Stark Raving Mad (Chicago's Finest Book 2)

by Vanessa Knight

  “Yes, but there would be a lot less humor. And, what kind of world is that?” Joe closed his laptop and made sure the lock was secure. He’d already had one laptop walk off after he left work a few months ago. He wasn’t going to lose another one.

  “Get to work.” The captain truly had no sense of humor.

  “We were writing up the Burnett bust.” Joe lifted one of the kilos sitting on his desk. There were twenty-nine more sitting in lockup. “You’d think thirty keys would get a brother a break.”

  “It was a good bust, but that was yesterday. What have you done for me today?” Humphries snatched the report from the printer.

  “I got you the report to sentence his ass.”

  “Good, so tomorrow you’ll get back out there and get me more bad guys.” He dropped the papers and waved at Joe. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  Adam stood. “I’m outta here. If you aren’t going out, I’m going to see Allison.” He walked toward the exit of the precinct with a bounce in his step.

  “Give her a kiss for me.” Joe leaned back in his chair.

  “Keep your kisses to yourself.” Adam lifted a finger to salute him as Joe crossed the room and entered Humphries’ office.

  “We just received word,” Humphries said. “You worked on the Stark conviction, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, back when I was on SWAT. He’s a crazy SOB. Anger issues.”

  “Well, that crazy SOB is out. He’s done his time, convinced the Review Board that he’s reformed. Thought you’d want to know.”

  “Did they call Brook Southby?”

  “Why would they call her?” The captain arched a brow at Joe.

  “Never mind.”

  “It’s almost five. Go home. This shit will be here tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, I’m going to find a new bad guy to bust. My boss is a real prick like that. He expects results.”

  Humphries stood up. “Remember that when you ladies are busy clucking.” “Cluck. Cluck.” Joe saluted as he walked out the door. Instead of leaving, he opened his laptop and opened the database. Typed in Dennis Stark.

  Incident: aggravated battery, violating an order of protection, public intoxication

  I was dispatched to the listed address reference a domestic dispute and violation of order of protection. I was invited in the Long residence and found Sheila Long screaming in the kitchen. I observed Sheila lying on her side, clutching her stomach, her pants covered in blood. Her face was bleeding from the nose and mouth. Sheila stated her ex-boyfriend had punched her face and kicked her stomach repeatedly.

  I spoke with Dennis Maxwell Stark, Sheila’s ex-boyfriend. I detected the odor of alcohol on his breath. Dennis admitted to drinking alcoholic beverages. Dennis stated he came home and his keys no longer worked in the locks of his home. He stated he became angry, but that he loved Sheila.

  Sheila was rushed to the emergency room, where she miscarried her eight-week pregnancy…

  What a mess. Dennis loved Sheila, and he kicked her until she lost her child. What the hell would he do to Brook?

  Dennis threatened Brook—Joe was there when it happened. He needed to warn her. He picked up the report he’d printed earlier. He just needed to file this and he was done for today. And once this case was put to bed, he was going to Brook’s to put her to bed.

  No!

  Once this case was put to bed, he was going to Brook’s to warn her about Dennis.

  Yes. That was much better.

  * * *

  Brook sat at the antique dark walnut conference table surrounded by the partners of Biddle, Bosk, and Associates. The managing partner, Larry Bosk, was giving his standard pep talk, replete with racism and misogynistic undertones.

  For so many years, she idolized the man. He talked a good talk in front of the associates. Then, becoming a partner put her in conference rooms and social gatherings outside the firm, highlighting his true nature. Not a good thing. He drank too much and preyed on young women.

  Not that the women were complaining. His ex-wife wasn’t complaining anymore, and she seemed to be the only one who’d been offended at his Viagra- based lifestyle. Heck, even his girlfriends seemed to understand they would be sharing him with the many females of Chicago. And they all seemed to bask in the attention of the externally-reputable man.

  Even women in the office succumbed to his charms. Those who’d been around for a while knew better—they’d seen the fallout from an affair with him. Most women stayed on after their dalliance, but some didn’t make the cut. Whether it was due to that relationship, or due to incompetence, only Larry knew, but Brook refused to be a statistic or a notch on his mile-high bedpost. No matter how hard the man tried to get Brook into bed, it hadn’t happened. She wouldn’t let it.

  She never understood where the phrase, “Don’t shit where you eat,” came from, or how it had anything to do with sex in the workplace. But she did have a firm grasp of the concept.

  “Don’t shtup the hand that feeds you,” was probably a better saying. Larry’s non-stop monthly rambling drew to a close, and the partners left their soft cream- colored leather chairs and headed for the glass doors. From the mandatory dark wood furniture to the white carpet and white walls, the office screamed prestige, respect, and money. Brook followed the other partners as they filed out of the room.

  Larry called out, “Brook, I need a minute.”

  “Of course.” She turned to him. He was a good-looking man, despite his tan face that had never seen an ultraviolet ray. His brown eyes, white teeth, and overall good nature wooed the most discerning client. His short salt-and-pepper hair was stylish and disheveled.

  He stood, buttoning the top button of his suit jacket. “How is the Ryder case going?”

  “It’s going well. I have a meeting with Don Ryder and his mother on next Tuesday.” Although she couldn’t figure out why she was meeting with them at all. Or, why she even had this case.

  He watched her, eyes staring right through her. Eyes that saw more than she wanted to show. He always saw more than most. It was what made him a great lawyer. He loved to use that knowledge to manipulate and screw over anyone who got in his way—which made him a huge asshole, but great lawyer.

  She shifted from one foot to the other, wanting to disappear. She brought her hands together, the fingers dancing as they intertwined. Dammit. She thought she was over this. Prepubescent interns let their nerves show in front of the managing partner, not partners. Partners spoke their minds.

  “Are you sure I should be running the legwork on this? It’s all circumstantial.

  Maybe we should have one of the associates run with it.”

  “Brook, I need this handled with discretion. Don is a friend’s son. I want you to make this go away. Is there a problem?”

  “No. I just feel overqualified.”

  Laughter rumbled from the man’s chest as he sat at the head of the table. “So you’re too good for legal research?”

  “No. I didn’t mean it that way.” Her cheeks flamed as she stammered.

  Stammered… Dammit!

  “I asked you to handle this as a favor to me. If you can’t handle it—” “No. I can handle it.”

  “Then do it right…”

  Brook didn’t hear the rest. She couldn’t. “Do it right. Can’t you do anything right?” All varying forms of the hateful crap her father spewed throughout her life. Sixteen years of torture. How many times had she heard it? How many times hadn’t she met her father’s standards? She was a constant disappointment to him. Bosk reminded her more and more of her father every day.

  “Good. I’d like to sit down and talk about what you’ve found.”

  “Of course. I’ll put something on your calendar this week.” She turned and walked toward the door. She felt a hand on her arm, warm but firm.

  “Actually, I believe I’m booked this week. Let’s talk over dinner on Thursday.” His hand caressed her arm. Soft. Gentle.

  Nausea.
>
  Brook couldn’t seem to find her voice. Eating dinner alone with this man was a new level of disturbing. The last person he had a business “dinner” with was collecting unemployment and selling her worldly possessions on the internet. “I’m sorry. I have plans with my sister.”

  “I don’t believe that was a question, Ms. Southby. I’ll meet you in your office Thursday at seven.”

  She nodded and walked to her desk, yanked a bottle of Purell from the drawer.

  She ran the gel up and down her arms. Ick!

  The way he said her name made her skin beg for a shower. Suggestive and dirty. His grabby hands and leering eyes completed the major ick factor. And she got the privilege of having dinner with him Thursday. There wasn’t enough hand sanitizer in the world to help her through that meal. She looked at the sanitizer in her hand. She was gonna need a bigger bottle.

  An hour later, Brook sped her S-Class down the evening streets of Chicago toward her house in the suburbs. She loved this time of night with no cars, the streets a racetrack waiting for her to see just how fast her luxury car could go. Unfortunately, Chicago’s finest didn’t appreciate her racetrack solitaire. She’d received a ticket or two to prove just that.

  Pebbles jumped and spit from the spinning tires as she drove the graveled alley. The rumble of the garage door was the only thing welcoming her into the darkened garage. The light was out again, and she could have sworn she just changed the damn thing. She looked up at the bulb and sighed. There was no way she was dealing with this tonight.

  She pulled her briefcase out of the car and walked into the yard. Quiet. Dark. Alone. She hated this walk at night. Not that her neighborhood was dangerous, but she hated walking the thirty-five feet from garage to house in the dark. It was worse in the winter when the sun started setting at four in the evening. She never made it home before the sun set during those frosty months.

  She kept her head up, eyes roaming the backyard as she walked through the icy evening. They’d had a wet winter, but the snow was starting to melt away. Even so, the shriveled grass and plants had frost lining their dormant leaves and limbs.

  Step by hesitant step she shuffled up the dark pathway. Her high heel caught a resilient patch of black ice, and her briefcase fell as she threw her arms out to steady herself.

  Large hands wrapped around her forearms as a deep voice said, “Whoa.”

  She tried to identify the speaker, but she sucked at voices. She could never seem to place them. Once she found her balance and turned around, she found her neighbor, Howard, standing behind her, a smile plastered on his lips.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, darn ice.” She repositioned her briefcase. “When did you get superhuman speed? Did you come all the way from your yard?”

  “No. I stopped by to get my recycle bin.” He pointed to his bin leaning against her fence. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t grab it for something important.”

  “No. That’s weird. It wasn’t there this morning.”

  “Good. I thought we had a bin thief in the neighborhood.”

  “Call off the SWAT team, no bin thief. Where’s Gloria?”

  “Making dinner. Hungry? She’s whipping up her world famous tacos.”

  “No thanks. I’m going to vegetate in front of the TV with a bowl of Garrett’s and I Love Lucy reruns.” She removed the bag of specialty popcorn from her briefcase.

  “Healthy dinner.” “There’s corn.”

  “And peanuts and caramel.”

  “It’s practically a vegetable.” She stuffed the bag away.

  “Mmm-hmmm. See you later.”

  “Bye.” She inched her way to the house. When she looked back, Howard stood at the fence, watching as she unlocked the door. She waved her hand as he smiled and turned back to his yard.

  The back yard might be a dark place, but with neighbors like Howard and Gloria, she wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Five

  Dennis rubbed his itch-infested eyes. Hours. That was how long he’d been sitting in his damn car, waiting. Waiting for Brooklyn to come home. And what happened? The minute she opened the garage, that neighbor came looking for his recycle bin. That. Damn. Recycle. Bin.

  Can’t a guy catch a break? All this time wasted. He looked at the house and sighed. Since he didn’t get her on the way from the garage, he’d just have to find a way into the house. He had some lessons on picking locks back when he was in high school, not that he ever thought he’d use that particular skill. He just needed a small screwdriver or pin of some sort.

  He tiptoed to the back door and twisted the handle.

  Locked. Okay. Eight windows lined the back of the quiet house. Eight. One had to be open. He tried the four on the main floor.

  Nothing.

  He arched his neck, staring at the upper floor. A light pulsed on, a small stream of it showing through a gap in an upstairs window.

  Merry Christmas to me. It’s open.

  This was going to be easier than he thought.

  * * *

  Brook slid her laptop out of the padded confines of her briefcase. This Ryder case was important to Larry. And even if an associate could have handled it, it was now Brook’s sole purpose for living.

  Her suit jacket hit the couch as she stretched. Exhaustion coursed through her veins. Nothing a glass of wine and hot bath wouldn’t cure. She poured herself a glass of red and walked up the stairs. But really, who had time for a bath?

  The ton of information on her PC wasn’t going to sift through itself. That would be one hell of a trick, though. She flipped on the hallway light and slunk through her darkened bedroom to the bathroom. The white marble covering the floors and wall glistened as she hit the switch. The hot tub called from the corner, Use me. I got bubbles, begging her muscles to come kick back under its relaxing jets.

  Wine and jets. Her muscles sighed. They wanted this—bad. Except…she had work to do. Tons of information. Wouldn’t sift itself.

  Bubbles. I got jets.

  A half hour. Just until she ran out of wine. Yeah.

  Water streamed from the faucet into the oversized tub while she removed the day’s clothing. She started the underwater jets and lowered herself into the churning hot water. The steam warmed her pores as massaging pellets of water beat against her skin. The therapeutic pulse and hum of liquid trembled along her body.

  Larry Bosk. Don Ryder. Who? Click!

  What was that noise? She turned off the water and silence filled the room, except for the hiss of dissipating bubbles. Standing, she wrapped an oversized towel around herself, and the cold air of the bedroom met her as she left the steam- filled bathroom. Frigid. The house was way too cold. She needed to bump up the heat, soon, before icicles started forming on her hoo-ha. A new definition of ice box. She looked out the open door to the hallway. Ice-cold nothing.

  Goosebumps travelled up her legs. She wanted the heat back. She turned the jets on again and hopped back in the tub, picking up a loofa and her low-sudsing strawberry soap. She popped the top, and the sweet scent of strawberries wrapped around her nose. She loved this soap. It smelled like Strawberry Shortcake, her favorite doll growing up. Closing her eyes, she ran the loofa over her arms, sighing a little—and then frowned at a new noise from downstairs.

  The doorbell.

  “Dammit.” She dropped the loofa and turned off the jets. “I give up.” She got out and wrapped herself in a terry robe as another chime sounded from the door. “I’m coming. I’m coming.”

  She ran down the stairs and threw on the lights for the main floor. She slipped on the hardwood, but made it to the door before they hit that damn button again. “What?”

  “Good evening to you, too.” Joe stood on her porch, all arrogance and hotness. “Busy?”

  Hotness, no. Arrogance and annoyance, yeah. That fit better.

  “A little.” She adjusted the thin cotton covering her chest. A wardrobe malfunction was the last thing she needed right now in front of the cop. The alcohol Na
zi.

  “Do you have a minute? It’s important.” “Sure. Let me get dressed.”

  His gaze slid up and down her body, practically undressing her with his hooded eyes. She turned and ran up the stairs, a cool breeze hitting her bare thighs. Maybe it was from the front door? She didn’t remember much from science class, but didn’t heat rise? And since her front door was all the way at the bottom of the stairs, it probably wasn’t the source of that breeze.

  The hall curtains billowed with crisp spring air as she stumbled onto the landing. “No wonder the hall is so darn cold.” She slammed the window shut, sliding the lock into place. When the hell did she open it?

  “Everything okay?” Joe shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Yeah. I guess I left the window open. I’ll be right down.” She swatted the bedroom door closed and slid on a pair of underwear and a bra before she crossed the empty room. Something felt off. It was probably the filled hot tub and the fact that she wasn’t in it.

  She threw open the door to the walk-in closet. The door wobbled as the hinge jiggled. Again. She should just fix the whole damn thing. Gut it and enlarge. New doors and new hinges. Maybe even find some new clothes to match her new closet. The possibilities were endless. With no warning, the hinges pulled free and the door pivoted toward her. Dammit. She tried to catch the wood, and her hands slipped. She jumped back as the heavy piece of wood crashed to the floor.

  “Are you okay?” Joe burst through the bedroom door without knocking. Gun in hand. His eyes scanned the room before resting on her.

  She knew the minute he saw her and her clothes, or lack of clothes. His gaze heated as they followed her curves from head to wiggling toes. Her arms wrapped around her body, trying to cover the good parts. But her arms were small and her good parts were, well, not as small.

  “Ummm…I’m almost naked.” She grimaced. Way to state the obvious.

  “Uhh…” His face turned a bright shade of red. “I see that.”

  “I need to get dressed.” Still stating the obvious, but there was no way she was getting dressed in front of him. Her arms were too busy playing soft-core cover.