The bird flew to his shoulder, then rested his feathery head against Joe's ear. "Pretty bird."

  "You're fat." He remained strong during dinner and didn't feed Sam, but when the bird mimicked one of Joe's favorite phrases from a Clint Eastwood movie, he relented and fed him bites of Ann Cameron's cheesecake. It was as good as she'd claimed, so he guessed he owed her coffee. He tried to remember Ann as a kid, and vaguely recalled a girl with wire glasses sitting on one of those emerald green crushed velvet couches at her parents' house, staring at him while he'd waited for her sister, Sherry. She'd probably been about ten, six years younger than him. About Gabrielle's age.

  The thought of Gabrielle brought a dull ache to his brow. Joe pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger and racked his brain to figure out what to do about her. He didn't have a clue.

  As the setting sun washed the valley in twilight, Joe put Sam in his aviary and plugged Dirty Harry into the VCR. Besides Jerry Springer's Too Hot For Television, it was about the only tape Sam liked. In the past, Joe had tried to encourage his bird to watch Disney or Sesame Street or one of the educational tapes he'd bought. But Sam was a Jerry junkie, and like most parents, Joe gave in a lot.

  He drove to the small brick house across town and parked his Bronco next to the curb. A pink porch light glowed above the front door. A few nights ago, the bulb had been green. Joe wondered at the significance but figured he probably didn't want to know.

  A pair of squirrels darted across the lawn and sidewalk and skittered up the rough bark of an ancient oak. Halfway up, they paused to glare at him, the ends of their bushy tails snapped. Their agitated chatter filled his ears, reaming him as if somehow he'd been rude enough to steal their stash. He liked squirrels even less than cats.

  Joe pounded on Gabrielle's door three times before it swung open. She stood before him wearing a big white shirt that buttoned up the front. Her green eyes widened, and her face flushed a deep red.

  "Joe! What are you doing here?"

  Before he answered her question, he let his gaze take her in, from the auburn curls falling from the ponytail on top of her head, to the string of beaded hemp tied around her ankle. She'd rolled the sleeves of her shirt up her forearms while the tails hit her about an inch above her bare knees. As far as he could see, she wore little else except multicolored paint smudges. "I need to talk to you," he said, returning his gaze to the increasing flush in her cheeks.

  "Now?" She glanced behind her as if he'd caught her in the middle of doing something illegal.

  "Yeah, what are you up to?"

  "Nothing!" She looked guilty as hell about something.

  "The other nig
ht I talked to you about interfering in the investigation, but just in case you didn't understand me, I'll tell you again. Quit protecting Kevin."

  "I'm not." The light behind her got caught in her hair and shone through the white shirt, outlining her full breasts and slim hips.

  "You declined an invitation to his party tomorrow night. I accepted for us."

  "I don't want to go. Kevin and I are friends and business partners, but we don't socialize. I've always thought it was best if we don't spend our time away from work together."

  "Too bad." Joe waited for her to invite him inside, but she didn't. Instead, she folded her arms, drawing his attention to the black smear across her left breast.

  "Kevin's friends are superficial. We won't have a good time."

  "We're not going there to have a good time."

  "You're going to search for the Monet, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Fine, but no more kissing."

  He rocked back on his heels and looked at her from beneath lowered lids. Her request was perfectly reasonable and irritated more than he would ever admit. "I told you not to take it personal."

  "I'm not, but I don't like it."

  "You don't like what? Kissing me or not taking it personal?"

  "Kissing you."

  "Bull, you get all warm and breathless."

  "You're mistaken."

  He shook his head and said through a smile, "I don't think so."

  She sighed. "Is that all you wanted, Detective?"

  "I'll pick you up at eight." He turned to leave, but looked back at her over his shoulder. "And Gabrielle?"

  "What?"

  "Wear something sexy."

  Gabrielle shut the door and leaned her back against it. She felt light-headed and queasy, as if she'd conjured up Joe somehow. She took a deep breath and placed a hand over her racing heart. His showing up on her porch at that exact moment in time was some sort of freakish fluke.

  Ever since he'd walked away from her booth that afternoon, she'd had an overwhelming desire to paint him again. This time standing within his red aura. Naked. After she'd returned home from a successful day at the Coeur Festival, she'd immediately walked into her studio and prepared a canvas. She'd sketched and painted his face and the hard muscles of his body. With visions of Michelangelo's David for inspiration, she'd just started to paint Joe's parts when he'd knocked. She'd opened the door and seen him standing there, and for several anxious moments she'd feared he somehow knew what she'd been up to. She'd felt guilty, like he'd caught her peeking at him without his clothes on.