The American Temp and the British Inspector

by Pat White

  “Why are they here?” Cassie said.

  Max leaned against the wall, anger simmering beneath the surface. He didn’t need this, didn’t need one more distraction. The knife wound had been enough excitement for one afternoon.

  “They must have heard about Blackwell,” Barnes said.

  Max eyed him. “Heard from whom?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You sonofabitch.”

  “The car’s here,” Cassie said.

  She put a hand to Max’s arm for encouragement. He didn’t move. He would not be photographed being dragged outside by this little slip of a thing.

  “I can manage,” he said.

  He glared at Barnes. He wouldn’t have called the press, would he? He wasn’t that stupid. Or cruel.

  The last time Max had had to deal with the press corps was the day of his resignation from Scotland Yard. The questions, the news cameras—the memory made him ill.

  Just another hurdle, mate. Don’t fall apart now.

  Max pushed away from the wall and led them through the sliders and into the gang of vultures. He motioned for Cassie to get into the car.

  Reporters fired questions at him:

  “Mr. Templeton, can you tell us about the Blackwell Group?”

  “Were you hired to find the man who murdered the two Jamison College students?”

  “Do you think the man who stabbed you is the killer?”

  Stand straight, shoulders erect, deep breaths. They can’t hurt you, but they can hurt your case.

  With Cassie safely in the back seat, he turned to the group. “Blackwell is a private organization. We’re not bound by public information laws. In the best interest of our current investigation we won’t be speaking with the press. Thank you.”

  The bright lights and incessant questions paralyzed him for a second. He was back in London, unable to answer the critical question: Why haven’t you made an arrest?

  Something tugged on his jacket. He glanced down, into the sweet, round face of his assistant.

  “Get in the car,” she said.

  As if in a dream he did as ordered, then closed the door. Lights flashed through the windows and the chaos continued, even as Bobby sped away from the curb.

  “Unfortunate,” Barnes said.

  “Then why did you phone them?” Max accused.

  His second in command turned to look at Max. “Why would I phone them, Max? I have nothing to gain by their involvement.”

  “How about self-promotion?”

  “If that’s what you think.” Barnes turned his back to him.

  No, Max didn’t think Jeremy would sabotage the case by involving the local press. It was old resentment and frustration that took him down that road. Max sensed that Jeremy had changed since their days at SCI. He seemed less arrogant, humbled even.

  Guilt did that to a person.

  If that were the case, Max would be a saint by now.

  “Hey, guv, maybe the Patron released a media statement to open some doors for us.” Bobby glanced into the rearview.

  “More likely one of the Chicago cops let it slip,” Jeremy said.

  “Why?” Cassie asked.

  “Territorial issues.”

  She looked at Jeremy, waiting for more of an explanation. Max jumped in. “The locals aren’t thrilled by Blackwell’s presence here. It makes them look incompetent.”

  Which is exactly how Max felt after being bested by that punk. The kid couldn’t have been a day over twenty, a pawn used to play a killer’s game with Max and the team. How did he let that twit get the best of him? It was obvious the kid didn’t know how to use the weapon he’d brandished. He’d admitted as much when he’d confessed to borrowing it from a cousin for protection against loan sharks. The kid’s biggest crime was betting money he didn’t have.

  That, and following a directive from a stranger on the other end of a telephone line.

  He fisted his left hand, the blood pumping to his wound, setting it on fire. He should have taken a Vicodin, as ordered, but he hated being dependent on drugs. He couldn’t even bring himself to take the sleep medications prescribed to stop the nightmares.

  No, Max was a sucker for self-torture.

  “Why did he stab you?” Cassie said.

  Max glanced at her. “It was an accident.”

  “He was accidentally carrying a butcher knife?”

  “It wasn’t a butcher knife.” He studied her, suddenly realizing what a sod he’d been. She was most likely terrorized by the incident and all he could think about was his bruised ego. “He borrowed it to protect himself from loan sharks.”

  “Which he assumed you were because…?”

  “Who knows.” Max glanced out the window. It was rush hour and traffic had slowed.

  “It’s the beard,” she said.

  “Can’t you get off that crusade?”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “The knifer did say you reminded him of his paroled cousin,” Jeremy added.

  “You’re all out to get me,” Max joked, going along with the lighter mood.

  They were all frustrated by the dead end. It did no good to wallow in disappointment. In his days as team leader at SCI, Max worked diligently to keep the boys motivated. With the proper attitude they could solve most any crime.

  “Bobby,” Max said. “What do you think? Should I trim the whiskers?”

  “Ah, I dunno, guv, is it a turn-on for the ladies?”

  Max turned to Cassie. “Well, do I hurt my chances with the ladies or improve them if I shave this off?” He ran his fingers across his beard.

  “Shave it off.” She winked.

  If he didn’t know better he’d think she was flirting with him. It couldn’t be. She was a sweet girl with a horrific past. The last man she’d be interested in was a man like Max: heavy on angst, light on humor.

  “That’s it then,” he said. “Maybe a shave will turn this whole case around.”

  CASSIE WOKE UP to complete blackness. The glow of a streetlight peered through a crack in the curtains stretched across her window. What time was it? Where was she again? Right, Chicago.

  And she was okay, safe.

  Sitting up, she stretched her arms over her head and glanced at the clock. Eight o’clock. She’d meant to take a quick nap, maybe twenty minutes. Instead, she’d been asleep for two hours.

  She must have needed the rest from her full afternoon: witnessing the knifing and trying to keep Max from climbing the walls at the hospital. Emotionally spent, she’d welcomed the down time to recharge her batteries.

  Her stomach growled. She’d slept right through dinner, and had barely eaten her lunch, thanks to the emergency call about the note.

  “Face it, girl, you’re all outta whack.”

  Being around Max, trying to keep him grounded, had drained her somehow.

  Not good. She felt old habits rising, self-sacrificing, caretaking habits that completely blinded her to the realities of life. She found herself wanting to heal Max, even if that meant putting herself at risk. No, she’d come too far to fall back into that kind of doormat behavior.

  She’d have to watch herself.

  She went down the hall to the bathroom, brushed her hair and washed her face. Hoping someone had stocked the refrigerator with food, she started down the stairs. Yeah, who was she kidding? She was living in a houseful of men. Their idea of food was ordering a pizza.

  With a sigh, she passed the main area of the command center and spotted Eddie hunched over his computer, asleep.

  She took a step into the room and caught herself. She had to stop being responsible for the entire world, or at least her portion of it.

  “I tried to get him to go home, but he’d have none of it.”

  She turned at the sound of Max’s soft voice. Her breath caught in her throat. He’d shaved all right. His bare skin defined his high cheekbones and full, per fectly shaped lips. She noticed a scar along his left jawline and she wondered if it was from the bomb
ing.

  “Well, say something.” He half smiled.

  He almost sounded nervous.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “That’s it?”

  “I mean, you look different.” She couldn’t help the admiration in her voice.

  “You’d no longer peg me as a loan shark?”

  “No, definitely no, I mean, not.”

  “Good. You hungry?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve got leftovers in the kitchen.”

  She followed him down the hallway, marveling at the new, improved version of her boss. Not only did he look like a million bucks, but he also acted almost human…like a gentleman.

  “Where is everybody?” she said.

  “I sent Barnes, Finn and McDonald to a pub to relax for a few hours. Relieving the pressure makes us more productive in the long run. Kreegan went home to be with her family. Spinelli’s following up on a lead.”

  He pulled out a foil package from the refrigerator. “Pizza okay? I guess it’s the specialty around here.”

  She peeked inside the foil. “Deep-dish. My favorite.”

  It had been years since she’d had decent pizza. Karl had told her it would make her fat and soft. Deep-dish pizza was one more thing she’d given up along with her self-esteem when she’d married the SOB. If she’d only known.

  But how could she? At eighteen, she’d been ripe for someone older and wiser to take care of her and help her escape the hell of her own house. Karl had been perfect at first: seven years older, with a stable job and worldly experience. She’d admired him, thought she’d loved him.

  Yeah, like a prisoner loved its captor.

  “What, you don’t like sausage?” he said.

  She glanced into Max’s green eyes. He’d been watching her.

  “Love sausage, thanks. I’ll get the plate.”

  “No, no. Sit down.”

  She hesitated. A man waiting on her?

  Leaning on his cane, he moved to the counter and pulled a plate from the cabinet. It couldn’t be easy holding the plate while balancing on his cane. She started to go to him.

  She stopped herself. She could tell he wanted to do this for her.

  He put the pizza on a plate and popped it in the microwave.

  “How about an ale?” He clenched his jaw as he went to the refrigerator.

  “Sure, light beer?”

  “Ah, Americans. What you need is a pint of Guinness after a day like this.”

  He twisted off the top and placed a bottle of light beer in front of her. “Glass?” He turned.

  “No, I like it out of the bottle.”

  Actually, she rarely drank beer, but didn’t want to offend him. He was trying so hard.

  “Pizza’s got a few minutes.” He sat next to her at the kitchen table. “Do you have any regrets?”

  “About what?”

  “Coming to Chicago with me?”

  “No,” Cassie said.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He’d meant it teasingly, but she heard Karl’s voice: I don’t believe you, you bitch. Who were you screwing around with when I was in Detroit?

  She fingered her gold heart locket, the only keepsake she’d taken with her when she’d left her family.

  “What is that charm around your neck?” he asked.

  She didn’t want to tell him at first. Too intimate.

  “Just a locket my mom gave me,” she said.

  “It seems like more than just a locket,” Max said, shooting her a half smile.

  He looked downright dangerous tonight, sexy as hell with a hint of vulnerability. She found herself wanting to run from the room.

  “It’s got fairy dust inside,” she said. “When I was a kid, Mom told me if I was ever in trouble to open the locket and the fairy dust would help me fly away.”

  “That’s lovely,” he said.

  Cassie had believed the story up until the night Karl had sent her tumbling down a flight of stairs. She could have used wings that night.

  “Is it too painful, coming back to Chicago?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t regret coming back,” she said, not looking at him. She didn’t want him to read pain in her eyes. He’d blame himself, and the man didn’t need any more complications, like feeling responsible for Cassie’s angst. “It’s a little harder than I thought it would be.”

  “The memories?”

  “Yep.” She glanced up at him.

  He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve heard the best way to deal with bad memories is to confront them head-on. Prove to yourself that they can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “And you’ve tried this technique yourself, inspector?” she joked.

  “No, not yet.” Regret colored his voice. “Someday.”

  A few seconds of silence passed.

  “I would like to see my mom while I’m here.” She leaned against the table. “It’s been over a year.”

  He leaned forward and placed his hand to her shoulder. Her breath caught. He seemed so different, so kind and gentle.

  Without thinking, she reached up and touched his scar. He didn’t move away or scold her. He looked almost fragile, as if he might break into pieces.

  “What’s this from?” she said, barely able to get the words out. Her fingers warmed as though she cradled a cup of hot cocoa. But it was only his skin, rough yet soft, the scar a slight discoloration against his stubbled jaw.

  The microwave beeped.

  “Your pizza,” he said.

  “Okay,” she answered.

  Neither moved.

  She thought he was going to kiss her.

  She wanted him to kiss her.

  The front door burst open and the echo of male voices broke their spell. She shot up from her chair and went to get her pizza.

  What just happened? She leaned into the counter and took a deep breath, then pulled her pizza from the microwave.

  “I swear she was hitting on me,” Bobby boasted from the hallway.

  “You wish,” Art McDonald countered. “Hey, guv,” he said, coming into the kitchen.

  “It’s Sleeping Beauty,” Bobby said.

  Cassie turned to greet them. “Hi,” she said, still recovering from her moment with Max.

  “Good morning, love. You okay?” Bobby walked over to her. “You’re lookin’ a little pale. You been tangling with our esteemed leader again?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Maybe you’re catching something.” Bobby placed the back of his hand to her forehead.

  It was a pleasant enough touch, but not warm and hypnotic like Max’s.

  “I was worn out from all the excitement.” Plate in hand, she went to the table and sat by Max.

  “You don’t know the half of it, love.” Bobby started toward her, but Max shot him a look that stopped the man in mid-stride. “We’re all famous, we are,” Bobby added.

  “Which is why he thinks women were hitting on him at McGreevy’s Pub,” Art added.

  “Famous?” She nibbled on her pizza.

  “We were on the telly. Showed us coming out of the hospital. You looked great, guv,” Bobby said. “They only showed me through the car window. Wish they’d caught my good side.” Bobby turned his cheek.

  “You don’t have a good side,” Art said.

  “I do too, you bloody ox. Leave me alone, I’m famous.”

  “If you’re famous then I’m the prime minister.”

  “You’d do a better job of it,” Bobby shot back.

  “Enough,” Max said. “Barnes, you’re awfully quiet. What, no ladies hit on you tonight?”

  She glanced at Jeremy. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked…troubled, and definitely sober.

  “It wasn’t for lack of trying,” Bobby answered for him. “He had at least four beauties try to buy him a pint, but he was having none of it. He sulked in the corner sipping his tonic, that one.”

  “And draws th
em like flies, yeah?” Max said.

  Jeremy’s expression didn’t change and he didn’t open his mouth to participate in the conversation. He was such a controlled, detached man. That control could eat him up from the inside.

  “I need a pint.” Bobby opened the fridge. “What’s this? No Guinness?”

  “I got them home safe, guv,” Jeremy said. “I’m heading up to read.”

  Bobby closed the refrigerator door. “You’re going to read?”

  “Good night,” Jeremy said and started down the hall.

  “Reading is so bloody boring,” Bobby called after him. “You’re never going to catch a girl by reading and drinking tonic.”

  “Come on, Bobby,” Art said, an arm around his partner. “Let’s see if there’s anything good on the telly. They’ve got BBC America. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch a Benny Hill repeat.”

  “But—” he protested.

  “Come on, let’s leave these two in peace.” Art smiled at Cassie. “Good night, miss, guv.”

  “Thanks, Art,” Max said.

  She nibbled at her pizza, listening to Bobby argue about women with Art. Art, she guessed ten years Bobby’s senior, was married with teenage children. Bobby, late twenties, was a committed bachelor, and maybe even a ladies’ man. Or at least he thought himself one.

  “Sorry about that,” Max said.

  She glanced up and found him studying her intently. “Actually, all the commotion is kind of nice.”

  “You live alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me, too,” he said.

  He rolled his eyes, as if he’d uttered the stupidest thing ever because, of course, she knew he lived alone. She knew most everything about him. To ease the tension, she changed the subject.

  “I didn’t think I’d miss it so much,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Chicago. Well, not the city, exactly, but I miss the snow, I miss the pizza,” she chuckled, motioning to her plate. “I miss…” She stopped short.

  How could she describe it? She couldn’t miss something she’d never had. Her childhood had been fraught with tension and violence, Dad hitting Mom for not making dessert or not ironing his shirts properly, Mom hiding the girls when he had his drunken rages. She’d taken the brunt of the brutality.

  Only years later, after Cassie had experienced the abuse firsthand from Karl, did she understand how a woman would let herself become victimized.