Chapter Two
Cassie pulled off the New York State Thruway and drove into the town of Hopewell Springs, population six thousand, according to the prominent hand-painted sign on the side of the road. She and Raven had been driving for over four hours, and Cassie’s stomach rumbled so loud she could hear it above the music blasting on the radio.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t know about you, Raven, but I’m starving. Let’s hope we can find a decent place for breakfast out here in the boonies.”
Woof.
Dom and Gray had stood guard overnight at her house in Union, New Jersey, while she slept, so she could rise early and hit the road at the crack of dawn. With her Smith & Wesson, two additional fully loaded magazines, and Raven at the foot of her bed, she’d fallen into a troubled, restless sleep, dreaming of a nameless, faceless hit man.
Her brother and partner had wanted her to go to a safe house until they could figure out the identity of the hit man and throw his ass in jail. Word on the street was whoever ordered the hit was connected with La Femme, but Rod Manici wasn’t talking. At least not directly. The little prick had lawyered-up and his high-priced, arrogant attorney now did the talking for him, naturally denying his client’s involvement in any “alleged” hit.
“No matter what Gray and Dom say, I don’t want protection.” She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Raven’s head perk up. “I can’t be guarded by a bunch of cops twenty-four-seven. It would be like prison.” And getting away from cops—from the NYPD altogether—was the plan that had been cooking in her head for a while now. “The only cop I want guarding my backside is you.”
Woof.
Cassie turned onto what appeared to be the main drag leading into the center of Hopewell Springs. She eyed the envelope thick with cash and other documents sitting on the front seat.
Gray had reluctantly agreed to help and procured an unmarked NYPD navy blue Trail Blazer registered in her old undercover name, different from the one she’d used on the La Femme case. Now she was Cassie Younger.
Dom had even scrounged up her matching fictitious driver’s license, credit card, and a cell phone, all of which she’d used previously for an undercover burglary gig and a drug bust. Utilizing old undercover ID from a successful bust that had resulted in press coverage was a no-no in the UC world and had come back to bite many a careless cop, but given the exigent circumstances it would have to suffice. Besides, she didn’t anticipate needing this particular persona for very long.
Behind her, Raven lounged on the seat. Piled high in the rear of the Trail Blazer were two travel bags she’d crammed with her summer clothes and other essentials, along with a forty-pound bag of pricey kibble, bones, and a dog brush.
She focused her attention back on the road and finding a place to grab a bite. Not much chance there’d be haute cuisine in such a tiny burg, but driving through Hopewell Springs actually made her smile, stretching muscles she could barely remember using in the last five years. The town looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, complete with an old-fashioned theater, an ice-cream parlor, and other small cutesy shops.
Another hand-painted sign indicated the towering brick building with fluted columns she’d just passed housed the town’s municipal offices and police station. The tree-lined streets were decorated gaily with red-white-and-blue banners for the July Fourth holiday two weeks away.
A large black-and-white striped awning on the main thoroughfare caught her eye, and she slowed to see it was a restaurant. When she got close enough to read the sign, she burst out laughing. Raven barked, as if she, too, could read the sign.
“The Raven’s Nest. Well, whatdya know?” She pulled into an empty parking spot in front of the restaurant. Turning to Raven, she said, “With that name, we’ve got to check this place out.”
After lowering the windows to allow fresh air into the SUV for Raven, Cassie shut off the engine and threw the key chain with its bulky remote start gizmo into her handbag. She grabbed her gun and extra magazines and shoved them on top of her detective’s shield inside the bag. Before leaving the vehicle, she looked through the rear window, then each way along the street. No one was watching or waiting for her, at least not that she could see.
To Raven, she ordered, “Stay. Guard.”
After getting out of the Trail Blazer, she smoothed a few wrinkles from her jeans and cream-colored camisole then headed to the restaurant, her sandals clip-clopping on the pavement. A cool, welcome breeze whipped her hair in front of her face. She tucked it behind her ears and glanced back to see wind ruffling Raven’s fur as the dog stuck her head out the open window. No need to worry about anyone stealing something in the Trail Blazer, not with a seriously intense former K-9 standing watch.
The striped awning of the quaint café shielded a bank of large windows, giving the place a French bistro-type flair. When she pulled open the front door, a small brass bell jingled overhead. No sooner had the door shut behind her than the warmth and hospitality of the place became obvious.
The floors were a classic black-and-white vinyl checkerboard design, with matching gingham curtains hanging at the windows. Bright red cloths adorned the round tables and the rectangular booths. Cassie estimated the restaurant could accommodate about seventy-five people at maximum occupancy.
Kitchen bells dinged and dishes clattered. The smell of bacon and fried eggs made Cassie’s mouth water. Waitresses in black uniforms balanced enormous circular trays loaded with food and still managed to fill customers’ coffee cups at the same time. An antique brass cash register rang every time the cash drawer opened.
The place was in the midst of breakfast chaos, and she loved it. This was exactly the kind of restaurant she had once imagined opening. That was, when her dream of being a chef had been alive and well.
Cassie made her way to the counter and sat at a barstool. Her seat gave her an unobstructed view into the kitchen, and she realized that had been the design plan, to make the kitchen staff part of the entertainment. She could see through the opening to the commercial ovens and grills where three chefs in white uniforms clanged spatulas, flipped eggs and flapjacks, and scooped up steaming piles of hash browns.
The kinetic energy of the place seeped into her veins, awakening a yearning she’d long ago ditched for the allure of a shiny gold badge. She sighed. This could have been my life, the one I really wanted. If only she hadn’t caved to family tradition and become a cop. First her grandfather, then her father. All three of her brothers, then her. Dad had been so proud when she’d received her detective’s shield. The whole family had turned out for the ceremony.
Cassie swiveled on the stool, allowing her to take in more of the restaurant’s interior. The walls were a rich golden color and looked like aged Venetian plaster. Tasteful paintings of foreign places added to the European bistro atmosphere. The only modern accessory on the walls was a large television mounted high over the serving counter. Local morning news blared out over the din from the kitchen.
Something slapping loudly behind her made Cassie spin. A slim woman in her early forties, about five-three and buzzing with energy, stood on the other side of the counter. Sitting on the surface in front of her was a large laminated menu.
“Coffee?” the waitress asked in a friendly tone.
The woman, whose tag indicated her name was Rose, had stylishly coiffed short, spiky brown hair, in an Upper East Side kind of way. Her mascara, eyeliner, and red lipstick were flawlessly applied. She wore a pale green skirt and matching green silk short-sleeved blouse. A thick gold necklace, bracelet, and button earrings completed the ensemble. Not your typical small-town waitress getup. Hostess, maybe.
“Please.” Cassie returned Rose’s smile.
“Make that two,” a deep, masculine voice said from close behind her—a voice that sent pleasant chills racing up her spine. “I’ll take mine to go.”
“Hey, Mike,” Rose said as she turned to pour two cups of coffee, one into a white mug and one into a paper cup. “Dressed kind of casual this morning, aren’t you?”
Cassie swiveled her stool enough to check out the body from which that incredible voice had come. Oh, man. She did a double take, the guy was hot. And so, so close, not three inches from her shoulder.
Mike, as Rose called him, was about six-three, with thick, dark brown hair that curled adorably around his ears. He had the clearest, deep blue eyes she’d ever seen, making her feel as if she were peering into the translucent waters of the Caribbean.
Faded jeans hugged a pair of long, muscular legs while a not too snug black T-shirt clung to a broad, sculpted chest. She could well imagine running her fingers through Mike’s wavy brown locks, something she’d never been able to do with any cop she dated. Most of them cut their hair so short they might as well have been bald.
“Gotta head to Albany for training,” Mike said to Rose. “Call Jimmy if you need anything. He’ll be more than happy to oblige.”
Cassie finished admiring Mike’s body, right up to his ruggedly handsome jawline covered by a light growth of beard. The only thing marring his tanned face was a scar above his left eye. Nah, marring wasn’t the right word. It made him look sexier. And a little dangerous. When she lowered her gaze, she was pinned by a pair of twinkling eyes.
Oh, jeez. Caught staring. Smooth, Yates. Real smooth.
“Hi,” Mike said.
The café was still as noisy as when Cassie first walked in, but for some odd reason she barely noticed it. The only thing she heard was that deep, melting voice directed straight at her. “Hi,” she managed to mumble.
“Here you both go,” she heard Rose say, but the woman’s voice sounded far, far away.
All Cassie’s senses kicked into overdrive, but her brain stopped performing with its usual crisp, detective-like efficiency.
Heat emanating from the man was like a warm caress on her body. And that scent he wore… It reminded her of Old Spice, only more subtle, more sophisticated. That aftershave did wonders for a guy, not to mention it was a surefire way to get her hormones revved into high gear. If they hadn’t been land-locked, Cassie would have bet this guy really did have a girl in every port. She could practically hear the Old Spice jingle in her head.
“Thanks, Rose,” Mike said without taking his gaze from Cassie.
At first his expression was inquisitive, almost suspicious. As he narrowed his eyes, dark brows drew together. For an instant, she had the impression he was sizing her up—and not in a physical way. She could practically see the gears turning in his head. Her brother Gray got the same way when he was trying to figure out whether a suspect was handing him a line of shit.
Well, what the heck is this about? I stopped in for coffee and chow, not to rob the joint.
A slow, easy grin tipped the corners of Mike’s mouth, stopping just short of a full-fledged smile. Then again, maybe he was just ogling, since from where he stood he had a bird’s-eye view straight down her camisole to her braless breasts.
“Staying in town or passing through?” he asked.
“Uh…” She could barely form a coherent sentence. Something about this total stranger took her breath—and her speaking faculties—away. “Passing through.”
Mike’s full, sexy mouth curved upward, revealing a gorgeous set of white teeth. “Shame.”
“Uh, yeah,” she muttered. Crap. She’d never been at a loss for words. Bullshit was her forte, something honed to professional undercover perfection.
“Sugar? Milk?”
She turned as Rose plunked a jar of sugar and a spoon onto the counter, along with a small silver pitcher of milk. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Rose winked at her, then looked to Mike with raised eyebrows. “Hair’s getting a little long, isn’t it, Mike?” When he didn’t answer, Cassie was afraid to look at him to see if those intense blue eyes were still focused on her. The café was air-conditioned, but her neck and chest felt hot and sweat began to drip between her shoulder blades.
Get over it. He’s just a hot guy, and I’ll never see him again.
“Mike?” Rose repeated.
“I’ll get it cut when I come back. Wouldn’t want the town to think I was getting sloppy. Gotta go. See you in a week.”
“Have a good trip,” Rose said.
“Thanks,” he answered as he reached for the paper cup and dropped money onto the counter.
“Mornin’, Mike,” one of the waitresses called out.
“Morning, Ginny,” he answered.
“See ya when you get back,” one of the customers yelled from the far end of the counter.
Mike waved to the customer and turned to Cassie. “Any chance you’ll be passing through again in a couple of weeks? This town throws one hell of a July Fourth party.”
“Now what kind of party would be worth driving all the way back here for?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Depends.” He gave her a look that melted her insides like a grilled cheese sandwich. “Where did you say you were from?”
“Didn’t.” She pressed her lips together, partly to keep from blurting out something about herself that she shouldn’t, but mostly to keep from grinning like an idiot. One itty-bitty minute and this guy had every nerve ending in her body tingling louder than a chorus of Christmas bells. She couldn’t stop the little grin curving her lips.
“You should try to make it.” Mike lowered his voice. His eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. “I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Do you want it to be?”
Hell, yeah.
“Sounds intriguing,” she answered in a wistful tone that she heard as much as felt, and for a moment, New York City and the NYPD suddenly seemed very, very far away. In another life. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever be back here.”
A flicker of something passed across Mike’s face. Was it…disappointment?
“Well then, nice to meet you,” he said with a wink that made her heart go ga-gong. Mike shot her one last devastating look before turning away.
She watched his perfectly formed butt as it disappeared through the door. Mike was gone, but his presence and the effect he had on her lingered. Her libido might as well be groaning. When she turned back to the counter, Rose fixed her with laughing hazel eyes.
“That was Mike,” Rose said.
“Apparently so.” Cassie let out an embarrassed laugh. She felt like a teenager with a crush on the high school quarterback.
“Mike is Hopewell Spring’s—”
An angry shout with a heavy French accent pierced the air.
“Not again.” Rose rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you a few more minutes to decide what you want.” She pivoted and rushed into the kitchen.
From her stool Cassie had the best seat in the house to watch a large man in classic white chef’s garb gesturing and shouting at the kitchen staff, using what Cassie knew from her limited knowledge of the French language to be curse words. Nasty, degrading ones at that.
Tuning out the rude berating, she scanned the menu, but surprisingly, there was only standard diner fare. She’d expected a more interesting variety based upon the ambience someone had so obviously strived to achieve with both the interior and exterior decor.
A simple fried egg and cheese sandwich would hit the spot. While she waited for her order to be taken, that same French voice shouted loudly enough for everyone in the café to hear. Back in the kitchen, the Frenchman towered over Rose, reminding Cassie of far too many cops she’d worked with over the years who’d tried to intimidate her by sheer size alone. She’d always chalked it up to them secretly being intimidated by her, but it still pissed her off to see it happen to someone else.
“That is too damned bad, Madame,” the Frenchman shouted in a heavy accent. “I cannot work with such inferior staff. Either you fire them, or I quit. The choice is yours.” He lifted his chin and aimed haughty stares at each of the young kitchen staff, as if Rose’s decision was a foregone conclusion.
“You can’t quit.” Rose’s voice rose. “You signed a contract and I have a restaurant full of people. We’re in the middle of service.”
The entire restaurant went silent, like someone turned off the talk switch. Every patron turned his or her attention to the kitchen. Some rose from their seats to watch the show. Or to step in, perhaps, if things got too rough on Rose. The kitchen staff, which looked like it consisted of two other chefs and a kid washing dishes, abandoned their tasks to witness the heated confrontation. Even the three waitresses froze with their mouths open, balancing plates of food on their hands.
The Frenchman looked down his nose at Rose. “Without the proper staff, I consider my contract to be null and void.” His blatant attempt at intimidation was lost on the petite woman who parked both her fists on her slim hips.
“Mr. Pierre,” she growled, “I’ve had enough of your pompous whining. Since the day I hired you, you’ve berated every one of my hardworking staff and you’ve tried to do it to me, too. I tolerated your piss-poor attitude because you trained at some fancy culinary school in Paris. But I must say, your talents in the kitchen have been disappointing.”
Mr. Pierre opened his pudgy mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a shimmering painted fingernail aimed at his face. Cassie could swear lightning bolts radiated from the woman’s short, spiky hair. Rose was a good five inches shorter than Mr. Pierre and probably weighed close to two hundred pounds less, but with her powerhouse personality, she more than made up for it.
“I paid you good money for your high and mighty résumé,” Rose continued, “but it’s hardly been worth it. This menu sucks.” She grabbed a nearby menu and threw it onto the floor of the kitchen. “Business never took off like you assured me it would. For this time of day, my restaurant should be packed wall to wall, people lined up on the sidewalk, and it’s not. And you know why? It’s your damned cooking. So you can’t quit, Mon Sewer Pierre, because you’re fired! Get out of my kitchen. Now!”
With a French-accented huff and a snort, Mon Sewer Pierre yanked his chef’s cap from his head, threw it to the floor, and stormed out the back door of the kitchen.
For a long moment, nobody in the restaurant said a word. Then one of the sous-chefs clapped. The other chef chimed in, grinning, followed by the kid who’d been washing dishes, then some of the patrons. Waitresses put down their trays and applauded loudly, followed by every customer in the café. The sound was deafening, and Cassie couldn’t help but join in. One of the waitresses, a plump woman with her hair in a bun, put her fingers into her mouth and whistled. Obviously, Mr. Pierre was not a town favorite.
Rose massaged her temples for a few moments, then came out from the kitchen and stood in the center aisle between the tables and the booths. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she addressed the customers in a calm voice, “I apologize for the disturbance and for any delay this will cause you in being served. We’ll try to accommodate everyone as quickly as possible. Coffee’s on the house this morning.”
“No problem, Rosie,” a customer shouted from the other end of the counter. “We never thought the Frenchie’s cooking was that great anyway.” Snickers and laughs erupted from every corner of the restaurant.
“Dear God,” Rose murmured. “What have I done?”
“Oh, honey,” the plump waitress said, placing her hand on Rose’s shoulder, “we’ll all pitch in until you can get another chef.”
Cassie looked around the restaurant. Half the customers were still waiting for their meals. Rose certainly did need another chef and she needed one now.
“Maybe I can help,” Cassie heard herself say.
Rose turned to her. “How?”
“I can cook.”
“Ever work in a restaurant?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you think you can take over a head chef position?” Rose eyed her with unconcealed doubt but cocked her head, as if curious about her qualifications.
Here goes.
Cassie took a deep breath. “I graduated from the Culinary Institute of America. I never worked at a restaurant, but I’ve cooked for hundreds at upscale charity events.” Police Benevolent Association fund-raisers, truth be told. “And I grew up cooking for my entire family. Other than that, I’m just a gourmet chef wannabe with a lot of experience on the experimental side.” And nothing but time on my hands. For a little while, anyway.
Rose pursed her rouge-colored lips. “Experimental?”
“I like to use local fresh ingredients and put my own spin on the classics.”
“We could certainly use a fresh spin on things. And”—Rose nodded to the kitchen—“I’m desperate.” She assessed Cassie from head to toe. “Hop in back, get yourself an apron, and whip me up something gourmet and ‘experimental’ for breakfast. Then we’ll talk.”
Cassie couldn’t contain her smile. She jumped off the stool and headed around the counter to the kitchen, chewing the inside of her lip.
What have I gotten myself into? A hit man is after me and I’m auditioning for a temp job as Chef Boyardee.
Then again, she was more excited about something than she’d been in years. Her last thought before entering the kitchen was that Raven would probably be cool enough in the Trail Blazer, but she hoped the dog wouldn’t get bored and tear up the inside of the SUV. Lt. Frye would not be pleased.
“Chuck,” Rose shouted through the kitchen opening, “get— What’s your name?”
“Cassie. Cassie Younger.” The fictitious name she’d used years ago rolled off her lips so easily it was like she’d walked away from that undercover burglary gig only yesterday.
“Get Cassie an apron, show her where everything is, then stand back.”
There were no other introductions to the kitchen staff other than Chuck, who eyed her with limited hostility. Cassie guessed he expected to be promoted to head chef after Mr. Pierre’s untimely departure.
Ignoring Chuck’s tamped-down irritation, she quickly familiarized herself with what ingredients were available and where all the kitchen tools were. Within minutes, everything fell into place. Her body came alive. Just looking at the shiny stainless-steel commercial stoves and ovens was enough to get her juices flowing. It was as if she was born to work here. She briefly wondered what to make for Rose, then an idea crystallized.
She snooped around in the bread baskets and found some challah, which she sliced thickly. After whisking together a decadent custard flavored with vanilla, fresh orange juice, and grated orange peel, she added a splash of Grand Marnier. She dipped the bread slices into the custard and placed them on a baking sheet. After a light sprinkling of coarse natural sugar on top, she baked the bread slices until they were puffed and golden and the sugar grains glistened. A light tapping of confectioner’s sugar, a few thin slices of orange, and a sprig of mint. Ready for Rose’s judgment.
Within twenty minutes of setting foot in the kitchen, Cassie placed a platter on the counter before Rose. Next to it, she plunked down a metal pitcher of warm syrup. The heady scents of vanilla, orange, and freshly baked egg bread suffused the air.
“What is it?” Rose looked from the plate to Cassie.
“It’s my take on orange crème brûlée French toast, Mr. Pierre notwithstanding.” Cassie smiled at her crack on the arrogant Frenchman. “Try it with some warm maple syrup.”
Rose leaned her face closer to the plate and inhaled. “Smells good,” she murmured, then poured a hefty amount of syrup on top. She cut off a piece of toast, swirled it into the syrup, and was about to pop it into her mouth when Cassie interrupted.
“It would be better made from brioche and drizzled with cane syrup,” Cassie said, then bit her lower lip. “But I didn’t have time to bake my own bread, and I could only find maple syrup.”
Rose paused with a bite of puffy toast dripping syrup onto her plate. “Are you going to let me eat this?”
Cassie clammed up, as did everyone else in the restaurant. When Rose put the first bite into her mouth and began chewing, Cassie held her breath. Rose’s assessment of her cooking suddenly meant more to her than busting bad guys every day. All eyes in the place were on Rose, waiting for her edict as if the fate of the entire town rested on the outcome.
Moments later, Rose opened her eyes, cut off another bite, and ate it at a painstakingly slow pace. Cassie imagined Rose’s palate was dissecting her dish, deciphering every ingredient, and the wait was killing her. Again, Cassie bit her lower lip, something she rarely did. By her count, she’d done it at least twice in the last five minutes.
Rose swallowed, tilted her head, and a great big smile lit her ruby lips. “This is incredible! When can you start?”
Cassie exhaled the breath she’d been holding. Cheers and hoots filled the air as waitresses and patrons clapped. A few of them stood to pat Cassie on the back.
“Atta girl, honey.” The plump waitress with her hair in a bun winked at her. “I’m Sue and that’s Ginny.” Sue pointed to another waitress, a slim woman about twenty years old, with dark shoulder-length hair and freckles. Ginny smiled at Cassie from across the dining room where she tended to a table by the window.
“Welcome to The Raven’s Nest, or, the Nest, as we call it.” Sue extended her hand and Cassie shook it. “Rose used to be a hard-nosed Wall Street broker and she’s one tough customer to please. You’ll do great.”
The pure joy on Rose’s face filled Cassie with happiness, something her job with the NYPD hadn’t done in a long, long time. Well, if she had to be on the lam hiding out from a hit man, what better way to spend the time than doing what she loved most—cooking!
At the end of the day, Cassie was exhausted but exhilarated. She could see it on the Food Network: Cassie Yates—The Gourmet Detective.
She kicked back on a plush yellow couch and rested her achy feet on the oak coffee table. Like the rest of Hopewell Springs, the hundred-year-old, fully furnished colonial Rose had arranged for her to rent was quaint and adorable.
Cassie mused over the stark contrast between the happy, welcoming warmth of Hopewell Springs and the cold, dark ugliness she’d left behind in New York City. But it was more than that. She no longer craved the excitement of the NYPD, the all-consuming adrenaline rush of busting sleazy bad guys on a daily basis. For the first time since she’d received her badge, she was filled with a newfound sense of purpose that had nothing to do with the shiny badge in her pocket.
When she’d walked up the red brick path leading to the house’s freshly painted front porch, she’d felt like she was coming home. Dark green shutters graced the yellow exterior. Sweet-smelling rows of rose bushes delineated both adjacent property lines. The quiet road was dotted with similar houses on either side and across the street, also painted in vibrant colors.
As if giving her own approval of their new home, Raven circled three times before lying down on the large blue floral rug that covered most of the living room floor, then let out a contented sigh. As did Cassie. After a full day standing in front of a stove, her feet were killing her, but it was a good pain.
The memory of Mike’s large, strong hand gripping his cup of coffee flashed in her head. She’d bet he gave a kick-ass foot massage. Her belly fluttered as she remembered the hot way he’d looked at her. When he’d left the Nest, she assumed she would never see him again, but now…running into each other was a certainty.
But no matter how happy she was for the moment in Hopewell Springs, letting down her guard would never be an option. She was still an NYPD detective, and nailing whoever was trying to put her six feet under took priority over culinary bliss.
Cassie pulled her cell phone from the handbag lying beside her and dialed her partner’s number. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell he was pissed.
“Save me the heartburn and check in on time, will ya?” Dom stated, rather than asked.
“Okay, sorry. I tried calling you from the road, but there’s a dead zone on most of the Thruway north of Albany.” She hesitated. “Then I was busy, uh, working.”
A moment of silence. “Working?”
Cassie twisted a lock of hair around one of her fingers as she told Dom about her new job, intentionally leaving out details about exactly where she was working and staying. The last thing she wanted was for Gray and Dom to hightail it upstate and drag her back into protective custody. Eventually, she’d have to tell them, but for now she wanted to stay lost. Even to them.
Dom sounded annoyed. “Your only job should be to keep yourself alive.”
“Look, I don’t know how long I’ll have to hide out, so I might as well make the best of things, and cooking is something I love.”
She heard a loud, frustrated breath over the phone before Dom continued. “I don’t like it, but if you have to do this, keep your head low.”
“Of course I will. No one knows I’m in this part of the state, and I’m not using my real name.”
“Pretty soon, Rod Manici will find out who you are.”
“I know that.” She tucked a fluffy pillow behind her head and leaned back. “When you turn over copies of the body-wire recordings for discovery, my real name will be all over them.”
“Yeah, well…” Dom snorted. “Whatever they think your name is, there’s still a hit on you, and naturally Manici’s attorney is denying his client is behind it.”
“Does he think we’re that stupid? Nobody’s going to buy that story.”
“’Course not.” Dom paused. “But Manici won’t submit to a polygraph, and you know we can’t force him to take one.”
Cassie rubbed her forehead, trying to massage away the ache growing behind her skull. “It has to be Manici. He owns the place. Who else connected with La Femme would have a vested interest in seeing me dead?”
“That’s another thing,” Dom said. “Even if you were dead, the hearsay exception for unavailable witnesses allows any recordings and reports you made to be admitted in court as evidence. So why would Manici risk putting a hit on you?” Squeaking from Dom’s desk chair came to Cassie’s ear. “It wouldn’t change a thing and would only focus the spotlight more on him than it is already. Those tapes alone are enough to put him away. Something’s not right here.”
“I agree,” Cassie said, visualizing Dom rocking in his chair and shaking his head. “Manici may be a scumbag, but he never struck me as having enough balls to hire a hit man.”
The squeaking abruptly stopped.
“You hear that?” Dom’s voice was sharp.
“Hear what?”
“Clicking.”
Cassie closed her eyes and covered her other ear with her hand, straining to pick up on whatever Dom was hearing.
“Cass, hang up!” Dom shouted. “Do it now!”
Without asking questions, Cassie punched the button on her cell phone to disconnect the call. Her heart pounded as understanding slammed home.
The precinct phones were bugged.
And she’d given up her exact location. Or had she?
For the next hour she paced the living room floor, waiting for Dom to call back, all the while reviewing their conversation. Aside from acknowledging she was upstate and working as a cook, she hadn’t disclosed any specifics. She was sure of it.
At least, she thought so.
Her phone rang. It was Dom, calling from his cell phone. Her partner didn’t mince words.
“My desk phone’s bugged. So’s Gray’s. I just had our cell phones checked and they’re both clean. You need to go into protective custody. Now.”
Cassie took a deep breath. “No.”
“Whatdya mean, no?” Dom roared.
Cassie winced and jerked the phone from her ear. “All I said when we talked was that I was upstate. I’m positive I didn’t say where. New York is a huge state. There’s no way anyone could actually find me.”
Again, she held the phone away from her ear as her partner let loose with a litany of colorful expletives. She waited patiently for him to unload and calm down.
“I don’t like it,” Dom growled, “and neither does Gray. He’s throwing a conniption over how someone managed this in our own house. It was an old-fashioned job by an amateur, not the modern undetectable digital wiretap. Bugging precinct phones is beyond ballsy and a helluva risk. Lt. Frye wants IA in on this. We’ve got a dirty cop, and we need to clean house. Bottom line, you must have seen or heard something pretty damn important at La Femme that isn’t on the recordings. Think, Cass, what the hell is it?”
She frowned. “Everything I know, you know. This was a standard undercover job with all the hot evidence on the body wires. The only thing I can suggest is looking at those blackmail videotapes Manici made to keep his wealthy clients in line. Maybe there’s something there.”
“We’ve got someone going over them now, but there must be ten years worth of tapes. If you think of anything else, call me ASAP, day or night. I mean…shit.” Dom’s voice softened. “You’re the best-looking partner I’ve ever had, and I don’t want to have to train a new one. I like making the other guys jealous when they stare across their desks at their ugly, unshaven, belching partners.”
“I miss you, too, Dom.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. If you’ve got to do this, at least tell me where you are. For safety reasons, the lieutenant will insist on knowing.”
Cassie blew out a breath. “Fine, but promise me you and Gray won’t drag me back to the city.” Dead silence on the end of the phone. “Promise me!”
“Okay, okay,” Dom said.
Reluctantly, Cassie rattled off the address of the Nest and the house where she was staying.
“And before I forget,” Dom added, “Frye says you should consider this a paid vacation until you have to come back to testify against Manici in grand jury.”
“Tell him I said thanks. For the vacation, that is.” With a bitter laugh and a shake of her head, she ended the call. “Some vacation,” she said to Raven, who had come to sit by the sofa. “A vacation from getting killed.”
No matter how much fun she might have pretending to be a chef for a while, someone out there still wanted her dead.