Chapter Three
Jo closed the mug book in front of her just as the door to the interview room opened. Wes stuck his head in, nodded at Detective Laughlin and then turned his attention to Jo. “You need anything?”
Ha. She needed a lot of things. The first being to get out of this windowless room with its blinding white walls and stale smell. As an intellectual property attorney, she didn’t spend much time in rooms like this and being here made her chest hurt, made her feel closed in. Suffocated.
Locked up.
Even in the frigid, artificial air-conditioned air, sweat beaded down her back. What she needed was a shower and a shot of something strong. Tequila? Why not. Considering she didn’t do shots—at all—it might help her at least get a good night’s sleep.
Really though, it sounded disgusting and would probably make her sick.
Gabe. That’s what she needed. A good dose of Gabe in all his sexy, alpha male glory. She shoved the mug book away and glanced back at Wes. “I’m fine. Is Gabe out there?”
“Yeah.” He pointed at the mug book. “Anything?”
“No. Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Still early. We’ll find him. Are you good with the sketch?”
When she’d first arrived, they’d called in a sketch artist who’d sat with her for almost two hours, two long, tedious hours, trying every shape of nose, mouth and eyes possible until they got something that seemed close. At least a little close. As tired and bleary-eyed as she’d become, Jo wasn’t even sure of that right now. She’d definitely know the guy if she saw him again, but the sketch didn’t seem quite right, and in her current state, she didn’t know how to fix it. If only the artist could crawl into her head and see what she saw. It would be so much simpler.
She reached for the photocopy of the sketch the artist had left. “I’m as good with it as I’m going to get. If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know. Would you please send Gabe in?”
“No problem. If there’s nothing else we need tonight, you should get out of here. Go sleep.”
That made her snort. Sleep. If only. After this, she’d probably never sleep again.
Detective Laughlin stood and gathered up the mug books spread across the table. “We’re good for now. I’ll call you with any updates.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
Wes put his hand against the door and pushed it open before stepping back to let Laughlin through. “She’s all yours,” he said to someone—apparently Gabe—in the hall.
And then Gabe stepped into the room, his big body filling the space, and Jo’s shoulders released, just foom, the tension let go, dismantling that aloneness that had settled on her. His dark eyes zoomed in on her, held for a few seconds, and the immediate spark he always brought knocked the chill right out of the room.
“I promise you,” she said. “I will never go into another shop looking for counterfeits. I’m done.”
He squatted next to her, ran his fingers over her cheek and lightly pinched her chin. “Jo, if I believed that, my life would be made.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. But I also know when this is over you’ll get the itch again. We’re alike in this way. The second we get bored, we crave action.”
Bastard. She angled her head up and out of his grasp. “Believe what you want, but I’m done. I can’t take this anymore.”
Still squatting, he settled his elbows on his knees. “You’ll be okay. I promise you. We’ll do whatever we have to here and then we’ll go home. I’ll stay with you until it’s done.”
“How can you do that? This could go on for weeks or months. Even after I go home, if there’s a trial, I’ll have to come back here. Are you going to leave work for that?”
“If I have to. Right now, my goal is to make sure there’s no trial.”
Wasn’t this typical? Gabe trying to control everything, trying to take command like he always did. As much as she appreciated the effort, it would take a lot more than just him to fix this one. “You think we’ll get that lucky? That I won’t have to testify?”
“Yep.” He flipped her hair over her shoulder and stood. “Palermo and I are of the same mind on that front.”
“Well, that would be fabulous, but let’s not count on it.”
“I’ve got a call in to DeFiore.”
Straightaway, this was not good. “Your undercover friend?”
“Yeah. He knows someone at DEA. He might be able to hook us up with someone out here who might know this guy.”
Perfect. Gabe going rogue. In a strange city. God help them both. She popped out of the chair, got right into his space. “Listen up, Sergeant. Do not screw up your career over this. Over me. Please. The way you know me, I know you. And you want to make lieutenant in the next two years. Running roughshod out here won’t get you there.”
“I’m not worried about it.”
“Well, you should be.” She spun around, paced the interior of the small room then stopped, faced the wall, and pressed her forehead into it, the cold surface reminding her of the chill she’d had a few moments ago. “We’ve been so careful about protecting our careers. Don’t blow it this way.”
“Jo, you’re worried about something that hasn’t happened. I’m poking around. If something comes of it, I’ll turn it over to Palermo. That’s all.”
Someone rapped on the door, a quick, staccato knock and Jo stepped back, straightening her shoulders.
“Come in,” Gabe said.
Wes stuck his head in. “We’re good here. I’m heading out. The detectives will check in with you over the weekend. Or before if something comes up.” He glanced at Gabe, then brought his gaze back to Jo. “I’ll call you tomorrow. See if you need anything.”
“I’ve got it,” Gabe said.
Oy, these two. An alpha pissing match. Just what she needed. She tilted her head, considered the two men in front of her. Lions, both of them—as similar as they were. Maybe that was the problem, and two leaders never worked; she imagined that before this was over, they’d be at war.
* * *
The following morning, his body still on East Coast time, Gabe rolled out of bed at five-thirty and busted off an hour of push-ups, planks, squats, and whatever other torture he could inflict on himself while Jo slept. Before last night, his plan had been to get up early, hit the gym in the hotel and drag Jo out for a walk on the beach. Maybe spend the day exploring a city he’d never been to. Now, he didn’t want to take her outside the building, much less explore.
And he sure as hell wasn’t leaving her alone. Jeez. Only they could go on vacation and land smack in the middle of a murder investigation.
Sweat poured down his neck as he focused on the last seconds of a six-minute plank, ignored the raging fatigue in his core and checked his watch. In a few seconds he’d be done. Finished. Even the thought made his arms quiver so he stiffened, determined to gut out this last five seconds. Four, three, two, one. Done. Refusing to give in to fatigue by collapsing, he lowered himself to the ground, rolled to his back and stretched his abs. Holy shit, if he’d had any food in his belly, he’d have puked it up by now.
Before his workout, he’d snagged a water bottle from the stocked fridge and now chugged half of it. He set it on the thick carpet and scanned the sitting area of the suite where a night light in the far corner threw shadows across the plush furniture and fancy art. This room had to cost a friggin’ fortune. One he knew she wouldn’t let him kick in for.
As usual, because God knew every time the subject of money—Jo’s money—came up, his right eye throbbed. He pressed his fingers into his eye socket until the pain subsided. He didn’t mind that she made more than him. What he minded was her stubbornness when it came to spending her money on them. She wasn’t his sugar-mama and she needed to get used to that.
He sat back against the wall, watched Jo flop to her back in the massive bed while the strap of her tank top slid down her arm, making his libido rise up and howl. Some things were just ingrained. Wanting Jo was one of them.
But today, he’d let her sleep. Today, she’d get whatever she wanted.
He rose to his feet, wandered to the bed where her long hair fanned over the pillow. He ran his fingers over the silky strands, thought about how normal it suddenly felt to touch her. Any part of her. Something he’d spent months denying himself. At least until she’d been attacked by one of the merchants they’d busted and it unleashed something in him. Something feral, protective, and—yeah—possessive.
Blame it on falling in love. Why not? Sometimes though, like last night when he watched her come apart, watched fear dismantle the hardened lawyer in her, it hurt him. Physically ripped into his chest. A hot stab that shouldn’t feel good, but somehow did because he knew he loved her enough that he felt her pain. Agony mixed with immense pleasure.
So screwed, Townsend.
On the bedside table, his phone buzzed. He’d turned the ringer off when he’d woken up and the thing now rattled against the wood, causing a pretty good racket. He hauled ass around the bed before the warbling woke Jo and hit the button.
“Hang on,” he whispered into the phone, moving to the bathroom where he shut the door. “What’s up?”
“DeFiore here. I got you a guy. Well, my guy got you a guy who got you a guy.”
“Whatever that means,” Gabe said.
“Nah. It’s good. You’ll like it. He’s DEA in LA. Cole Bardin. He’s their go-to on bikers. He’s a motorcycle freak, so he’s able to ride and talk the talk. He did a UC assignment with a biker gang last year.”
“He might know this guy then?”
Now that would be golden. If Bardin could ID Jo’s guy, they’d pass the name along to the detectives and be done with this whole flipping mess.
“Maybe. I got his number. I’ll text it to you. Give him a call.”
“I owe you a giant steak when I get back.”
“Yeah. I know. Stay safe, my man.”
“We will. Thanks, bud.”
Gabe disconnected and leaned against the sink to await the incoming text. Given it wasn’t even seven a.m.—on a Saturday—he’d wait another hour to call Bardin. Then maybe he’d give them a meeting where they’d show him the copy of the sketch Jo had asked for last night. Gabe had smuggled it out of the PD without Jo or Palermo realizing it, which would probably get him in hot water, but hey, wasn’t his fault the thing leaped right off the table into his pocket.
Besides, what Palermo didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Let’s hope it doesn’t hurt me too.
A knock sounded on the door and he pulled it open. Jo stood there, that strap on her tank top still struggling to stay put, her blond hair a tangled mess and looking so unbelievably hot that Gabe’s little brain decided now would be an excellent time to cause a hard-on.
“Damn,” he said.
Her sleepy eyes roamed across his face, down his sweat-soaked chest to his shorts—morning, sunshine—and a slow, wicked grin inched across her face.
She squeezed into the bathroom with him. “You were doing your Mr. Atlas routine again?”
“Yeah. Sorry I woke you.”
“You didn’t. I have to pee.”
She reached into the shower and turned the faucet, her eyes still on his and if Gabe knew anything, he knew Jo had one thing on her mind. The woman’s libido howled just like his did.
“You taking a shower?”
“I am,” she said. “And so are you. With me. And, in case you were wondering, naughty things will happen while said shower is taking place.” She looked down at his painfully expanding crotch. “Any issue with that, Sergeant?”
“There never is, Counselor. There never is.”
* * *
At exactly 11:00 A.M., Gabe and Jo walked into The Burg, a dump of a burger joint near downtown LA. At this early hour, the lunch crowd—if there was a lunch crowd in this place—hadn’t started yet and the ten or so tables were empty. Gabe suspected Bardin picked this place for just that reason. Low traffic meant less opportunity to be seen. Simple fact.
He turned to Jo who, despite her long day yesterday, looked amazing in a denim skirt, flats and a lightweight navy sweater that made her blue eyes sparkle. She’d pulled her hair into a low ponytail and Gabe gave it a tug.
“Have I mentioned you’re insanely beautiful?”
She rolled her tongue around her cheek and eyeballed him. “Thank you, Sergeant, but just so you know, when it comes to you, I’m easy. You may have noticed you’ll get some even without the awesome compliments.”
Damn, he loved when she was playful. “Nothing wrong with a little insurance.”
She linked her arm through his and leaned in, her right breast making contact with his arm and the little brain dinged again. Easy there.
A beat-up menu, one of those old deals with the plastic letters that had to be hand-placed, hung over the counter and Jo studied it, her eyes scanning for something she might like. “Are you hungry? We should probably order something.”
“I could eat.”
No shock there. He didn’t remember a time he couldn’t eat.
After ordering, they grabbed a table near the back of the small restaurant. Away from any windows. For all they knew, Bardin could be working a UC assignment and if so, staying out of sight would be a better option. Speaking of Bardin…
A short—short next to Gabe anyway—man with strawberry-blond hair and hunched shoulders entered the restaurant. Could this be their guy? This non-descript beanpole screamed cop as much as Gabe’s crazy Great Aunt Suzie.
But as he said he would, he wore a Florida State sweatshirt.
Gabe nudged Jo. “That’s him.”
“Really?”
Even she didn’t believe it. Then again, she’d spent the last year surrounded by a team of aggressive, filthy-mouthed ESU guys who walked into a room, their dominance obvious by cold self-control rather than loudmouthed bullying. S.W.A.T. guys, by nature of what they did for a living, possessed a sense of superiority. Some found it arrogant.
Oh.
Well.
Because in order to do what S.W.A.T. guys did for a living, to see the crap they saw, face the violence they faced, they had to believe their own brand of bullshit. Believe, unflinchingly, they could conquer whatever hot-ass mess lay on the other side of the door about to be blasted open.
So, yeah, his men needed to believe they were better than everyone else.
“That’s him,” Gabe said. “Unless some other random person is wearing khaki cargo shorts and a Florida State sweatshirt.”
“He’s not what I expected. He looks so…”
“Innocent?”
“He looks like a dentist.”
A dentist. How the hell she got there, he couldn’t figure, but he’d mull that later. Bardin spotted them, gave a slight nod and headed to the counter to order. While waiting on him, their food arrived and Gabe dug into his burger. Might as well. His metabolism, thanks to the workout this morning, had mowed through the eggs they’d ordered for breakfast and his body needed fuel again.
Two minutes later, Bardin slid into the chair across from them. No shaking hands, no nice to meet you, no nothing. What he wanted here was to be a regular guy out to meet a few old friends.
“Thanks for coming out,” Gabe said.
“No problem.” He glanced at Jo, shook his head. “You stepped in some shit here. I’m sorry.” He went back to Gabe. “These guys are animals. If one of them did what you think he did, I’d love to put him away.”
The young girl who’d delivered Jo and Gabe’s food set a tray with a sandwich, fries, and drink on the table in front of Bardin and snatched the number out of the little holder. Good timing on her part. Now they’d talk without interruption.
Gabe handed Bardin the folded copy of the sketch he’d lifted from the PD. “It’s a sketch of the guy,” he said, keeping his voice low. “They brought in an artist last night. Jo thinks it’s pretty close.”
Bardin partially unfolded it and took a peek.
“Ringing any bells?”
“He looks like every guy I hung with last year. Long, stringy hair, beard. Just a general mess.” He checked the sketch again. “How tall?”
Jo leaned in. “Maybe five foot ten. I had low heels on and was as tall as he was. And he was carrying a box of cigarettes that he took into the back. I suspect they were counterfeit.”
“Yeah, a lot of these guys make their money selling counterfeit—or stolen—goods. Cigarettes are easy. Last month Customs seized twenty-five thousand cartons of counterfeit cigs. Street value over a million dollars.”
Gabe let out a low whistle. “They came in on a container ship?”
“Yeah. There were hidden inside a bunch of other stuff. The manifest looked suspicious so Customs nabbed it.”
Jo turned to Gabe. “I wonder if that’s our guy.”
He shrugged. “Could be.”
“Who?”
“Andre Theo, big-time smuggler out here. Jo is an intellectual property attorney. She’s the brains behind an anti-counterfeiting task force in New York. In January we busted Theo’s number two guy for selling knockoff Barellis. We nailed Theo too, but he’s out now. Awaiting trial. We think he’s still running his business under a different name.”
“So,” Jo said, pointing at the sketch, “maybe he’s associated with Theo.”
“Could be. If your guy’s a major player, he could be the one distributing the bogus stuff to middlemen who then sell it to the assholes—pardon my language—like you saw in that store.”
“Alleged assholes,” Gabe cracked.
“Amen, brother.” He glanced at the sketch again, studied it. “Did you notice if he had a tat on his left forearm. A skull?”
Tilting her head back, she stared at the ceiling in that way she did when recalling something. Come on, Jo. Whatcha got?
“I didn’t notice.” She turned to Gabe. “But wouldn’t it be something if Theo could be linked to this murder.”
Something? Yeah, it would be something. Something like an epic nightmare. He couldn’t even comment on that statement. The possibilities were too vast and disturbing. Then again, this was Jo. If anyone could find this kind of crazy-assed trouble, it’d be her. Didn’t that just shrink his balls?
He flicked at the sketch. “You don’t know our guy here? Or maybe?”
“Maybe. If he has the skull tat it’s a guy they call Jimmy Jax. I met him a couple of times. He’s never done time, so he won’t be in the system. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to be in the system. He’s just avoided it. His crew hangs out at a couple of places in East LA.”
“You got a list?”
“Sure.”
“Text it to me?”
“Not a problem. These are badass places though.” He jerked his chin at Jo. “You stay clear. A woman who looks like you has no business in there. You’d be horrified at the shit that goes on. They’re misogynistic animals. Fights, harassment, rapes. I was UC for about four months with another gang and it made me sick. We busted a bunch of them though. That’s something at least.”
Jo sat back, leaned into Gabe a little, and clasped his hand under the table, but her eyes were still on Bardin. “Thank you,” she said. “For what you do. I know it’s not easy.”
“It’s the job. Just be careful. Both of you.”
* * *
Three blocks from the hotel, Jo’s phone rang. She felt around for it in the rental car’s door cubby and snatched it up before the call went to voicemail. Wes. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gabe glance over from the driver’s seat. “It’s Wes.”
“My buddy,” he cracked.
“Relax, tough guy.” Jo tapped the speaker button. Clearly, Gabe had insecurities about Wes, and wasn’t that just insane? She didn’t get it. Not for one second. She couldn’t be in the same room with Gabe without touching him. He’d brought out in her a sexual desire that hinged on excessive. She simply could not get enough. Ever. And it wasn’t just the sex, although that was certainly worship-worthy. But no, she loved curling up with him to watch a movie or snuggling under a blanket while he took in a game and she read. All of it, she’d never tire of.
“Hey, Wes.”
“Hey, Jo. Listen, where are you?”
“Gabe and I are just on our way back—”
Gabe cleared his throat loud enough to start an avalanche and she shot him a look. As if she’d announce to Wes that they were chasing down a murder suspect.
“—to the hotel,” she continued. “Why?”
“I’m at headquarters. There was some activity this morning so I came by to check things out.”
Gabe turned left a block from the hotel, bullied his way into the right lane and earned himself an enthusiastic flip of the bird from a cabbie. Unfazed, he waved the guy off. “What activity?”
“A couple of guys got locked up last night. Bar brawl in East LA.”
East LA. How very interesting.
“And,” Gabe said, sounding bored.
But they both knew what was coming because he’d locked his jaw and refused to even shift his gaze her way.
Just ahead, the traffic light turned red and Jo kept her thoughts from running wild by focusing on it. “You want me to look at a lineup, right?”
“Yeah,” Wes said. “One of the guys has the look and his alibi isn’t checking out.”
“Shit,” Gabe muttered, still refusing to spare her a look.
“We just need her to take a look,” Wes said. “In and out.”
Jo reached over. Patted his thigh. “That’s fine, Wes. What time do you want us there?”
“The sooner the better.”
They came to a stop at the traffic light that had just been Jo’s mental savior and Gabe finally looked over at her, the already honed angles of his face sharpening enough to slice cement. He held up his hands. “It’s up to you.”
Everything in his body language—the stiff posture, the vein in his neck popping—told her he didn’t want her doing this. But Gabe was a smart man and knew her temperament. The minute he told her not to do something, she’d do it. She couldn’t help it. In her lifetime, her relentless will had gotten her in more trouble than she’d like to admit. It was also the thing that made her a damned good lawyer.
A lawyer who couldn’t, in good conscience, refuse to view a lineup. “We’re on our way, Wes.”
“Thanks, Jo.”
She disconnected, dropped the phone in her lap and rested her head back. The light turned green and Gabe went straight, driving past the hotel where the two of them should be enjoying a fun weekend together.
“Jo, you sure you want to do this?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Babe, you always have a choice. Say the word and I put you on a plane home.”
“Says the cop.”
“Says the cop who loves you and doesn’t want anything to happen to you. That trumps all.”
As dedicated as he was to his job, he had no problem helping her walk away from this. And she knew why. After he’d gone to sleep the night before, her mind had refused to concede and she’d slipped out of bed to troll the Internet about the 12th Street biker gang. And, oh, the articles she’d found. According to her research, ninety-nine percent of motorcyclists were honest, law-abiding citizens. The other one percent? Well, the 12th Street Crew fell into that category. Those were the ones who took pride in the violence they subjected their victims to.
And what Gabe probably knew, and she suspected, was that the lineup she’d be viewing contained a couple of one-percenters.
“I know about the one-percenters.” She hit him with a faux cheery smile. “I did research.”
“Terrific. As much as I’d love to find the son of a bitch you saw in that store, I don’t want you looking over your shoulder for the next twenty years.”
“And if I have to testify, that’s what will happen.”
“Maybe.”
The light changed and he gunned the gas in his typical, crazy New Yorker fashion. Or maybe he was simply frustrated. Nervous. That alone, coming from this fearless, capable man, should have scared the hell out of her. But she wouldn’t live her life that way. Hiding from a criminal, constantly wondering if he’d find her. No. Justice needed to be done. “I can’t walk away. I’d never forgive myself.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Ten minutes later, Gabe pulled into a spot in front of the squat brick building and parked. He reached behind him into the backseat, grabbed his baseball cap and dropped it in her lap. “Put this on. It won’t completely cover your hair, but it’s better than nothing.”
“I bet right now you’d like me to have one of my wigs you hate so much.”
Back in New York, she kept an assortment of wigs for shopping trips to the vendors on Tower Street, knockoff capitol of the city. During their first few months of the task force shutting down businesses selling counterfeit items, the owners began to recognize Jo’s blond hair. Thus, she adopted disguises when on the hunt for knockoff merchandise. Now, even the disguises didn’t work and her wigs sat in a closet in her office, virtually untouched.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Counselor. I don’t mind the wigs. I just don’t want you wearing them to conduct covert missions.”
She pulled the hat onto her head. “Oh, right. I suppose you’d like me to save the wigs for the bedroom.” She clicked her tongue. “A little stripper role-playing, big boy?”
Even to her, the joke fell flat. So much for her go-to coping mechanism of cracking jokes under stress. He couldn’t blame a girl for attempting to lighten the mood.
Gabe patted her hand and gave her a wilting half-grin. “Nice try. Let’s do this and then we’ll talk about that role-playing thing.”