After six months as an apprentice to a Brooklyn P.I., I’d come to the conclusion that it was slow work—a lot of waiting, a lot of searches on the internet, and a lot of sitting still. I didn’t mind. I’d worked for years as a waitress and would take a job where I could sit down over other options any day.
And then there were days like today.
“How … much … further,” I panted into the hands-free mic of my phone, badly out of breath. I’d run two blocks to intercept a fleeing bond skip that Jackson, my boss at Jackson Dean Investigations, was chasing. It was less than half a mile, but in my current physical form, it felt like completing the New York Marathon.
Not that I had any idea how that would feel like.
“He’s almost at the corner of 71st,” Jackson’s low voice came to my ear, calm and assuring. He wasn’t out of breath, even though he had climbed four stories down a fire escape, run the same distance as me across backyards of townhouses, and scaled spiked iron fences and a brick wall, just to mention the few I had managed to glimpse as I ran down the obstacle-less street.
“I only need to— fuck.”
The connection cut, but I was too busy running to worry why. If Jackson was detained, it was up to me to catch the skip.
We were in Bay Ridge, a really nice neighborhood in southwest Brooklyn with river vistas and a bridge connection to Staten Island. It was an area of large single houses and long rows of fairly new townhouses, clean parks and good schools.
Even criminals were white collar here.
The case in point: Ron Chapman. He was a forty-two-year-old accountant who hadn’t made quite enough to afford to live in this neighborhood. But instead of finding a cheaper place, he’d decided to skim the cream from the top, so to speak. He’d been stealing a little bit from all his clients, hoping no one would notice, since he was the one keeping the books.
He had been wrong.
The judge had ordered him to wait for the trial on bail. A bail bond agency had paid it, Chapman had walked free, and had subsequently failed to show up in court. That gave the agency the legal right to apprehend him.
Chapman wasn’t a large bond skip, so the reward for capturing him wasn’t enticing enough to make the bail bond agency’s usual guys go after him. He had been on the run for two weeks already—figuratively speaking. Literally speaking, he had been staying home watching TV.
An easy catch. Or so we thought.
It had been a while since we’d done skip tracing, as our workload had kept us busy. Jackson had gone alone a couple of times, but the last time I’d helped him had been when I first joined the agency in August. It had resulted in a huge reward that was still paying our expenses.
An unusual gap had opened in our schedule, however, so skip tracing it was. We’d been ordered into three weeks of forced rest, also known as sick leave. Our previous case had ended in a literal inferno—a crazy chick had lit up an art gallery—and we’d both had burns and other wounds as a memento. Not massive or life-threating injuries, but they were painful for about two weeks, and we’d been happy to take it easy.
On the third week, the pain was mostly gone, followed by itch and irritation. And we had nothing to distract ourselves from it. We’d postponed and rescheduled all the clients we could the moment we were released from the hospital, and hadn’t taken any new cases despite being in great demand after the publicity from the art gallery case.
That led to a rare sight: a restless Jackson. He could sit still for hours on a stakeout with no outward signs of boredom, as if he were some kind of Zen god, yet by Wednesday he was pacing up and down the office like a caged tiger, occasionally pausing to stare at the traffic flowing through Flatbush Avenue two stories below, drumming the windowsill with his fingers. Misty Morning, the Border terrier-Yorkie mix that belonged to Cheryl Walker, our office secretary, ran up and down the office after him, her tiny legs inexhaustible, thinking it was a wonderful new game.
I’d been content to lie on the couch at the side of the office and admire the view of his fit form in constant motion.
There was a lot to admire. Jackson was thirty-five, had a slim, long-limbed, athletic body, dark brown hair—mostly short—and a killer smile that transformed his clean-lined face to one you took notice of when he chose to grace you with it. He liked to dress in black jeans and a black T-shirt, and just because it was February and he had burn scars on his right bicep wasn’t a reason for him to cover up.
On Thursday, he’d begun a manic spring cleaning of the office, starting with the filing cabinets that contained cases from decades past when his uncle had owned the agency. I’d been ordered to participate too, which I had done with pleasure, until his irritated barking had driven me out to find coffee and donuts.
On Friday, Cheryl gave him the file for Ron Chapman in an act of desperation, for which I was utterly grateful to her.
That lasted until the moment the guy decided not to come quietly.
Chapman lived in a large six-story apartment building on Colonial Road. We had done some background research on Friday, staked the place for a few hours on Saturday when he didn’t answer the door, and returned Sunday morning after church. Not that he had attended—or we, for that matter—but it had seemed polite.
Jackson had gone up to his apartment to apprehend him and I had waited by the street in case Chapman tried to flee. And flee he did. Down the fire escape on the other side of the building.
It had taken a moment for Jackson to gain access there, which gave Chapman a good head start. It was up to me to intercept the guy when he emerged onto the street from the back yard.
Only he didn’t.
By the time I’d rounded the building, he was already fleeing down the long, continuous back yard between two rows of townhouses. For a guy who was older and in much worse shape than Jackson—even allowing Jackson’s recent forced inactivity—he could really scale those fences.
Jackson went after him, leaving me to run down the straight, obstacle-free street. Not as easy as it sounds. The forced rest had made my already poor shape worse. My muscles began to protest before I was halfway down the street and the strap of my bra was chafing one of the burn scars on my back uncomfortably. I hoped it wouldn’t break the fresh skin there.
I reached the appointed corner, only to find that the exit from the back yard wasn’t there but twenty yards up Narrows Street. Before I could move to intercept him, Chapman emerged from the alley and dashed across the street that was mercifully quiet at this time of Sunday morning.
Jackson wasn’t following him. I hoped he wasn’t lying injured somewhere, but if so, his sacrifice was already made. It was my duty to make sure it wasn’t in vain. So, ignoring the pain in my body, I ran after Chapman.
It had to be the world’s slowest chase. He continued down 71st towards Narrows Botanical Gardens, a large park by the East River. He wasn’t far ahead of me and he wasn’t running all that fast anymore, but try as I might, I couldn’t close the gap and catch him. My legs were burning and my heart was beating so hard I felt sick. I was seriously contemplating giving up, but I pushed across Shore Road and through the gate to the park after Chapman.
February had been rainy and the paths in the park were muddy and slippery. It forced us both to slow if we didn’t want to become a slapstick act. But then he decided to cut across the lawn that had turned soft after it thawed, making it a veritable mud-fest. I had no choice but to follow.
After a few slippery yards, the lawn sloped down sharply. He ran down it and I saw my only chance. I had the higher ground now.
Conjuring the last burst of energy from reserves I didn’t know I had—hopefully burning some excess donuts in the process—I made a huge leap after the guy. Chapman was bigger and heavier, but I had momentum and the muddy lawn on my side. He fell on his face with me on top, and the slippery slope did the rest. We glided down the hill with surprising speed—straight into a large oak.
The impact stunned him. Not daring to get off his back, I pulled his arms behind him and took out my cuffs—the first time I had a chance to use them. My hands were shaking with exhaustion, and I dropped them in the mud, making the damned things slippery.
“Bail bond … enforcement. I’m … apprehending … you for rescheduling … your court date,” I managed to say, struggling for breath. The muddy cuffs wouldn’t lock at first, so I clicked them over and over again until they fixed around his wrists. Not the smooth move you saw on TV, but it got the job done.
He tried to push up with his hips, but I was too heavy to throw off. “Get the fuck off me! I’m not going with you and you can’t make me.”
He was right. I wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t even have the energy to stand up.
“But I can.”
I lifted my gaze to see Jackson standing above us, an amused smile on his usually stark face.
“I caught him!” I declared triumphantly. He offered me a hand and helped me up.
“Excellent work.”
And then he kissed me.
An hour later, we exited the Brooklyn Detention Complex on Atlantic Avenue, downtown. We’d delivered Chapman to custody and collected the receipt against which the bond agency would pay us a whopping two hundred dollars.
The fucker should have been worth more than that. If for nothing else, for muddying my clothes when I tackled him.
We were at Jackson’s car, a steel gray Toyota, when an unmarked cop car pulled over behind us. A familiar face exited the shotgun seat.
Shane Davis.
I stifled a grimace and just waved in greeting. He was a narcotics detective at the same precinct where my brother Trevor worked in homicide, and handsome with messy blond hair and the prettiest eyelashes a man could wish for. He was good company too. I’d gone out with him once. It had been a nice date in an expensive restaurant, but I hadn’t wanted a repeat. Mostly because he came from insane wealth whereas I was blue collar through and through and intended to remain so.
His greeting smile turned to a baffled double-take when he saw my muddy clothes. “You do know you’re supposed to remove the clothes before a mud bath, right?” he asked with a grin.
“You should see the other guy,” I quipped in return. Truthfully. Chapman hadn’t fared well for being used as a slide down a muddy slope.
“So how’s it going for the lovebirds? Any great plans for Valentine’s?”
The day of love was the next Thursday, but neither of us had even mentioned it. I glanced at Jackson, whose eyes had grown large in horror. Stifling a smile, I came to his rescue.
“We’re spending the evening at Jackson’s house, maybe barbeque if the weather is nice, takeout if it isn’t. Just the two of us in peace and quiet.”
I made it up on the spot, but I actually liked the idea. And so did Jackson, judging by his warm smile.
“Sounds better than my plans. I’m working,” Shane said.
“Aww,” I commiserated, even though I didn’t really care. “Anything interesting?”
“Yes, and it should interest you too. The Manhattan diamond robber is back. And this time he’s targeting Brooklyn.”
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When your sister is an ER doctor, one perk is cheap—free—healthcare. Unless you end up on her operating table at the University Hospital Brooklyn. Then you’d better have a good insurance. I knew, because I’d visited Tessa’s ER more often in the past six months than during my previous twenty-seven years combined.
The only catch to her free services was that you had to, well, catch her first. She worked insane hours and was never home. It seemed I only saw her at the ER these days.
Today, though, she was at our parents’ house for Sunday lunch, a family tradition that was mostly observed by me and our brother Trevor, who still lived at home. Homicide detective’s wages didn’t buy houses in Brooklyn these days.
“You’ve healed well,” Tessa told me with her official doctor’s voice. At thirty-three, she was six years older, six inches taller, and infinitely thinner, prettier and successfuller than me, with pixie-cut auburn hair—natural—and a supermodel’s body—literally. Not that I was jealous or anything, but the only thing super about me was how I’d managed to squeeze myself into my old jeans I’d found in the basement closet when I went to look for clothes that wouldn’t have mud on them to wear.
We were in my childhood room upstairs—or our room, as we had shared it until our eldest brother Travis moved away from home and Tessa got his room. I was sitting on the bed and she on my old desk chair. My shirt was off and she was studying the burn scars in my back. I held my breath, fearing that the chase had damaged them.
“You can start exercising again,” she added, and told me I could put my shirt back on. Then she flashed me one of her rare smiles she had been paid big bucks for when she worked as a model. “Unless you want me to tell Jackson that running is still out of the question?”
My mouth all but dropped open. She wasn’t exactly observant when it came to the lives of other people, or any social clues for that matter.
“How do you know that he makes me run, or that I don’t really like jogging?”
She shrugged. “Angela told me.”
Angela Baldini was her live-in partner of the past six months, a pediatrician and the sociable-one of the two. She hadn’t yet given up trying to interest Tessa in things other than medical cases.
“That would definitely explain it,” I said dryly. “And your suggestion is certainly tempting.”
Jackson was a great proponent of physical health. He had managed to make me start jogging, though I’d mainly agreed to it for the chance to hang out with him outside work for an hour or two. But it also helped me to catch the bad guys if I could run faster—or at least longer—than them, as demonstrated that morning.
However, there had been an almost two-month break in our exercise routine after Christmas. First Jackson had had the flu, and just as we were about to start again, we were both injured in the fire and had to take it easy.
I wasn’t eager to return to jogging, but I had other considerations.
“But don’t tell Jackson I can’t exercise yet, or we’ll never progress past first base.”
Jackson and I had been officially dating for three weeks—the same three weeks that we’d been convalescing. He was very concerned for my health and had been careful not to push things farther than kissing between us. Problem was he was an amazing kisser and an all-around hot, sexy guy. Settling for kisses was driving me crazy.
Tessa’s perfectly plucked auburn brows shot up. “You and Jackson are dating?”
I planted a hand on my forehead in the mother of face-palms. “Theresa Hayes, how can you not know about that?” It was the family news of the month.
She was unfazed. “I can’t be expected to remember everything Angela tells me about your life.”
I shook my head, exasperated. “But surely the fact that I’m dating for the first time since my divorce six years ago is important enough to penetrate your interest threshold?” The one date with Shane didn’t count.
She pulled back, baffled. “You haven’t dated in six years? Even I managed better than that.”
Despite her looks, Tessa’s love-life hadn’t been much more active than mine. I used to think it was because she was too busy to date, but after she began dating Angela, I suspected it was because she’d had an identity crisis before coming out and hadn’t wanted to date men.
“Yeah, well, Scott did a number on me.” Namely, cheated on me in a place where I could walk in on them. “But now I need sex,” I groaned. For a woman who had gone perfectly well without it for years, I was now impatient to get back on the horse. Er, guy.
She gave it a thought. “Well, sex is acceptable exercise, but I’d suggest satin sheets over rugs or other coarse materials. Carpet burns are not desirable at this point of your healing.”
There went the fantasy of making love on a sheep skin in front of a fireplace…
“I’m sure we can think of something that’ll keep the skin on our backs intact,” I said with a saucy grin, but the innuendo was wasted on her. She just looked at me like she was about to explain the importance of vitamins.
“Whips and paddling toys should be avoided for now too.”
Exactly what kind of sex life did she have with Angela?
“I’m happy with vanilla, thanks.”
I practically skipped down the stairs after the exam, even though my leg muscles protested every move thanks to the sudden action they’d seen that morning. Jackson was in the living room with Dad and Trevor, watching basketball. Dad was on his recliner, but he got up when I entered and headed to the kitchen, patting me on the shoulder on his way out, with a warm smile.
“I’ll go see if Laura needs my help in the kitchen.”
He hadn’t said it aloud, but my latest injury had really upset him. That I was well again was a great relief for him.
Jackson and Trevor were on the couch, each at their own end, long legs stretched in front of them, their eyes glued on the TV. Jackson wasn’t so engrossed in the game though that he wouldn’t have noticed me barge in—unlike Trevor. His brown eyes lit warmly, causing my heart to miss a beat or two.
“I take it you got an all clear?” he asked.
I waggled my brows, making him grin. “I sure did. You?”
Heat flashed in his eyes in proof that his mind was pretty much in the same place as mine. “Angela said I was a good patient and gave me a lollypop.”
“I didn’t get a lollypop,” I moaned.
The woman in question walked in just then. She was Tessa’s age and about my height, and her curves didn’t make her look overweight—not that I had anything to complain on that front in these jeans. She had nice, strong Mediterranean features and long black hair she had in a braid today.
She gave me a lollypop too. “Here. You deserve it. But don’t eat it before lunch or you’ll lose your appetite,” she admonished me like I were one of her small patients.
Trevor snorted. “Tracy never loses her appetite.”
I blew him a raspberry, just on principle. He flicked his tongue back.
Trevor was four years older than me, handsome, with a few premature age lines thanks to his job as a homicide detective. We both looked like Mom, but I had her feminine figure whereas he had a muscled version of Dad’s long-limbed body and Mom’s strawberry blond colors. My hair was mud brown, currently in its natural state after various color experiments, and shorn close to the skull, because it had burned at the back.
It was not a good look on me.
“How’s everyone spending their Valentine’s Day, then?” Angela asked, stepping in before Trevor and I could start bickering like children. She sat on the recliner Dad had vacated and muted the TV for the commercials, mostly about stuff you should buy for Valentine’s.
“We’re spending the evening at Jackson’s,” I told Angela, still liking the idea. I placed myself between Jackson and Trevor on the couch and leaned against Jackson, who wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
“It’s a bit too much pressure on our new relationship to think of a special day of romance.”
Jackson nodded in agreement.
“I’ll be working,” Trevor said.
I shot him a stunned look. “You? Mr. Never-without-a-date-and-twice-on-Valentine’s?”
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but I knew it hid real pain. “When you’re engaged in a custody battle, you’d better be on your best behavior.”
My heart tightened in upset for him. The mother of his three-year-old son, Mason, had finally returned from her three-month stint to Congo to treat the Ebola outbreak there for Doctors Without Borders, and had fetched Mason back with no consideration for Trevor’s feelings. He had wallowed in grief for a day or two and then launched a custody battle with the help of Travis, who was a lawyer.
“Is a legal battle really the right approach?” Angela asked carefully, her eyes full of concern.
Trevor pulled back. “What would you suggest, then?”
“I understand that you weren’t in a relationship with her before and so don’t know her well?”
That was a diplomatic way to say that Mason was the result of a one-night stand.
“It might give Emma the notion that you’re not a trustworthy person to look after Mason full time. Ask her out on a proper date and spend the evening talking about anything but the custody fight. Show her that you’re a great guy.”
Trevor nodded, thoughtfully. “That might work, provided we’re not too angry already. So I should ask her out for Valentine’s?”
“No,” I said with an empathetic shudder. “It would put too much romantic pressure on it.”
“Perhaps you could go on a double date,” Jackson suggested. “Have the other pair there to smooth things over.”
Trevor perked. “That’s a great idea. You and Tracy?”
I glanced at Jackson, who shrugged. “Unless it would seem like you’re putting pressure on her by bringing two cops with you,” I said. Trevor snorted.
“You’re hardly a cop, sis.”
I elbowed him in the ribs.
“Tessa and I will come with you,” Angela stated. “Two doctors will make her feel like you’re making an effort for her. But it’ll have to be on Wednesday, because that’s our only night off together this week.”
“You don’t have Valentine’s Day off?” I exclaimed. “But it’s your first one together.”
“That’s doctors’ lives for you.”
I sighed, feeling for them. Just because I wasn’t planning a big day didn’t mean I wouldn’t want them to have one. “Do you at least have something special planned?”
As if to emphasize what the day was supposed to be about, a commercial for a diamond exhibition played on TV, showing insanely expensive engagement rings. Angela smiled, glanced at the dining room, where Tessa was setting the table, and leaned closer to speak on a lower voice.
“I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
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