Thug One nods his dark, closely cropped head. “Dandridge is coming with us,” he says in a deep voice that one would expect from someone his size.
Harry slowly lowers the bat and takes two steps in my direction. I keep my pepper spray trained on him because he’s still got the bat. The buckets of sweat dripping off Harry’s face are telling and there’s a good chance he might pee his pants any second. His willy is still hanging out and this is not something I care to see.
Harry has the nerve to whisper at me like we’re a team, “Get me out of here and there’s ten grand in it for you.” He takes another step in my direction. I have no idea why he thinks I can save either of us with a can of pepper spray.
I give a half-eye to Caddy-thug-dudes. Thug One steps closer, his gun turns fully to Harry. “Moon wants Dandridge and one way or another, he’s ours.”
Well shit. I can’t help feeling sympathy for Harry. Whatever he’s done, he’s pissed off the wrong person. I know who Moon is. If you’re a drug dealer, hooker, illegal gambler, or a cop you know who Moon is. Harry is in a shitload of trouble, and I have a feeling Mrs. Dandridge won’t need to worry about the pre-nup she signed.
“Twenty grand,” Harry says in desperation. His eyes jump around the garage most likely looking for an escape route that won’t get his ass blown off.
“Put down the bat,” I tell him in an even voice. He doesn’t hesitate. The bat slides through his fingers and clangs against the cement. Harry inches closer. Now my canister turns toward the men. Thug One gives a slight shake of his head like he can’t believe I’m this stupid. Seriously, I can’t believe it either.
I come back with my own chin nod and add some sheer bravado because it’s all I have. “I have no intention of allowing Mr. Dandridge to become part of a cement building foundation. You need to get into your cars and get lost.”
I would swear a grin tips the corners of Thug One’s lips. He lifts his left hand and places his palm toward me in a pacifying manner. “Moon wants a face-to-face with Dandridge to talk about a personal matter.” His lips scrunch together and now I’m sure it’s a grin he’s fighting. “Not,” he assures me, “as an ingredient for a cement foundation.”
I almost believe him. “Then why the guns?”
He takes another step closer, his hand still raised toward me and his other hand still aiming a gun at Harry. “You don’t bring muscle to a bat fight.”
Well, there you have it because Thug One has a solid point, along with plenty of muscle. You don’t bring pepper spray to a gun fight either, and I’ve just been put in my place. The dumbest thing I’ve done since acquiring my PI license is pulling pepper spray on Dandridge. I blink rapidly so I can see through a drop of sweat that’s just entered my right eye. “If that’s the case, you won’t mind if I tag along?” I have no intention of tagging along, I’m just trying to get a better read on the situation.
Before Thug One replies, Harry yells, “Stupid bitch,” and tackles me. I go down and my head connects with a concrete bumper-guard.
The world goes black.
The throb wakes me and the last thing I want is to open my eyes. Maybe someone set off explosives in my brain. I can hear the soft whir of a ceiling fan while the cool air cascades over me. My head actually thumps to the whir. While I’m contemplating opening my eyes, I use my other senses to give me a clue about what’s happened.
I’m not in my own bed. Mine has a lumpy mattress. The bed I’m lying on is firm and comfortable. The ceiling fan in my bedroom twirls with a loud, steady hum. This one is finely balanced and it’s only the generated wind that makes noise.
Like a remembered nightmare, I suddenly recall Dandridge’s hairy dick, a silver bat, and several men with guns. My eyes pop open. The room, thankfully, has muted light, though I still squint as I look around. I give a small scream when I see a man sitting in a large chair in the shadowed corner of the room. He’s watching me. My head objects to the scream, so I slam my jaw shut, roll to my side, and cover my face with my forearm. A soft moan caused by the pain escapes my throat. The man doesn’t make a sound. It’s a minute or two before I can peel my eyes open again.
He’s still there.
His arms are stretched along the armrests of the chair and his fingers wrapped over the ends. I can tell he’s tall because I can’t see the back of the chair behind the top of his shoulders and head. His legs are long and clad in suit pants similar to the ones the thugs wore. They must keep Thugs-R-Us in business.
“Miss Kinlock.” His smooth whiskey voice fills the room.
“Who…” I croak and try again, “Who are you and where am I?” A sudden ache travels behind my head and I wince.
“Lift up.” His voice startles me because it’s directly in my ear. I never heard him move. His hand slides beneath the pillow under my head and he helps me sit up slightly. The cool rim of a glass meets my lips. “I have something here for pain, but take a drink of water first.”
He smells good—in a musky, delicious cologne and man kind of way. It’s such a stupid thing to think about when my last memories are of Dandridge’s dick and thugs with guns. I take a sip of water and then have two pills slipped between my lips. There’s this strange jolt of pleasure at his touch. It throws me off balance, more than a blow to the head has, and like an idiot, I swallow. I have no idea what kind of pills I’ve just taken. My brain is quite slow on the uptake, and I decide if I swallowed illegal drugs, I’ll live with the consequences as long as they take away my damn headache.
I inhale slowly and open my eyes just in time to see the man lean his hip into the mattress and sit beside me. The sheet covering me stops just below my breasts, and his movement pulls it down a bit farther. He doesn’t so much as sneak a peek at my breasts. I’m impressed.
“You are?” I ask in a low voice that doesn’t distress my brain too much.
He has such an intense look of concentration on his face. I feel like a puzzle he’s attempting to put together. He moves a section of my hair off my cheek. His eyes follow the movement of his hand and I think he’s actually surprised at what he’s done. “Call me Moon.”
Damn. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I’m in a bad situation. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. It’s the shadows of the room and the damage to my brain cells. Or, at least that’s the story I’m feeding myself. I’ve seen countless pictures of him. He’s usually escorting some woman to a ritzy fund-raising event, though he somehow manages to turn his face from the cameras. If not a public appearance, the pictures are taken with a telephoto lens trying to catch him in illegal activity.
His low voice fills the room when he says, “I’m turning on the light to check the dilation of your eyes.” He speaks in clipped, precise English. No heavy accent, but there’s something not quite American English about his voice. I grab his hand to stop him as he reaches for the lamp beside the bed. It feels like lightning meeting a body of water. The sizzling current skims across my flesh. When I glance up, I see he’s focused on our hands too. Even without the light, my white skin is offset by his darkness. I wonder if he felt the same jolt I did. The thought is silly; I must have imagined it. I relax my fingers and pull my hand away. He looks up and our eyes meet. His expression is impossible to identify. He gives nothing away. It’s as if the air is heavy and it’s pressing against my chest making it difficult to breathe.
This man is deadly and dangerous. Every part of me knows it.
I’m startled when his rough fingers slide across my neck and over my jaw. Talk about electrical currents. I’m frozen by his touch and yet I want to jump up and run from the room screaming. His fingers stop at the source of my pain and I flinch. An “Awwwe” escapes me. He lifts his hand away and gently lets me rest back against the pillows. “Do you know what day it is?” he asks. A bit of my apprehension recedes. You don’t make a cement pillar out of someone after asking them questions that determine the extent of brain trauma. “Wednesday?” It comes out as a question. “The date?” I need to think about it for a moment. Fourth of July was last Saturday. “July eighth.” This time it’s not a question. I’m gaining my bearings. My eyes are also adjusting to the shadows and I can make out more of Moon’s features. No pictures do him justice. He looks like a dark version of an Italian mob boss. I can’t help but remember the bits and pieces that came through about him while I was an officer.
The door closes and I begin trembling. I’m not sure if it’s caused by Moon, the overload of adrenaline, or the hit to my head. I remind myself who he is—all the horrible things I know about him. He’s the embodiment of every criminal who has crossed my path. He has multiple deaths credited to his organization. There’s never been enough evidence to pin them on Moon, but law enforcement knows he’s responsible. And even with all these thoughts, my damn body doesn’t care. I inhale slowly and try to gain my composure. This isn’t me, it’s a momentary lapse. I’m not controlled by raging sex hormones switched on by a hot, magnetic body. “I’m not,” I mutter aloud. Thank God he took my stupid remark about being a cop for a “no” to his dinner invitation. I can’t imagine being seen anywhere with him. Or going anywhere with him. My gaze moves to my BDUs and camera on the dresser. I do a quick sweep of the room, wondering if Moon has hidden cameras. I wouldn’t put it past him. I’m assuming that I’
Gomez steps back and gestures for me to precede him. It’s stupid to not want him at my back. If they wanted to hurt me, it would have happened by now. I walk out with my head held high. We’re on the second floor at the end of a long walkway that has black metal decorative railing on one side and overlooks the room below. The floors are polished red Spanish tile, the walls painted different earth tones with alcoves accented by recessed lights to display the art. Not just paintings, but statues and pottery too. Way out of my blue-collar league. There are six doors along the hallway, and I glance back noticing the double doors behind me at the end farthest from the stairs. I have no doubt whose room that is. I need to get out of here quickly. The staircase is long and winding—something you see in old movies about the Deep South. The wall along the staircase contains more eclectic art. I’ve never been an artsy person, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that it’s expensive. I try not t
My apartment is in the northwest valley by an old high school that once had two acres of rolling grass where students sat and ate lunch. A few years ago, the grass was changed to the customary desert landscaping—rocks—and now high fences separate the school from the road. Passing through a metal detector is also required to enter the building. I never worked this district as a cop. In Phoenix, you don’t live where you work. You travel as far as possible. The last thing you want is to run into someone undesirable when off duty. Home should be your sanctuary. I, like most city officers, varied my route when leaving the department and heading home. You always check to be sure you aren’t followed. It’s the life of a cop and these lessons begin at the academy.Gomez pulls into my apartment complex, which is kitty-corner from the school. He travels toward the back and I wonder if he helped return my car. The clock on the dash shows it’s been more than five hours since I took dick pics of Mr
It doesn’t matter that Moon woke me every hour; I’m a new person in the morning. All his texts but the last were on point and only asked if I was okay. The last one is making me grit my teeth, and this time it doesn’t hurt. aka Criminal Tonight, dinner. My reply is again short and to the point. No. aka Criminal I’ll pick you up at seven. My growl is louder than the one Gomez gave me. If Moon thinks I’ll be here at seven, he’s insane. Am I running away? Damn straight and that pisses me off even more. I don’t run away from trouble, I run toward it. But this trouble is of an entirely different nature. It’s colossal trouble with a capital T. I hit the shower again. This is what we do in the Valley of the Sun. We cool down in a shower at least twice a day and sometimes more. Hitting the pool counts too. Practically everyone has their own swimming pool or access to one. I plan to work out this afternoon after I’ve finished the business with Penny Dandridge, and I’ll shower again bef
Terry’s office door is closed, which offers another clue. “Spill it, lady,” I say to Brenda. “He’s in there with his attorney.” She points toward Terry’s door. I’m stunned. “Attorney at Law Terry the Fairy has an attorney?” Her grin widens at the use of Terry’s nickname. She has worked for Terry for more than ten years. I like her, even though she carries true affection for Terry. In my opinion, he doesn’t deserve her. This, however, does not mean she lacks a sense of humor. “Apparently, he took the wrong woman for a ride and she’s filed a lawsuit and made a complaint to the state bar.” I don’t like Terry, but I’ve never heard that he forces women. A lawsuit means she wants money. Now, I get the humor. Filing a lawsuit for something outrageous is something Terry would do. Today, he’s getting back some of his own medicine. “I’m dying to ask what he did, but I’m almost afraid.” She bites her lip before releasing it and replies, “I’m horrible for even smiling.” She laughs into her
“Exactly.” Terry steeples his fingers on the desk. “You know there’s a good chance this isn’t bullshit, Mak.” So many things whirl through my head. I do not like Craig Kennedy, never have. He has his own code as far as street ethics are concerned. I was warned early in my police career to stay clear of him. That was before he made my life a nightmare whenever he was around. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. No, I wouldn’t go out with him. No, I wouldn’t let him cop a feel, and no, I wouldn’t fuck him. I refused to date the cops I worked with is what I told him. And especially not married cops like Kennedy. Just no! When I finally threatened to go to a supervisor, he backed off and gave me the stare-down whenever he could. I’d just roll my eyes. I heard rumors from other officers that Kennedy walked a thinner blue line than the rest of us or that he often straddled it. Most of these rumors related to him getting aggressive during arrests. I stayed out of the gossip and away from Ken
I blast through my workout in record time and head back to my apartment for a quick shower. After washing my hair, lathering all my body parts, and drying myself, I take an hour to style my hair, apply makeup, and doll myself up for Fiddlers Bar and Grill. It’s located outside Sunnyslope’s Wendell district and outside the Cactus police district. It’s also where both groups of cops gather in plain clothes to unwind. I want to look my best and get a feel for what’s happening in the blue world. I park Sally in the side lot with five other vehicles and enter the dark and cool interior of the bar. After completely ignoring the sign on the door that reads: No Guns Permitted, I take a booth in the back corner. I guarantee everyone in here is carrying and not just the cops. I scout out the crowd and see only a few vaguely familiar faces. The majority of the police crowd will start drifting in shortly. I came a bit early so I could take the back booth and see who enters the bar. The cops I k