Читать книгу Bachelor Cop - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 8

“IF MY MOTHER ASKS ME one more time when I am getting married and giving her grandchildren, I will join a monastery,” Randy said. He tossed his jacket onto the wooden coat rack rescued from the old precinct, loosened his tie, sat down and turned on his computer.

Around him in the part of the large bull pen Cold Cases shared with Homicide, other detectives clicked computer keys and talked on their telephones. A few sat with their feet propped on their desks, reading the paper. Early mornings were usually reserved for catching up on paperwork and meetings, while possible witnesses still slept or were commuting to work.

“Never happen,” Liz Slaughter said from the next desk. “Monks are celibate.”

“New Girl dump you?” Jack Samuels, the third detective in the Cold Cases squad, asked. He stared at his computer screen and began to fill in an arrest form with two fingers. Samuels had long since stopped bothering to learn the names of Randy’s girlfriends. To him they were all New Girl, until they vanished to be replaced by the next New Girl.

“Paige and I agreed to see other people,” Randy answered.

“She dumped you,” Samuels said.

“She wanted to get married, have babies, a giant mortgage, the whole schmeer,” Randy admitted. “Paige said it was time to move our relationship to the next level.” He shuddered. “Her exact words.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Right up there with ‘honey, we need to talk.’ She said I was a dead end and she needed to move on to somebody who wasn’t afraid of responsibility.” He grimaced. “Baggage.”

“I like baggage,” Liz said, and patted her belly. She was four months pregnant with her first baby and beginning to show.

“By the time I leave Cold Cases every night, I’m up to here with baggage.” Randy passed the palm of his hand over the top of his head. “Give me beautiful women who don’t want a thing from me but great sex. Deliver me from needy.”

“You, Randolph Quentin Railsback, are shallow and selfish,” Liz said. “One of these days you’ll get yours.”

He raised an eyebrow and leered. “I want mine and everybody else’s, too.”

“Damn!” Samuels held the delete key down on his computer. “Who’d name a kid Linoleius?” His beat-up desk chair screeched in protest as he swung around. “What really happened with New Girl?”

“Paige kept bugging me to talk about my job. She said if I really loved her, I’d share.” He grimaced. “How do you share what we do?” He pointed to the sign beside the door to Lieutenant Gavigan’s office, which said Cold Cases Squad. “Hey, honey, I’m home. I spent the afternoon digging through the North Memphis landfill for the leg that fits the foot a bum found in a Dumpster two days ago.”

“At least with Cold Cases it’s generally a skeletal leg and not a greasy one.” Jack glanced over at Liz. “Sorry.”

Liz waved her hand. “I don’t barf the way I did my first three months.” She leaned across her desk toward Randy’s. “So she won’t be going to Aruba with you?”

“Lots of beautiful unattached ladies in Aruba. No need to take my own. Anyway, Paige has left for Hawaii and won’t be back for a while.”

Liz propped her chin on her hand and stared out the grimy windows at the dank February morning. “If I weren’t married and pregnant, I’d beg to go with you. When do you leave?”

“I’d like to get out of here today, but teaching the self-defense class is paying for the trip, so I’m stuck for a couple more months.”

“Any candidates for New Girl in the class?” Jack asked.

Randy shook his head. “One gorgeous trophy wife.”

“Off-limits, I hope,” Liz said.

“No way would I be crazy enough to get involved with a married woman. The others range from farmers to a perky newlywed.”

“All married?” Samuels asked.

“One divorcée and one widow, both in their forties. Then there’s the whack job. She doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s never been married.” He leaned back, propped his loafers on his desk and shook his head. “I’m not getting near that one.”

“Not pretty enough?”

“I get the feeling she’s trying to make herself ugly. She’s succeeded.”

“Why would a woman do that?” Jack asked.

“Fear. Low self-esteem. Depression,” Liz said. “How ugly?”

“Last night I would have said unattractive. Looking back, I’d have to say not, if she made an effort. Big brown eyes, eyebrows like Sela Ward, wide mouth even without lipstick. She’s got this straggly, dark brown hair she keeps in a tight ponytail.” He ran his hand along his skull just over his right ear.

“How’s her figure?” Jack asked.

“Hard to tell under sweats, but she provided a lovely cushion when I fell on her.”

“Excuse me?” Liz asked.

He told them what had happened.

“She took you down?” Liz laughed. “I’d like to have seen that.”

“She caught me off guard. I’ll have ’em all taking me down before we finish the course, but she won’t come back. She hated me.”

“Oh, sweetie, what woman could hate you?” Liz asked.

He spread his hands and flashed her a smile of wide-eyed innocence. “What’s not to love, right?”

“Maybe she hated your aftershave. What are you wearing these days, Essence of Shark?”

“I tossed that stuff. I’ve switched to Love God. Want a sniff?” He leaned toward her.

She rolled her chair out of his reach. “Back, Fang. Go detect something.”

WHEN RANDY WALKED INTO the exercise room at the gym for the Thursday evening class, he spotted them at once. Of course, he should have guessed. Streak didn’t swing his way. He was surprised that he felt let down.

The pocket Venus who trailed her into the room stood maybe five-two, with light brown curls, eyes such a bright blue that he could tell the color from across the room, boobs he’d bet came straight from Mother Nature, narrow waist, lush hips. On top of everything else, she was laughing. She had a happy, infectious laugh. Polar opposite to Streak.

What a waste.

Venus spotted him and crossed the room with her small hand extended. No wedding ring. Long nails with pink polish. She wore jeans and some kind of silky shirt that slid over her body like cream. “Hi, I’m Marcie Halpern, Helena’s housemate. I wanted to meet you.”

“You joining the class?”

She shook her head. “’Fraid not. Somebody has to look after the kids.”

Kids, plural? As in more than one? Adopted? Artificial insemination? In vitro? Old heterosexual relationship gone sour?

“Aunt Marcie, come watch me lift weights.”

Streak’s kids, then. More baggage. Randy looked down at them as the boy ran into the back of Marcie’s legs.

“Ow, watch it, Milo. That hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Marcie.”

Whoever Daddy was, Streak—uh, Helena—was certainly their mother. The boy was probably nine or ten, the girl six or seven, depending on whether they had inherited their mother’s tall genes. Same dark hair, long bones, high cheekbones and wide mouths. Same intelligent dark eyes.

“Should you be lifting weights?” Marcie asked the boy.

“Not heavy ones. I might tear a muscle or something. Vi’s too little, anyway. She just rolls them around on the floor.”

“I’m strong as you.”

“Are not. Bet you can’t do this.” He ran over to the rack of free weights in the corner of the workout room, rolled one off the bottom and managed to heft it to his knees before Randy took it and set it back on the rack.

“We all start light,” he stated mildly. The boy glared at him, then took a deep breath and nodded, though the frown stayed on his face.

Marcie said, “Milo, Viola, go say goodbye to your mother and tell her we’ll see her when she gets home.”

“Can’t we watch her kick butt?” The boy glowered at Randy. “She gonna kick his?”

“I don’t think she’s up to butt kicking yet,” Marcie said, with a shrug of apology to Randy. “Go.”

The kid hesitated, then took the girl’s hand and trotted across to Streak. Randy watched her open her arms to the children. She lit up. He must be losing not only his touch but his eyesight, as well. This was the woman he thought wasn’t beautiful?

Marcie grinned. “Sorry about that. Sibling rivalry rears its ugly head. Milo and Vi are scary smart, but they’re still children.”

“I’m sure they make you both very happy.”

Marcie cocked her head. “I rent the other side of Helena’s duplex from her, Detective. I’m her tenant and part-time nanny. I’m also assistant librarian at Weyland, where she teaches, so we’re colleagues as well as friends. We’re not lovers.”

“I didn’t—”

“Sure you did. That’s okay. The last time I checked we were both heterosexual. Milo and Viola’s hideous father is a journalism professor.”

So he was still around. “Hideous?”

“Makes Darth Vader look like Saint Peter. Should have been strangled at birth for the benefit of the human race.”

“But then you wouldn’t have…Milo, was it? And Viola?”

Marcie’s smile was luminous. “Mickey is completely out of the picture, and they’re worth it.”

He felt his heart give a small kick. Streak wasn’t off-limits, then. Why should he care?

Marcie waved at Helena, picked up the children and walked into the main gym, where the latest workout machines shared space with a professional-style boxing ring.

Through the picture window, Randy watched Marcie help Milo hoist a small dumbbell, then carry it one-handed over to stare at the two young men sparring in the ring.

Marcie was younger than Streak, and being somebody’s tenant and babysitter didn’t precisely count as baggage. Now that he knew she was hetero, he should have been on her case like a praying mantis on a june bug.

So why wasn’t he reacting?

“Detective?”

He turned at the sound of that smoky baritone. For some nutso reason, he reacted to Streak. Maybe it was the slim body he could imagine under those sweats. Maybe it was the voice. She reminded him of Lauren Bacall after five years in a salt mine.

She stood at the corner of the exercise mat with his other students, her legs splayed and her hands on her hips. She wore the same old gray sweats tonight, and her hair was pulled back tight with a rubber band, showing off those cheekbones. The look she gave him was not so much provocative as provocation.

“We’re five minutes late getting started,” she said.

Ellen—Mrs. Claus—sighed. “Oh, for pity’s sake, chill.”

“Let’s get started,” Randy said quickly, before Streak could react to that. “Now, we’re going to begin with some stretching exercises to warm up our muscles.”

“So we can do yoga while the mugger’s cleaning his nails?” Streak sniped.

“Honey,” said Sarah Beth, “relax. You put up with hecklers in your classes?” she asked, glancing at Randy.

“How did you—”

“Everybody knows about everybody in this gym,” said Bunny. She flashed a killer smile that included the group, extended her arms and put her palms flat on the floor in front of her.

“Wow,” breathed Francine. “I can’t reach my knees.”

“Bless your heart,” Ellen said, and patted her hand. “There are other talents. I sure wouldn’t try to mug you.”

Francine shrugged. “Got to be something fine about being a heifer.”

“So maybe Francine can get to take me down tonight. Game?” Randy asked.

“That mean I get to go upside your head with my purse? Probably break your skinny neck.” She snickered. “I carry my life in my purse.”

“I was thinking more about unarmed combat. What do you do when somebody tries to clothesline you?”

The rest of the class went smoothly. Even Streak began to relax, although she still looked ready to chew nails. Or some more sensitive part of his anatomy—interesting idea if she didn’t geld him in the process. Randy worked hard to show her that force wasn’t necessary. Her forward momentum landed her on the mat every time. Did she hate all men, or just him?

By the time the class was over, everyone was sweaty, but exhilarated. Even Streak glowed. Real pity. She could be a knockout. He couldn’t believe she’d always been dowdy and enraged. What had screwed her up?

As they were leaving, he put a hand on her arm. She glared at it. He dropped his hand and said, “Got a minute?”

The others kept walking, but he knew they’d be gossiping.

“I wondered how long before you tossed me out of your class,” she said. “Fine. I won’t come back.”

“I’m not tossing you out.” Of all the women, she needed the instruction most. “Come with me.”

This late in the evening, the weight-lifting, bodybuilding part of the gym was empty except for a couple of hard-core musclemen who didn’t bother to look up. “You must be hell on wheels as a professor,” Randy said.

“I am an excellent teacher.”

“But this isn’t your classroom.”

She didn’t crack a smile.

“Look, Streak, if you don’t lighten up and get rid of some of that anger, you’re going to get hurt.”

“Me? Hah. You, maybe.”

“I mean it. You’re the one who wound up on the floor tonight, right? Don’t let emotions override your control.” He grabbed a pair of boxing gloves off the rack and held them out. “Put these on.”

“Why?” She stared at him with suspicion. “Planning on showing me that right cross to my glass jaw?”

“Not this time.” He held the gloves until she slipped her hands inside, then he fastened the Velcro.

“This is like having sofa cushions on the ends of my arms.”

“You’ll get used to them.” He walked her over to the light bag. “I’m sure you’ve seen enough boxing movies to know how this works. Try it.”

She studied him, then the two-foot-long, pear-shaped bag suspended head high. Before he could give her any further instruction, she let fly as hard as she could. The bag bounced back and caught her square on her cheek. “Ow!” she squawked. “That hurt.” She raised her hand to her face, but obviously couldn’t feel it through the heavy gloves. “Is my cheek bleeding?”

He caught the bag before it could swing back for a second attack. “No, although it may be a tad bruised tomorrow. Sorry. I should have caught it before it hit you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” She rounded on him, but he grasped her wrist and held her.

“You didn’t give me time. Here, try this one.” He half dragged her over to where the man-size heavy bag hung, then walked around behind it and held on. “Okay, hit this one.”

She tapped it gently.

“Not like that. Hit the thing.”

“And get my jaw broken? I don’t think so.”

“This one doesn’t hit back. Drive your fist hard from waist level, right smack in the gut.”

She whacked the bag as hard as she could. With Randy behind it, the bag barely budged. “I felt that all the way to my shoulder,” she said.

“Like the feeling?”

“Certainly not.” But she whacked the leather again, then again with her other hand, for good measure. Her focused expression told him she did like the feeling it gave her. She hit it over and over until she was too tired to raise her arms. She was panting and drenched with sweat.

Maybe he should paste a male face on the front, so she could really enjoy herself.

“Not bad,” Randy said. “Next time, get your shoulder into it. Sit down over there and watch.”

He pulled her gloves off and put them on himself. He tapped the light bag with his left glove so that it swung away and back. He stopped the motion with his right glove. In ten seconds he had established a steady poppa-poppa rhythm.

After a couple of minutes he caught the bag. “See, you hit hard, it fights back. You tap easy and get the rhythm right, you can keep going forever. You do that to somebody’s face, he’ll remember.”

Randy walked to the heavy bag, lowered his shoulder and slammed into it with his left glove, followed by a hard right. The bag barely swung. “Now, this one you can beat the stew out of.”

“Interesting, but not germane to our classwork, surely. I have to go.”

“Let’s say you’re earning extra credit. Can you come early on Thursday?”

“Why?”

“So you can put on these gloves and take out some of that aggression before class.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Unless you learn to use your opponent’s strength against him, you won’t beat him. You’ll beat yourself. That’s what you’re doing now.”

“You afraid I’ll hurt one of the others? Like Sarah Beth?”

“Sarah Beth is in better shape than you are, and she’s more focused. You wouldn’t go for her the way you go for me, either. The second you’re off balance, she’ll send you flying.”

“I’m leaving now.” Helena dug a towel out of her gym bag, wiped her face and shrugged into her windbreaker. She looked around at the nearly empty room, then said, “Please walk me to my car.”

That cost her. Randy saw her hands clamped in fists at her sides. He’d already explained to the class that walking with purpose went halfway toward not being a victim. She was doing that, all right, but she gave off an odor of fear you could smell half a mile away. She was like a whipped dog that snarls and attacks anything that moves.

He watched her burn rubber out of the parking lot. The woman was not only angry, she was frightened. He needed to know why.