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chapter two

“Working early or staying late?”

The voice, more or less familiar, filtered through the mush in Jack’s brain, finally spurring one cohesive thought—Irving. The voice belonged to Lieutenant Irving. With a grunt, he peeled his face off the government-issue desk and squinted up at his interrogator. “What?” he croaked. Not exactly a stunning response, but it was the best he could manage.

Dan Irving smirked and plopped down a coffee cup. “You need this more than me.” He shook a bag. “The doughnuts I’m keeping. Gotta promote those stereotypes.”

Jack took a slug of liquid heaven, closed his eyes and let the legal stimulant do its number on his brain. “Fire, I understand. What I don’t get is how man survived before caffeine.”

“You call this surviving?” Irving swept his arm to encompass the office. “The animals in Central Park got better digs than we do.”

Jack grinned and lifted his coffee cup. “But we got a much better menu.”

The lieutenant flipped a wooden chair around, straddled it, and Jack pushed a photocopy of Mrs. Crawley’s pillow greeting his way. “What do you make of that?”

Irving picked up the copy, held it farther and then even farther away as though he were doing a little trombone number, then ended up holding it at arm’s length. Jack bit back a chuckle. The lieutenant refused to give in and buy reading glasses, but if his eyes kept going south, he was going to need longer arms.

“Don’t be frightened, darling.” Irving frowned. “A threat. But there’s something else. Something about the language. It’s stilted.”

“That’s what I think, too.”

“The Crawley case?”

Jack nodded. “Third incident. This one, the perp actually got into their bedroom. Needless to say, Mr. and Mrs. Crawley aren’t too happy.” He took the paper back, frowning at the neatly typed words. “It’s...odd. Our perp seems to be quoting something, and it might be important.”

“So figure out what he’s quoting.”

“Already on it.” Jack grinned. “Or rather, Donovan is.”

Irving chuckled. “What are you up to, Parker?”

“Just doing my job. I called my partner about six-thirty this morning. Said I needed him to track us down a literature professor.”

“Don’t suppose Donovan’s girl of the week took that too well.”

“Don’t guess she did.” Jack stifled a smile, remembering the girl’s clear annoyance when she’d answered the phone. He grinned. “Well, if you can’t stand the hours, don’t date a cop.”

Considering Jack had spent the entire night buried under boxes of evidence, while Donovan had spent the night under—or on top of—something much more entertaining, Jack couldn’t feel too guilty about the wake-up call. And the fact was, he really did need to find someone who could source that quote—assuming it really was a quote. In the absence of any physical evidence, it was the best lead they had. Hell, it was the only lead.

“So how’d you pull this assignment?” Irving asked. “Sex crimes division going after scraps of paper now?”

Jack shook his head. “Our perp’s got a thing for erotica. Book passages and some pretty graphic nudie postcards.”

Irving pulled out a doughnut, then passed the bag to Jack before standing. “Pass a nudie postcard my way and we’ll call it even.”

Jack laughed, and when his stomach growled he realized he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch. He grabbed an apple fritter and devoured half of it before Irving crossed the squad room.

Jack was wiping crumbs off his desk when Donovan appeared and dropped into the chair Irving had abandoned.

“You realize you owe me one,” Donovan said.

Jack nodded. “Story of my life. Find anyone?”

Donovan shifted smoothly into professional mode. “A tenured professor of world literature. No summer classes. Family was in the book business for years. Should be in to see you around nine.”

“Good. I’ve got to be in court on the Bleeker case at eleven, so that’s perfect.”

“I live to serve.” Donovan leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t forget the vest,” he added.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack said. The Bleeker matter had taken a nasty turn, child pornography, mob connections, all sorts of shit. And the word on the street was that Darian Bleeker intended to simply get rid of the witnesses. Kevlar had become de rigueur for the fashionable detective. Jack hated the vest, but he sucked it up and wore it on the days he was testifying. The damn thing was miserable in the summer heat, but certainly preferable to getting blown away.

Donovan helped himself to a corner of Jack’s fritter. “So I’m guessing you were here all night. Come up with anything else?”

“Nothing definitive.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Lab says no.”

“What about the paper?”

Jack shook his head, the lack of any serious leads eating at his gut. “Doubtful. Looks to be pretty common notepaper. But this...” He slid the photocopy across the desk again. “See anything odd?”

Donovan shrugged. “Should I?”

“The e rises a bit. One of the forensic guys noticed.”

“A typewriter? What? Our perp’s not computer literate?”

“Could be a lead—but only if we track down the match.”

Donovan grimaced. “Great. Thousands of typewriters in the greater Manhattan area. I’ll start combing junk shops,” he scoffed.

“I’m hoping your professor can give us some more concrete help,” Jack said.

“I guess you are.” Donovan looked at his watch. “In the meantime, I’ll go to the lab and see if anyone’s hobby is typewriters.”

Jack downed some coffee. “Have fun.”

As Donovan headed off, Jack pulled out the evidence he’d been reviewing all night—the pillow note, two pages ripped from Lady Chatterley’s Lover, a postcard of a half-naked woman, and three postcards showing men and women in positions that, if the right woman came along, Jack might be tempted to try.

“I was hoping to talk to him now. I’m in kind of a hurry.” At the distinctly female voice, Jack looked up, automatically covering the risqué postcards with a manila folder. Near the main doors, a tall woman with a mass of deep brown curls and lips to die for was having an animated conversation with the officer on duty. She looked at her watch, frowned and turned back to the officer. “I’d like to be back at the bookstore by ten.”

Bookstore. Thank God she’d arrived early. He had a ton of questions. Jack jumped to his feet and half ran to the front of the room, stopping across the counter from her and sticking out his hand.

“Detective Parker. I think you’re here to see me.”

Carla, the officer on duty, raised an eyebrow, but he waved her down. The woman shifted her purse and took his hand, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity dancing across his fingertips.

“Veronica Archer.” She glanced from Carla to him and back again. Her eyes widened behind the wire frames of her glasses and she held his gaze for the briefest moment before she looked away, color rising on her cheeks. “I...I’m supposed to talk to you?”

“That’s right,” he said, thankful for small favors. He opened the gate and ushered her through, appreciating the way her hips moved under the clingy knit skirt.

For a brief moment he wondered if Donovan had deliberately picked the sexiest professor on campus to entice him, then dismissed the idea. Off duty, his partner might throw women at him. On the job, Donovan was the consummate professional. Which meant this woman knew her stuff. “I overheard you say that you were in a hurry. Detective Donovan’s down at the lab right now.”

“Oh.” Her easy smile affected him in ways that were hardly professional. With effort, he forced himself to concentrate on her words. “In that case,” she added, “thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”

Her smile broadened, and he found himself returning it. He cleared his throat. “Right. Well, Donovan and I work together.” Jack gestured to a chair, then sat behind his desk. He was grateful for the chair beneath him. As it was, his own knees felt weak. As if this woman had managed to push all his buttons with nothing more elaborate than a glance.

“I see.” She crossed her legs, and he forcibly pulled his eyes away. “Is he the one I spoke to before? I didn’t remember his name.”

“That’s right.”

She shifted in her seat, her sweater pulling against the swell of her breasts. Jack’s mouth went dry.

“Well,” she said, “as I mentioned on the phone this morning, what I would like is—”

“Ms. Archer, I should probably just jump in with the information we need from you.” The approach seemed prudent. Not only did he need the information, he needed to regain the sense of control he’d lost the second he’d laid eyes on Veronica Archer. “At this stage of the game, we want to keep as much confidential as possible. I’m sure you understand.”

Her teeth grazed her lower lip and her brow furrowed. “Well, yes, of course.” She frowned, then shook her head. “No. Actually, the truth is I don’t. I only want—”

“Please.” He pulled out an evidence bag holding a single page and passed it to her, fighting the urge to explain the entire case. Clearly, he was losing it. Not only did his fingers itch to touch her, but something about the woman made him want to open up, to tell her about everything—the anonymous letters and postcards, the frustration of not being able to get a break in the case.

Get a grip, Jack. He was probably just feeling awkward about foisting erotic literature on a woman. Not the kind of activity he tended to imagine in a professional setting. Hell, not the kind of activity he’d ever imagined at all. Though with Veronica Archer, he could imagine some interesting study-hall activity.

With a mental jerk, he yanked his mind back, annoyed that the mere proximity to a beautiful woman was driving him to distraction. Maybe Donovan was right. Maybe he’d been too long without a date.

“So?” She waved the bag, then dropped it on his table.

“Do you recognize it?”

“Sure. D. H. Lawrence. Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” She looked him straight in the eye, and he thought he saw anger brewing. An unwelcome change from earlier, and one he didn’t understand.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Is this really necessary?”

A hard edge definitely laced her voice, but he supposed that was understandable. She was an academic, probably not used to being second-guessed. But he needed to be sure she knew her stuff. “Yes. I think it is.”

“Chapter ten,” she said, her voice tight. “Connie and the gameskeeper. They’ve never been together, really don’t even know each other, but he tells her to lie down, and she does, and then he touches her...that way.”

She raised an eyebrow and Jack swallowed, feeling a little like a student who’d just failed a test.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

He avoided the question, instead passing her one postcard and then another, each of which she identified without even missing a beat. The lady knew her stuff. Donovan had certainly tracked down the best professor for the job.

But the cards were chump change. Even he and Donovan had eventually discovered the source of the pages and the artwork. Now it was time for the real test. He pushed the photocopy of the pillow note toward her. “What about this? Do you recognize it?”

“Detective...” She paused, frowning, then glanced first at his desktop and then at him. After a moment, she seemed to come to a decision. “I’ve tried my best to be polite, to be on my best behavior. But I’m not exactly in the mood for pop quizzes, okay?” She tucked her purse under her arm and pushed her chair back, glaring at him, her eyes cold, entirely lacking their earlier warmth. “Yes, my specialty’s erotica. But I don’t see why I have to play Jeopardy! simply to get the police department to do its job.”

Jack could practically feel the anger sparking off her like static electricity. He didn’t have a clue as to what had set her off, but he had an overwhelming urge to fix it. To make whatever was bothering her better. “Look, Ms. Archer, if there’s been some sort of misunderstanding—”

“Misunderstanding? Ignoring my case? Not returning my calls?” She waved a hand at the evidence he’d just shown her. “And now this...this...attitude about the fact that I study erotica.” She glared at him, green eyes flashing. “It just so happens that I have a significant number of rare books and manuscripts in that store, not to mention the fact that I live above it.”

She pulled her cardigan closed, the thin knit stretching tight against her breasts. He shouldn’t be noticing, but he couldn’t help it any more than he could help his body’s reaction. He tried not to stare. Getting caught ogling her at this particular moment probably wouldn’t win him any brownie points.

She swallowed. “I’m scared, Detective. Okay? And I don’t appreciate being taunted about my profession.”

Blinking furiously, she stood up. “I’ll call again later for answers,” she said. “And I suggest you have some if you don’t want me to speak to your supervisor.” With a defiant tilt of her chin, she turned and rushed out, heels clicking on the battered linoleum floor.

Jack was as confused as he’d ever been, and she was out the door and gone by the time his brain defrosted. Gears turned in his head, and coherent thoughts started to form from the random words she’d thrown out—her case, ignoring, scared, answers. With a groan, he let his head fall onto the metal desktop.

Veronica Archer wasn’t a professor, she was a victim.

Way to go, Jack. Arrest the perps and alienate the victims. Smooth move.

And she wasn’t just any victim, but one who owned a bookstore and specialized in erotic literature. Except for the problem that he’d managed to completely piss her off, she could probably help him with the Crawley case more than some generic lit professor from the halls of academia. Not to mention the fact that he just plain wanted to see her again.

Glancing up, he noticed a rumpled man in a seersucker suit talking with Carla. The literature professor, he presumed. An image of chestnut curls, emerald eyes and a kissable mouth flashed in his mind. Features held together by a fiery personality he wouldn’t at all mind working with.

Instead, he got Professor Nerdsly.

“Detective Parker,” Carla called, “this gentleman is here to see you.”

Jack waved, letting her know he’d be right there.

“Oh, and Jack? That woman, she said to tell you it came from The Boudoir.”

* * *

“That was fast.” Joan looked up from the computer as Ronnie stalked into the store, the little bell announcing her arrival. She held up a box. “This came for you. From your secret admirer, I’m guessing.”

Ronnie half smiled as she took the box, her hideous mood lifting just a little. She pulled the top off to reveal a package of Hershey’s Kisses, with a little note in stenciled calligraphy— Sweets for the sweet.

Joan looked over her shoulder. “Aw. How sweet,” she said drolly. “I say there’s gotta be something wrong with him if he won’t show his face.”

“Don’t be mean,” she said to Joan. “Whoever’s sending them is probably just shy.” For about two months now, she’d been receiving anonymous little gifts every week or so. Each contained a message, a bit clichéd, but nice.

She looked more closely at the box. “Mail?”

“Nope. It was sitting outside the door. One of the customers brought it in.”

With a shake of her head, Ronnie sighed, wondering if she’d ever figure out who her admirer was. Her guess was Tommy, the shy young man who’d attended each and every one of the free lectures on erotica the store sponsored on alternate weeks.

If that was the case, though, Ronnie almost hoped he stayed anonymous. Tommy seemed like a sweet kid, in a college freshman kind of way, but certainly not her type.

An image of Detective Parker popped into her mind. Speaking of her type...

Joan plucked the box from her hand and grabbed a Kiss. “So what happened? I didn’t think you’d make it back before we opened.”

Ronnie’s foul mood returned as she flung her satchel onto the desk and aimed herself toward the coffee. “It was a totally wasted trip,” she said. “They’re impossible. He’s impossible.”

“He?” Joan peered at her over the rims of her psychedelic half glasses, apparently this week’s venture into nouveau fashion. “He, who?”

Ronnie took a swig of coffee and shook her head as she swallowed. “A detective he,” she said, glaring at the turn-of-the-century French postcards Joan was cataloging, the kind of postcards he’d taunted her with at the station.

Waving a hand toward the scattered ephemera, she scowled. “A him with a complex about that.”

“No way. Really? That’s why nothing’s happening with your break-in? The police are prudes?”

Ronnie sipped her coffee. “Looks that way.” She sure as hell couldn’t think of any other explanation for his odd behavior.

Distracted, she paced in front of the window, watching her neighbors glide by on the way to work. Bank tellers, bus drivers, schoolteachers, stockbrokers. It was an eclectic neighborhood, and she loved it. The familiar sights and smells had comforted her for years. Mrs. Carmichael opening the corner store. Duncan Tanner selling hotdogs from a cart, the pungent smell of sauerkraut filling the morning air.

She’d managed to quell some of her irritation—no, dammit, her fury—as she’d walked back from the police station. But now that anger was rallying, slamming through her stomach with even more force than before. Someone had violated her sanctuary. This neighborhood. Her life. How dare the cops soft-pedal her robbery just because she dealt in erotic literature.

And the fact that Detective Parker was so damn good-looking only added to her annoyance. For reasons she wasn’t inclined to examine too closely, he’d been on her mind during the entire walk back from the station, the echo of his touch still lingering on her fingers.

A particularly annoying fact, considering that Detective Parker had been a total jerk. Probably one of those macho holier-than-thou guys who thought a woman should be prim, proper and submissive. Heaven forbid a woman take the initiative where sex was concerned.

Of course, her extensive reading didn’t count as the real thing. She grinned. For that matter, neither did a vibrator.

He could scratch that itch....

The decadent thought slammed through her, and her knees went weak. She grabbed the side of a bookshelf for support as her mind filled with an image of piercing gray eyes and an angular jaw dusted with a shadow well past five o’clock.

Now, there was a vision that could inspire long nights of study.

Sighing, she sank into the soft leather armchair by the desk, the warm mug clasped in both hands. Despite how much the man had irritated her, her body still tingled at the thought of his touch. She told herself it wasn’t him, it was her—oversexed and undersatisfied. But, oh, what a fantasy to imagine Detective Parker doing the satisfying.

She dwelled on the thought a little longer than she should, trying to imagine his hands on her breasts, her waist, her hips. His handshake had been firm, his hands large, and the thought of those hands roaming her body sent little shivers up her spine. It was a fantasy she itched to make reality, but she knew that wasn’t possible.

With a sigh, she pushed the daydream away and glanced toward Joan. “So why is it that the handsomest men are inevitably Neanderthals?”

Joan laughed. “One of those, huh? Too bad. We could’ve used some eye candy around here. A rugged detective doing all that...detecting.” She winked. “Could’ve been fun.” She ran a hand through her tousled curls. “I wonder if he likes blondes? Trey’s starting to bore me to tears.”

“All men like blondes,” Ronnie said. “It’s carried on the Y chromosome, I think. You have nothing to worry about.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “I thought his name was Andy.”

“Andy’s old news. He stiffed a waitress. I dumped him. Trey’s an artist, very chic, but seriously lacking in the conversation department.”

Ronnie rolled her eyes. An artist. Well, that explained Joan’s new, get-down-get-funky glasses.

“I bet a detective would have plenty to talk about,” Joan added thoughtfully.

“Well, you’re just going to have to make due, because there’s not going to be any detective-gazing around here.” Considering how badly the meeting at the precinct went, that appeared to be an unfortunate reality. “I get the impression we’re on our own. I don’t think the police are coming at all.”

“Who’s not coming?” a voice cut in.

Nat. Damn.

Ronnie stood and turned toward the stairwell. He wore jeans and a ratty T-shirt, but his feet were bare. His hair stuck out in a million directions and he looked sixteen instead of more than twice that.

“You look like the dead,” she said, hoping the insult would derail the subject.

“Thanks. Who’s not coming? The cops?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, willing a lie to her tongue as she crossed her fingers in her pocket. “I was talking about the electrician.” She shrugged. “Everything’s under control.”

He shot her a look of pure disbelief before venturing to the coffeepot, filling a cup, then heading back to the stairwell, squeezing her shoulder lightly as he passed by. He paused, looking back at her. “You went like that?”

Automatically, she looked down at her outfit. Skirt, sweater, shoes. Nothing missing or revealing. “Yeah. So?”

He shrugged. “I was just thinking about the kind of guys who hang around police stations. That skirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”

Ronnie crossed her arms over her chest. Nat had been lecturing her on her wardrobe since she was twelve and bought her first training bra. She might be used to it, but it still annoyed her. “It’s a knit skirt. It’s supposed to cling. And they’re called thighs. Everyone has them. I assure you I haven’t committed some mighty sin by wearing material that clings.” She knew she sounded snappish, but she really wasn’t in the mood.

Nat scowled but didn’t say anything else. After a second, he changed the subject. “Well, you weren’t there very long. What exactly did the cops say?”

“Nothing much.” She shrugged, swallowing a bit of guilt at the white lie. She’d wasted many a college hour planted in front of television, but not one episode of Law & Order sprang to mind. “I guess police departments are pretty busy in the morning,” she added, mentally cringing at how lame she sounded. “But a detective is coming by later to give me the full scoop.”

Nat rubbed his chin but didn’t question her, and she held her breath. Then, with a quick nod and a murmured “okay,” he stepped back into the stairwell and pulled the door closed behind him.

The guilt returned. Nat had always been someone she could depend on, rely on, go to with her problems and share her dreams. She truly hated lying to him, but she didn’t want him worrying. He had a great opportunity in that job, and she didn’t want to see him blow it because of some misplaced worry about his little sister.

She comforted herself with the fact that it wasn’t a huge lie. If she worked the phones right and complained loudly enough, maybe she could get a detective to come over and give her an update by that evening.

Unfortunately, it just wouldn’t be Detective Parker.