Читать книгу Heat Of The Night - Donna Kauffman - Страница 9

“THE HANDCUFFS and leather mask could be explained in any number of ways.” Bill Henley swiveled his chair around and gazed out his office window. Fog still hugged the streets of Philadelphia, but Mayor Henley probably wasn’t thinking about traffic jams or whether the mist would burn off before his nine o’clock tee off time.

Homicide detective Brady O’Keefe waited impatiently for Henley to come to terms with reality. The mayor was right about the handcuffs and leather mask. But the pink tutu and satin bustier his friend had also been wearing were another matter altogether, not to mention the feather whip. Brady wished for about the hundredth time this morning that the commissioner wasn’t in bed with the flu. He should be here holding Henley’s hand so Brady could get back to solving the city’s latest murder.

A minute passed, then another. Brady sighed, then spoke quietly but directly. “Sir, I did what I could to squash the media coverage. But Sanderson was very well known, and…” He stopped, knowing he didn’t have to tell the mayor how bad this was going to look when it hit the papers. And it would hit the papers. Morton Sanderson was a major player in the Philadelphia business community and a chief backer of Henley’s upcoming reelection campaign. He was also a self-righteous blowhard, notorious for his public drubbing of anyone who fell short of his strict code of morality.

Which made that pink tutu particularly hard to deal with.

“Well, I don’t think you or anyone else is going to be able to make this go away or keep it under wraps,” Brady finished. He hated all this political-posturing crap. He wasn’t good at pussyfooting around, much less putting positive spins on things that weren’t remotely positive. He’d gotten where he was by focusing on one thing and one thing only: getting to the truth. He stood straighter. “To be frank, sir, I need to get back to the station. I’ve got interviews lined up all morning and I can’t afford to waste time on who is going to write what in the morning papers.”

The mayor swung back around, appearing ready to blast him for his insubordination, but abruptly stopped. His expression turned weary, but it was the real grief in the depths of his eyes that made Brady rein in his impatience.

“Just find out who set him up, O’Keefe,” Henley said quietly. “I’ll take care of the media.”

“Sir, with respect, there is no indication of a setup. Not yet anyway.”

“I know Mort rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but I know—knew—him better than most. No way did he die in a seedy hotel while taking part in some sort of kinky sex scandal. There’s something else going on here. Find the truth, Detective O’Keefe. And find it fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

Henley was already on the phone before Brady hit the door. Once in the hall, he added under his breath, “But whether or not you like the truth is not my problem.”

BRADY SLUGGED DOWN the foul dregs of a cold mug of coffee. When he didn’t even wince, he knew it was time to call it quits for the night. He slapped shut the folder he’d been writing in and shoved back his chair. “I’m out of here,” he said to no one in particular. His shift had left hours ago and the midnight shift was already busily at work, not paying him any particular mind. Which was why he worked late more often than not. No one bugged him, his phone didn’t ring and he got a lot done. Besides, when he was on a case, there was nothing else he’d rather be doing. And in this city, there was always a case.

“Detective O’Keefe still around?”

Brady swung his head toward the squad room door. “Who wants to know?”

Sergeant Ross wove through the desks toward him. “Some woman named Mahoney, out in receiving. Says the mayor sent her.”

“I didn’t get a call from Henley’s office.” Even as he completed the sentence he dug under the folders on his desk to the stack of pink message slips the secretary had stuck in his hand the last time he came in. He’d been so besieged, he’d never gotten to them. Henley’s message was the sixth one down. He swore under his breath. “Yeah, all right. Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.”

He shrugged on his suit jacket, but didn’t bother putting on his tie. It was late, he was wiped out and hungry and suddenly wishing he’d left with the rest of his squad. He scanned the message slip again. Erin Mahoney. He smiled wryly. Boy did that name bring back memories. None good. He’d known an Erin Mahoney growing up. She was two years younger than him, but she’d made his life hell right up until the last day of fourth grade when she’d blessedly moved across town.

He spent a moment wondering whatever happened to her, then chuckled. Probably torturing some poor insurance salesman husband and wreaking havoc with the PTA. The image made Brady feel better. He only had to deal with murderers and reluctant witnesses. And whatever flunky Mayor Henley had just shoved in his path.

Still smiling, he pushed through the door, then stopped in his tracks. Her back was to him…and what a back it was. Tall and shapely, with deep auburn hair, she wore a suit so beautifully tailored it almost made him wish he’d taken up Uncle Mike’s offer to work at his clothing store instead of entering the police academy eleven years ago. Never before had a tape measure held such erotic possibilities.

His appreciative smile froze when she stopped chatting up the desk clerk and swung around to face him.

“Terror Mahoney.” He’d said it under his breath, but the mischievous light that twinkled in her bright green eyes signaled that she’d heard him.

“Why if it isn’t Crybaby O’Keefe.” She laughed when he scowled. She turned back to the very attentive desk sergeant. “Thank you, Sergeant Ross,” she said, then bent gracefully and snapped up her briefcase. Despite his dumbfounded state, or maybe because of it, he followed her movement, causing him to reflect on just how much finer a pair of basic black high heels could make prizewinning legs appear.

She walked by Brady in those basic black pumps and opened the door he’d just come through. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Her bright smile and knowing look made it clear she knew exactly where he’d been looking, and that she’d absolutely planned it that way. It was as if the intervening twenty years had never happened. She’d been in his face for less than a minute and she already had him on the defensive. Her weapons had changed a bit—okay, a lot—but they were still just as effective.

Well, he told himself, he was no longer a skinny little ten-year-old. Nor did he adhere to the code of honor that said a man didn’t stand tough against a woman. The first time a woman had pulled a gun on him had ended that notion. Erin’s weapon of choice had always been her mouth.

“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask you to postpone this little chat until tomorrow?” he said. “I was off duty about—” he glanced at his watch “—yesterday.”

“I know it’s late, but I’ve been in meetings with the mayor all day. Henley is expecting me in his office first thing in the morning. I need to talk with you before then. I know Henley left a message with you.”

Resigned, Brady sighed, and motioned her toward his desk. “Over there, second desk on your right.”

She turned around, causing him to stop short. “Is there somewhere a bit more private? This is…delicate.”

She smelled good. Damn good. No delicate little floral scent for Terror Mahoney. No, she ambushed men right up front with something spicy and cinnamon sweet. Of course, anything would smell good to him after fourteen hours of bad coffee. Or so he told himself. “You’re here about the Sanderson murder, right?”

“Yes. Can we use an interview room or something?”

“Everyone here knows the details, Ms. Mahoney.”

“First I’m Terror, now I’m a Ms.?”

He found a smile even if he did have to grit his teeth to form it. “When I saw you I remembered you as an eight-year-old pain in the ass. Now I see you’re going to be a twenty-eight-year-old pain in the ass. But I’ve matured.” He swept a hand in front of him. “Have a seat, madam?”

She didn’t scowl. In fact, she laughed and looked him over. “Yes, you have matured.” Her gaze traveled up his chest and over his face. “Quite well, I must say.” She smiled. “And it’s Miss.”

He swore he felt that look ripple over every bristle of his five o’clock shadow. Damn, he was more exhausted than he realized. Brady thought he had done an admirable job of not noticing she’d also matured quite well. Of course he’d noticed, only a dead man wouldn’t have noticed. But at least he hadn’t been obvious about it. “You didn’t turn out so bad either,” he managed to say.

She laughed again. “Boy, how much did that hurt?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she folded her long frame into the metal chair. She crossed one leg over the other, and it would have taken a far better man than him not to be aware that her legs truly did go on forever.

He’d always thought he was that better man. He didn’t thank her for proving otherwise. He tore his gaze away from the forest-green suit she was wearing, trying hard not to think about how it seemed to have been stitched directly onto her body. He usually gave less than a damn about his suits or how they fit, but she made him feel exceedingly rumpled. One more point against her.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, ignoring that he was long overdue for a haircut, and sat behind his desk. He was hip deep in the city’s most sensational murder investigation in years. The last thing he had time for was the testosterone tango. And he had less than no time to play with someone like Erin Mahoney. She’d obviously spent the last twenty years honing her warrior skills to dangerously new, and exceedingly feminine, heights.

“So, what does the mayor want to know?” he asked. Business, this was going to be all business. Short, not-too-sweet, and over. “And since when are you working for him?”

“He wants to know exactly what you know about who killed Morton Sanderson and why. And since about nine-fifteen this morning when he hired my firm to help him out with his little…media concern.”

“Firm? You have a firm?”

“You’re not the only one who grew up and got a responsible job, O’Keefe. I’m in public relations. Mahoney and Briggs. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

Public relations? Terror Mahoney? He’d have laughed, except one look at her expression told him she was waiting for exactly that. So he shrugged. “Sorry, no, I haven’t.”

She shrugged as well, not remotely offended. “We’re small, but we have a solid reputation.”

“What is it, exactly, that you do?”

“I’m a consultant. People hire me for all kinds of reasons. Self-promotion, business promotion, media liaison—”

“Ah. A spin doctor.”

Her smooth expression didn’t falter. “In this case, it’s my job to make sure said media doesn’t turn this thing with Sanderson into some kind of salacious, kinky-sex droolathon.” At his look of disbelief, she amended, “Okay, more than they already have.” She lifted a hand. “I’m not here to make your life difficult.”

Now he had to laugh. “At no time in our mutual past history have you done anything but make my life as difficult as possible. The only change I see now is that you’re getting paid to do it.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Nice work if you can get it.”

“It is nice work,” she retorted with a smile. “And I get paid quite well, thank you.” She shifted in her seat and he worked damn hard to keep his gaze squarely on her face. “And because I get paid quite well, I take that job very seriously,” she went on. “I won’t be a disruption as long as you keep an open line of communication with me. All you have to do is report to me everything you discover, as you discover it, so I can prepare all public statements that come from both this precinct and the mayor’s office. No one is to talk to any member of the press unless they clear it with me first.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. With the mayor’s blessing, of course.”

“Well, you’ll have to talk with the commissioner.”

“I believe the mayor has already done that.”

Brady swore under his breath. Commissioner Douglas had been appointed by Henley, and with the mayor up for reelection, that meant Douglas had become his number-one patsy. To hell with what was right or wrong, it was all about job security now.

“Consider me your liaison.” She recrossed her legs. “If you think about it, O’Keefe, I’m actually here to make your life easier. You won’t have to deal with the press at all. You’ll only have to deal with me.”

Brady simply stared at her. She was truly amazing. And insane if she thought he was going to go along with this plan like a good little boy. “I never thought I could be given a set of choices that would make me think dealing directly with the press was the preferable option.”

Nothing seemed to faze her. Her smile was honest and direct. “Don’t make it sound so bad, Detective. I’m sure we’ll make this work with a minimum of fuss.”

“You are truly an optimist then.” He shoved back his chair and stood.

For the first time, she looked a bit off balance. Good. He’d have to remember how he did that. He had a feeling he’d need to use it. Repeatedly.

“Wait a minute, I need to go over your reports so far.” There was a touch of nervousness in her voice now as she watched him clear his desk.

“I need to go home and get some sleep.” He scooped up the case files and piled them into a side drawer, then locked it. He dropped the keys in his shirt pocket, pausing by her chair as he rounded the desk. “And if you plan to accompany me to bed in hopes I talk in my sleep, I’ll save you the effort.”

“But—”

“Good night, Ms. Mahoney. Tell Mayor Henley that I’ll file my report with my captain as soon as I’m ready. Until then, he can contact Commissioner Douglas if he has any questions about the investigation.” Brady decided he’d rather deal with them directly than go through her anyway. And he was certain that confrontation would come sooner rather than later. But it wasn’t right now, and that was all he cared about at the moment.

He lifted a finger when she opened her mouth to speak. “As for the press, don’t worry. As a rule, I don’t talk to anyone about any of my cases. Ever.” His pointed look at her was clearly understood.

He was halfway across the room when he realized she wasn’t dogging his heels as he’d expected. At no time had Terror Mahoney ever given up easily. So he stopped and turned back. His grin widened. She didn’t disappoint. She was looking at the tag board where the officers hung keys to the squad cars when not in use, only she wouldn’t know what those keys were for.

“Mahoney,” he called out, causing her to swing around. He had to give it to her, she managed to look totally innocent. About as innocent as a barracuda in a school of guppies, he thought, but there was no resentment in it. Quite the opposite actually. But then, he was no guppy. He patted his pocket. “I’ve got the only set.” He saluted her. “Good night.”

With a rueful smile, she saluted him back.

He left the squad room feeling her eyes on his back. All up and down his back for that matter. His neck grew red, but he found himself smiling as he walked out to his car.