by Nora Roberts
“Sure.”
“This is unit six responding,” she said into the transmitter. “I’m on the scene.” After squealing to a halt behind the black-and-white, she shoved open her door. “Stay in the car.” With that terse order, she drew her weapon and headed for the entrance of a four-story apartment building.
She paused at the door, sucking in her breath. The minute she bolted through, she heard the blast of another gunshot.
One floor up, she thought. Maybe two. With her body braced and flattened against the wall, she scanned the cramped, deserted entryway, then started up. Screaming— No, she thought, crying. A child. Her mind cold, her hands steady, she swung her weapon toward the first landing, then followed it. A door opened to her left. Crouching, she aimed toward the movement and stared into the face of an elderly woman with terrified eyes.
“Police,” Althea told her. “Stay inside.”
The door shut. A bolt turned. Althea shifted toward the second staircase. She saw them then, the cop who was down, and the cop who was huddled over him.
“Officer.” There was the snap of authority in her voice when she dropped a hand on the uninjured cop’s shoulder. “What’s the status here?”
“He shot Jim. He came running out with the kid and opened up.”
The uniformed cop was sheet-white, she noted, as pale as his partner, who was bleeding on the stairway. She couldn’t tell which of them was shaking more violently. “What’s your name?”
“Harrison. Don Harrison.” He was pressing a soaked handkerchief to the gaping wound low on his partner’s left shoulder.
“Officer Harrison, I’m Lieutenant Grayson. Give me the situation here, and make it fast.”
“Sir.” He took two short, quick breaths. “Domestic dispute. Shots fired. A white male assaulted the woman in apartment 2-D. He opened fire on us and headed upstairs with a small female child as a shield.”
As he finished, a woman stumbled out of the apartment above. Where she clutched her side, blood trickled through her fingers. “He took my baby. Charlie took my baby. Please, God …” She fell weeping to her knees. “He’s crazy. Please, God …”
“Officer Harrison.” A sound on the stairs had Althea moving fast, then swearing. She should have known Colt wouldn’t stay in the car. “Get on the horn, now,” she continued. “Call for backup. Officer and civilian down. Hostage situation. Now tell me what he was carrying.”
“Looked like a .45.”
“Make the call, then get in here and back me up.” She spared one look at Colt. “Make yourself useful. Do what you can for these two.”
She raced up the stairs. She could hear the baby crying again, long terrified wails that echoed in the narrow corridors. By the time she reached the top floor, she heard the slam of a door. The roof, she decided. Braced on one side of the door, she turned the knob, kicked it open and went in low.
He fired once, wildly. The bullet sang more than a foot to her right. Althea took her stand, and faced him.
“Police!” she shouted. “Put down your weapon!”
He stood near the edge of the roof, a big man. Linebacker-size, she noted, his skin flushed with rage, his eyes glazed by chemicals. That she could handle. It was a .45 he was carrying. She could handle that, as well. But it was the child, the little girl of perhaps two that he was holding by one foot over the edge of the roof, that she wasn’t sure she could deal with.
“I’ll drop her!” He shouted it, like a chant against the brisk wind. “I’ll do it! I’ll do it! I swear to God, I’ll drop her like a stone!” He shook the child, who continued to scream. One of her little pink tennis shoes flew off and fell five long stories.
“You don’t want to make a mistake, do you, Charlie?” Althea inched away from the door, sidestepping slowly, her nine-millimeter aimed at the broad chest. “Bring her back from the edge.”
“I’m going to drop the little bitch.” He grinned when he said it, his teeth bared, his eyes glittering. “She’s just like her mother. Whining and crying all the damn time. Thought they could get away from me. I found them, didn’t I? Linda’s real sorry now, isn’t she? Real damn sorry now.”
“Yes, she is.” She had to get to the kid. There had to be a way to get to the child. Unbidden an old, obscene memory flashed through her head. The shouting, the threats, the fear. Althea stamped on them as she would a roach. “You hurt the little girl and it’s all over, Charlie.”
“Don’t tell me it’s over!” Enraged, he swung the child like a sack of laundry. Althea’s heart stopped, and so did the screaming. The little girl was merely sobbing now, quietly, helplessly, her arms dangling limply, her huge blue eyes fixed and glazed. “She tried to tell me it was over. ‘It’s over, Charlie,’” he mimicked in a singsong voice. “So I knocked her around some. God knows she deserved it, nagging me about getting work, nagging about every damn thing. And as soon as the kid came along, everything changed. I got no use for bitches in my life. But I say when it’s over.”
The wail of sirens rose up in the air. Althea sensed movement behind her, but didn’t turn. Didn’t dare. She needed the man focused on her, only on her. “Bring the kid in and you might get away. You want to get away, don’t you, Charlie? Come on. Give her to me. You don’t need her.”
“You think I’m stupid?” His lips curled into a snarl. “You’re just one more bitch.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid.” She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, and would have sworn if she’d dared. It wasn’t Harrison. It was Colt, slipping like a shadow toward the man’s blind side. “I don’t think you’d be stupid enough to hurt the kid.” She was closer now, five feet away. Althea knew that it might as well be fifty.
“I’m going to kill her!” he shouted. “And I’m going to kill you, and I’m going to kill anybody who gets in my way! Nobody says it’s over till I say it’s over!”
It happened then, fast, like a blur at the corner of a dream. Colt lunged, wrapping one arm around the child’s waist. Althea caught the flash of metal in his hand and recognized it as a .32. He might have used it, if saving the child hadn’t been his priority. He pivoted back, swinging the child so that his body was her shield, and by the time he’d brought his weapon to bear, it was over.
Althea watched the .45 arch from her toward Colt and the girl. And she fired. The bullet drove him back. His knees hit the low curbing at the edge of the roof. He was the one who dropped like a stone.
Althea didn’t permit herself even a sigh. She holstered her weapon and strode to where Colt was cuddling the weeping child. “She okay?”
“Looks like.” In a move so natural she would have sworn he’d spent his life doing it, he settled the girl on his hip and kissed her damp temple. “You’re okay now, baby. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
“Mama.” Choking on tears, she buried her face in Colt’s shoulder. “Mama.”
“We’ll take you to your mama, honey, don’t you worry.” Colt still held his gun, but his other hand was busy stroking the girl’s wispy blond hair. “Nice work, Lieutenant.”
Althea glanced over her shoulder. Cops were already pounding up the stairs. “I’ve done better.”
“You kept him talking so the kid had a shot, then you took him down. It doesn’t get better than that.” And there had been a look in her eyes, from the moment she’d started up the steps with a cop’s blood on her hands. And it hadn’t faded yet. A look he’d seen before, Colt mused. One he’d always termed a warrior’s look.
Her eyes held his for another minute. “Let’s get her out of here” was all she said.
“Fine.” They started toward the door.
“Just one thing, Nightshade.”
He smiled a little, certain this was the moment she’d thank him. “What’s that?”
“Have you got a permit for that gun?”
He stopped, stared. Then his smile exploded into a deep, rich laugh. Charmed, the little girl looked up, sniffled, and managed a watery smile.
*
* *
She didn’t think about killing. Didn’t permit herself. She’d killed before, and knew she would likely do so again. But she didn’t think about it. She knew that if she reflected too deeply on that aspect of the job, she could freeze, or she could drink or she could grow callous. Or, worse—infinitely worse—she could grow to enjoy it.
So she filed her report and put it out of her mind. Or tried to.
She hand-carried a copy of the report to Boyd’s office, laid it on his desk. His eyes flicked down to it, then back to hers. “The cop—Barkley—he’s still in surgery. The woman’s out of danger.”
“Good. How’s the kid?”
“She has an aunt in Colorado Springs. Social Services contacted her. The creep was her father. History of battering and drugs. His wife took the kid about a year ago and went to a women’s shelter. Filed for divorce. She moved here about three months ago, got herself a job, started a life.”
“And he found her.”
“And he found her.”
“Well, he won’t find her again.” She turned toward the door, but Boyd was up and walking around the desk. “Thea.” He shut the door, cutting off most of the din from the bull pen. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. I don’t see IAD hassling me on this one.”
“I’m not talking about Internal Affairs.” He tilted his head. “A day or two off wouldn’t hurt.”
“It wouldn’t help, either.” She lifted her shoulders, let them fall. To Boyd she could say things she could never say to anyone else. “I didn’t think I’d get to her in time. I didn’t get to her,” she added. “Colt did. And he shouldn’t have been there.”
“He was there.” Gently Boyd laid his hands on her shoulders. “Oh-oh, it’s the supercop complex. I can see it coming. Dodging bullets, filing reports, screaming down dark alleys, selling tickets to the Policemen’s Ball, ridding the world of bad guys and saving cats from the tops of trees. She can do it all.”
“Shut up, Fletcher.” But she smiled. “I draw the line at saving cats.”
“Want to come to dinner tonight?”
She rested a hand on the knob. “What’s to eat?”
He shrugged, grinned. “Can’t say. It’s Maria’s night off.”
“Cilla’s cooking?” She gave him a pained, sorrowful look. “I thought we were friends.”
“We’ll send out for tacos.”
“Deal.”
When she walked back into the bull pen, she spotted Colt. He had his boots up on a desk and a phone at his ear. She strolled over, sat on the corner and waited for him to finish the call.
“Paperwork done?” he asked her.
“Nightshade, I don’t suppose I have to point out that this desk, this phone, this chair, are department property, and off-limits to civilians.”
He grinned at her. “Nope. But go right ahead, if you want to. You look good enough to eat when you’re spouting proper procedure.”
“Why, your compliments just take my breath away.” She knocked his feet off the desk. “The stolen car’s been impounded. The lab boys are going over it, so I don’t see the point in rushing to take a look.”
“Got a different plan?”
“Starting with the Tick Tock, I’m going to hit a few of Wild Bill’s hangouts, talk to some people.”
“I’m with you.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
When she started toward the garage, he took her arm. “My car this time, remember?”
With a shrug, she went with him out to the street. His rugged black four-wheeler had a parking ticket on the windshield. Colt stuffed it in his pocket. “I don’t suppose I can ask you to fix this.”
“No.” Althea climbed in.
“That’s okay. Fletch’ll do it.”
She slanted him a look, and what might have been a smile, before turning to stare out of the windshield again. “You did good with that kid today.” It galled her a bit to admit it, but it had to be done. “I don’t think she’d have made it without you.”
“Us,” he said. “Some people might have called it teamwork.”
She fastened her belt with a jerk of her wrist. “Some people.”
“Don’t take it so hard, Thea.” Whistling through his teeth, he shoved the gearshift into first and cruised into traffic. “Now, where were we before we were interrupted? Oh, yeah, you were telling me about yourself.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, I’ll tell me about you. You’re a woman who likes structure, depends on it. No, no, it’s more that you insist on it,” he said. “That’s why you’re so good at your job, all that law and order.”
She snorted. “You should be a psychiatrist, Nightshade. Who could have guessed a cop would prefer law and order?”
“Don’t interrupt, I’m on a roll. You’re what—twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”
“Thirty-two. You lost your roll.”
“I’ll pick it up again.” He glanced down at her naked ring finger. “You’re not married.”
“Another brilliant deduction.”
“You have a tendency toward sarcasm, and an affection for wearing silk and expensive perfume. Real nice perfume, Thea, the kind that seduces a man’s mind before his body gets involved.”
“Maybe you should be writing ad copy.”
“There’s nothing subtle about your sexuality. It’s just there, in big capital letters. Now, some women would exploit it, some would disguise it. You don’t do either, so I figure you’ve decided somewhere along the line that it’s up to a man to deal with it. And that’s not only smart, it’s wise.”
She didn’t have an answer to that, he thought. Or didn’t choose to give him one.
“You don’t waste time, you don’t waste energy. That way, when you need either one, you’ve got them. There’s a cop’s brain inside there, so you can size up a situation fast and act on it. And I figure you can handle a man every bit as coolly as you do your gun.”
“An interesting analysis, Nightshade.”
“You didn’t flinch when you took that guy out today. It bothered you, but you didn’t flinch.” He pulled up in front of the Tick Tock and turned off the ignition. “If I’ve got to work with somebody, with the possibility of heading into a nasty situation, I like knowing she doesn’t flinch.”
“Well, gee, thanks. Now I can stop worrying that you don’t approve of me.” Her temper on the boil, she slammed out of the car.
“Finally …” Colt reached her in a few long-legged strides and swung his arm over her shoulder. “A little heat. It’s a relief to see there’s some temper in there, too.”
She surprised them both by ramming an elbow into his gut. “You wouldn’t be relieved if I cut it loose. Take my word for it.”
They spent the next two hours going from bar to pool hall to grubby diner. It wasn’t until they tried a hole-in-the-wall called Clancy’s that they made some progress.
The lights were dim, a sop to the early drinkers, who liked to forget that the sun was still up. A radio behind the bar scratched out country music that told a sad tale of cheating and empty bottles. Several of those early customers were already scattered at the bar or at tables, most of them doing their drinking steadily and solo.
The liquor was watered, and the glasses were dingy, but the whiskey came cheap and the atmosphere was conducive to getting seriously drunk.
Althea walked to the end of the bar and ordered a club soda she had no intention of sampling. Colt opted for the beer on tap. She lifted a brow.
“Had a tetanus shot recently?” She took out a twenty, but kept her finger on the corner of the bill as their drinks were served. “Wild Bill used to come in here pretty regular.”
The bartender glanced down at the bill, and back at Althea. Bloodshot eyes and the map of broken capillaries over his broad face attested to the fact that he swallowed as much as he served.
Althea prompted him. “Wild Bill Billings.”
“So?”
“He was a friend of mine.”
>
“Looks like you lost a friend.”
“I was in here with him a couple of times.” Althea drew the twenty back a fraction. “Maybe you remember.”
“My memory’s real selective, but it don’t have no trouble making a cop.”
“Good. Then you probably figured out that Bill and I had an arrangement.”
“I probably figured out the arrangement got him splattered all over the sidewalk.”
“You’d have figured that one wrong. He wasn’t snitching for me when he got hit, and me, I’m just the sentimental type. I want who did him, and I’m willing to pay.” She shoved the bill forward. “A lot more than this.”
“I don’t know nothing about it.” But the twenty disappeared into his pocket.
“But you might know people who know people who know something.” She leaned forward, a smile in her eyes. “If you put the word out, I’d appreciate it.”
He shrugged, and would have moved away, but she put a hand on his arm. “I think that twenty’s worth a minute or two more. Bill had a girl named Jade. She’s skipped. He had a couple others, didn’t he?”
“A couple. He wasn’t much of a pimp.”
“Got a name?”
He took out a dirty rag and began to wipe the dirty bar. “A black-haired girl named Meena. She worked out of here sometimes. Haven’t seen her lately.”
“If you do, you give me a call.” She took out a card and dropped it onto the bar. “You know anything about movies? Private movies, with young girls?”
He looked blank and shrugged, but not before Althea saw the flash of knowledge in his eyes. “I ain’t got time for movies, and that’s all you get for twenty.”
“Thanks.” Althea strolled out. “Give him a minute,” she said under her breath to Colt. Then she peered through the dirty window. “Look at that. Funny that he’d get an urge to make a call just now.”
Colt watched the bartender hurry to the wall phone, drop in a quarter. “I like your style, Lieutenant.”
“Let’s see how much you like it after a few hours in a cold car. We’ve got a stakeout tonight, Nightshade.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Chapter 3
She was right about the cold. He didn’t mind it so much, not with long johns and a sheepskin jacket to ward it off. But he did mind the dragging inactivity. He’d have sworn that Althea thrived on it.
She was settled comfortably in the passenger seat, working a crossword puzzle by the dim glow of the glove-compartment light. She worked methodically, patiently, endlessly, he thought, while he tried to stave off boredom with the B. B. King retrospective on the radio.
He thought of the evening they’d both missed at the Fletchers’. Hot food, blazing fire, warm brandy. It had even occurred to him that Althea might have defrosted a bit in unofficial surroundings. It might not have helped matters to think of her that way—the ice goddess melting—but it did something for his more casual fantasies.
In his current reality, she was all cop, and emotionally as distant from him as the moon. But in the daydream, assisted by the slow blues on the radio, she was all woman—seductive as the black silk he imagined her wearing, enticing as the crackling fire he pictured burning low in a stone hearth, soft as the white fur rug they lowered themselves to.
And her taste, once his mouth sampled hers, was honeyed whiskey. Drugging, sweet, potent. Her scent tangled up with her flavor in his senses until they were one and the same. An opiate a man could drown in.
The silk slipped away, inch by seductive inch, revealing the alabaster flesh beneath. Rose-petal smooth, flawless as glass, firm and soft as water. And when she reached for him, drew him in, her lips moved against his ear in whispered invitation.
“Want more coffee?”
“Huh?” He snapped back, swiveling his head around to stare at her in the shadowed car. She held a thermos out to him. “What?”
“Coffee?” Intrigued by the look on his face, she picked up his cup herself and filled it halfway. At first glance, she would have said there was temper in
