I enter the subway car with no signs of my new knight in shining armor anywhere in sight, but that means nothing. He’s been following me for four days, and I never knew he was there. The man is gorgeous and the size of a treehouse, and I never knew he was there. I’m furious with him over this. No. No. It’s easy to be furious at him. That’s why it was my first reaction. My anger belongs to me. I mean, the man brought me a cookie and coffee. I just hate that I didn’t know he was following me. And the thing is that I’m always aware of my surroundings. I’m not foolish enough to do otherwise, which means that good-looking arrogant asshole of a man, is just that damn good.
Which means I’m not that damn good.
A prospect that I contemplate as the car starts moving and I stuff my cookie bag in my briefcase, because anyone who eats on the germ fest that is the subway is taking their lives in their own hands. I might be stupid enough to miss a Green Beret, but I’m not that stupid. But cookies are good. You walk or run a little extra and get rid of the damage. The wrong man is another story. He sticks around. He makes you awkward and uncomfortable, even if you try to pretend you aren’t awkward and uncomfortable, because it shows. It always shows, which is how you catch bad guys. Jacob King doesn’t make me awkward and uncomfortable. But he does have my attention. What would happen if I was up against a criminal that was an ex-Green Beret? I’d lose and I can’t lose. I fight for those who can no longer fight for themselves. I fight for their loved ones.
Reaching the door of the precinct, I toss my now empty coffee cup in the trash and pass through the mandatory security before heading up several flights of stairs that I could have avoided by using an elevator. I plan to enjoy that cookie. Gotta do my walking now. I quickly reach the third level, where the detective bullpen is located and head to my desk, which is one of about a dozen in the open room. Random crap is going on all around me, of course, which is the norm. DJ, one of the greener detectives, is interviewing a pretty blonde who is crying. Kasey, a more seasoned detective than DJ by way of age and experience, is on the phone, and makes kiss-kiss lips in my direction as I walk by. I shoot him the finger, because I’ve learned to set aside my mother’s insistence on proper manners, and speak the language of detectives.
I keep moving through the row of desks and Dennis Wylie, who most of us think isn’t right in the head, shouts out, “I love you, Little C.”
I like that nickname. Little C reminds me, and those around me, that I’m the Big C’s niece. “I love you too, Little D,” jesting about his man part, which earns me laughter and a snappy crude remark from Dennis.
With a smile on my lips, I just can’t help, I sit down at my desk across from David Rodriquez, who’s a seasoned detective at thirty-six, and single because despite his hotness, he’s an asshole to everyone but me. And it only took me three and a half of my four years with him to achieve that sweet spot. “I saved you a chocolate donut,” he says, indicating said donut on my desk. “I thought it might keep you from being a bitch today.”
I grab the donut and take a bite. “Sorry. I still feel like a bitch today.” I pick up the stack of love notes on my desk that the guys write me every year, most of which are naughty. They think they’re funny.
I grab a folded red heart and read: Roses are red, violets are blue, my gun is bigger than your gun, Little C. I smirk and toss it in the trash. “Real adult, guys,” I murmur as my gaze catches on the big red envelope that reads: Jewel across the front.
No one here calls me Jewel, so whoever wanted to stand out, has won. I’m curious and I reach for it, finish my donut, and pull out a card with a simple heart on the front. Flipping it open, I read: Finally, it’s our time.
It’s kind of a creepy statement, but that doesn’t say much, considering this crowd, but something about it still manages to hit an uncomfortable chord in me. I turn the card over and study the handwritten “Jewel” there, confirming there is no address anywhere on the paper, which means this is for sure an in-house delivery. And the neat printed handwriting looks familiar, too, but I can’t place it. “Who wrote this?” I call out, holding up the card.
“Carpenter!”
At that shout by my boss, Norman Ross, I set the card down and stand up. I’m already walking when Rodriquez yells, “For the record, Little C. You still look like a bitch, too.”
I shoot him the finger around my back without even turning, and bring the corner office into view, where Lieutenant Ross stands in the doorway, his suit well-starched, a streak of gray touching his dark hair at each of his temples. “’Bout damn time you got here,” he grumbles just to grumble since I don’t work a set schedule. He’s grumpy like my uncle, but then, it fits. They were best friends who shared a birthday, both fifty-one a week before my uncle died.
My boss disappears into his office, with the obvious expectation that I follow. By the time I clear the entrance, he’s rounded his desk and is standing behind it with a key dangling from two fingers. “What’s that?” I ask, leaving the door open, because you don’t shut his door unless he tells you to shut his door.
“Your reward for your fortieth closed case,” he replies. “The key to Big C’s old office and your pick of the cold cases you obsess over from this point forward.”
My heart jumps in my chest. “You’re letting me have his office and the cold cases?”
“You stay in rotation,” he says. “You work fresh cases, but if you can fit in the cold cases, I’m going to give you the same confidence I gave your uncle, and I know one won’t hurt the other.” I reach for the key and he closes his hand around it. “Don’t make a fool of me.”
“I won’t. Fresh cases still come first of course.”
“Your uncle was a good detective. A cranky old man, but the best of the best. He could have had my job ten years before I had my job. He chose not to take it. Do you know why?”
“No. He never said.”
“Because he didn’t want to deal with wet behind the ears babies like you unless it was you.”
I laugh. “Sometimes he didn’t want to deal with me.”
“Neither do I,” he replies. “But I’ll do it for him.”
He studies me a moment and then opens his hand to allow me to take the key. “Go. Make him and me proud.”
“I will,” I say, palming the key and I’m out of the office, and headed through the bullpen in an instant. I don’t stop at my desk. I’ll grab my junk later. I don’t answer any shout-outs either. I’m through the bullpen and at the narrow stairwell leading to the basement in no time flat. I travel four flights of winding steps to enter the windowless basement some would call a cold, dingy hell and that I call success. I hurry down the hallway to the steel door and open it, entering a massive room lined with rows of files. In front of it all is a desk. Behind that desk is Becca, a fifty-something black woman who is more stunning than most twenty-year-olds, despite the severe way she pulls her hair back and her hard expression.
I show her the key. “I’m with you now.”
“I heard,” she says dryly. “Don’t get loud. Don’t get in my way.”
She also has a bad attitude and can level even the hardest of men with a few words. I love her, which is why I give her a hard look and say, “Don’t get in my way.”
We both burst out laughing because we’re the bad bitches of this place that is far too male, and I start walking past her desk. Once I’m in the center of two rows of files that are long and high, my fingers drag over the files, which represent a history of crime and law enforcement so deep and broad, that even I cannot fully conceive of its meaning. But I respect the history, and the answers that can be found in the history that tends to repeat itself, even though the names, shapes, and times, vary. At the end of the row, I cut right and stop at the only door in the room. I stick the key inside and open the door.
Stepping inside, dust tickles my nose but so does the hint of sandalwood that reminds me of my uncle. I flip on the light to find the old steel desk and stacks of boxes here and there. I shut myself inside and there is a pinch in my chest and eyes. God, I miss him, and as I flash back to the funeral, and the sound of the rifles going off, I’m reminded that my father’s actions are driven by fear. Fear that I can’t wholly dismiss. It’s a part of loving someone with a badge.
I round the desk and sit down, pulling my bag’s strap over my head and setting it on the desk. It’s then that my cellphone rings from inside it. I dig it out and note the unknown number that as a detective I can never ignore. I hit the answer button. “Detective Carpenter.”
“You didn’t eat the cookie.”
“Well if it isn’t Mr. Green Beret himself,” I say at the sound of Jacob’s voice. “I hope watching me ignore food is interesting. And how are you calling me? I didn’t give you my number.”
“I’m resourceful,” he says.
“You asked my father.”
“If I’d done that, he’d know that you’ve attempted to reject me.”
“Attempted?”
“Are you still trying?”
“I already did. Because you deny my rejection does not make it obsolete. And how did you know I didn’t eat the cookie? You weren’t on the subway car with me.”
“I didn’t until you just confirmed it, but it was an easy guess since only a stupid person eats on the subway. And we both know you’re not stupid. Which is why I know that you’ll come around and use me for the resource that I am.”
“You really do think a lot of yourself.”
“I have no choice,” he says. “The minute I doubt myself is the minute someone dies on my watch.”
“The minute you think too much of yourself is the minute you think too little of your opponent. That’s when you, and/or someone, dies.”
“According to you, I already do think too much of myself, and so far, I’m not dead. Nor do I intend to die or let anyone under my care die.”
“I’m not under your care. Take a vacation.”
“I can’t do that,” he says. “If something happened to you on my watch, I’d have to live with that. And I’ve seen and lived with a lot of bad shit. You getting hurt won’t be on that list.”
“It’s a few notes from a protestor trying to rattle my father over his merger,” I say. “I’m a detective. You have to see the insanity of me needing protection over this.” I frown. “Unless there’s more to this than I know.”
“Nothing I’m aware of at this time, but if that changes I’d certainly inform you immediately.”
“Then we’re back to my point,” I say. “Involving Walker Security in this matter is an overreaction by my father. If you follow me—”
“You’ll cuff me?”
“Was there a sexual undertone to that question, Sergeant?”
“Major,” he corrects. “And no, ma’am. I’m always completely professional. Just letting you know that I’ll go where you lead.”
I smile despite myself. “If only it were that easy.”
“Easier than you might think.”
“Easier than you might think,” I say. “Because I’ve never cuffed a man that I didn’t shoot first. You’ve been warned.”
“Sounds dangerous,” he says. “But if I scared that easily, I wouldn’t be the one assigned to protect you. Look, Jewel—”
“Detective.”
“Jewel,” he says firmly. “Because I’m talking to the part of you that isn’t bulletproof right now. Loving people like us is not easy. I know you know that.”
“Of course I know that.”
“Your father loves you.”
“I know that, too.”
“Then you know that he’s why I have you now and more importantly, you have me. And while it’s not the ideal situation, despite that fact, I’ll stay out of sight, unless necessity deems that impossible. You won’t know that I’m there unless you need me.”
And with that highly inaccurate statement, he actually hangs up, but I don’t call back to point out the obvious which is that, he’s wrong. After meeting Jacob King, even if I don’t see him, I’ll know he’s there.