by Julie Miller
Keir shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the marble floor beneath his grandfather as his father lowered him to the floor. The rage of bullets fell silent and he spared a glance up at the door closing in the balcony as the shooter escaped, silently swearing to track down the bastard. He pulled a shocked, weeping Millie into his chest and turned her away from the blood pooling on the floor as his brother Niall worked on their grandfather’s wound.
Keir had already made one call to Dispatch, but he dialed the number a second time and repeated the call for help, making sure an ambulance was en route. “I need a bus. Now. Officer down. I repeat—officer down.”
Chapter One
May
Keir dropped the shot of whiskey into his mug of beer and picked it up before the drink foamed over. “Here’s to the Terminator.”
His partner, Hudson Kramer, dressed in work boots and blue jeans, lowered his bottle of beer to the bar top. “Please tell me that’s sarcasm.”
“Loud and bitter, my friend.” The Shamrock Bar tonight was loud with Irish music, conversation, laughter, the periodic clinks of glassware and the sharp smacks of pool balls caroming off each other. The frenetic, celebratory energy was typical for a Friday night where several denizens from the KCPD and surrounding downtown neighborhood liked to hang out. They’d survived another week of long hours and hard work that could be, at turns, tedious and dangerous. Some of his fellow cops here had broken cases wide-open this week or arrested criminals or even just kept a drunk driver off the streets, where he could be a threat to the citizens they’d all sworn to serve and protect.
But Keir and Hud, yin and yang in both style and background, yet as close as Keir was to his own brothers, had nothing to celebrate. Keir was feeling the need to either get drunk or get laid to ease the tension coiling inside him.
Sure, some of it had to do with his frustration over the slow-moving investigation into the shooting at the church where his grandfather had nearly died—an investigation that he and his two older brothers weren’t allowed to be a part of in any official capacity. Not that departmental restrictions were going to stop Keir and his brothers from pursuing answers for themselves. A masked shooter who threatened a building full of cops on a happy occasion and then disappeared into thin air made every officer in the department an investigator until the perp who’d targeted Keir’s family could be identified and caught.
No, tonight’s extra-special foray into moody sarcasm all had to do with a leggy, ash-blond defense attorney who’d made mincemeat out of the attempted murder-for-hire investigation he and Hud had turned over to the DA’s office on Monday. It had taken Kenna Parker only five days of motions and court appearances to punch holes in their airtight case. The hoity-toity plastic surgeon who’d talked to Keir in an undercover op about hiring him to kill his estranged wife before she could divorce him and cost him a fortune in alimony had gotten off with little more than a slap on the wrist.
Yes, the guy was now under an ethics investigation by the state medical board—a sidebar that could cost him his license or, at the very least, put a dent in his lucrative medical practice. But that wasn’t the same as a judge acknowledging that Detective Keir Watson had done his job right. Kenna “the Terminator” Parker hadn’t even really cleared Dr. Andrew Colbern of conspiracy to commit murder—she’d just raised enough doubts about Keir’s competence and a few seconds of static on the recording he’d made of the conversation that Colbern was walking.
“Did you see how she booked it out of the courtroom right after the judge announced his ruling?” Hud punctuated his condemning tone with a long swallow of his beer. “That’s just rubbing her victory in our faces.”
Keir eyed the foamy amber liquid in his mug. “She probably went off to pop open a magnum of champagne at our expense.”
Hud turned the brown bottle in his hand, then grinned. “Well, then let’s just hope she’s drinkin’ it alone, my friend.”
“You got that right.” Keir clinked his mug against Hud’s bottle, but he couldn’t match his partner’s good humor.
They’d failed to prove Colbern’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, according to the Terminator. Interesting what kind of justice a lot of money and a killer law firm could buy.
Well, reputation meant everything to him, too. Keir Watson didn’t botch cases. When he investigated a crime, he got answers. No matter how long it took, he got the job done.
“I swear that woman is going to make me a better cop,” Keir vowed, remembering the smug smile on her copper-tinted lips as she’d packed up her briefcase and passed him on her way out of the courtroom. “Next time she shows up in court, she won’t be able to raise the issue of entrapment and question technicalities or make her client look more like the victim than the woman he tried to have killed. The next time I’m testifying against one of her clients, I’ll make her look like the idiot.”
Hud raised his bottle again. “Then, to the downfall of the Terminator.”
“Amen.” Keir swallowed a healthy portion of the beer and whiskey, savoring the heat seeping down his gullet. Half a drink later, Keir still couldn’t erase the tension in him and felt himself turning inward, replaying each step of the case he’d put together, and each trick Kenna Parker had used to pull it apart.
He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, only half listening to Hud regale him with a story about his first encounter with an attorney as a teenager, protesting a ticket in his small-town traffic court. Something about the lawyer being the judge’s second cousin’s daughter’s boyfriend, and the judge declaring a conflict of interest and dismissing the speeding ticket because the guy was family, and there wasn’t anyone else in town who wasn’t related who could represent him. Hardly a problem someone with Kenna Parker’s legal eagle pedigree would ever have to face.
Sitting here tonight, fuming over the case that had gotten tossed, Keir knew he wasn’t very good company. Hud, on the other hand, could blow off the tension once he was away from the job in ways that Keir wasn’t able to. Maybe he’d better cut his partner loose to play a game of pool or share a drink with one of the local ladies who had a thing for cops. Keir downed the last of his beer and Bushmill’s and pushed the mug away, intent on heading home where he could stew in silence—or more likely, pull out his case file against Andrew Colbern and reread the transcript of his undercover conversation to figure out exactly where he’d misspoken so he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
He clapped Hud on the shoulder of his plaid flannel shirt and stood. “Hey, buddy, I’m heading home.”
Hud threw up his hands and frowned. “You’re kiddin’ me, right? The night is young and this place is crawlin’ with opportunities.” His brown eyes swept the bar, indicating the disproportionate number of female to male customers. “I need you to be my wingman.”
Chuckling at his partner’s humorous determination, Keir tossed a couple of bills onto the bar to pay for their drinks. “Sorry. Guess I’m lousy company tonight.”
“Tell me about it. I’m givin’ you my best stuff and all I’ve gotten out of you is a smirk.”
Keir conceded the truth with a nod. “It’s not your job to make things right when a case goes wrong.”
“The hell it isn’t.” Hud polished off the last of his beer and swiped his knuckles over his mouth to erase the foamy mustache. “You’ll still be in a mood when you come back to work on Monday, and I’m the guy who has to look at you all day.” He pushed aside the money Keir had put on the bar and set a twenty-dollar bill in its place. “I dare you to stay and have a little fun. I know there’s a lady here tonight who can put a full-blown smile on your face and make you forget all about the Terminator. In fact, I’ll bet you that last round of drinks that I can score some action and be smiling before you.”
“Really?” Hud knew his weakness for refusing to back down from a dare. Keir’s older brothers had given him plenty
of practice at holding his own growing up. Still, he was about to tell his partner that he’d take that bet on some other night when he wasn’t quite so tired or distracted, when the Shamrock’s owner, Robbie Nichols, set a beer and shot on the bar in front of him. Keir frowned. “I didn’t order this.”
The bushy-bearded Irishman nodded toward someone behind Keir’s back and winked. “She did. Good luck to you, Detective.”
Keir turned to see a sweet little strawberry blonde smiling at him as she wove her way through the maze of tables to reach him. Maybe he should take a lesson from his laid-back partner and blow off a little steam. Suddenly, spending Friday night at home with work wasn’t as appealing as it had sounded a minute ago. “Are you responsible for this?” he asked the man staring, openmouthed, beside him.
“I wish.” Hud had turned, too, and was shaking his head. “Even on your worst night, the ladies love you. Why don’t I have that kind of luck?”
“Because you’re half hillbilly. And—” Keir buttoned his collar and adjusted his tie as the young woman approached “—a man in a well-tailored suit is like catnip to the ladies.” Keir picked up the drink. “I promise you, my friend—if you’re going to bet me, you’re going to lose.”
Robbie returned, popping the cap off a chilled bottle of beer and setting it in front of Hud. “Not to worry, Detective Kramer. The ladies got you one, too.”
“Ladies? As in plural?” Quickly tucking his shirt into his jeans, Hud stood beside Keir, focusing in on the burgundy-haired woman with glasses trailing after her friend. “Game on, catnip boy.”
The strawberry blonde reached them before Keir could respond to Hud’s challenge. “Hi. I’m Tammy. I hope you’re not leaving. My sister and I took a vote and decided you were the cutest guy here.”
Cute? Well, now, didn’t that make him feel about twice this girl’s age and a little less eager to win the bet? Still, from a very young age, his mama had taught him to have manners, so Keir extended his hand. “I’m flattered. Keir Watson. Thank you for the drink.”
“Keir? That’s an unusual name.”
“It’s Irish. My mother was born in Ireland.”
“Awesome.”
The shy redhead at her shoulder looked a few years older and a little less enthusiastic about picking up a guy in a bar. She nudged her friend and glanced at Hud. “Tammy, it’s getting late. How long is this going to take?”
Poor Hud. He had his work cut out for him if he wanted to win the bet.
Instead of answering, Tammy beamed a smile at Keir’s partner. “This is Gigi. My older sister.” Tammy emphasized the age difference, as if the three or four years that must separate them meant big sis was over the hill and that she was the prime catch. Awkward. Clearly, Tammy was pawning her sister off on Hud, and had eyes only for Keir. “I’ll let Gigi tell you what it’s short for.”
But Hud wasn’t complaining. Once the introductions had been completed, he pulled out the stool Keir had vacated and invited Gigi to sit beside him.
Keir smiled down at the strawberry blonde. Whether her sister was shy about men or genuinely tired, Tammy was determined to hit on him. And Gigi seemed to be sufficiently entertained as Hud launched into his good ol’ boy spiel. “All right, then. Shall we?”
He picked up his drinks and escorted Tammy to a private table while she asked if the gun and badge he wore were real. Feeling older by the minute and wishing he’d trusted his gut and headed home, Keir briefly considered if this woman might be underage. But he was certain Robbie and his staff would have carded both women before selling them alcohol. Something about running a bar frequented by cops kept a man from bending the rules.
Still, the momentary rush of proving to Hud that (a) he always had his game on with the ladies, and (b) his partner didn’t need to worry about his mood, quickly faded. An hour passed and Keir was beginning to feel as though he was watching out for a friend’s kid sister rather than seriously considering extending the evening into something more. True, his thoughts kept straying back to those moments in the courtroom when the judge had chastised his unit for not making sure all their ducks were in a row in their case against Dr. Colbern.
But it seemed Tammy couldn’t sustain a conversation beyond flirty come-on lines, the classes she was taking at UMKC and all the adventures at bars she and her sister were having now that she’d turned twenty-one. Tammy was pretty. She was sweet. And he had a feeling she was sincere in her interest in him. But twenty-one was too young for a man in his early thirties, and Keir wisely kept the evening platonic until the cocktail waitress announced last call and he decided to call it a night.
Hud and the less animated Gigi had moved over to the pool tables, where he was teaching her some tricks of the game. A quick text exchange with Keir’s partner confirmed that they’d hit it off as friends and that Hud was fine giving the young lady a ride home after they finished their last set. Keir conceded the bet and paid for all their drinks.
Tammy was obviously disappointed that Keir decided to call it a night instead of inviting her out on a date or even asking for her number. He tried to soften the blow to her ego. “It’s been a long week for me and I’m tired. Plus, if you’ve got an exam Monday, you’d better try to get a little sleep so you can study this weekend.” He stood and took her hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.”
He traded a salute with Hud and led Tammy through the dwindling crowd outside the front door. The days had been warming up with the advent of spring, but the hour was late and there was a chill in the air that elicited an audible shiver from the young woman beside him. Whether her reaction was legit or one last attempt to stir his interest in her, Keir shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “Which way?”
There might be a dozen or more cops inside the bar, but the downtown streets of Kansas City—even in neighborhoods that were being reclaimed like this one—were no place for a woman to be walking alone at night. She pointed past the neon shamrock in the bar’s window to the curb on the next block. Making a brief scan of the street and sidewalks, Keir dropped his hand to the small of Tammy’s back and headed past the bar’s parking lot, the valet stand for a nearby restaurant, past a north-south alley and the sports bar beyond it, then across the intersection to reach her car.
“I’ll wait until you get in and get it started,” he said, taking back his jacket and slipping into it.
“You’re a nice guy, Detective Watson.” Tammy latched on to the lapels of his coat and stretched up on tiptoe as he straightened the collar. “Are you sure I can’t change your mind about coming home with me? It looks like Gigi and your friend will be a while.”
He pried her hands loose and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Good night, Tammy.” He grinned when she slipped a piece of paper into his pocket, suspecting it was the phone number he hadn’t asked for. He closed the door behind her once she’d started the engine, and stepped back onto the curb. “Be safe.”
Waving as she drove away, Keir loosened his tie and collar again. Time to call it a night. He hadn’t gotten drunk. He hadn’t gotten laid. And he sure as hell hadn’t figured out any answers to the unresolved cases weighing on his mind. Deciding that the night wasn’t going to get any better, and his day couldn’t get any worse, he turned and strode back toward the parking lot behind the Shamrock where he’d parked his own car.
He nodded to the trio of college-aged men bemoaning a call in the baseball game they’d been watching inside as they exited the sports bar. Then he stepped around the group of suits and dresses waiting for their ride outside the South American restaurant, shrugging at their fancy outfits in this workingman’s neighborhood. Keir’s attention shifted to a man standing on the sidewalk across the street. Hanging back in the shadows, wearing a dark hoodie, his shoulders hunched over with his hands buried in the pockets of his baggy jeans, the man’s face was unreadable. But his focu
s was unmistakable. There was something about the restaurant, something about the people walking down the street as the bars and restaurants let out, something or someone on this side of the street he was watching so intently that the hood over his head never even moved.
And that’s why you walk a lady to her car.
His suspicions pinging with an alert, Keir slowed his pace and stopped, discreetly pulling his phone from his pocket and snapping a picture while pretending to text. He doubted he’d get a clear shot, but he could at least record a location and vague description. But Hoodie Guy saw that he’d been noticed, and quickly spun away and shuffled on down the street.
“That’s right, buddy, I’m a cop.” Keir watched the man until he turned at the next intersection and disappeared around the corner of a closed-up building. “You’re not causing any trouble tonight.”
Detouring for a moment, Keir retraced his steps, wondering if there was anything in particular Hoodie Guy had been watching. Maybe he’d been waiting for someone to separate from the pack—someone to mug for drug money or mooch a drink from. Maybe he’d been watching an old girlfriend on a date with someone new. And maybe the guy just had a creepy sense of fashion and poor timing when it came to choosing where he wanted to loiter. There was no way for Keir to get answers unless he wanted to chase the guy down. And, technically, the guy hadn’t done anything to warrant such a response.
Satisfied for the moment that the street was safe, Keir turned around and resumed the walk to his car. Keeping one eye on the cars and empty spaces and drivers and pedestrians to see if Hoodie Guy reappeared, he pulled up his messages. Maybe he’d find a victorious text from Hud or news from his family about Seamus Watson’s shooting or his health as his eighty-year-old grandfather recovered from the brain injury that had left him relearning how to speak and use the left side of his body. Nothing. Not even an update from the detectives working the investigation.
Keir scrolled through the case notes he sent himself as texts on his phone as he stepped over the cable marking off a neighborhood parking area and cut through the public space to reach the Shamrock’s parking lot. He stepped over the cable at the back end of the lot, ignored the retching sounds of a drunk in the alley he passed and climbed a couple of steps over a short concrete wall to reach the lot where his Dodge Charger was parked.
