Relentless

Chapter 2-1

2

Grif

“Okay, you got me in here. Now, what the hell do you want?” I asked, rubbing my five o’clock shadow that had gone around the clock an extra day. It itched and it was hot, but it had to stay to help me be Nick Malone. I considered it a prop in my act. “You said you had something interesting to show me. I don’t have time to be dragged back into the station about something that you thought I’d find interesting.”

“You’ve been undercover too long, Grif. You’ve lost all your manners.” Peters, a homicide detective I’d known for a decade, gave me the once-over. “Nice outfit. You look like shit.”

Grif. I hadn’t heard my real name used in a while. Jake Griffin. Who the hell was he again? I couldn’t remember anymore. I’d been undercover too f*****g long.

“I just woke up and this—” I plucked at the black T-shirt one size too small, “—is what you wear when you run a nightclub. I don’t suppose there’s any fresh coffee around here?” The room was loud, the usual hustle of the homicide division. Phones rang, voices carried and the clack of fingers on keyboards was incessant.

Peters looked at his watch. “It’s one thirty.”

“Do you really want to know what I do with Moretti and his goons? Because this assignment’s not all f*****g rainbows and sunshine.” My voice had an edge I couldn’t help. I was exhausted and more than ready to see the end of this never-ending assignment. I saw a full pot of coffee across the room in the little mini-kitchen area and veered over to it. When Peters followed, I added, “I was up all night dealing with employee issues at the bar. I’m a cop, not Human Resources.”

I poured a cup, took a sip of the coffee, winced, then gulped down the scalding swallow, hoping the caffeine would give me the jolt I needed to have patience for whatever Peters wanted.

“Yeah, I can see how being in the hottest nightclub in town with twenty-two-year-old women giving you their phone numbers written on their panties would be rough.”

I leaned against the counter, remembering that situation, and the s**t I’d gotten from Peters and the others at the station for sharing that little gem. What was her name? Cathy? Karla? “Jesus, that was one time and I swear she had more plastic parts and oversized headlights than a Ford.” I took another swig of coffee, winced, and watched Peters chuckle. “God, I’m getting old, aren’t I?”

Undercover work was miserable at best. You had to give up everything to take on a role, a persona, for the duration of the assignment. In this case, I’d been infiltrating the Moretti crime family for over six months, getting in deep enough to be given the role of running Scorch, Denver’s newest nightclub—and Moretti’s latest purchase. It was where I needed to be, at the supposed pulse of the man’s money laundering. I just had to prove it. That meant going to bed at dawn and sleeping the day away like a f*****g vampire.

“Bobby Lane. Name ring a bell?”

I perked up. “Moretti’s son-in-law. A mean little s**t that handles the p**********n aspect of the family business. Not a believer in women’s rights, and I’m pretty sure that his wife knows that firsthand.”

“That’s the one.”

I just stared at him, waiting. He was enjoying this way too much. I circled my hand around in a circle to get him talking.

“He’s dead.”

I kept from spitting out the coffee across my friend’s shirt. Barely.

“When? How?”

Peters gave a little shrug. “Appears to have been late last night. Bullet to the brain.”

I grinned. “Bobby Lane was a f*****g asshole and deserved whatever he got. I would have heard this through Moretti soon enough.” I took a sip of coffee, looked at him over the rim of the cup. “That’s not the only reason why I’m here.”

He pointed at me, smiled. “That’s why you made detective. His body was found in the trunk of a car.”

I shrugged. This wasn’t news. “So? Aren’t they usually?”

“This car got pulled over because of an anonymous tip. It was driven by a woman named Anna Scott. Heard of her?”

I shook my head. “Where is she?”

“Room four.”

I took my bad coffee and headed to the back where the interrogation rooms were located. I waved at a familiar face or two but didn’t stop to talk. It was quieter past all the desks of the bullpen, but the smell of stale coffee and Chinese takeout lingered.

“You’re sure this isn’t the hooker trick? I’m not falling for the hooker trick,” I mumbled, thinking back to the many pranks we’d all pulled on each other to keep the tension and stress levels down when dealing with harsh cases. I hadn’t heard about Bobby Lane’s murder so it could have been a ruse Peters used to have a little fun at my expense.

“This one’s not a hooker.” He opened the door to the dark viewing room. It was obvious when I looked through the large window into the next room that Peters was right.

There was no way in hell the woman sitting there, all prim and proper with her hands in her lap, was a hooker. Through the one-way glass she looked like Happy Suzy Homemaker, not a pro pulled off the street. “She killed Bobby Lane? No f*****g way.”

The room was soundproofed, so she didn’t know she was being observed.

“She was driving the car.”

“Yeah, on the way to the PTA.”

“Whatever. Give me your first impression,” Peters said.

I assessed the woman with my detective eye. “Close to thirty and beautiful.”

Peters c****d an eyebrow but remained silent.

Shit, had I said the last out loud? What the hell, she was beautiful.

Her skin was so pale next to her straight, dark hair. It was long, loose over her shoulders. “Her hair’s nicely cut, which means she has money.” She had dark eyes fringed by even darker lashes, sculpted brows and minimal makeup. “Not overly vain. Her lipstick’s gone or she never wore any.”

Her clothes fit her slim frame perfectly; a skirt that was mostly orange with flowers all over it. “She’s modest.” I pointed at her. “Her skirt comes to her knees, even sitting down. It’s not skin tight.” I leaned in to get a closer look, even though she was only ten feet away. “Her blouse has buttons all down the front, but none are open to reveal cleavage. In fact, is that a tank top or something she’s wearing underneath? She’s not flaunting her assets.” She had assets all right. I couldn’t miss the lush curve of her breasts, even beneath her white blouse. “Moretti’s ladies flash a little more skin than that.”

“Go on,” Peters prompted.

“By the look of her arms, I’d say she stays in shape.”

“She’s not what I’d call a bodybuilder,” Peters added.

“No, but I bet she does more pushups than you to get triceps like that.”

We both stared at her in silence for a moment. I had no doubt Peters was considering his fitness regime.

“Strappy sandals. She’s a girly girl,” I continued. “But low heels indicate she’s practical. No stilettos for her.”

“I’m impressed. What about the toe polish?” Peters asked.

“Hidden vixen?” I asked, half joking, taking in the fire-engine red. There was more to this woman than met the eye—and she wasn’t showing much. She was too perfect. The real woman was hidden beneath the façade she had in place and I had to wonder what she was like. This façade, it was well fortified, well practiced, as if she was used to it being up around her like a castle wall. What would I have to do to pull it down, and what would I find once I did? I was getting a hard-on looking at her. And she was a suspect. One hell of a suspect. Jesus, it had been too long.

There had to be something wrong with me. The college girls in skimpy clothes with skimpy morals at Scorch every night didn’t even make my d**k twitch. I never looked twice at any of them. This woman, and she was all woman, had me pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of my pants, even knowing she might have killed a guy. A total asshole who wouldn’t be missed by many, but still. My d**k didn’t seem to really care.

“If hidden vixen is code word for murderer, then you might be right.”

“Self-defense maybe?” She didn’t look like a woman who’d been assaulted, especially by a misogynist like Bobby Lane. There wasn’t a mark or blemish on her creamy skin and Bobby didn’t play nice. Just the thought of her being touched by that bastard made me clench my fists. A bullet to the brain wouldn’t be enough.

“Doubtful, since she flew in last night,” Peters told me.

A surprising wave of relief washed over me. s**t, I’m in trouble here.

“Record?” Had she been in jail before? Arrested? Convicted of a crime? Speeding? Unpaid parking ticket? Unlicensed dog?

“Clean,” Peters replied.

I set my paper cup down on the table, leaned back against it and crossed my arms, my eyes never leaving her face. “There’s more to her than I’ve just said.” I stared at her for another moment. “She hasn’t moved since we came in. She’s staring at some spot on the wall in front of her. That c***k or something. She’s too relaxed. She’s not sweating, she’s not panicked, she’s not fidgeting. And look. She’s got goose bumps on her arms. The AC’s cranked. She’s got to be cold and she doesn’t even realize it.”

Even in our small room I could feel the cool breeze from the ceiling vent. The HVAC system in the old building had two settings: too hot or too cold.

Her face was devoid of any type of emotion. I wondered how a smile would change her appearance, bring her to life. She might have a beating heart, but she didn’t really seem alive. She seemed closed off.

“Shock, maybe?” Peters leaned back against the table as well. “She lawyered up first thing when the traffic cop found the body. Hasn’t said a word since. Hasn’t taken her hands out of her lap. Refused the soda we offered. Doesn’t seem like she’s on drugs, either.”

The can was in front of her, the condensation a small pool of liquid on the table indicated it had been there a while.

“Did she call anyone?”

Peters shook his head. “She didn’t want her one phone call.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Pretty girl like her with no one to call. Afraid of her husband?”

“Single.”

“It looks like she’s…thinking,” I considered.

“Maybe.” Peters didn’t seem to buy that idea. “She’s from New York City and was driving a rental car,” he added. “A public defender met with her for about twenty minutes, is off conferring with someone or taking a bathroom break. Whatever. Told us she’s ready to talk. Here they come now.”

We watched as a woman dressed in a suit that screamed lawyer came and took a seat next to the suspect. This woman, Anna Scott, followed the lawyer with her eyes, but otherwise remained devoid of emotion. She didn’t look like she was on drugs—she definitely wasn’t amped up on meth, and if she was on some kind of downer or hooked on pain meds, she’d be unconscious or glazed over, not quiet and focused. I didn’t think she was in shock, even if Peters wondered just that. She just looked…in control.

I recognized the two detectives, Gossing and Werbler, who took seats on the other side of the table. They were good men and good detectives. If this woman had shot Bobby Lane, they would wheedle it from her.

Werbler began. “Do you know Bobby Lane?”

The public defender nodded at the woman. Anna Scott cleared her throat. “No.”

“Paul Moretti?”

“No. You know I’m from New York. I don’t know anyone here.” Her voice was soft, but deep with intent even though the speakers in the wall.

“Ever been to Denver before?”

“No.”

“Ever been to Scorch?”

“If it’s in Denver, then obviously I haven’t.”

“Come on, Ms. Scott, give us something to work with here, because otherwise I’m willing to believe you killed Bobby Lane.”

Anna Scott looked between the detectives. “You’re the good cop and you’ve drawn the short straw for bad cop. It’s not going to work. You know my name and all the other information about me you’ve been able to pull up on the computer in the past two hours I’ve been sitting here. You no doubt know I’m in town for the weekend with a friend for his sister’s wedding by seeing our hotel rooms were reserved for the wedding party.” She swallowed deeply, licked her lips. Why did I find that really hot?