Hot Property Page 8

  “You guys done with her?” Michael asked the other two detectives. “If so, I’ll show her the mug shots.”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” Smythe said.

  “You gonna charge her?” Michael asked casually.

  Wendy tensed. Smythe gave her a sharp look. “Not yet. But we have loads of physical evidence from those burglaries. Soon as we find a match with the shopping queen here, she’s toast. Unless she works with us.”

  On that note he left, taking his partner with him.

  “You can go, too, Nathaniel,” Wendy said to her lawyer. “I’m sure you have dinner plans.”

  “I think I should stay with you,” he said, though without much conviction.

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t run the bill up any higher than it already is, okay?” She smiled, letting him know she was teasing. “I spent almost the entire day with Detective Taggert here. If I were going to incriminate myself in front of him, I’d have done it already.”

  Nathaniel smiled back. He really did have a pleasant face when he smiled. “All right. If you’re sure.”

  After he left, and she was alone with Michael, she couldn’t contain herself anymore. “I have to eat something,” she said. “A candy bar, potato chips, anything. You must be hungry too. We skipped lunch.”

  Michael looked down at his shoes guiltily. “I grabbed a handful of doughnuts in the break room. Tell you what. I’ll get us some burgers—”

  “Oh, wait.” She opened her purse, retrieved her coupon organizer, and quickly riffled through it. “There’s a Big Sid’s Deli across the street, right? I have a dollar-off coupon. Turkey and Swiss on rye for me, and you can get anything you want, except don’t get the pastrami. It’s fatty and too expensive. I can start on the mug shots.”

  Michael smiled. “You’re bossy, you know that?”

  “I prefer to think of it as a take-charge attitude,” she said, only slightly offended. “I loathe dithering, so I make decisions. You’re free to challenge. I keep an open mind.”

  “Big Sid’s is fine.” He led her through a rabbit warren of offices, cubicles, bunched desks, and partitions. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to how the work stations were arranged. There was no discernible decor. Battleship gray, imitation wood tone, and mauve burlap partitions were all grouped together in a riotous conglomeration.

  She’d go crazy working there. Not only was it disorganized, but every desk seemed to have piles of paper on it. It was a wonder the police department functioned at all.

  Finally they arrived at a back room with row upon row of filing cabinets. Against one wall were shelves filled with binders, labeled with various crimes: burglary, car theft, rape, murder, fraud. Michael grabbed a stack of the burglary binders, cleared off a space on a little table, and set them down. “Start at the back—they’re more recent. I’ll be back in a few with the grub.”

  She was actually glad for those few minutes of solitude he gave her—well, solitude if you didn’t count the thousands of felons in the binders, a new gallery of beady eyes staring at her with each page she turned. She wished she could just close her eyes and meditate for a few minutes, but she didn’t have the time. She had to find Barnie Neff.

  She would know him if she saw him—in an instant. But it would take her a week to look at all the mug shots. Well, the sooner she started, the sooner she’d be done.

  The smell of chili fries reached her before Michael did. Her stomach rumbled again. She was lightheaded, and all those little postage-stamp-size pictures were starting to run together.

  “Any luck?” Michael asked, setting down a white bag and a large cola in front of her. Another bag held the steaming chili fries.

  “I haven’t even come close,” she said. “But I’ve got lots more pictures to go through.”

  “Take your time.”

  She unwrapped her sandwich and bit into it. No food had ever tasted so good. The cola was cold and sweet.

  “You know, I don’t want to alarm you,” Michael said, “but we need to think about your safety. Someone’s trying to kill you.”

  She looked up at him, surprised that he’d stated the possibility so baldly. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “I do. That car almost ran you over earlier—”

  “That was my fault. I didn’t look where I was going.”

  “Yeah, well, the bullet through your windshield wasn’t your fault.”

  “I was assuming that was some sort of random thing. Like that guy several years ago who stood on a highway overpass and started randomly shooting at cars.”

  Michael shook his head. “You’re in denial. One brush with death I might dismiss as chance, but not two in one day. Someone’s got your number, sweets.”

  She took an inappropriate amount of pleasure in the casual endearment. Michael Taggert had quickly become an important fixture in her life.

  “You really think so?” she said, pondering the possibility that someone wanted her dead. “I mean, that guy who questioned me earlier didn’t take that angle. He didn’t ask if anyone was mad at me or if I had any enemies.”

  “Lieutenant Katz, you mean.”

  She shrugged. “All the names are running together at this point.”

  “Katz thinks the shooter was after me.”

  “Maybe he was.”

  “He hit you, though. Whatever, I don’t think you should take any chances.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Hire a bodyguard?”

  Apparently Michael had already thought of that. “I tried to get someone assigned to protect you, but my captain wouldn’t go for it. Not in the budget, no urgent need, yada yada yada.”

  “So what’s the alternative?”

  “Hide. Stay someplace where Neff, or whoever it is, can’t find you.”

  “Maybe I should just take my bail back and let them put me in jail,” she said, only half joking.

  Michael shook his head. “Jail’s not that safe.”

  “I can’t afford a hotel, and I’m not putting any of my friends or family in danger by shacking up with them.”

  Michael thought for a moment. “You have a gun?”

  “Heavens, no! I hate guns.”

  “Does your apartment have a security alarm?”

  “No.”

  He thought again. When he spoke, his voice was lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll give you a safe place to stay, but you can’t tell anyone. The D.A.’s office would frown on it.”

  SIX

  Maybe it was because it had been the longest day in history, but Wendy’s first impulse was to jump at Michael’s offer. A safe place, just for one night. She hadn’t felt safe since her arrest.

  But exactly how safe would she be with the dangerously handsome detective who made her think, and sometimes do, such crazy things? So she forced herself to move cautiously.

  “You want me to … go home with you?”

  His reaction was immediate and emphatic. “Oh, no, hell, no,” he said, actually backing away from her. “That wouldn’t be kosher at all. No, see, I’ve got a furnished rental house—empty right now—in Oak Cliff. It’s not much, but it’s clean and has good locks and a security alarm.”

  It sounded like heaven, almost too good to be true. If only the furnishings included one Michael Taggert to watch over her. Okay, she was acting like a goofball, but she felt pretty fragile right now. Nearly getting killed twice in one day could do that, she reasoned, cutting herself some slack.

  “How will we get there?” she asked, amazed that she could still think along practical lines.

  “I have a car—my car, not a police vehicle. I’ll take you out through the garage. No one will know where to find you except me.”

  The mention of cars made her remember her poor van, which had been so sparkling new a few days earlier. It had been impounded as evidence, and she didn’t think the police department would be kind enough to provide her with a loaner. How was she going to get her work done in the days to come?

>   Like Scarlett O’Hara, she would deal with that tomorrow.

  She squared her shoulders and tried to pretend that Michael’s offer was just another thoughtful gesture, not a wild aberration of police policy. She also tried not to think about what it really meant, if anything.

  “Okay,” she said. “It’s decent of you to offer. Just let me look through a few more of these photos.” She propped her chin in her hands and resumed her study of the mug shot book. Her eyes were bleary, though. The faces were running together. She wasn’t so sure anymore that she could immediately spot Mr. Neff.

  Michael came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Wendy. You can try again tomorrow. Let it go for now so you can get some sleep.”

  Boy, that sounded good. He didn’t need to ask her twice. She gathered up the refuse from their dinner and pitched it, then followed Michael toward the Municipal Building’s garage, feeling frustrated and exhausted.

  But behind those negative feelings, like a seed in the hard winter ground, she felt a morsel of happiness too. It had something to do with Michael, she knew. If he hadn’t taken an interest in her, if she didn’t have him to talk to and bounce ideas off of, she would be completely lost.

  Yet she knew she had to be careful. Maybe he was cozying up to her for a reason. Maybe it was all an act, engineered so that Michael would gain her trust and she would confide in him, or slip up. She knew that cops played all kinds of nasty tricks on suspects—sting operations, entrapment schemes, promises never meant to be kept.

  She knew what Nathaniel would say if he found out she was letting the investigating detective put her up for the night. He wouldn’t be pleased, to say the least. Or maybe he’d somehow turn Michael’s offer into something that would work for her. She could see him playing it up before a jury, making it sound like Michael intended to compromise her or harass her or something.

  Well, it didn’t matter. What Nathaniel didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Hopefully it wouldn’t hurt her, either.

  Michael led her through the parking garage to his vehicle, a white Firebird that had to be at least twenty years old. It was a classic—or it would have been if it didn’t have two crumpled fenders and one red door.

  “Now, this is an inconspicuous car,” she quipped when he opened the passenger door for her.

  “Hey, it gets me where I need to go.”

  As she sank into the bucket seat, she wondered what they were paying detectives these days.

  He was attuned to her train of thought. “Every spare penny during the last seven years has gone to pay off Faye’s debts,” he explained. “Didn’t leave a lot of room for luxury cars.” He started the engine. Unlike his police sedan, the Firebird had an engine that purred.

  “Why didn’t you declare bankruptcy?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I thought about it, but it didn’t sit well with me. I believe in taking responsibility for my mistakes.”

  “Yes, but that debt was your ex-wife’s mistake, not yours,” Wendy pointed out.

  “My mistake was marrying her,” he said, sounding a little melancholy. “Anyway, it’s a done deal now. As of last month I’m free and clear of debt. I’m gonna get this baby some body work and a paint job. Might even paint her red. Candy apple red.”

  Wendy smiled. Hearing him share a fantasy, even a minor one, filled her with warmth. “I know a body shop that does great work. In fact, the guy who owns it is an ex-cop. I bet he’d give you a law enforcement discount. He did the logo on my van and let me trade it out in errands.”

  “I kinda figured you’d know someone,” he said with a lazy smile.

  Oak Cliff wasn’t a suburb, exactly. It was a small town that had grown up side by side with Dallas, eventually to be swallowed up and incorporated by the larger city. It was a conglomoration of neighborhoods with strong individual identities—Winnetka Heights, Kidd Springs, Kessler Park. Many of the Dallas area’s oldest homes stood there—some gloriously renovated, many looking as though they were about to fall down.

  Michael’s rental house, in the well-to-do Kessler Park neighborhood, was really quite nice, Wendy decided as they pulled into the driveway. A fifties bungalow of native limestone, it sported freshly painted trim and a neatly landscaped yard. The front porch looked as if it had just been swept.

  “You’re sure it’s empty?” she asked. “Looks lived in to me.”

  “The neighbor looks after the place when I don’t have renters,” he explained. “My last tenants moved out without warning a couple of weeks ago, and I haven’t had a chance to advertise for new ones.”

  She followed him up to the porch and waited while he wrestled with a contrary lock. “How’d you end up with this cute little house?” she asked.

  “Actually it belongs to my grandparents,” he answered. “They’re in a nursing home. The rental income helps with the bills, a little.”

  “You take care of them?” she asked, adjusting her thinking again. She hadn’t thought of Michael Taggert as having a family, friends, or any life outside his police work. She hadn’t, as a matter of fact, even considered that he might have a current wife in addition to the shopaholic ex. He didn’t wear a ring, but lots of men didn’t.

  “My brother and I help out when we can.”

  “Where are your parents?” she thought to ask.

  “Dead,” he replied. “They both died young, in their fifties. Natural causes.”

  He finally got the key to turn and opened the front door. A musty, unused smell greeted them as they entered.

  Whatever could be called charming about the house ended at the threshold. Brown sculptured carpeting spread out like mold across all available floors, and Wendy suspected the stale odor emanated from them. The furniture was horrific, bland and boxy and also brown. The walls were dingy white, sorely in need of paint. Plastic pull-down shades were the only window treatments.

  “I warned you,” he said.

  She couldn’t think of anything to say that was complimentary, so she remained silent.

  “Bedrooms are back here,” he said, leading her down a dark hallway, flipping on lights as he went.

  The master bedroom was small and dark even with the lights on. The double bed had a bare mattress that sagged visibly in the middle, but at least it looked clean.

  “Mattress Giant has a sale on next weekend,” she said helpfully.

  Either he didn’t hear or chose to ignore her suggestion. He was rummaging around in a hall cupboard. “Sheets,” he explained, producing a set of plain white linens.

  “How do you ever find renters?” she blurted out.

  He chose to interpret her question as honest curiosity. “Same way anyone else does it. Ads in the newspaper, word of mouth. Why, do you know someone who needs a two-bedroom house? The rent’s cheap for this area, and it’s an easy drive downtown.”

  “You could get higher rent if you redecorated,” she pointed out.

  He looked around, a thoughtful scowl on his face. “Is it really that bad?”

  “It’s worse than bad. Not that I’m ungrateful, mind you. I’m ecstatic to have a place to stay where I don’t have to worry about gunfire coming through the windows.” She shivered at the thought. “I was just thinking. Since you’re doing me a favor, I could return it by redecorating. Nothing major, just a little paint and paper, slipcovers, maybe some throw rugs, mini-blinds.”

  She couldn’t help herself. To her, this place was like a hideous painting was to an artist. The artist could whitewash over the canvas and start again. That’s what she’d like to do.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think I can afford your fees.”

  “I said a favor. I won’t charge you,” she said, irritated that he thought she wanted to make a quick buck off him. “You just pay me for the raw materials, which, of course, I will get you fabulous bargains on.”

  Michael nodded absently. “Yeah, sure, we can talk about it. But you don’t need to repay me. I’m doing myself a favor as well as you. I have to keep yo
u safe or the mayor will have me roasted alive. So much for the FBI.”

  “Why do you want to work for the FBI?” she asked, now insatiably curious. He didn’t usually talk about himself, and she wanted to take avantage of the fact that he’d let his guard down.

  He shrugged. “A change. Higher pay, more excitement.”

  “More excitement than getting shot at?”

  “This has been an unusual day,” he said, tossing her a couple of pillowcases. “I’ve never been shot at before.”

  “So you’d be some kind of special agent, chasing down America’s Most Wanted and all that?”

  “Actually, I was kidding about the excitement. I was recruited for a desk job, doing statistical analysis.” “Crunching numbers.”

  “Yeah. Analyzing crime patterns, helping to allocate resources.”

  “Michael, no offense, but that sounds really boring.”

  “It’s what I studied in college. I’m good at it.”

  “But is that what you’d really enjoy? Locking yourself in some basement cubbyhole with a computer and spreadsheets?”

  “It’s not like that, I’m sure.”

  “But—”

  “Listen. I’m thirty-five and going nowhere in the DPD. I keep putting my application in to work in CAPers, and they keep kicking it back, citing a long list of excuses. But it comes down to politics. I don’t play the political games or curry favor with the right people.”

  “You sure ticked off the mayor,” she said.

  “I gotta get out of Dallas, move up, make a name for myself.”

  “You think it’ll be any different working for the federal government? I bet at the FBI you’ll have to kiss someone’s butt just to get a password to your computer.”

  He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with her logic.

  In truth, she didn’t know anything about working for the FBI. But she didn’t like the thought of him leaving town forever. “Where will you be stationed?”

  “Washington.”

  “Who will take care of your grandparents’ house?” she asked.

  “My brother. I’ve worked it out.” Now he was getting cross with her. She’d touched a nerve. Foisting the rental house off on his brother didn’t jibe with the man she was coming to know.