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’m in his Phoenix compound. I’ve driven past the high walls multiple times wondering what crimes were taking place inside. I didn’t work this area—his home is on the way to my parents’ house in Scottsdale by a slight detour. Which I took on multiple occasions. That stopped more than a year ago when my parents moved to Florida.
I gingerly rise from the bed. My head spins, and it takes a minute before I’m able to walk to the dresser and grab my pants. My belt is curled on top of my pants, and I slip it through the loops as soon as my lower half is clothed. I check my tri-fold black wallet for my identification before sliding it into my back pocket. Police training took away my desire to carry a purse. The thought of being strangled by the strap does that to you. In my current occupation, the lesson hits home too. I put on my socks and cheap running shoes next. The only way I can manage without sitting down is by placing one hand on the dresser for balance. I pick up my camera and glide my fingers over it. Even though my parents didn’t agree with my new career choice, they bought me this expensive camera for my last birthday so I could use it on the job. I pull the strap over my head. I ordered a custom strap that breaks in two places if pulled too tightly. It would be hell to damage the camera in a fight, but, again, strangulation isn’t my thing.
I glance down at the shiny wood dresser and notice the palm smudge I left behind. I get close to the side and rub the spot with my T-shirt. All of which is stupid. I’m imagining my fingerprints being discovered when and not if Moon’s compound is raided. This is stupid because my DNA is on the dresser and in the bed. I’m fucked if I’m ever linked to Moon.
Most of my friendships on the police force dissolved after I announced my intention to get my private investigator’s license. I understood. Cops hate PIs. I felt the same way before my accident. PIs take side jobs with scum of the earth defense attorneys and work against the cops. I admit it was very hard to sink that low. It came down to eat or starve. What cred I’ve built with the few remaining cops willing to say hello to me would completely dissolve if I’m linked to Moon. The sad truth is that emotionally, I still need those hellos from my brothers and sisters in blue. I’m pretty sure, as pathetic as it sounds, that I always will.
I had my entire career with the police force planned out. Until it all went to shit. I’ll take part of that blame. Not because of the accident, but because I should have stayed on task when I first got my badge instead of taking off-duty security jobs to earn extra money. They pay extremely well for law enforcement. My original plan was to attend college after graduating the academy so I could earn my criminal justice degree. As one of their perks, the Phoenix Police Department pays for college tuition. Getting a degree would have put me in line for faster promotions. Like a fool, I put schooling in the background and blew the extra money.
My parents always struggled and couldn’t help me with college. My father, years before he retired as a payroll clerk for the City of Phoenix, made just enough money to buy a house in a middle class district of Scottsdale. My mom worked as a dental assistant in the same dental office for twenty years.
I took a job as a waitress right out of high school and bided my time until the golden day that I turned twenty-one and was accepted into the police academy. In the interim, I worked out daily to stay in shape along with taking the criminal justice classes here and there. I kept my partying to a minimum and stayed out of trouble. Marks, even petty ones, on your record are a huge problem when applying for a job in law enforcement. Basically, I lived a very boring life because I wanted that blue uniform so bad it hurt.
I peer down my body and huff out a sigh. Some uniform. BDUs and a loose gray tee that conceals my handgun.
Which… is missing.
My panic rises all over again. Damn, they can use it in a crime. Arizona has few guidelines for guns, but I went the extra step and registered mine. I take a slow steady breath and think about the situation.
These people are gunrunners. Why would they need my gun?
I calm a bit and peer around the room until I see a phone on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. I walk over, lift the receiver, and press zero.
“Yes, Miss Kinlock?”
I think it’s Thug One, but I’m not sure. I’m suddenly more nervous than I was a minute ago. “Umm, well, ah Moon said someone would drive me home when I’m ready.”
“That would be me, Miss Kinlock. I’ll be up to collect you momentarily.”
I’m sure of the voice now. Gomez is Thug One. I place the receiver down and, unable to sit still, walk around the room. I open a few drawers and find them empty along with a huge, empty walk-in closet. The room is masterfully decorated with dark overtones by way of artwork. Two connecting walls are beige and the other two white. The artwork is strangely disturbing. I examine each piece. A painting of a woman, obviously committing suicide by jumping from a tall building, holds my attention; I’m admiring it when Gomez knocks once and then opens the door. I glance over my shoulder and look at him.
His deep voice fills the room when he says, “The artist, Frida Kahlo, has an interesting story. Her German father immigrated to Mexico and married a native woman. Frida, though her given name was Magdalena, contracted polio as a child and recovered due to her father encouraging her to play sports, such as soccer, swimming, and wrestling. This raised many eyebrows in the early 1900s. As an adult, she was in a serious accident and was impaled on a steel handrail. Her life was filled with physical pain and also heartache for the man she loved and married twice.”
Intrigued, I can’t help but turn back to the picture as he continues speaking.
“She was a communist throughout her life and quite politically active. In the 1970s her work was heralded again, more than twenty years after her death, as being a motivation for women in the feminist movement. The painting you’re admiring was a gift for the mother of the actress, Dorothy Hale, who committed suicide exactly as depicted in the painting. As you can imagine, it was not well-accepted.”
My immediate thought: Dorothy’s poor mother. As I continue examining the details, I recognize the pain. Even more disturbed now, I turn away and face Gomez, the thug art critic.
“I’m concerned about my gun,” I say without acknowledging his art lesson.
His lips quirk much like they did in the garage when I first saw him. He’s wearing the same dark suit, which is pulled tight across his powerful body. He’s handsome and has been gifted with an incredible physique, much like Moon. And like Moon, I’m sure he works hard to stay in shape. I know that you don’t become his size without good genes or anabolic steroids. He’s jacked, but doesn’t have the typical look of a steroid user, thick neck aside. He isn’t cut to a bulging point that keeps him from moving gracefully or quickly. His dark eyes take in everything, much like a cop’s. Even in a room with only the two of us, he’s vigilant.
He reaches behind his back and the suit jacket pulls as he removes my gun from his waistband. He walks forward and hands it to me. “The magazine is in my pocket and will be returned when we arrive at your apartment. Are you ready to leave, Miss Kinlock?”
I pull back the slide and check the chamber—habit. I can feel by the weight that the magazine is missing, I just don’t trust anyone to empty the chambered round but me. “My holster?”
Gomez reaches into his slightly bulging left pocket and pulls out my small paddle holster that’s made specifically for a Glock 17. I holster the gun and slip the paddle over my belt and under my tee. I feel naked without the magazine, but I’ll survive.
I think.
“I’m ready.” I truly am. I hope to never think about this day again. No blue eyes offset by dark skin, no intense scrutiny that makes my inner thighs clench. And no thoughts of a whiskey voice that sends shivers across my skin. Done. Over. Finished.
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
He’s certifiably crazy. Through gritted teeth, I warn, “I don’t like repeating myself and I won’t press charges if you leave. Now.” His smile disappears. “If it makes you feel more comfortable, pull your gun.” I close my eyes in frustration and then realize what I’ve done and open them again. My gun isn’t the problem; his damned guns aka ripped arms, are. No one involved in crime should have a body like Moon’s. His cologne drifts over me and I inhale deeply. Somehow he’s found that perfect match that accents his natural man-smell. Add in his blue eyes, which capture everything going on around him, and I’m having heart palpitations that have nothing to do with my apartment being broken into. I pull in another long breath to gain a small semblance of control. I’m unwilling to stand and point a damn gun at him now, and that pisses me off. He removes his cell from his pocket, backs a couple of feet away, and speaks to whoever’s on the other end. “Order for two from El Tiempo and pick
The chime of Moon’s phone stops him from answering my question. He places his glass on the small side table, twists up a bit, and takes his cell from his pocket. He checks the screen and like a teenage pro, sends a message. He looks up at me after sending it. “Alex is here with our food.” At the thought of El Tiempo, my stomach rumbles. Moon cocks an eyebrow. Hell even that’s sexy. I stand up when I hear a soft knock at my front door. “Sit. I’ll get it and bring everything over here,” he says as he heads to my door, like he owns it, and opens it for Gomez. Moon takes the food and I see Gomez peer at me over Moon’s shoulder. I can’t identify the exact look he gives me, and I tell myself that I don’t care. So what if Gomez is impressed with the way I handle myself. That and a dollar will buy me an ice-cold Slurpee. Moon closes the door with his elbow while holding the bag in one hand and a six-pack of Corona in the other. It reminds me that I was being observed inside the bar. It’s s