Courting the Cop

by Coleen Kwan

  “I’m stuck.” She heaved out a sigh. “Do you think you could…uh…give me a push?”

  He contemplated the back of her costume then placed his hands in the vicinity of her butt. “Is this okay?”

  It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn she trembled even though he was only touching Styrofoam and not her actual butt.

  “Yeah.”

  He pushed her upward, aware that her ass was about an inch away and wondering if it was as curvy as her legs. With a gasp she burst free, bits of yarn and polystyrene flying everywhere, and stumbled up the last of the stairs. Pushing away the image of her ass, he followed her into apartment, where she immediately tossed down the headpiece, knitting needles clattering as they hit the floor.

  “I’m curious,” Brody said. “How did you get down the stairs without getting stuck?”

  “I didn’t. I dressed in the store, but I didn’t want to go there now and have everyone see me being arrested.” She paused, and her eyes grew big and soulful. “Are you really going to arrest me, Detective?”

  She stood in a mess of hacked-up plastic and unraveling yarn. Her hair was a rumpled tangle and her face was moistly flushed and she didn’t have a lick of makeup. He shouldn’t have felt anything for her except irritation, but for some screwed-up reason something about her appealed to him. The hair coming loose from its braids was reddish-brown, her eyes were pretty pools of blue, and her cheeks were like apples, smooth and round and pink. A vision of him pressing his lips on that soft skin burst through his brain.

  “Detective?”

  Her expression had grown anxious, and he realized he was frowning from the effort of suppressing that vision.

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” he said.

  Her gaze lowered to his chest, and the anxiety in her face deepened. “Oh, jeez. Am I responsible for that?” She gestured to the front of his shirt showing through his unzipped sports jacket, and for the first time he noticed several buttons hanging from a thread, ready to fall off. “And that too?” Following her line of sight, he took in the scuffed tears at the knees of his jeans.

  “Looks like it.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She was practically wringing her hands. “Please, let me mend your clothes. I’m good at sewing, and it won’t take long. Please, it’s the least I can do.”

  Brody wore work clothes that were tough and inexpensive because they took a beating every day. He couldn’t care less about a few loose buttons and some rips in his jeans, but maybe he could use this situation to his advantage.

  “You can do my shirt, but I should probably keep my pants on.”

  A soft pink blush bloomed in her cheeks. Oh, yeah, he should definitely keep his pants on…until later. Dammit, he shouldn’t be thinking this way around her. But he couldn’t seem to keep a lid on his illicit thoughts.

  He waved her away. “Why don’t you go change first?”

  She nodded and waddled down the hall, leaving Brody alone to make a quick survey of the apartment. The floor plan was long and skinny, the living room at the front looking out over Main Street and the traffic, while the other rooms running off the hallway faced east over the quiet side street, Hillcrest Road. The whole apartment looked like a time warp from another era, the fifties, maybe. The living room had geometric print drapes, kidney-shaped tables and chrome lamp stands, while the kitchen boasted pink cupboards, black-and-white linoleum tiles and a green Formica table. Nothing expensive, everything looked worn but well cared for.

  Brody moved to the kitchen window and craned his neck, squinting down at the house on the opposite side of the street. The next room down would give him a better angle. He walked into the hallway and almost collided with Abigail coming out of the room he was interested in.

  She blinked up at him, probably surprised to find him nosing through her apartment. “Can I help you?” A hint of frostiness showed in her voice for the first time.

  She’d changed into skinny jeans, flat shoes, a loose top. She’d unbraided her hair and brushed it up into a ponytail. Without her costume, she was slender and light, like a ballerina. How the hell had she managed to take him down when she was built like a pixie?

  He lifted his chin at the hallway behind her. “I need to look in there.” Not waiting for a reply, he brushed past her and entered the room.

  “It’s my bedroom,” she protested, following him inside. “Why do you want to look in here? I don’t think you’re allowed to, you know. Not without a search warrant or something.”

  “I don’t want to search your room. I just want to check out the view.”

  “The view?” Her eyes widened in obvious puzzlement.

  “Yeah. May I?”

  “Well, I guess so.”

  Brody moved to the two windows and peered out. Bingo. One window overlooked the rear lane, while the other gave a clear view of the house he was interested in. From here, he could see everyone who came and went, both along Hillcrest Road and the lane. His heart rate picked up. This was the perfect spot. This was how he’d catch his guy.

  He turned back to Abigail. “Thanks.”

  “I said I’d fix your shirt,” she said, nervously twiddling her fingers. “My sewing basket is in the living room.”

  Brody nodded. He needed to ask her a few questions and get her on side. He followed her to the room at the front of the building, where she picked up an old-fashioned wicker sewing basket and set it on a small table next to a comfortable, well-worn armchair.

  “Um, I need your shirt.”

  He shrugged off his jacket and sensed her tense as the Glock pistol on his belt came into view. Her tension didn’t appear to ease up when he undid his shirt; if anything, she seemed even more tense. Did she suddenly think it was a bad idea to bring a man with a gun up to her apartment and invite him to take his shirt off? Put like that, it did sound reckless.

  He shouldn’t be doing this. It was bordering on inappropriate behavior. But he caught a flicker of heat in her eyes as she grabbed the shirt from him and retreated to her armchair. She wasn’t frightened of him. If he read her correctly, she was a little turned on by the situation. And, if he were honest, he was more than a little turned on too. Oh boy, he really shouldn’t be doing this. Thank Christ he had an undershirt on, or God knows where this could end.

  There was only one end he should have in mind: his guy in custody, and his conscience finally at ease. That was all he wanted. Everything else was a distraction.

  Chapter Two

  “So…are we still going to the station?”

  He couldn’t help noticing Abigail’s hands shook as she threaded a needle with cotton.

  Brody rubbed his chin. God, she didn’t have a clue. As if he had any intention of taking her down to the station and booking her. He’d never live it down. Assaulted by a girl who weighed less than a hundred pounds. A girl who’d tried to make a citizen’s arrest on him for stealing a frigging orange. By the end of his shift, even the K9 dogs at the station would know about him coming off second best to little Miss Neighborhood Watch here. He’d have to book the yarn and needles costume into evidence too, and write up a report for Lieutenant Farrell. Yeah, right, none of that was ever going to happen. But she wasn’t to know, and he could do with a bit of leverage.

  “I need to ask you a few questions first.” Taking a seat on the couch facing her, he rested his elbows on his knees and put on his interrogation cop face. “The house across the street, 3 Hillcrest Road. Do you know the occupant?”

  “The occupant?” She wrinkled her nose, the needle flashing in and out of his shirt as if her hands were operating independently. “You mean Mrs. O’Brien? Yes, of course. I mean, I don’t know her that well. She keeps to herself mostly, but she’s one of my regulars.”

  “At your store? What does that mean? She buys yarn every week?”

  “We have Knit and Natter every
Tuesday and Thursday. Mrs. O’Brien usually comes at least once a week, sometimes both days.”

  “Knit and Natter?”

  “It’s very informal. People bring their projects to work on, have coffee, and talk. Most people call it Stitch ’n Bitch, but Aunt Edna didn’t like the word ‘bitch’.” She paused before offering, “My aunt died earlier this year and left the store and this apartment to me.”

  Which explained the time-warp thing. This Aunt Edna apparently hadn’t approved of the modern era. Even the television looked like it didn’t show anything more modern than Laverne & Shirley.

  Abigail tucked a leg under her as she finished one button and started on another. She reminded Brody of a nervy housecat, trim and slender and on edge.

  “Why do you want to know about Mrs. O’Brien? Surely she can’t be one of your suspects?”

  “I have reason to believe a wanted fugitive will try to contact Katherine O’Brien soon. I need your apartment to carry out surveillance on her premises.”

  Abigail’s mouth fell open as she lowered his shirt to her lap. “A fugitive! What do you mean? Like an escaped convict? A murderer?” With each question her voice climbed higher until she was practically squeaking.

  “No, nothing as dramatic as that. We’re not talking Richard Kimble stuff here. It’s a low-key operation. It’ll just be one or two detectives checking in and a security camera set up in your bedroom.”

  “You want to do your stakeout from my bedroom?”

  “Yup. That room gives the best view of the house.” He spoke calmly, authoritatively, as if he expected her full cooperation.

  She pursed her mouth. Her lips were unusual, pillowy and pouty, and the sight of them puckered up like that sent an illicit twinge straight to his groin. Shit. He didn’t need this. Shifting his position, he gazed impassively at her, this will-o’-the-wisp girl who was filling his head with indecent ideas.

  “You say Mrs. O’Brien isn’t a suspect, but is she in any danger from this fugitive you’re after?”

  “I doubt it. He’d only contact her for help.” Brody decided it was better to tell Abigail a few more details. “The man I’m looking for is her son, Michael. He’s wanted for a string of assaults and robberies both here and interstate.”

  Most of Michael Patrick O’Brien’s crimes had been committed in other cities, but now, according to informants, he was back in town. Several agencies were on the lookout for him, and Brody had plenty of other cases to keep him busy, but he was determined he’d be the one to catch O’Brien. When Brody finally hauled the dirtbag into the police station, maybe the guilt that had dogged him all these years would disappear.

  Abigail picked up her sewing and concentrated on it for a few moments. “I never knew Mrs. O’Brien had a son. She’s been living here going on three years, and she’s never mentioned any family. Not that she’s much of a chatter. Even at the Knit and Natter she’s mostly quiet. What makes you think her son will try to contact her?”

  “Because word is he’s double-crossed his old cronies and they’re all baying for his blood. He doesn’t have anyone in his criminal network to fall back on. He doesn’t have a wife or girlfriend. That leaves his mother as his last chance. That’s why he’s back in town. To our knowledge she’s never helped him before, but she’s his mother, and it’s reasonable to think he’d at least try. In fact, when I was tailing Katherine O’Brien earlier, I saw her talking to a man who fit Michael’s description, and I was about to move closer to verify that when you attacked me.”

  She blushed and sucked on her lower lip, setting off another pang of heat in his balls.

  “Why don’t you just ask Mrs. O’Brien about her son?”

  “She’s been visited and asked and given the usual ‘no, haven’t seen him for years, yes, I’ll be sure to call the police if he shows up’ bullshit.”

  Abigail looked shocked. “How do you know she’s lying?”

  “Because cops know when they’re being fed a line, that’s how.”

  “Mrs. O’Brien goes to church every Sunday.”

  “So do the Mafia.”

  She shook her head, and he wasn’t sure if that was disapproval in him or the Mafia.

  “Won’t Mrs. O’Brien see you lurking about the place and know what you’re up to?”

  “I wasn’t the detective who visited her. She won’t know who I am, and you aren’t going to tell anyone, either.”

  “No one at all?”

  “Do you have a husband, a boyfriend?”

  The apartment had two bedrooms, and, from his brief casing of the joint, the main one was clearly filled with her aunt’s possessions, which meant Abigail didn’t have a roommate. Her left hand was ringless, and so far he’d seen no sign of a male occupant in the apartment, but she could have a guy staying over on occasion. That might make things awkward.

  “No.” She blinked a couple of times, and a shadow seemed to pass over her, as if she was thinking about someone. An ex, maybe? The tiny spasm of relief and jealousy in his gut surprised him. “It’s just me here.”

  “Good. That makes it easier.”

  She bit off the thread between her white teeth, then held up the mended shirt toward him. “I’ll let you set up your stakeout here if you help me out in return.”

  Huh? She was trying to bargain with him when a police-assault charge was hanging over her head? She had a lot of cheek. Unless, of course, she already knew he wasn’t going to press charges.

  Maybe it was time for the tough-cop act. “Why should I make deals when you assaulted a cop?”

  Her head jerked up, and her eyes flared like blue gas. “Listen, mister, I’m trying to clean up my neighborhood. If you cops spent more time catching the lowlifes around here like the Spikers, then maybe I wouldn’t have had to assault you in the first place!”

  Her sparking indignation rolled through him like a hot wind through dry grass. Curiosity burned in him. So, the nervy housecat had claws when she was provoked. He hated to admit it, but he liked that.

  “Spikers?” he asked, keeping his expression straight.

  She huffed out a breath as if she needed to regain her self-control. “A local gang led by a guy called Spike. Mostly teenagers. They’re responsible for most of the petty crime around here. If the police could only get Spike off the streets, everyone would breathe a lot easier.”

  “You’re scared of these Spikers?” As far as he could recall, the crime stats for this neighborhood weren’t that bad. It was a helluva lot safer around here than other parts of the district, like down at the projects, for instance.

  “I don’t let a few hoodlums stop me from doing what I want.” Abigail shook her head. “But I’m young, and I don’t have kids. Some of the others around here are more vulnerable. If the Spikers weren’t around, people might feel safe enough to shop at their local stores again, and maybe businesses wouldn’t have to close, and the neighborhood would stand a chance of getting back to what it used to be.”

  “You grew up around here?”

  She nodded as she packed away her sewing things. “Since I was ten. I moved in here with Aunt Edna and helped out in her store whenever I could. In those days all the stores along this street were open, and most of them did okay. People stopped and talked to one another. We had block parties on the fourth of July. We watched the Super Bowl together.”

  She shut the lid of her sewing basket with a sigh. “I want that back. Oh, sure, I know it’s never going to be the same, but I want to preserve that sense of community, and the best way to do that is to send a message to the Spikers that their antisocial behavior isn’t welcome here.”

  He heard the longing in her voice and saw the determination in her eyes. The problems of her neighborhood weren’t unique. All over the inner city, local shopping strips like the one here on Main Street had been slowly dying for decades. Brody had grown up south of the river in
a neighborhood very like this one, and he knew all about the stagnation, the drift of shoppers to the mega-malls. Some said change was inevitable and desirable. Brody wasn’t sure where he stood on the issue—he was too busy doing his job—but he admired Abigail’s drive. At least she was doing something active about it instead of just letting it happen.

  “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do about these Spikers.” Maybe he’d talk with the beat officers and their sergeants and ask if they could do more patrols around this area.

  Abigail let out a distinctly unimpressed snort. “That’s a wishy-washy platitude if ever I’ve heard one.”

  “Fine. If you don’t like my wishy-washy platitudes, I’ll take you down to the station right now.”

  Even as he spoke, he winced internally. He’d no right to coerce her into agreeing to his stakeout, and if his lieutenant knew, he’d be hauled over the coals, which wouldn’t be as bad as the lecture he’d get from his mom if she ever found out.

  Abigail stared at him, mouth tight, eyes reflecting turmoil as she processed what he’d said.

  “All right,” she said eventually. “You can have your stakeout here.”

  “Good. Thank you. And thanks for fixing my shirt.”

  He tucked in his shirt, reflecting that she’d done a great job with the buttons. He couldn’t remember when last someone had mended his buttons for him. His mom had always been too busy working and supporting the family, and besides she’d never been into that “housewifey” stuff.

  “I also want to be in your store when you’re having Knit and Natter,” Brody said.

  Abigail’s eyes grew round before she let out a peal of laughter. “Ha-ha. Yes, I can see you sitting there between Phyllis and Jennifer. What will you knit? A nice Fair Isle scarf for the firemen’s Christmas appeal?”