Sure Bet

by Maggie Price

  "We'll get to that." He raised a dark brow. "Speaking of passing tests, you get a perfect score for knowing how to stand at attention. Your academy days are over, McCall. Relax."

  "Yes, sir." Morgan assumed a "parade rest" stance, her long legs slightly apart and her arms behind her back. For sixteen weeks the training staff had insisted each recruit adopt a military bearing. Now, the stance and talk were habit.

  Blade narrowed his eyes. "I said relax. We won't get far if you go around acting like you're in boot camp and I'm your DI." He waved her toward one of the visitor chairs in front of the desk. "Have a seat. We need to get comfortable around each other."

  Morgan slid, stiff-spined onto a chair. No way would she ever feel at ease around a man who could make alarms blare just by walking into the same room.

  Blade moved behind the desk. Instead of settling into the major's high-backed chair he leaned and used an index finger to flip open the cover of the file folder. "You have an impressive record. Top of your recruit class in all areas—academics, in-the-field training, self-defense, pistol range."

  "If you're going to do something, you should do it right."

  He cast her a quick, weighing glance. "That philosophy has been pointed out to me several times in the past." He looked back down at the file. "I expect you're like every rookie—anxious to hit the streets and start taking down bad guys."

  "Yes, sir."

  Blade's gaze sliced upward. "McCall, do you need me to define the word relax?"

  Morgan clenched her fingers on the envelope containing the chief's memo. "No, sir. Like you said, I've got a handle on academics."

  "Then stop calling me 'sir' before it becomes habit. I don't know of one wife who addresses her husband that way these days."

  "Wife?" She kept her face expressionless. "Am I going undercover as your wife?"

  "To be exact, we're going undercover together as husband and wife."

  "Yes, s—" She pressed her lips together. "What am I supposed to call you?"

  "We'll both use our real first names. We answer to them by reflex, so that's one less area in which we might slip up."

  As he spoke, Blade walked around the desk, leaned against its front. The move put him in a position of dominance by forcing her to have to look up at him. She would much rather have faced him on her feet.

  "For the duration of this assignment, my name is Alexander Donovan. You're Morgan Jones Donovan. I call you Morgan. You call me Alex."

  "All right." When he continued to stare at her, she added, "Alex."

  "Before you leave today I'll give you a packet containing, among other things, a sketchy history of your fictional background. We'll get together a couple of times over the next few days to flesh it out."

  "Fine." She would simply have to ignore her hormones, she resolved. Approach this assignment as she did everything—with cool common sense. No emotion.

  Blade crossed his arms over his chest. "You ever hear of Carlton Spurlock?"

  Morgan had a quick vision of a tall, distinguished man with a smooth smile and dark hair going silver at the temples. "Local land developer. He shows up a lot on the business and society pages."

  "Right. Spurlock inherited millions from the grandmother who raised him. She died about three years ago and left him her estate in Hampton Hills."

  "The snooty part of town," Morgan commented.

  "After she died, a rumor surfaced that Spurlock had refurbished his swimming pool's cabana into a first-class casino. The Feds got an undercover officer inside who nailed Spurlock for interstate racketeering and running an illegal gambling operation. During his trial, the Feds screwed up and the judge dismissed the charges. The details are in the packet I'll give you. Because of the screwup, the Feds had to back off. But they still want Spurlock. Now, so does OCPD."

  "For gambling?"

  "Murder."

  "Murder?" Intrigued, Morgan leaned forward. "Whose?"

  "The first person was a jockey named Frankie Isom. Hours before his murder, he rode a horse to victory in a million-dollar futurity."

  "Why did Spurlock kill him?"

  "We're not sure."

  "You said Isom was the first person murdered. How many more?"

  "Five we know of. A woman named Krystelle Vander and a man named George Jackson, head of security at Remington Park. Jackson was retired OCPD." Morgan thought she caught a flash of emotion in Blade's eyes. Then it was gone and they were simply cool, brown and unfathomable.

  "Krystelle Vander was Spurlock's lover," Blade continued. "She owned a town house, but spent most of her time at his mansion. She had a thing for gambling. Football, baseball, horses, casinos—you name it, she laid bets. A few weeks before the jockey died, Vander told a friend she was worried Spurlock planned to dump her for a younger woman. She said she'd given him the best years of her life and wasn't going to let him get away with it."

  "Did he dump her?"

  "Apparently. She'd met George Jackson at the track and knew he was a retired cop. On the day of their murders, she called his office. We know that because Jackson typed notes on his computer while he had Vander on the phone. She was hysterical, claiming Spurlock had broken off with her. She said she had evidence proving Spurlock ordered the jockey's murder. Jackson told her to meet him, then left his office. A patrol cop found their bodies in a parking lot of an abandoned warehouse."

  Beneath the harsh office lights, Blade's stubbled face looked hard, even dangerous. But then, he was talking about murder. Morgan eased out a breath. "I take it Spurlock was questioned?"

  "Yes. He confirmed he broke up with Vander. He claimed he was at home the night she and Jackson were killed, playing poker with three buddies. The men—all pillars of the community—verified his alibi."

  "Do you believe them?"

  "I believe they played poker. Because the victims were killed someplace other than where they were found, I suspect Spurlock either committed the murders or was behind them."

  "Why?"

  "Vander's phone records show she regularly called gambling contacts in Reno, Las Vegas and Atlantic City. She also made calls to a local number. When the cops dialed it, they got a recording that just said leave a message. The number checked to Emmett Tool, a former CPA and ex-con who did time for gambling charges. Tool claimed he used the phone in his bookkeeping business. The homicide detectives got interested in Tool after they found proof he kept books for Spurlock."

  Morgan nodded, her mind working to process the information. "Did they suspect Tool was also involved in the murders?" she asked after a moment.

  "They didn't know. At the very least, they thought Tool might have incriminating evidence about Spurlock's gambling operation. Under his prison release agreement, Tool had to report his gambling receipts to his parole officer. That's where my unit stepped in and I began surveilling Tool. After witnessing several transactions where he met known gamblers and exchanged money, I hauled him in."

  "Did he implicate Spurlock in the murders?"

  "He intended to. Tool had a wife and kid to support, so he sweated going back to prison. His lawyer worked a deal: Tool's testimony about Spurlock's involvement in the three murders and illegal gambling in exchange for immunity. Since Spurlock was violating federal gambling laws, we called the FBI. As a part of the deal, we moved Tool to a hotel for questioning.

  "The first morning he was there room service delivered breakfast. When I showed up for my shift I found two FBI agents dead of poisoning, but no sign of Tool. The theory is Spurlock got tipped that Tool was about to turn informant. He arranged the poisoning and had Tool snatched."

  "Do you think Tool's dead?"

  "I know he is. A week after he disappeared, a burned body turned up. Dental records confirm it was Tool." Blade pushed away from the desk and settled into the chair beside Morgan's. "Right now we have nothing solid on Spurlock."

  "Where does our parading as husband and wife come in?"

  "The notes in George Jackson's computer said Krystelle Vande
r claimed she was too afraid to try to get out of Spurlock's mansion with the evidence she had that proved he murdered Isom."

  "The jockey," Morgan confirmed.

  "Right. Vander told Jackson she hid the evidence in the gold bedroom." Blade's mouth tightened. "The way things stand, Isom's murder is the only one we have a chance of nabbing Spurlock for. To do that we need Vander's evidence."

  "Can't you get a warrant to search the gold bedroom?"

  "Not when we don't have a clue what type of evidence it is. Spurlock's place is guarded like a fortress. That means the department has to use human intel to get the evidence. That intel is you and me. Our goal is to get Spurlock to invite us inside."

  "How are we supposed to do that?"

  "The mansion next to his belonged to an oil man who drilled one too many dry wells and went bankrupt. His girlfriend immediately ran off with some CEO worth billions. The bank seized the oily's mansion, all furnishings and personal possessions. The bank has agreed to let us use the place gratis. You and I are moving in."

  "Together?"

  "Yeah." One corner of Blade's mouth tipped up in a smirk. "Most husbands and wives live under the same roof. At least until the shine wears off the marriage." The light undertone of disdain etching his voice sent the message he had little regard for that particular institution.

  When Morgan remained silent, he angled his chin. "Relax, McCall. The place may not be as large as Spurlock's, but it's big enough to be classified in the huge category. It's three stories, has a handful of bedrooms, bathrooms, even a small gym. The only room we have to share is the kitchen. I'll make sure there's plenty of food stocked in the freezer that can be zapped in a microwave. If your taste runs to meals that don't start out frozen, bring your own food."

  "I will." She swiped a palm against the back of her neck where her muscles had tightened. "Why me? I have yet to work the streets. OCPD has tons of experienced female officers. Why pick me to work this assignment?"

  "Because no one has your particular expertise."

  "Which is?"

  "For one thing, your knowledge of gardening. Specifically growing roses in Oklahoma."

  Morgan blinked. "Gardening? Roses?"

  "Your mother owns the largest landscaping-and-gardening business in the city. Growing up, you worked there on weekends and during summer vacations. You helped out there full-time before you left for college."

  "Sounds like you've done a good job of checking me out."

  "Yes, I did. Welcome to working undercover."

  "So what does my knowing about roses have to do with this assignment?"

  "Spurlock inherited a love of roses from his grandmother. There are hundreds of rose bushes on his property. He cultivates new breeds, which have won numerous awards. Serves as the president of the local rose society. Land development may be his lifeblood, but roses are his passion. Your displaying a similar regard for roses will draw him to you. To us." Blade paused. "Here's a lesson about undercover work, Morgan. Any hard facts you give the bad guys you'd best be able to back up. You can discuss growing roses—and probably anything else—in Oklahoma with Spurlock. No way he can trip you up because you know what you're talking about. No other female cop can do that."

  "There are two others. My sisters." For some reason she couldn't define, Morgan felt a wicked little streak of satisfaction at having caught Blade in a mistake. "Carrie and Grace are both OCPD cops. Seasoned cops. They also grew up working at our mom's business. Your background check should have red-flagged them."

  "It did."

  She frowned. "So, why aren't you talking to one of them about this assignment?"

  "I considered them both." Watching her, Blade leaned back in his chair, stretching his long denim-clad legs out in front of him. "In fact, Grace and I worked an undercover assignment a few years ago. She's a good, solid cop and I would prefer to use her on this. Unfortunately, neither she nor Carrie are right for this operation."

  "Why?"

  "One of them is a brunette. The other a redhead. Frankly, I need a blonde."

  "Hair can be dyed."

  "True. But neither of your sisters can grow the additional inches in height you've got on them."

  Morgan conceded Blade was right—Carrie and Grace had inherited their mother's slim, shorter build. She copied their paternal grandmother's tall, willowy height. "Just because they're a few inches shorter than me doesn't mean Carrie and Grace can't handle whatever comes their way."

  "I'm not saying it does. There's just other things to consider."

  "Such as?"

  "You're new on the force, haven't worked the streets. There's no chance you've ever pulled over Spurlock or any of his hired help and written them a ticket. No chance you maybe walked into a restaurant or a store in uniform the same time Spurlock was there. I can't be sure of the same thing where Carrie or Grace are concerned. And I don't want to take a chance.

  "Add to that, Spurlock has a thing for good-looking young blondes. Tall, leggy blondes. One might say he cultivates them, like he does roses. Your meeting the physical requirements of his ideal woman and sharing his passion for roses will lure him. Perhaps even fascinate."

  As he spoke, Blade's gaze traveled from the toes of Morgan's gym shoes up her legs, past her rumpled workout shorts and T-shirt to the top of her head where she'd piled her long, blond hair. "You're exactly what I need to get Spurlock's attention, and keep it. That's the bottom line."

  Blade's intense inspection sent a current zipping beneath her flesh. "Are…" She paused when her voice wavered. "Are we supposed to knock on Spurlock's front door and introduce ourselves as his new neighbors? Then once he sees I'm a tall, leggy blonde, he'll invite us in?"

  "Not that easy," Blade said. "There's no knocking on his front door. After the judge dismissed the gambling charges against him, Spurlock didn't close his casino. He just made it invincible. He built a twelve-foot brick wall around his premises, complete with motion sensors and security cameras. Cameras that at various times do sweeps across his neighbors' property. The only way to get in is through the wrought-iron gate blocking access to the driveway. Goons who look like they could bench press a patrol car, and fanged-dripping Dobermans guard the gate around the clock. No one gets in unless they're friends of Spurlock's, or are vouched for by someone close to him."

  "So you hope Spurlock will let down his guard because we're his neighbors? That he'll invite us over to dinner? To maybe gamble? Then once we get in, we look for the evidence Vander hid in the gold bedroom?"

  "Right." Blade's eyes narrowed. "You make our objective sound easy. It won't be. It's going to take time. We can't act too eager, too pushy. We move in, mind our own business. We get Spurlock's attention in ways that will make him feel comfortable, maybe even curious. Sooner or later he'll approach us."

  "And you're betting my physical attributes will speed the process."

  Blade looked at her for a long, silent moment. "The man's not blind," he finally murmured before shifting in his chair and snagging a manila envelope off the corner of the desk. "This packet also contains pictures of the mansion we'll move into. There's a swimming pool, cabana and flower beds. A lot of them. They're in bad shape because no one's taken care of them since the bankruptcy. I want you to spend most of your time working in the flower beds."

  "If we can afford a mansion, wouldn't we have a gardener?"

  "We do. But you, Morgan Donovan, have a green thumb. You prefer to spend hours everyday working in your gardens. Dressed, of course, to get Spurlock's attention."

  Morgan lifted a brow. "Not many women wear spandex and stilettos while pulling weeds."

  "I'll leave the specifics to you. In general, I'm talking tight. Revealing. Eye-catching." He handed her the envelope. "There's a credit card, driver's license and social security card in your undercover name inside. Shop for those types of clothes. Pick up a couple of evening gowns. Nightgowns, too."

  "Nightgowns?"

  "Once we stir Spurlock's curiosity he—or
one of his thugs—might knock on our door anytime, day or night just to test us. To make sure we're who we say we are. It'd be hard to explain why your choice of sleepwear was a police academy T-shirt."

  Morgan scowled over the fact Blade had pegged her actual sleeping attire.

  His gaze swept over her disheveled topknot. "Spurlock likes his women to wear their hair down and poofy. Big hair."

  She stifled a groan. "Poofy. Big. Great. Just my style."

  "I've put pictures in the packet of him with some of his past squeezes, including Krystelle Vander. You'll want to go for the same look." Blade rose, stared down at her. "That's the overall view of the assignment. Think you can handle it?"

  Her chin lifted. "You don't have to worry about me doing my job." Gripping both envelopes, she rose. "When do we move in?"

  "In about a week. Until then, you and I work on getting used to each other while we flesh out your cover background. Since part of that is learning a little about each other's quirks, habits and how each other lives, we'll work at both of our places. My address is in the envelope. Be there in the morning at eight sharp. The following day we'll work at your house. Knowing as much as we can about each other will cut down on surprises after this operation starts."

  Surprises, Morgan thought. She'd had enough of those to last a while. "My family," she said. "I need to tell them not to show up for my graduation. And give them a reason why. Plus, Grace, Carrie and I live together. If I suddenly disappear they'll call out the troops."

  "Good point." Blade paused, then said, "Since your family is comprised mostly of cops you can tell them you've been pulled to work an undercover assignment with me. Just be vague and keep the specifics to yourself."

  "Fine," she said, then began to turn.

  "Morgan." Blade's hand gripped her elbow, shifting her back to face him. "There's something else you need to get used to."

  "What? Hey—" She jerked her chin as his hand cupped it, but his fingers held firm.

  "My touch." His dark gaze roamed her face, betraying nothing. "Remember, we're going undercover as husband and wife. You need to get used to my touch. I'll need to get used to yours."