Читать книгу All A Man Can Do - Virginia Kantra - Страница 9

The only thing worse than dying on the job was living long enough to retire.

Jarek Denko steered his aging police cruiser with one hand along Eden’s main drag. He eyed the empty steps of St. Raphael’s Catholic Church, checked out the sidewalk action in front of the Rose Farms Café.

Unless the senior citizens were carrying concealed, the street was quiet.

Jarek had never wanted to spend his retirement on a bar stool at the Joint, nursing a beer and his memories while all around him the active cops talked the job and women. But he sure hadn’t figured on giving up the street to become police chief in some backwater town.

His town, now, he reminded himself. It was a good town. And a great place to raise kids. His kid. Maybe the community of Eden could provide whatever was missing from his little girl’s life.

His jaw tightened. Yeah, like a father. It sure as hell couldn’t bring her mother back for her.

He thought with gratitude of his own parents. At least they were trying to support his decision to make a fresh start in a new place. His father muttered about coming up for the fishing. His mother insisted Allie stay with them until Jarek was settled in his new job.

And his brother, who had followed Jarek onto the force and into the most prestigious detective division in Chicago, was laughing his damn fool head off.

“You actually think you’ll be happy working in Pleasantville?” Aleksy had demanded.

“Eden,” Jarek corrected mildly. “And I can handle it.”

He had been a homicide detective for fourteen years. There was nothing he hadn’t seen, and damn little he couldn’t handle.

Now he cruised past Eden’s only movie theater, where a second-run action flick shared the screen with an afternoon cartoon, and turned right, toward the lake. The Town of Eden Police Department stood on a patch of winter-browned grass at the corner of North Lake and Highland. Except for the sign out front and the squad cars parked out back, the department looked exactly like the post office or the library. Trees and two flags softened the squat brick outline and shaded the severe concrete steps.

Jarek pulled into his reserved spot by the rear entrance and keyed himself into the building. The hallway was quiet. The whole building was quiet, even for a Tuesday morning. Just another day in paradise, Jarek thought wryly.

But as he walked to his office, he heard a heavy, genial voice carry from the receiving area.

“Well, well. We haven’t seen much of you around here lately. What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

“You can get me in to see Chief Denko,” a woman’s voice replied crisply. “And don’t call me sweetheart.”

Jarek sheered off from his office, his attention caught by her tone and the sound of his name. God knew, he could use a diversion from reading files.

Lieutenant Bud Sweet was in the lobby. With his broad red face and thick white hair, he looked like St. Nick’s suspicious cousin. His gut strained over his gun belt. Not for the first time this week, Jarek wondered if he would have to requisition new uniforms for his out-of-shape department or order them all into training.

There was a woman with Sweet, dark haired, young and exotic looking in a red sweater and a fitted black blazer. Nothing wrong with her shape at all.

“Lieutenant,” Jarek said quietly. With only a week as their boss, he was careful to give his department veterans their due.

Sweet nodded acknowledgment. “Someone here to see you, Chief.”

The woman turned, revealing a wide, red, full-lipped mouth and Sicilian gold eyes. The blazer hung open. Well. Wow. Hello. From this angle, the sweater looked even better.

She offered her hand, her golden eyes amused and aware. “Teresa DeLucca. But you can call me Tess.”

He shook her hand briefly—hers was warm and firm, with deep red nails to match the sweater—and then thrust his own deep in his pockets. Look, don’t touch, veteran Joe Arbuzzi used to tell him when he was still a wet-behind-the-ears detective at a crime scene.

“What can we do for you, Miss DeLucca?”

“I want to buy you breakfast,” she said.

Breakfast? Like, what two people ate the morning after the night before?

Holy St. Mike. He was a seasoned veteran of the streets. A casualty of divorce court. He knew better than to drool over Miss Call-Me-Tess DeLucca like he was off duty and she was a doughnut.

It was the sweater, he told himself. He’d always been a sucker for…red.

“She’s a reporter,” Sweet said.

A reporter. Jarek’s mental barriers rattled down like the grill over a jewelry store window. He had a cop’s natural aversion for the press. Even when they wore red.

“What do you want?” he asked again.

Sweet grinned. “Well, her brother’s not in lock-up, and the bars don’t close for another thirteen hours, so she can’t be here to bail her mama out. She must want you.”

Jarek frowned. Surely Sweet was joking? He had to be joking.

But Teresa DeLucca’s smile flattened. “Only for breakfast,” she said.

Jarek shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve eaten.”

“Coffee, then? The stuff here’s terrible.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Come here often, Miss DeLucca?”

“Tess,” she corrected. “And, no, not lately. Although I had my first ride in a police cruiser when I was fourteen.”

Okay, he was interested. He gestured toward the hallway behind him. “I can offer you coffee in my office.”

Her manicured nails toyed with the shoulder strap of her purse. Did he make her nervous? Or was it police stations? I had my first ride in a police cruiser when I was fourteen.

“What about the café?” she countered. “I’m buying.”

She was a puzzle, with her confident eyes and uncertain mouth. Jarek had never been able to resist a puzzle. It was one of the things that made him so good at his job.

He shrugged. “Fine. You want to come back for your car?”

Her smile relaxed some. She had a tiny overlap in her front teeth that was very attractive. “I’ll drive, thanks.”

“You’ll follow me?”

Those golden eyes danced. “To the ends of the earth,” she said solemnly.

He resisted the urge to smile back. Until he knew what she wanted, he couldn’t afford to get chummy.

“All right,” he said.

Bud Sweet pursed his round, red mouth. “Leaving kind of soon, aren’t you, Chief?”

Jarek nodded. “I’ll be back in thirty. Page me if you need me.”

“We’ll manage,” Sweet said.

Their eyes clashed briefly. Sweet’s fell first.

“Great,” Jarek said, careful not to push his point. “Thanks.”

Tess DeLucca followed him out of the building, her high-heeled boots making a bold sound on the concrete walk. “I get the impression your second in command doesn’t like you much.”

Well, there was a scoop, Jarek thought.

“Really,” he said noncommittally.

She unlocked her car door and then tossed back her dark hair to look at him. “Did you know he was in line for the chief of police position? Until the search committee decided you were the best man for the job.”

“I’d heard something like that,” Jarek admitted. It made the lieutenant’s antagonism easier to bear. Sweet considered Jarek an interloper. An outsider.

Jarek shrugged mentally. Hell, Sweet was right.

“I’d watch my back if I were you,” Tess DeLucca said. “Your lieutenant knows how to hold a grudge.”

Jarek frowned, but her face expressed nothing but intelligent interest and a sort of wry commiseration. He muffled another inconvenient spark of attraction. He appreciated her concern, if that’s what it was. He admired her frankness. But there was no way he was discussing the deficiencies and jealousies of the officers under his command with a civilian. A reporter, for crying out loud.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he murmured, and ushered her into her car.

Tess watched the new chief of police hand his plastic-sleeved menu back to their waitress.

“Grapefruit,” he ordered. “And coffee.”

“No doughnuts?” Tess drawled.

Denko’s eyes narrowed. His face was dark, full of lines and shadows. His eyes should have been dark, too. But they were unexpectedly pale, clear and cool as the lake in March. Tess resisted the urge to rub her arms briskly.

“You want doughnuts?” he asked.

“No. I’ll have the pancakes,” she told the waitress. She turned back to Denko. “I just thought you might.”

He nodded to the waitress—Noreen, her plastic name tag read—and said, “Thanks. That’ll be all, then. So.” He laced his fingers together; rested them on his paper place mat. All of his gestures were exact and deliberate, Tess noticed. “Do you always draw conclusions about people you’ve just met?”

She shrugged. “I get impressions. It helps, in my line of work.”

“And I strike you as a man who likes doughnuts.” His voice was bland. His shoulders were broad. And his stomach, beneath his starched shirt front, wasn’t anywhere near the edge of the table. Whatever the new chief’s reasons for leaving Chicago, he obviously hadn’t spent the past ten years eating doughnuts behind a desk.

She felt caught out by her stereotyping and struggled to make a recovery. “Maybe not,” she said. “You impress me as a man in control of himself and his waistline. You’re—what?—thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?”

“Forty.”

Just out of her age range and way out of her league. She looked at his hands, clasped on the table in front of him. His fingers were long and blunt-tipped, the nails neatly trimmed but otherwise neglected. “You’re not married now, but you were once. Maybe more than once. You’re straight. You don’t smoke, you drink beer, you vote Democrat and think Republican. How am I doing?”

He waited while their waitress, a straw-haired blonde in wilted polyester, filled his cup. “Pretty good…Sherlock.”

Maybe he had a sense of humor after all. Maybe she had a shot at a story. She had been so afraid, back at the station, that Sweet’s snotty comment or her own impulsive confession had ruined everything. But maybe there was a real, live, warm human being buried inside the Man of Ice.

She smiled engagingly. “Your turn.”

He took a sip of coffee. Black. “A good detective doesn’t theorize ahead of his facts.”

She sat up straighter on the vinyl bench. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’d have to spend more time with you before I developed any theories.”

She was deflated. Provoked. “That’s an interesting pickup line,” she said coolly.

“Just making conversation until our order gets here. Tell me about your ride in a police car when you were fourteen.”

The Man of Ice was back. “That was a long time ago.”

“But you remember. Were you scared?”

“I’m not scared of anything.” But she had been. Oh, she had been.

“So tell me about it.”

“It wasn’t anything. Kid stuff. Shoplifting.” It had been her brother’s birthday, she remembered. Mark had had his eleven-year-old heart set on a football, and she’d had her heart set on getting it—on getting anything—for him. Both of them had been disappointed. End of story.

“And you’ve been on the straight and narrow ever since,” Denko said dryly.

She raised her chin at his challenge. “Pretty nearly.” No point in pouring out the particulars. She was big on telling the truth. But not about her own past.

The waitress arrived with their food. She started to set the grapefruit in front of Tess when Denko stopped her.

“Other way around,” he said. “You’ve got us mixed up.”

Noreen wasn’t the only one who’d turned things around, Tess thought morosely. She stared at her plate. A mound of butter slid from the stack of pancakes to plop against the lonely orange wedge. For crying out loud, she was the reporter. She was used to getting people to talk, to confide in her. She was good at it.

But Jarek Denko was better.

She picked up her knife. “So, what brings a big, bad detective from Chicago to our little town?”

“How do you know I’m from Chicago?”

That was a cop’s trick, answering a question with another question. Reporters used it, too.

“I asked the mayor,” Tess said. “Were you fired?”

He didn’t get mad. “No.”

She poked a wedge of pancake. “You can’t have moved here for the excitement.”

He almost smiled. “No.”

“Then, why did you move here?”

“Personal reasons,” he said briefly.

Tess sniffed. “Oh, that’s illuminating. What kind of personal reasons? Breakdown? Breakup?”

A brief gleam lit those remote gray eyes. “What do you want, Miss DeLucca? My medical history or a blood test?”

Oh, boy. He wasn’t—he couldn’t be flirting with her. Could he? She swallowed a lump of pancake. “If you want to share.”

“No.”

“Trouble on the job?” she prodded sympathetically.

He eased back in the booth, his gaze steady, his voice calm. “Why don’t you ask the mayor?”

“I did. She said you were a regular Boy Scout.”

His smile appeared, a thin sliver in the ice. “That would be my brother. I was an altar boy.”

“You’re Catholic?” Ha. Her mother would love that. Not that Dizzy DeLucca was a saint herself, but she wanted one for her daughter.

The new police chief nodded.

“So, you have a brother. Any sisters?” Tess persisted.

“One of each.”

He was answering. This was good. At least, it was an improvement. “And what do they do now?”

“She’s a librarian. He’s Chicago PD.” Jarek took another sip of coffee and set his cup precisely in the center of the saucer. “How about you?”

“One brother.”

“Yeah? Older or younger?”

“Younger. Listen, do you—”

“He live with you?”

“I live alone.” She moistened her lips and flashed him her best smile. She was not letting him take control of this interview again. “Fishing, Chief Denko? I didn’t think you brought me here to hear about my personal life.”

He didn’t laugh. “I didn’t bring you here. What do you want, Miss DeLucca? A favor? A lead?”

“An interview. For the Eden Town Gazette.”

“Why didn’t you ask me back at the station house?”

“Because I was afraid you’d say no.”

He nodded again, not saying anything.

Tess picked at the chipped edge of one nail. “Well?” she asked finally.

“No,” he said.

She scowled. “Why not?”

“I’m not news.”

“You know that’s not true. People are always interested in their public officials. Even in Chicago, you’d get a column. Up here, you get the front page and my undivided attention. You’re the biggest news to hit town since Simon Ford.”

Denko looked blank. So he didn’t know everything. Tess found that reassuring.

“Simon Ford,” she repeated. “The inventor? He bought Angel Island.”

“You mean, he bought a house there.”

“No, he bought the island. The point is, you’re our lead story. Well, unless my editor decides to run with the new traffic light out at the high school or the Lutheran ladies’ zucchini cook-off. But I think we’ve got a good chance.”

A corner of his nicely shaped mouth quirked up. “I’m flattered. But, no.”

“What do you have to lose?”

“My privacy?” he suggested dryly.

She arched her eyebrows. “What do you have to hide?”

“Not a thing.”

“Well, then…” She let her voice trail off expectantly.

He eyed her with a combination of amusement and annoyance. “You’re persistent.”

“In my job, you have to be.”

“In my job, too. And I’m not convinced letting it all hang out in the Eden Town Gossip—”

“Gazette,” she snapped, and then scowled. He was just yanking her chain.

“Gazette,” he corrected smoothly. “Anyway, I don’t like the idea that anybody in town with fifty cents can read all about my life in the paper.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of spin?”

“I don’t need spin.”

“Sure you do.” She leaned forward earnestly and just missed smearing her sweater in syrup. Very smooth, DeLucca. “You’re a stranger here. People aren’t going to feel comfortable talking to you. A piece in the paper is like an introduction. It gets your name and face out there, makes people feel like they know you, shows them you’re a regular guy. They’re more likely talk to you then.”

“All the people here need to know is that I’m qualified to do my job.”

“And are you?”

He didn’t rise to her bait. “Your search committee thought so.”

She waited. “That’s it?”

“Unless you want to talk to me. Like you said, I’m a stranger here. I could use someone to fill me in on who’s who in this town.” He sent some subtle masculine signal that brought Noreen scurrying over.

It figured the new chief would be good in restaurants, Tess thought glumly. Probably he could find parking spaces and kill spiders, too. That didn’t mean she had to roll over for him.

“If it’s gossip you’re after, you can get that down the street at the barbershop. If it’s stories about suspicious behavior, you can get those from Bud Sweet.”

He shrugged and reached for his wallet. “It always helps to have a civilian perspective. And you’re a reporter. An observer. That could make you useful.”

“Gee, how nice,” she drawled. “If I’d ever wanted to be a police snitch, that would make me feel all warm inside.”

He didn’t laugh.

Fine. She didn’t need the approval of some cool-eyed, tight-lipped cop. She didn’t want this attraction to him, either.

She twitched the check from Noreen’s hand. “I told you, breakfast is on me.” She counted out the money. Too bad Gazette reporters didn’t merit expense accounts. After the waitress left, she asked, “So, is that the deal? I be your source, you be my story?”

Denko slipped his wallet back into his pocket. A difficult maneuver in the tight confines of the booth, but he managed it gracefully.

“No deal,” he said. “I’m interested in developing ties to the community. But my private life stays private.”

Tess felt an instant’s sympathy. She sure didn’t want anyone digging around in her private graveyard.

Her eyes narrowed as she regarded the new police chief. What skeletons was Jarek Denko hiding?