Still standing on the opposite side of the table from Jewel, there is no mistaking the charge between us. “Was your meeting cancelled?” I ask, weighing exactly where that photo invitation she sent me came from.
“It was you,” she says. “It was always you, Jacob King.”
She says Jacob King in a low, raspy voice that has me looking at her mouth, wondering when the last time she was kissed good enough and well enough to forget her badge and just be a woman. A thought I’ve had a half-dozen times just today, but I don’t let her see my reaction. I never let anyone see my reactions, but unlike most, who take my stone face as an invitation to be silent, Jewel, Detective Carpenter I remind myself—not sure why I keep fucking forgetting that—seems to see that as an invitation to push my buttons. And so, it seems, I enjoy pushing hers.
Which is exactly why I lean forward, my hands settling on the back on my intended chair, and ask, “Are you flirting with me, detective?” reversing her question to me from earlier today.
“Of course not,” she says, and then, proving she can give as good as she gets, she turns my earlier statement on me. “Flirting with you, major, would be unprofessional.” She pauses for affect and adds, “And I’m always professional.”
I don’t smile on the outside, but I damn sure am on the inside. I do, however, pull out the chair and sit down across from her. “We have that ‘always professional’ thing in common, then,” I say. Only we both know, whatever this is happening between us isn’t professional at all, nor does it seem to be stoppable.
“That and being hard to love,” she says, which I assume to be a reference to how I’d convinced her to stick this out with me. That is, until she surprises me by adding, “Me more so me than you, I think.”
“Why would you say that?”
“You can choose your assignments, I assume. My job will always be a collection of revolving dead bodies.”
“You can move out of homicide.”
“No. I can’t. This job is who, and what, I am. That won’t change. Which means that I will always have at least one photo of a dead body in my briefcase. And most likely another pinned to my fridge or sitting on my kitchen counter so I can study it over my morning coffee. Or afternoon coffee if I’m at a murder scene all night. Those things are not easy for a civilian.”
“And I’m to believe that’s easy for you? Because I saw more damn bodies some single days in the army, than you will see in your career. I don’t remember ever thinking that was easy.”
“It’s not supposed to be easy,” she says, “nor do people like us take our jobs, thinking otherwise. Our peace is in the peace we give others.”
“Nothing about what I did, is like what you do,” I say, thinking of the thankless job that took me all kinds of wrong places. Too many wrong places. Places I’m not going with her, or anyone else, which is exactly why I pick up my beer, tilt it back, and take a long, deep drink, with one intent: shutting her out. She knows it too. I can feel her watching me, trying to figure me out. She’ll fail, but she’s a detective. She has to try.
I set the bottle down to find that sure enough, she’s unapologetically staring at me. “What do you want to ask me, detective?”
“Is every Green Beret’s file top secret?”
“Missions are top secret. Anything that ties to those missions is also top secret.”
“Is that a yes?”
“No,” I say.
“Why’d you get out?”
“It was my time.”
She slides her plate to the left and flattens her hands on the table. “Tell me again how talking to you helps me get to know and trust you?”
I slide my plate to my right and rest my arms on the table, fingers laced together. I lean forward, so close to her now that I can smell the sweet, floral scent of her that softens her, and defies her tough exterior. “You’re asking the wrong questions,” I say.
“The wrong questions,” she repeats, narrowing her eyes on me.
“Yes,” I confirm. “The wrong questions. Ask me something I can answer.”
“In other words,” she says, following my lead, “your time in the service, and your reasons for getting out, are top secret.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay then,” she says, never missing a beat. “Why’d you enlist?”
“My father and brother were both Green Berets.”
“Why did you enlist?”
“Enlisting is what the men of my family do,” I say, unsurprised that she’s seen past my standard answer. It’s my wall and she’s damn sure got experience with that, with one of her own.
“That’s not a real answer, major,” she says. “Especially since you went to college to be an engineer.”
“I told you I’m not a major anymore.”
“That’s still not an answer, but you know what? That’s okay. I get it. You barely know me and there are just things we don’t like to talk about ever. Or with anyone.”
Any other person who pushed me for more anything would get more nothing, but every pass I take with this woman, offers her a pass. I don’t want to give her a pass. And so I give her more. “I was raised by my grandmother,” I say. “She needed me. I stayed for her.”
“And when she died, you enlisted,” she assumes.
“No,” I correct. “I enlisted six months before she died.”
She frowns. “But you said—”
The pizza is set down on our table in that moment, saving me from the rest of the question. Hand delivered by the owner’s son, which I know because this is Detective Carpenter’s regular spot. “Can I get you anything else?” he asks us both.
The detective—Jewel, I think—because she’s more than the damn detective shield she wears, looks at me. “Pepperoni okay?” she asks.
“My favorite,” I say, glancing at Sebastian. “Thanks, man.”
He gives me a nod and looks across the table. “All is well, detective?” he asks.
“It’s perfect,” she assures him, and he hurries away, while she points at the pizza.
“I normally get a large” she says, “but this time, I got an extra-large, so you can have like two slices.” She pulls her plate in front of her and reaches for a slice.
“I think I need at least three,” I say quite seriously.
She considers me a moment. “Right. Because you’re so damn big.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It keeps becoming relevant.” Her lips that I still fucking want against mine, curve ever-so-slightly. “You can have more. I can’t eat this whole pizza anyway, but my eyes always want more than my belly.”
“You eat like shit,” I comment, picking up a slice and taking a bite that’s so damn good I swallow and add, “And I now see why. This is damn good.”
“The best,” she says, “and you’re wrong about my eating habits.”
“I’m always wrong, right?”
“Finally, we agree on something.”
“You do remember that I’ve been watching you for four days, right?”
“To the point that I can’t stop thinking about it,” she says, and she doesn’t give me a chance to clarify the meaning of that statement, as she quickly, intentionally I’m certain, refocuses on the initial topic. “I do a once a month clean-up diet week which means eating egg whites, salads, and protein. It works for me. I suppose an ex-Green Beret, who obviously is in good condition, eats only egg whites because you’re just that kind of disciplined.”
“Depends on the job,” I say, indicating the pizza in my hand. “Sometimes it’s impossible.”
“Now I’m a bad influence?” she challenges.
“You are most definitely a bad influence,” I say, reaching for another slice, and thinking about my damn obsession with her mouth.
She thankfully changes the subject. “How long have you been with Walker?” she asks, downing a swallow of beer.
“Two years,” I say, sprinkling red pepper over my food and then offering it to her.
She accepts it, our fingers brushing in the process, the charge between us sending her gaze to mine, the impact a punch of awareness. She fights it the way I should be fighting it, her gaze quickly cutting sharply to her plate. She hyper focuses on that shaker, and not until she sets it down again does she look at me. “How long since you got out of the army?”
“Three years. I went back home, and the owners of a high-end apartment complex recruited me to help out.”
“You were over qualified.”
“Very, but Blake Walker was working with one of the tenants. I met him, helped him with that job, and one thing led to another. And here I am.”
She slides her plate to the side, and once again, she’s unapologetically staring at me. I, too, slide my plate aside. “What do you want to ask me this time?”
“You said that you stayed with your grandmother,” she says. “That she needed you, but you left long before she died.”
“And the detective in you can’t stand the contradiction.”
“I want to trust you, Jacob, and to let you into my world, which is a law enforcement world, I also need to trust you.”
“And I too, need your trust but there is no big secret here. My father was killed on a mission. My oldest brother was still enlisted. I had this burning need to enlist, and find my way to the Berets and protect him, despite him being the seasoned soldier.”
Realization slides over her face. “He’s dead.”
“Yes. Two years after I entered the army he was killed in combat, and on our first mission together. He died in my arms a year to the day my grandmother died of cancer without ever telling me she was sick.” I intend to stop there, but I don’t. For some damn reason I add, “It’s pie for me, detective, not cookies. Coconut pie at Christmas. No one makes a coconut pie, like she did.”
She studies me for several long beats, holding her breath I think, her expression as unreadable as most would say mine is on any given day. One second passes. Two. Three. And then she leans forward, her hand next to mine, but not touching it. “I know you know this,” she says. “I know you’ve told yourself this a million times over, but I’m going to say it again for you. Sometimes there just isn’t a right choice.”
“How many times a day do you tell yourself that?”
She sits back. “Twice. When I wake up and when I go to sleep, but we aren’t talking about me. How long has it been?”
“Twelve years for my grandmother,” I say, taking a swig of beer, before I add, “eleven for my brother, and thirteen for my father.”
“Three years in a row.”
“Yes. Three times are not a charm for me.”
“Seven, four, and two for me. Best friend, mother, uncle, in that order. All murdered. All victims of crimes.”
“You joined the police force after your best friend died,” I supply, knowing her history well. “Detouring from medical school to the police academy.”
“I knew I had to make a difference,” she says.
“A doctor makes a difference,” I point out.
“It wasn’t the way I was supposed to make a difference.” Her jaw sets, her mood shifting in fierce immediacy. “And that’s why you’re here. I’m doing this thing with you for my father, but the integrity of my job is critical. So that brings us to rules.”
“Yes, detective,” I say. “Let’s talk about rules.”
“My rules,” she says.
“I was thinking more of mine.”
“Good luck with that,” she says. “You don’t get to set the rules.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“From what? A soft threat from a note writer?”
“I’ve seen people die with less warning.” I don’t give her time to reply. “This doesn’t work unless you cooperate and communicate. If you can’t do that, I’ll go to your father and excuse myself from this job, and tell him why.”
Her eyes sharpen, right along with her tone. “Did you really just say that to me?”
“I’m doing my job here.”
“Right. Your job. I can’t forget that.”
“Don’t take that to places I didn’t intend it to go.”
“I’m your job. It’s all professional, all business. I get it. But I too, have a job to do.”
“Then let’s negotiate terms we both can both live with.”
“Is that even possible?”
“We don’t know if we don’t try. You go first. What can I do to make this work for you?”
“I work with you and you alone. No one else follows me.”
“Then I’m your personal protection,” I say. “I’m with you twenty-four seven.”
“That’s not even possible. You can’t go to work with me. You damn sure aren’t sleeping with me.”
“I’ll escort you to and from without chasing you in the shadows,” I say, offering her the compromise that keeps me out of her workplace and her home, the latter of which, where we’d end up naked. “You give me your schedule,” I add. “You text me before you leave any location.”
“This is nuts, and don’t say I won’t know you’re there because I’ll just say what I’ve been saying. I’ll know, damn it.”
“I’m glad you’ll know, detective,” I say. “That means you also know that you’re protected. Because I can promise you this. No one will hurt you with me on the job. Use me while you can. I’ll help you take down the bad guys, whoever they are for you right now.”
“Is that an official offer?” she challenges.
“Yes. It is.”
“Then let’s get started.” She reaches to her seat and sets a file in front of me.
“What is this?”
“You’ll know when you open it.”
Curious now, I tear my gaze from hers and glance down at the file. Flipping it open, I find myself looking at a photo, and I don’t have to look at the name. I know who Jesse Marks is, the details of which I will never tell her. I shut the file. “What is this?” I ask, my tone hard, unemotional, any thing personal we’ve shared tonight shut down, gone.
“I’m in charge of cold cases now,” she explains. “I’m now hunting Jesse Marks and I chose him for an obvious reason, beyond the fact that he killed his family and disappeared. He’s a Green Beret and you can help me get that family justice.”
“You will not touch this case.”
“You can’t tell me that.”
“I can, and I did.” I reach in my pocket, grab cash and drop it on the table. “You will not touch this case,” I repeat.
“I can, and I will.”
“If you do,” I say, leaning forward, “you’ll really need me to keep you alive.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You have no idea what would come at you,” I bite out.
“Tell me,” she says. “Explain.”
“No.” I stand up and take the file with me.
She stands up. “You can’t take my file.”
“I already did.” I start walking and I don’t stop. I exit the restaurant, round the corner to a quiet alleyway and pull out a lighter, which I always keep with me for just such an occasion. I hold out the file and I set it on fire with my mind racing. She must have made calls about Marks. She dug where she shouldn’t have dug and that is a problem.
Detective Carpenter rounds the corner. “What the hell are you doing?” she demands, rushing towards me and my bonfire.
I reply by setting the other end of the file on fire and dropping it to the paved ground.
She double-steps and stops in front of it and me, but it’s too late for her file. It’s all but ash and she’s not pleased. “I’m just going to pull the computerized records,” she says, “but I think I’ll do that after I arrest you for interfering in a criminal investigation.”
I step around the fire and offer her my hands. “Cuff me, detective. Or maybe I should call you Jewel since we’re getting kinky and shit now. But wait. Detectives don’t carry cuffs, now do they?”
She reaches under her jacket and pulls out zip ties. “I do.”
“Zip ties?” Now I laugh. “Really?”
She slides them around my wrists and pulls them tight. “Really,” she says, her hands on mine.
“Are you arresting me?”
“No,” she says. “I’m just leaving you the fuck here.” She turns and starts walking.
“You know I can get out of these,” I call after her.
“Have fun,” she calls out.
I lift my arms and shove my fists against my waist and the zip ties bust open. The file is complete ash now, but I stomp on it to be certain the fire is out, and then I’m on the detective’s heels. She’s a block ahead of me by the time I catch her, and I don’t even try to hide. She knows I’m here. We cover another block and we arrive at her building. She opens her gate, and never looks in my direction. She enters her courtyard and walks up the steps, pausing at the security panel but instead of reaching for the panel, she kneels down as if she’s dropped something. Only I didn’t see her drop anything.
She stands again, studying something in her hand and then keys in her code. I’m at her gate at the same moment she disappears into her building, but this doesn’t end here. Not after she showed me that file. It’s a game changer. Any distance that I thought was the way to keep this professional is no longer an option.
I give her a sixty-second lead and walk to the security panel where I key in her code that I know thanks to Blake’s hacking. Once I’m inside the tiny foyer, I wait until her door opens on the second level and shuts before I head up the stairs. At her door, I ring the bell. Smart girl looks through the peep hole and then opens the door. “How are you even up here?”
“How can I protect you if I can’t get to you?” I step closer and force her to back up or let me walk right into her, which would be my preference: her body against my body. She backs up just enough that we’re toe-to-toe.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
“We had a deal. I’m your one-on-one protection. That means I stay with you. That means I sleep here with you.”