by C. D. Hersh
Glancing at his watch, he asked, “When are you off?”
“In half an hour. I had the early shift today.”
“Had dinner yet?”
She laid her hand over her tummy. “No, and I’m starved.” Giving him a menu, she prepared to take his order.
“Just give me a beer and some pretzels. I’ll wait to order until you can join me. If you want to eat with me.”
Her eyes lit like they had the night she’d rushed out of the diner when she heard the police sirens. “Dinner and dishing the dirt. I like it.” She shoved her order pad into the pocket of her apron. “Back in a jiff with your drink.”
As she sashayed off, Hugh let himself enjoy the view. Trim hips swayed side-to-side. She turned and entered the bar area, her curvy silhouette creating an intriguing picture. One fine-looking woman. One fine-looking, gossipy woman I’m using for dangerous purposes. The thought gave him doubts. He should cut and run while he could.
On the other hand, she had pumped him for information concerning what he’d seen in the alley and his business in town. Questions total strangers didn’t normally ask. She also jumped on the chance to do some sleuthing. No, forced his hand to let her. Did she know something he didn’t, or was she just a wannabe detective? Either way, he needed to know why she seemed so attracted and curious about him.
Setting his drink down on a harvest themed cocktail napkin, along with a basket of pretzels, she jerked her head toward the clutch of men at the bar. “See those dock workers?”
“Yeah,” he replied as he plucked a pretzel from the basket.
“I’ve been talking to them.”
“So I noticed.” He hoped she missed the note of jealousy he heard in his voice. Instead she cocked her head and gave him a bird-like blink. He felt like a worm crawling out of the soil about to be snatched and eaten. So much for her missing his tone.
“I didn’t know you cared.” She smoothed her hand down the side of her breast to her hip.
The movement drew his eyes of their own accord to her, and the fleeting thought of wishing it was his hand sliding down her made him warm. He should not react like this to someone who could be a threat. As soon as he realized he was staring, he looked away.
“I don’t.” And I can’t afford to. “A good-looking woman like you needs to be careful flirting with men like them.”
Now she really preened, fluffing out her hair and tossing back her shoulders. “You think I’m good looking?”
“Yes, I do. But I’m the kind of guy who can compliment a woman and not have to take action on it.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped in obvious dejection.
He’d deflated her. Not exactly what he’d wanted to do. He kinda liked the preening . . . for him. He scrambled for words to soothe her hurt feelings. “I’m not sure those goons are, though. Be careful. I wouldn’t want anything to happen because you’re poking around on my account.”
“It’s not just on your account.” Her shoulder rose in a defensive posture. “I don’t want to waitress all my life.” She dug in her pocket and flipped a folded sheet of newsprint onto the table. “I’m going to be a P.I. This is good practice for when I start school.”
As he unfolded the paper and read it, his heart sank. No wonder she’d been so eager to blackmail him into letting her help. Face time with a real agent to bolster her new career. Bragging rights on a resume. And he’d thought she was interested in him, not just his profession.
“Don’t spend your hard earned cash on a gyp joint like this. Go to a university and take real courses.” He handed the paper to her, and she carefully refolded it and slid it into her pocket.
“Colleges take money I ain’t got.”
“That’s what loans are for, LJ.” The minute the words passed over his lips he regretted them. He shouldn’t encourage her.
“LJ! Get your butt over here and get this food,” the cook yelled. “And quit harassing the customers.”
LJ huffed. “He never says that about the dock workers, but they don’t tip like you.” She slid her gaze over him. “Next time don’t wear a suit. I’ll bet you fifty bucks he won’t complain if I harass you when you’re wearing holey jeans and a dirty t-shirt.”
Stifling a chuckle, he waved her away. He would take the bet, because he’d heard the cook yell at her anytime she dallied with any customer. She marched away, hips swaying. P.I. career or not, he’d keep tipping big to watch her walk away, or toward, him.
Around mouthfuls of cheeseburger, LJ filled Hugh in on the dock news she discovered. “Big stuff happening at the shipping companies, according to my sources.” She gave him a satisfied smile as she wiped cheese off her chin. “I like saying-my sources. Sounds very P.I.-ish.”
Hugh resisted the urge to roll his eyes back into his head. He’d released a monster. A beautiful one, but a monster.
“Anyway,” LJ continued, “the scuttlebutt going around on the dock is someone is trying to take over.”
“Which companies?”
“Don’t know.” The rye bun LJ bit into muffled the answer. Leaning forward, she finished chewing and set down her half eaten sandwich. “Want me to find out more?” Anticipation shone in her eyes.
“Not yet. Let me see what I can find out first.” No use sending her further down the path until he knew it was worth risking her safety, not as if he could stop her. She was a steamroller going downhill with no brakes.
“That’s no fun.” Leaning back in the chair, she stuck out her lower lip.
A lip he’d like to nibble on. He looked away and squashed the desire rising in him.
“Leg work is never fun. P.I.s sit in cars all hours of the day, eat stale pizza, hot soda, and cold coffee. They can’t run to the bathroom when they need to and they miss their kids’ recitals and sports games, and they get hell from their spouses because they’re never home. It’s not an easy life.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
“I’m just trying to get you to look at this realistically.”
“Why do you care?”
Good question. What do I care? “Because you don’t seem like the kind of girl—”
“Woman,” she interjected.
“Woman, who is suited to long hours alone sneaking around so people don’t see you. You’re too vibrant and alive for stale P.I. work.”
“The second compliment you’ve paid me tonight.”
A habit which could get him in a lot of hot water. He threw a couple of twenties on the table to pay for their burgers. “Don’t get any ideas. I just like pretty girls. Any pretty girls.”
A glint sparkled in LJ’s eyes, and his stomach plummeted to the floor. She hadn’t bought that lie, and he knew that look. His first wife and his second wife looked the same way when they started chasing him. Pushing away from the table, he rose. Time to solve this case and get the heck out of Dodge before he lost his heart to this woman.
Chapter 10
When the butler at Falhman’s penthouse opened the door and saw Owen, he stared down his long nose and intoned, “Mr. Owen Todd Riley to see you, sir.”
Pushing past him without confirmation of entry, he strode into the massive great room. Falhman sat in his usual seat, lounging on the long, white sofa. Without bothering to rise, he motioned to a chair opposite him.
As Owen dropped onto the indicated armless chair, he said, “You sent for me?”
“Yes, I did, my dear boy. Drink?”
“It’s too early.”
A silver eyebrow arched over Falhman’s steel gray eyes. “Yet, you visited Rogueman’s early this morning.”
The eyebrow rose higher when Owen didn’t answer. “My personal bar stocks a higher quality. However, I could requisition some of the cheap stuff, if you like.”
“It’s c
heaper here because it’s free. Well, not completely free. You do extract something besides coin from every guest you serve from your well-stocked bar, I’m sure.”
“Tsk, tsk. What a rude way to start a business conversation.”
“Oh, are we talking business? The first royal invitation I got from your goons didn’t say anything regarding business, unless they meant the business they planned to give me if I didn’t cooperate. Which I did, because I had a bag over my head. Today’s invite wasn’t much nicer. Seemed like a call from the king for beheading.”
“I only behead if someone gives me a reason. You don’t plan on giving me a reason, do you?”
The cat and mouse game wearied him. Apparently the kingpin needed him, although he had no clue why. Surely he could obtain other forensic scientists to command. Maybe controlling him had something to do with his mother. How far could he actually push Falhman? If he was going to be at the man’s beck and call, there was no better time than now to test the limits.
“What do you want, Falhman?” Owen let the edge in his voice show. When Falhman scowled Owen steeled himself for a rebuttal.
Falhman studied him as the tension in the room grew thick enough to spread on crackers. “Are you still upset over last year? I thought that all behind us, what with your newfound devotion to the shifter world.”
Relieved that Falhman hadn’t ordered his beheading, Owen pressed further. “I’ve been thinking about what my mother said the other day. You didn’t hijack me last year to keep her in line, like you told her, did you?”
“Hijack is such a harsh word, don’t you think? I prefer to view your presence here last year as an unwilling, albeit well-cared for, guest in my home, whom I came to love like a son.”
Owen stifled a snort. Love like a son? What a crock of bull. His mother told him what Falhman tried to do to his real son, Rhys. Falhman ordered an ambush on Rhys which, according to his mother, caused Roc, the rogue Promised One, to be murdered by his brother, Rhys. Falhman had created a rogue Cain and Abel story. Now he wanted Owen to believe he thought of him as a son. Not a position he wanted to hold. Falhman didn’t show unconditional love to family, quite the opposite. He treated them harsher than the help.
When he didn’t answer, Falhman continued, “Did I mistreat you, Owen?”
“No, but you used me to keep my mother in line and do your dirty work.”
“Someone has to do it.” He raised a pale, slender hand and smoothed back his silver hair.
“You’re a real piece of work, Falhman.”
A beefy guard rose from his slouched position against the wall and moved toward him. Falhman jerked his hand in the air, and the guard backed off like a dog on a leash. “Watch your mouth, my dear boy. My leniency only goes so far, and you’re at the end of your choke chain.”
His voice, smooth as ice and just as cold, sent a chill through Owen. Dogs, that’s how Falhman considered his people. Owen swallowed the rest of his resentment. Plenty of time to pay the kingpin back for his wrongs. “So, what’s this business you called me in about?”
“Your new job is ready.” Falhman shoved a file folder across the coffee table. “Memorize this and then return it to me.”
He scanned the papers. “You want me to use my real persona on this job? Why?”
“I don’t think your female alter ego would command much respect on the docks, and I rather admire your good looks. If you have to do, shall we say, the wrong things while completing this job, I wouldn’t want the responsibility for ruining your visage. I suppose Sylvia has informed you concerning doing evil and mimic shifting.”
She had. Each crime committed in someone else’s form ran the risk of the shifter retaining the mimic’s characteristics when he returned to his, or her, normal persona. A risk that was never explained to low level mimic shifters until they experienced the problems. By that time they were so deep into the crimes their mentors had involved them in that they had no option but to continue what they were doing. Aside from the danger of mimic shifting, it might be hard to explain to Kat if he suddenly started reconstructing his appearance without the benefit of plastic surgery.
“What evil do you have planned?”
“I’m staging a hostile takeover of one of the shipping companies and eventually the rest in the city. Merely one step on the road to rogue dominance over the other faction of the Turning Stone Society and ultimately the promised peace.”
“Without a Promised One?” Peace was supposed to come through the long awaited shifter savior’s ability to sway the Society to his thinking, like Roc had swayed Owen to love all things shifter. It worked. He was cavorting with the rogues, a group he’d hated all his life. Correction, still hated. That part hadn’t changed since Roc death.
“I’m afraid there will never be another like Roc, so we must proceed without the benefit of the fulfillment of the prophesy. Using your own persona is a precaution. Of course, you’re permitted to do the job as a mimic, if you’d prefer.”
“No thanks. I like the way I look.”
“Very well. I’ll provide you with a crew of mimics, completely at your command and willing to die on your behalf, in order to reduce your risk of, say, killing anyone. But, sometimes these takeovers can get heated. I want you prepared and protected.”
For a second, the concern in Falhman’s voice actually sounded sincere, but then Owen reminded himself whom he dealt with . . . the kingpin of the rogue underworld. “If I order them to kill, then aren’t I as bad as them?”
“No. You’re as good as me.”
A chilling thought. But then he needed to be that good in order to rid the world of the pestilence called shifters. He stood to leave, but Falhman stopped him.
“One other thing, my dear boy. Remember the bear you killed?”
How could he not?
“One of my top lieutenants. Important to this takeover. Since you managed to muddle up my plans I’m conscripting you into duty in his place. Your first job is to retrieve something from him.”
First job? That doesn’t sound good. “What?”
“A capsule, with an RFID key in it, implanted under his skin.”
“What makes you think the coroner’s office hasn’t found it.”
“They may have. Find it and bring it to me.”
Police Captain Alexi Temple was a shifter. Owen’s heart pounded against his ribcage. She could sense him. How many more shifters, on her side, roamed the precinct office and the morgue?
“I can’t just waltz into the morgue and start cutting up a corpse or rummaging through an evidence locker.”
“You’re a smart fellow. You’ll figure out something, my dear boy.” Falhman paused and studied him a long moment. “I’d also like to know why you killed my lieutenant.”
Resisting the urge to squirm under Falhman’s stare, Owen took a deep, and hopefully imperceptible, breath to steady himself. “The bear attacked me. It was him or me.”
“Why would one of my top lieutenants attack you?”
“I was trying to find Roc’s killer. Maybe he thought I was getting close and came after me.”
“Are you implying one of my own people killed my son?”
“There were a lot of bullets flying that night. I’m implying someone knows more than they’re telling. It was a shifter battle. Someone had to have seen what happened.”
Falhman’s countenance blackened. “Have you stopped hunting his killer?”
“I said I would. But I would like to know the progress of the search you promised to conduct.”
“Close,” Falhman said.
Something in the pained expression on his face told him Falhman didn’t want to know who killed Roc, especially if it was Rhys. Did the man have a heart, after all? At least concerning his sons.
Owen remembered his mother’s
warnings. Even when she had been hopping mad at him, she showed concern. How would Falhman take it if he knew Rhys killed Roc? For a minute, Owen considered voicing that belief, but decided against it. The better time would be right before he put Falhman out of his misery. He could go to hell mourning like Adam must have mourned when he discovered Cain killed Abel. Parenthood sucked. Especially when you had rotten children.
When the doorbell rang, Katrina jerked off her apron and rushed to the door, pausing in front of the entryway mirror to check her appearance. A smudge of flour dotted her chin, and she scrubbed it off with her index finger, then smoothed her clothes and opened the door.
Owen stood on the other side of the opening with another bouquet of flowers, this time a harvest arrangement of mums, orange roses, and brightly colored dried branches and berries. “Something a bit more seasonal for the table,” he said, handing the bouquet to her.
“They’re beautiful, but you shouldn’t have. You’re making the apartment look like a floral shop.”
“Two arrangements don’t make a floral shop.”
“In a place as small as mine they do.” She hugged the vase to her chest and motioned him in with her free hand.
“Cozy, not small.”
“Good grief, you sound like an interior decorator.” She shut the door and moved past him, leading him into the kitchen.
“Smells good.” He took a deep breath, inhaling the scents. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Lasagna. I hope you like Italian.”
“It ranks right up there with pizza.”
She remembered he’d eaten most of the large pizza they ordered on their first date. If you could call it that. She’d insisted on paying her half of the bill. Tonight she’d feed him. She preferred it this way. He couldn’t ask for date favors when she footed the bills.
