Chapter Two
Of all the fucked-up things Jo had ever said to him, and there’d been plenty, this was tops on the list.
Gabe sat up, stared right into those blue eyes of hers and saw something he’d only seen once, maybe twice before. Gone was the usual intensity and the fixed focus, the single-minded stubbornness that sometimes fired his temper and caused one hell of a fight. Right now, he didn’t see any of that. What he had here were wide, spooked eyes that screamed of fear.
Jo. Afraid. What. The. Fuck?
He reached behind him, grabbed the towel from the rack and stood. “What are you saying?”
Jo flapped her hands, paced back-and-forth, which—hell, no—he’d never seen this hand-flapping-pacing thing either. Never. His girl was coming unglued.
He toweled off enough to stop dripping and stepped out of the tub, securing the towel at his waist. Grabbing hold of her, he pulled her into a hug. “Babe, slow down. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
She rested her forehead against his chest and sucked in a huge breath. “Before I came to pick you up, the S.W.A.T. guys were on a call so I had time to kill.”
And, goddamnit, he knew what this was. Every time she was bored, no matter how much he begged her not to, she went shopping for knockoffs. Don’t yell, don’t yell, don’t yell. He ground his teeth together, locked ’em tight before he lost it on her. That wouldn’t help. Considering her current state of whatever the hell this was.
She turned her head, rested her cheek against him, and nuzzled into his neck. “Don’t freak out. I have a job to do.”
Yep. Shopping for knockoffs. Probably alone. Focus here, guy. “I know that. Just tell me what happened.”
“I can’t believe you’re not yelling.”
Ha. It was still early in the conversation. Anything remained possible. “If you don’t start talking, I will be. Spill it.”
She marched out of the bathroom, flipped open the suitcase he’d set on the luggage rack and rifled through it. When Jo got nervous, she stayed active. Right now, active meant digging clothes out for him. Whatever. As long as he got the whole story, she could dress him in a butler uniform.
“I went into a store,” she said, “in the Fashion District. There’s a ton of knockoffs being sold there, Gabe. It’s really crazy. As bad as when we first started in New York. Tons of opportunities.”
He closed his eyes, concentrated on staying calm. Calm, calm, calm. “Jo.”
She gave up on tearing apart his suitcase and tossed her hands up. “Okay, I’m sorry. I went into a few stores, but the last one—” She stopped. Put her hands over her face, burst into tears, and dropped onto the bed. “Oh, my God,” she shrieked, “it was on the news!”
And, holy, holy shit. This kind of panic from a woman who chased down bad guys and beat on them with her shoes didn’t compute. Not at all. Mission critical. Handling this in a towel would suck the motherlode, so he snatched up the first pair of boxer briefs and shorts from the suitcase and slid them on. He squatted in front of her, ran his hands under her silky robe and over her bare thighs. Ice cold. Yet another first. “Just tell me. You’ll feel better once you get it out and we’ll deal with it.” He pulled her hands away from her face and ran his thumbs over her wet cheeks. His chest hurt. A plunging pain that went right through him because Jo, strong, solid, fearless Jo, had one hell of a freak-out going. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
She nodded, drew three deep breaths and let the last one out in slow bursts. “I was in the store. I was the only customer.”
Shit.
“And someone else came in. A biker guy. The biker guys are big out here.”
They sure were. And the sons of bitches were mean. Violent too. “How do you know he was a biker?”
She patted his chest just over his heart. “Patches. He had on a leather vest with patches. And the back had a rocker. You know that patch on the back in the shape of an arch?”
“I know. Go on.”
“It said 12th Street Crew. He creeped me out a little bit. You know, typical jerk, checking me out. Staring at my ass, that kind of thing.”
Now Gabe was the one breathing deep, keeping his temper in check. Men noticed Jo. Simple fact. Kinda hard not to with the long legs and the great rack and a face so perfect he figured some angel dropped it straight outta heaven. Most of the time, he didn’t worry about it. Men were men. They looked. Lately though, he’d gotten territorial and the more men looked, the more it pissed him off.
“Did he say anything?”
“No. He walked to the back of the store. A few minutes later, I heard arguing.”
“From the back?”
“Yes.”
“I’d just bought a pair of shoes and the woman helping me—” She sucked in another breath, slammed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Oh, my God. I was irritated because she was taking so long.”
He squeezed her legs, gently, but enough to get her attention. “Jo, you gotta focus here. Tell me what happened.”
And, cripes, she grabbed his hands in a grip tight enough to crack a few digits. Ow. “Okay, tiger. Try not to break my fingers.”
“Sorry.” She let go of him, shook her hands out and started talking again. “She went into the back room to get me another pair of shoes. A fresh pair. And they were all still yelling.”
“The woman too?”
“Yes. I was impatient because I knew you were landing soon and I didn’t want to be late. But she came back out and I got the weirdest feeling.”
Now this was a serious problem. As much as he fucking hoped for it, begged for it, because maybe, just maybe, if some internal sensor went off inside her, she’d hightail it out of whatever situation had spooked her. No matter how much he hoped and prayed and begged, Jo never got weird feelings. Her instincts went the other way. The way that told her to charge in and not worry about the bad shit that could happen. “What feeling?”
“Like something wasn’t right. I knew it and wanted to get out of there. Before that biker guy had walked in, I didn’t feel it. It was him. He had rotten energy.”
“And then what?”
“That’s it. The clerk gave me the bag and I left. That was right after I checked the time. So maybe 3:32 or 3:33. I got out of there fast, cut across the street, walked down the next block and got to my car in probably less than five minutes.”
Okay. Now, she’d just told him she’d left the store without incident. Maybe his S.W.A.T. brain had already slowed to vacation mode, but he wasn’t seeing where she’d witnessed a murder. “And then you came right to the airport?”
“Yes.”
Welcome to confusion land. Please stay seated until the captain turns off the seatbelt sign. He held his hands up. “Uh, where was the murder?”
“I didn’t actually see it.
Can we say twisted? He cocked his head. “Seriously, babe, are you on something?”
“What? No!” She flapped her arms. “You ass! I just saw on the news that a woman and a man were murdered in a store in the Fashion District. At 3:40 this afternoon.”
Ah, shit. He sat back on his heels, dropped his chin to his chest and cracked his neck. “Tell me it wasn’t the store you came out of.”
She bit her lip and nodded.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive. The reporter was standing right in front of the store. She said there were no witnesses. Only people who heard the shots and that the killer ran out the back door.” She squeezed his hands. “I have to go to the police. Tell them about that biker guy.”
“Just hang on a sec.”
Goddamn squatting killed his knees. He stood, shook out his legs, propped his hands on his hips. Back home, he’d already be on the phone with his boss, figuring out how to do this without putting Jo in danger. Out here? All he knew was LA bikers were notorious for their brutality. Gang rapes, murder, assault—none of it was off-limits. And Jo might now be able to identify one of them in relation to a double murder. Jesus. “If we were in New York, I’d call Tom. What about the lieutenant you’ve been riding with. Palermo?”
“I can call him,” she said. “He’s my day-to-day contact. I ride with him when the guys do hits and he lets me go into the stores after they clear them. He’s basically you here in LA. Well, not you, of course, but you know what I mean.”
Yeah, he knew. For weeks now she’d been talking about him, chattering on about how he was LA’s version of Gabe. Only he was a lieutenant. Not that Jo said that. She wouldn’t. They’d been together long enough for her to know Gabe wanted to make lieutenant and comparing him to this Palermo guy would only irritate him.
But right now, he was their go-to guy.
“Okay,” Gabe said. “Start with him. He’ll know how to handle this.”
* * *
Jo scrolled to Wes Palermo’s name, tapped the little green phone icon and placed the call on speaker. With her shattered nerves, having Gabe listen in would only help in case she missed something. She glanced to where he stood, feet spread wide, arms loose at his sides, so in control and commanding that she said a silent thanks for every blessing that had this man in front of her. If this had happened yesterday, she’d have been alone. Don’t think about it.
She waggled the phone. “I want you to hear in case I miss something.”
“Good idea.” He sat next to her on the bed and dropped a kiss on her head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Could be it wasn’t the guy you saw.”
Wes’s ringing phone blared from the speaker. “You think someone else walked into that store within five minutes of me leaving and committed two murders?”
He shrugged. “Hey, I’m trying.”
“I know.” She kissed him quick. “And thank you.”
On the third ring, one away from voicemail, Wes picked up. “Hey, Counselor.”
Next to her, Gabe’s shoulders flew back. Oh, she knew what this was. From the moment they’d met, she and Gabe had a sarcastic way of communicating. When it came to humor, they shared the same wit and in those early days thrived on one-upping each other. In an attempt to rattle her, Gabe would call her counselor. She retaliated by calling him sergeant and the whole thing became a game. Now, it was part of their love language and often, when in bed, the dirty talk included use of counselor and sergeant. A playful reminder of how far they’d come.
At least until her beloved heard Wes Palermo use her moniker. Suddenly, Gabe was all tense and his stony face had the look of a man bent on war. Being the most self-confident, commanding man she knew definitely had its limits. But, really? Now he decides to get jealous?
She squeezed his thigh, then gave it a please-don’t-do-this-to-me pat. “Hi,” she said into the phone.
“I thought you had a friend coming in,” Wes said.
A friend. Great. Gabe would love being referred to as her friend. In the last ten minutes, her terrific day had not just disintegrated, it had been blown out of the atmosphere. Pow. Gone.
As expected, Gabe shot off the bed, prowled to an open spot on the wall, leaned against it and folded his arms. The go-to stance when he didn’t like the way a conversation progressed. She didn’t necessarily blame him. If the roles had been reversed and she’d heard him refer to her as a “friend” when talking to another woman, one who Jo might feel the teensiest bit professionally competitive with, it probably wouldn’t sit well.
But telling Wes she had a friend coming in seemed the only way to go. Back in New York, she and Gabe kept their relationship quiet. No use in flaunting it when they were both part of a task force that could make—or break—their careers. Chances were, if news of their relationship spread, the mayor would make one of them leave the task force. And neither of them wanted that. So, yes, in order to preserve their privacy, she’d told Wes she had a friend coming in.
And Gabe obviously didn’t like that.
“I did. Do. Whatever. He’s here.”
There. She’d said it. Put it right out there. Sort of. She locked eyes with Gabe, forcing him to acknowledge she’d made it clear her friend was male.
“Then why are you calling me? It’s Friday night. Take a night off, Counselor.”
And, again with the counselor nonsense. Why didn’t Wes just shoot a flaming arrow at her? Gabe propped a foot against the wall and tapped his fingers against his extremely large biceps. This just kept getting better.
“I think I have a situation,” she said to Wes. “I may need your help.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“I’d rather not talk on the phone. Can we meet somewhere? I know it’s Friday night and you’re probably headed home, but it’s important. I wouldn’t ask—”
“Jo, it’s okay. I’m still packing up at work anyway. Are you at your hotel? I could swing by.”
Gabe switched feet on the wall, and if Jo wasn’t in the midst of a full-blown crisis, she’d have laughed. The sex god of the century had finally revealed a weakness. Gabe hated weakness. His job pretty much dictated that weakness was a flaw. The man was always so confident and powerful she’d begun to wonder if he actually had any insecurities. In everything he undertook, even when she had a bomb strapped to her, he had never faltered.
Until now.
“Hang on, Wes.” She put her hand over the phone and locked eyes with Gabe again. “I love you. Whatever is going on with you, I need you to stop. We can talk about it later, but I need you now, Gabe. Please.”
She went back to Wes. “I’m back. Sorry. Yes. The hotel is fine. We’ll meet you in the lobby. I’ll see if they have a small conference room we can grab. I’d like to talk in private.”
“Affirmative. Be there in twenty.”
“Thanks.”
She disconnected and faced Gabe, making sure to keep her body still. Assertive but not combative. A fight right now wouldn’t help. But, dammit, he had to pick now to turn into an ornery teenager?
Alpha males. Unbelievable.
“Seriously,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re suspicious.”
“I’m not suspicious. Jealous maybe. Not suspicious. Never that. I trust you. More than anyone. You’ve also been here three weeks and I’ve missed you. I guess I don’t like other men being so familiar.”
“Because he knows where my hotel is? That’s familiar? For God’s sakes, he picked me up my first morning here. That’s why he knows. And, Sergeant, if you remember, you called me counselor the first day we met. Frankly, if I walked into any courtroom, someone would call me counselor. You don’t have the market on it.”
His eyes widened. Haza! Rational Gabe back in the house.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. Shook his head. “I’m an asshole.”
“Right now, yes. A little bit.”
“Crap. I’m sorry. I’m…worked up.”
And, wow. That, she knew, took every bit of his monstrous strength to admit. What a damned night. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have agreed with you on that asshole thing. You’re not.” She moved closer, gently wrapped her hand around his forearm. “This is all new to us. Being apart for weeks, me working with other men without you, this murder… It’s all hitting at once. And we’re out of our environment. It’s okay to be rattled. You don’t have to be in charge this time.”
“But I hate that.”
“I know. Out here though, you’re way out of your jurisdiction. You know that. It’s okay because we have other people to call on.”
“Lieutenant Palermo.”
Of course the man would be a lieutenant, a status Gabe worked his body into the ground for, but hadn’t yet achieved. “Yes. Palermo. He’ll know what to do. And believe me, Gabe, Wes is a nice guy, but he’s not you. Never will be. Not even close. Got it?”
He pushed off the wall and wrapped her in a hug that she realized she desperately needed. For a minute there, strong, solid Gabe had gone a little cuckoo. Maybe they were both a little cuckoo.
Maybe?
Who was she kidding? No maybe about it.
* * *
The second Lieutenant Wes Palermo stepped into the hotel lobby, Gabe tagged him. Cops, S.W.A.T. in particular, had a swagger about them. A do-not-mess-with-me confidence that let everyone in a two hundred yard radius know that he was a badass.
His tactical uniform—cargos, button-down shirt and a pair of side-zip boots that looked a hell of a lot like the ones Gabe wore—was also a dead fucking giveaway. Yeah, he looked like a badass. A badass who had good taste in boots and spent his days with Jo. Didn’t that just suck?
Gabe slid his gaze to Jo, sitting across from him in the leather lobby chairs. The good news for Gabe was she seemed completely unfazed by Palermo’s arrival. What Gabe thought she’d do, he wasn’t sure, but that niggling jealousy, that clawing on the inside of his gut, didn’t want to let up. But, hey, at least her tongue hadn’t rolled out at the sight of the guy. He nudged his head toward the door. “Guessing that’s him?”
She glanced over. “The uniform gave it away, huh?”
Gabe smiled. “Something like that.”
He stood, held his hand out for Jo, and she latched on, giving him a squeeze. Usually, he was the one doing that squeezing thing, but like everything else on this damned trip so far, things had gotten sideways. He hooked his finger under her chin and eased it up. “You okay?”
She nodded. “I’m good. You?”
“I’m good. Let’s roll.”
Palermo spotted her through the tourist group saddling up for a nighttime tour of the city. Had to be fifty of them crowding the lobby. Not exactly a bad thing when trying to downplay the beautiful blonde who might have witnessed a murder.
He got close, maybe two feet away and stopped, giving Gabe a better look at him. He appeared older by a few years. Maybe late thirties, which explained the few lines around his eyes. Those weren’t a surprise. Men who did their jobs, a lieutenant to boot, were entitled to lines. He wore his dirty-blond hair in a classic high and tight and his arms hung loose at his sides. He may have looked relaxed, but that was all bullshit. If necessary, he’d spring like a cat. Guys like them were wired and ready for action 24/7.
Palermo turned to Jo. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she said. “Thanks for coming.” She tightened her grip on Gabe’s hand. “This is Gabe Townsend.”
Palermo, a few inches shorter than Gabe—who’s counting?—studied his erect posture and thrown back shoulders. “You on the job?”
Sure am, dude. Gabe held his hand out. “ESU. New York. Good to meet you.”
“Thought so. You’re the friend?”
“Right again.”
Jo gestured to him with her free hand. “Gabe is the sergeant on the New York task force. He’s the U-boss.”
Palermo made an aha face, his eyebrows bolting straight up. He swung his index finger between the two of them. “You two a thing?”
And here we go…
The debate on how to handle outing themselves had been raging with no real answers to be found. They’d talk about it, determine it might risk their roles on the task force since the mayor wouldn’t want them working together, and that would be the end of the conversation. At least until the next time.
Now, Jo loaded him up on eye contact, looking for a hint on how much to say. That was her call. In the cop world, she’d be the one called a badge bunny. A house mouse. And one thing she’d been determined not to be labeled as was a woman who got off screwing cops.
Gabe held his hand palm up. “Your call, Counselor.”
After their discussion over Palermo’s use of the word counselor, she awarded him a massive eye roll—looked damned painful too—before turning back to the lieutenant. “We are,” she said. “For a few months now. We’re discreet about it.”
“We’d like to keep it that way,” Gabe added. “The mayor likes to tout our wins. Two of the task force’s key players being involved wouldn’t be good PR if you get my meaning.”
Palermo held his hands up. “I get it. Trust me.” He went back to Jo. “You said you needed help with something?”
“Yes. I’d like to talk in private though. We found an empty ballroom. It’s a mess from a function today, but until the staff comes in to clean, it’ll give us a place to talk.”
Palermo shifted his gaze to Gabe, then went back to Jo, making hard eye contact that, if Gabe guessed right, questioned whether the ESU guy should hear whatever it was she had on her mind.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Jo said. “Gabe can hear it. He knows anyway.”
Sorry, guy. I’m staying.
Jo gave his hand another squeeze, maybe to prove the point that he could hear the personal details of Jo’s life, or maybe to boost his apparently lame ego. Either way, he didn’t care. Wherever Jo went, he went. Case closed.
They ushered Palermo down a long corridor, past the first floor elevators to the conference center. Three sets of doors lined the one side. The first set led to a partitioned ballroom they’d discovered before meeting Palermo in the lobby. Gabe held the door open and the three of them moved to the far end of the room so no passersby would overhear their conversation. They parked at one of the large, round banquet tables still littered with a few coffee cups.
Gabe held the chair out for Jo and then sat next to her, stretching his legs out but giving her plenty of space.
On her other side, Palermo spun one of the banquet chairs, straddled it, and propped his arms on its back. “So, what’s up?”
Summoning full-on lawyer mode, she pushed her shoulders back and folded her hands in her lap. “Remember I left a little early today?”
“Yeah. You said you wanted to do some shopping.”
Gabe snorted and Palermo shot him a look. The good lieutenant was about to learn a vital lesson in dealing with Jo. That lesson being she was a sneaky, yet amazingly effective, woman.
“Yes, I was shopping.”
“For knockoffs,” Gabe offered, cutting to the chase.
Jo shifted and gave him the business-as-usual scowl she was so good at. “Don’t start. I’m allowed to go shopping. And if I choose to do my job while shopping, so be it. It’s the reason I’m good at this.”
She knew he didn’t like her doing these half-assed excursions, so she tried an end run, hoping he wouldn’t give her a hard time. Nice try, Jo. But he knew her, better than she wanted to admit. He’d accepted a long time ago that their minds worked in the same twisted way. They wanted justice, in whatever form, and would get it however necessary. And for that reason, complaining about her so-called shopping trips never did him a damned bit of good.
“Hang on,” Palermo said. “You went by yourself?”
Sure did, guy.
“Yes, but, fellas, you don’t have to gang up on me.”
“All I was doing,” Gabe said, “was stating the facts. If you want his help, you need to give it to him straight.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Jesus,” Palermo said. “Are you two this way all the time?”
“Pretty much,” Jo said. “It works for us.”
“Meaning, she doesn’t take my shit and I don’t take hers. Excellent combo.”
“Wow.” Palermo scratched his forehead then gave his head a hard shake. “Okay. Let’s stay on point. You went shopping for knockoffs and what?”
Over the next five minutes, Jo gave Palermo every detail she could remember. Right down to the patches on the biker’s leather jacket and the logo on the box of cigarettes. He listened intently, occasionally clarifying a point, but otherwise remained silent, his face stoic, cheeks hard until she finished talking. He hadn’t taken one note and Gabe suspected he didn’t want to distract her with his note taking. He simply listened.
As Gabe would have done.
And, shit, he did not want to like this guy. Not for one second.
Because something—like the drawling way the man said the word counselor when on the phone with Jo—told him Palermo, prior to putting eyes on Gabe, thought maybe he and Jo would get naked and spend the next two weeks tearing up the sheets before she went home. Yep. When it came to calling Jo counselor, Palermo said it the way Gabe said it. Sarcastic but packed with a whole lot of innuendo.
Gabe needed to shut that shit down fast.
And—hold on. He thought back to that hand squeeze when she’d introduced them. She knew. Son of a bitch. Jo knew, or at least sensed, Palermo might be warming her up to take a shot at her. So all that PDA in the lobby did two things for the brilliant Jo Pomeroy. It made it clear to Palermo that Gabe was her guy, and it made it clear to Gabe, after his pansy-assed hissy fit up in the room, that he was most definitely her guy.
And now they were all clear on the situation.
Bravo, Counselor. Shit on a shingle he loved her.
“Okay,” Palermo said. “I’m guessing you want my input on who to call?”
“I do,” she said.
He stood, slid his phone from his belt, tapped the screen a few times and scrolled. “Let me see who caught this case. Then we’ll go talk to him. Or her. They’ll probably have a sketch artist do a drawing. Have you look at some mug shots. See if you recognize anyone.”
Jo nodded. “Fine. I expected that.”
Gabe pushed out of his chair. “We need to keep her name out of this.”
Even though he lived on the opposite coast, Gabe understood the violent history associated with this particular biker gang. If someone leaked her name, this crew would hunt her down.
And kill her.
“I’m well aware of that, Sergeant.” Palermo stopped scrolling and punched the screen a couple of times. “Laughlin is the detective assigned to the case. He’s good. His partner is Wells. She’s young, but Laughlin likes her. Let me make a call. You might want to get whatever you need from your room. They’re gonna want to talk to you.”
* * *
Rather than stand around an LA police headquarters with his thumbs up his ass while Jo gave her statement, Gabe wandered outside for the double whammy of fresh air—minus the thirty-five degrees he’d left in New York—and privacy so he could work his contact list in an attempt to figure out who the hell Jo’s biker guy might be.
He stood on the sidewalk in front of the corner building and scoped out a spot along the half wall adjacent to the stairs leading into the building. Only two cars filled the open parking spaces in front of the building, but Friday evening traffic on the main block kept things moving at a steady clip. Also on that main block were a group of homeless guys settling in for the evening under a darkening sky.
Right across from the police station.
Just like home.
Gabe settled against the wall and scrolled through his contact list for his buddy DeFiore. DeFiore, an undercover vice cop, had helped him out a few times, including locating Donald Martinson, the smuggler Gabe and Jo had tracked to South Carolina six weeks ago. What he needed from DeFiore now was a name. Someone in DEA who had intel on motorcycle gangs.
Two rings in, DeFiore picked up. “Hey. What’s up? I thought you were on vacation.”
Not wanting to make it obvious he’d be spending his time off with Jo, he hadn’t given the locale of his impending vacation to his co-workers. When they asked where he was headed, smart man that he was, he’d deflected and told them “on vacation.” Short, sweet, and decidedly lacking detail. Being the easily distracted bunch his team was, they’d moved on to other topics. The tough one was Tom, his boss, and the man who already had an inkling Gabe and Jo were bumping uglies. Tom never asked, but he’d made it damned clear he suspected.
The old “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.
When Gabe had put in for two weeks’ vacation time, he’d gotten ahead of any questions Tom might ask by stressing it was as good a time as any with Jo, a crucial member of the Clean Sweep Task Force, being out of town too. Nothing would get done with her gone, so it made sense—perfect sense—that Gabe should take vacation now.
“I am on vacation,” Gabe told DeFiore. “You got anyone in DEA?”
“DEA? Jesus, Townsend, what are you into now?”
Gabe would have liked to laugh at that, but lately, he and Jo had gotten into some interesting dust-ups. None of which could be considered funny. “I need info on a motorcycle gang. 12th Street Crew. I figure the best way to find that info is to go to the feds.”
“You in trouble?”
“Not me. A friend.”
“Must be a good friend. Maybe a blonde who likes to chase smugglers?”
Gabe sighed. “You about done?”
“Hey, just saying. I heard she was in LA and suddenly you’re on vacation asking about a biker gang based out of LA.”
Gabe tilted his head back, breathed in the sixty-degree air and stared up at a winking star. Being on the downlow was becoming a pain in the ass. Honestly, he didn’t know how criminals led lives filled with deception. Fucking exhausting.
I’m done with that. Probably. He should discuss it with Jo. Probably. But, well, she’d told Palermo, so technically, she’d let the horse out of the barn first. And, right now, she was busy.
“Here’s the deal,” Gabe said. “You keep this to yourself.”
“Oh, goodie.”
“Fuck off. Jo and I are…”
What? A couple? Involved? Banging each other? Jesus, not that. Definitely not that. Way more than that.
“Yeah, genius. I get it. You think half the department hasn’t figured that out? I knew it that night I called you about Martinson and heard her voice in the background. At four in the morning. I didn’t squeal because that’s your business, but people aren’t stupid.”
“Once again I’ll ask if you’re about done?”
DeFiore laughed. “Yeah. I’m done. What happened?”
The overhead street lights flashed on and Gabe glanced around, checking behind him and across the street and anywhere else someone could be sitting and possibly overhear. Nothing. No pedestrians, no cops hanging around, no one leaving the building. All quiet. Still, he walked another twenty yards away from the building entrance and spilled it all to DeFiore. The knockoff shoes, the biker guy in the store with a box of cigarettes, Jo having a bad feeling.
The murder.
When he was done, Gabe sensed something. Not about the current Jo mess though. This was different. A lightness he’d been missing for the better part of almost four months. Finally, he’d confided in someone, his friend, about Jo and the relief poured over him. Damn it felt good to not be hiding.
“Christ,” DeFiore said. “How does she manage this shit?”
Good question. “I don’t know. Wait. I’m lying. I do know. She’s like us. She never gives up. Plus, she’s an adrenaline junkie.”
“Does anyone on this end know?”
Gabe stopped near the corner, saw two people walking up the side street and turned back, heading the direction he came so they didn’t overhear him. “Nada. Just happened this afternoon. I’m trying to keep it quiet. If I have to, I’ll tell Tom. Or she will. Right now, I wanna see if we can identify this guy.”
“Easy, my friend. The detectives are probably on it already. You think they want you stomping in their sandbox?”
“Hell no. But if you have someone with the feds out here, maybe we nudge this thing along.”
From the other end, DeFiore made a you’re-a-dumbass grunting noise. “It’s your ass, pal.”
“Sure is.”
“I’ll make a call. I’ve got a guy I went to the academy with. He’s DEA in Newark now. He may know someone. I’ll holler at ya.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me, like, twenty, Townsend. Just invite me to the wedding. What a pisser that wedding’ll be.”
“Shit,” Gabe said. “I’m out.”
Disconnecting, he laughed at the thought of a Jo/Gabe wedding. The guest list alone, considering she was a lawyer, her parents were political consultants, and he worked special operations, would be scary as hell.
They could probably take down a small nation.
But a wedding. He should be so lucky. And hey, he’d admit that wasn’t the first time he’d thought about Jo being Mrs. Gabriel Townsend. The last month or so, when he rolled out of bed at oh-dark-hundred and she’d try to coax him back—most times succeeding—or when they crawled under the blankets at night, it had all become…comfortable and he could picture it, a ring on her finger, the two of them popping out a few babies. She wanted kids. He knew that. And so did he. All in all, he liked the thought of it.
And that had never happened before.
The sound of voices behind him refocused him and he shook his head. Later. Plenty of time to consider marriage—and maybe clue Jo in on his thoughts—later.
He marched up the front stairs and through the lobby area where the desk sergeant waved him back. In the hallway he found Palermo leaning against a wall, talking to a uniformed cop. The cop broke away, nodded at Gabe, and moved on.
Palermo eyed him. “Where were you?”
“Outside. Catching up on calls.”
“Un-huh.”
Gabe eyed him right back, almost begging the lieutenant to say something. “Yeah. Un-huh.”
“Look, Gabe, we’ve got this. Okay?”
He rolled his bottom lip out, pondered that a second. “Sure.”
Clearly, that answer didn’t sit well because Palermo boosted off the wall, keeping his arms loose at his sides, but squaring off with him. “You think I’m stupid? Your girlfriend is in there trying to identify a possible murderer and you want me to believe you were outside, where no one in here could listen, catching up on casual conversation? Whatever you’re up to, we can handle it. Don’t get into the middle of it.”
Refusing to let this guy rile him, Gabe mimicked his stance—feet wide, arms loose at his sides. Unthreatening and threatening all at once. He had no interest in pissing off the Los Angeles Police Department. That was pure stupidity—something he’d never been accused of—but if he could move this along, cut a few corners that might get them a good end result, he’d do it. Zero hesitation.
Palermo didn’t need to know that though.
“She can’t testify.” Gabe jerked his head toward the conference room where Jo was giving her statement. “If the guy she saw murdered those people, he has to take a plea deal.”
“I know.”
A plea deal would mean no trial. No trial meant Jo wouldn’t testify and, if they did this right, the biker would never know her identity and she could go back to New York without looking over her shoulder every minute.
“Good. Because if she testifies, they’ll find her and kill her.”