Night Sins (3 page)

The churlish line came from an office beyond the one in which they were standing. Stenciled on the frosted glass was
MITCHELL HOLT, CHIEF OF POLICE
, but it was not Mitchell Holt who came to the door with black eyes blazing.

The infamous Natalie was no taller than Megan's five feet five, but considerably more substantial of body. She had a certain squareness about her that suggested immovability, but she draped that squareness in a rust and purple ensemble that more than suggested taste. Her skin was the color of polished mahogany, her face as round as a pumpkin and crowned with a fine cap of tight black curls that looked like the wool of a newly shorn sheep. One hand propped on a hip, the other braced against the doorjamb, she gave Megan a hard once-over from behind the lenses of huge, red-rimmed glasses.

“Girl, you are
late
.”

“I'm well aware of that,” Megan replied coolly. “Is Chief Holt still in?”

Natalie made a sour face. “No, he isn't
in
. You think he'd just be sitting here, waitin' on you?”

“I
did
call to say I'd be late.”

“You didn't talk to me.”

“I didn't know that was necessary.”

Natalie snorted. She pushed herself away from the door and bustled around her desk, adding papers to a file, filing the file in one of half a dozen black file cabinets behind her. Every move was efficient and quick. “You
are
new. Who'd you talk to? Melody? That girl would forget her own behind if some man didn't always have his hand on it to remind her.”

Noga edged his way toward the door, trying to be unobtrusive. “Noogie, don't you try to sneak out on me,” Natalie warned, not bothering to look at him. “Have you finished that report Mitch asked for?”

He made a pained face. “I'll finish it in the morning. I've got patrol.”

“You got trouble, that's what you got,” Natalie grumbled. “That report is on my desk by noon or I take the electric stapler after your ass. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“And don't forget to drive by Dick Reid's place twice. They've gone to Cozumel.”

Megan heaved a sigh and wished she were gone to Cozumel. A faint tic had begun in her right eyelid. She rubbed at it and thought about food for the first time since breakfast. She needed to eat something or the headache would take a stronger hold and she wouldn't be able to keep medication down.

“If Chief Holt is gone for the day, then I'd like to reschedule our appointment.”

Natalie pursed her thick lips and fixed Megan with a long, measuring look. “I didn't say he was gone. I said he wasn't
in,
” she qualified. “What kind of cop are you, you don't listen to nuances?” She made a sound of disgust and led the way out of the office. “Come on,
Agent
O'Malley. You're here, you might as well meet him.”

Megan marched along beside the chief's secretary, careful not to step ahead, well aware the woman was taking her measure.

“So you're here to fill Leo's spot.”

“I couldn't hope to fill Leo's spot,” Megan said, deadpan. “I don't eat enough fried food.”

A muscle ticked at the corner of Natalie's mouth. Not quite a smile. “Leo could pack it away, that's for sure. Now they've packed Leo away. I told him to watch his cholesterol and quit smoking those damn cigars. He wouldn't listen to me, but that's a man for you. Look up
obtuse
in the dictionary—they ought to have a picture of a man beside it.

“Everybody liked Leo, though,” she added, her gaze sharpening on Megan once more. “He was a hell of a guy. What are you?”

“I'm a hell of a cop.”

Natalie snorted. “We'll see.”

When she first heard the music, Megan thought she was imagining it. The sound was faint, the tune something from the Christmas season. Nobody played Christmas music in January. Everybody had OD'd on it by the middle of December. But it grew louder as they went down the hall. “Winter Wonderland.”

“The cops and the volunteer firemen put on a show for Snowdaze and give the proceeds to charity,” Natalie explained. “Rehearsal goes on till seven.”

A roar of male laughter drowned out the music. Natalie tugged open a door marked
CONFERENCE 3
and motioned for Megan to precede her. Half a dozen people lounged in chrome-and-plastic chairs that had been set up in two haphazard rows. Another half dozen stood along the paneled walls. All were in various states of hysteria—laughing, slapping thighs, doubled over, tears streaming. At the front of the room a Mutt and Jeff team lumbered through a soft-shoe routine in red longjohns while from the speakers of a boombox a man with an overdone Norwegian accent sang, “Itch a little here. Scratch a little dere. Valkin' in my vinter undervear . . .”

Megan stared openly at the spectacle. The man on the right had a build like the Pillsbury doughboy and wore a red plaid Elmer Fudd cap. The one on the left was a different story altogether. Tall and trim, he had Harrison Ford's looks and an athlete's body. The underwear fit him like a second skin, announcing his gender in no uncertain terms. Megan fought to drag her gaze to less provocative details of his anatomy—his sculpted chest, narrow hips, long legs as muscular as a horseman's. Whoever had meant for the outfit to make him look ridiculous was obviously without hormones.

The headgear was another matter. The Minnesota Vikings stocking cap sported yellow felt horns and long braids made of yellow yarn. The braids bounced as he shuffled and hopped through the steps of the dance. His expression was one of disgruntled indignity, but he was having a hard time maintaining it.

When the routine ended, the performers took exaggerated bows, laughing so hard they couldn't straighten. He had a wonderful laugh, Harrison. Warm, rough, masculine. Not that it affected her, Megan thought, attributing the wave of warmth to being overdressed. She didn't have involuntary physical reactions to men. She didn't allow it. It wasn't smart—especially when the man was a cop.

Harrison straightened, and a wide grin lit up his face; an interesting, lived-in face that was a little bit rough, a little bit lined, not exactly handsome, but utterly compelling. An inch-long scar hooked diagonally across his chin. His nose was substantial, a solid, masculine nose that might have been broken once or twice. His eyes were dark and deep-set, and even though they gleamed with good humor, they looked a hundred years old.

Megan hesitated and Natalie bumped her forward, then stepped past her.

“Have you no pride at all?” she demanded of her boss, tugging hard on one of his yellow braids. She shook her head, and her black eyes sparkled as she fought a smile.

Mitch Holt blew out a big breath. “You're just jealous because I've been asked to model in
Victoria's Secret
.” He grinned down at the woman who ran his professional life.
Secretary
was far too lowly a title for Natalie Bryant. He considered her an administrative assistant and had bullied the city council into paying her accordingly, but he thought her nickname suited her best. She was a commandant in pumps.

Natalie made a sound like a horse blowing air through its lips. “
Farmer's Almanac
is more like it. You look like a reject from the rube factory.”

“Don't spare my ego,” he drawled, giving her a cranky look.

“I never do. You got company.
Agent
O'Malley from the BCA.” She swung a hand toward the woman who had come in with her. “
Agent
O'Malley, meet Chief Holt.”

Mitch leaned forward to offer his hand, sending a yellow braid swinging. He snatched the stocking cap off his head and tossed it to his dance partner without looking. “Mitch Holt. Sorry you're catching me out of uniform.”

“I apologize for being so late,” Megan said, stepping forward to shake his hand.

His hand engulfed hers, broad and strong and warm, and she felt a little involuntary jolt of something she would neither name nor acknowledge. She looked up at Mitch Holt, expecting to find something smug in his expression, finding instead confidence and the keen gleam of awareness. The word
dangerous
came to mind, but she dismissed it. She tugged her hand back, trying to break the contact. He held on just a second longer, just long enough to let her know they would do things his way. Or so he thought. Business as usual . . .

“I ran into some unforeseen complications moving in,” she said crisply. “I'm ordinarily very punctual.”

Mitch nodded.
I'll bet you are, Agent O'Malley
. He kept his gaze steady on hers, searching for a reaction to the physical contact. Her gaze was cool green ice. He could almost feel the shields go up around her.

“It wasn't a problem,” he said, absently combing a hand back through his thick tawny hair in an attempt to tame the havoc wreaked by the stocking cap.

“So you're Leo's replacement.” He cocked a brow and tried to visualize her without the mega-parka. “Well, God knows you'll be easier to look at.”

The remark struck like flint against steel, sparking off Megan's frayed nerves. “I didn't get the job because I look good in panty hose, Chief,” she said, cutting him a wry look.

“Neither did Leo, thank Christ. There are some things I can go my whole life without experiencing. Leo Kozlowski in lingerie is right up there on the list. He was a hell of a guy, though, Leo. Knew every good fishing hole for a hundred miles.”

Megan had never felt that was one of the more crucial talents a field agent should possess, but she kept her opinion to herself.

Rehearsal had been declared officially over. The participants drifted out the door, Natalie bringing up the rear like a shepherd. A couple of men called good-byes back to Mitch. He raised a hand to acknowledge them, but kept his attention on Agent O'Malley.

He wondered if she realized the tough-cookie act was more intriguing than if she had been skittish. It made him wonder what was behind the shields. A thread to play with just to see how it might unravel. It was his nature to work at puzzles, a compulsion that suited his profession. He let the silence hang, to see how she would react.

She held his gaze and waited him out, her head cocked to one side. Casually she brushed back the wisps of dark hair that had escaped her ponytail. Its color made him think of cherry Coke—nearly black with a hint of red. Exotic in this land of Swedes and Norwegians. Aside from the stubborn set of her chin, she most resembled an escapee from a convent school. Her face had that earnest quality usually reserved for CPAs and novice nuns. A pale oval with skin like fresh cream and eyes as green as the turf in Killarney. Pretty. Young. Mitch suddenly felt about ninety-three.

“Well,” Megan started. What she needed was to end this conversation, retreat, regroup, come back tomorrow, when she was feeling stronger and he was dressed in something more than long underwear. “It's late. I can come back tomorrow. We'll have more time. You'll have pants on. . . .”

He grinned the crooked grin. “Are you uncomfortable with this situation, Agent O'Malley?”

Megan scowled at him. Her eyelid ticked, ruining the effect. “I'm not in the habit of doing business with men in their underwear, Chief Holt.”

“I'll be happy to take it off,” he said, scratching his arm. “It itches. Come on back to my office and I'll climb out of this sausage skin.”

He started for the door of the conference room, reaching a hand out as if he meant to sling it around her shoulders. Megan shied sideways. Her temper boiled up, rattling the lid on her control. She was feeling tired and testy, in no mood to deal with yet another come-on or innuendo.

“I am an agent of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, Chief,” she said, fighting to hang on to her last scrap of humor. “I served two years on the St. Paul police force, seven years on the Minneapolis force—five of them as a detective. I've been a narc. I've worked vice. I have a degree in law enforcement and have passed the agent's course at Quantico. I really don't think the taxpayers would be getting their money's worth if I came here in the capacity of sex toy.”

“Sex toy?” Mitch leaned back, brows raised, caught somewhere between amusement and insult. “Perhaps I should rephrase my suggestion,” he said. “You may wait in Natalie's office while I change into my clothes. Then I will be glad to escort you—in a strictly businesslike fashion—to one of the finer dining establishments in our fair town, where we might partake of a meal.” He held his hands up to ward off potential protest. “Feel free to pay for your own, Agent O'Malley. Far be it from me to threaten your feminist sensibilities. You can accept or decline this offer. I make no attempt at coercion, but, if you'll pardon my candor, you look like you could use a little meat loaf.

“For the record, I have no problem with an agent who happens to be a woman. I'm a reasonably enlightened nineties kind of guy. So you can take the chip off your shoulder and put it in your briefcase, Agent O'Malley. Believe me, there will be plenty of guys in line to knock it off, but I won't be one of them.”

Megan felt herself shrinking with each sentence. She wished fervently for a break from the laws of physics so she could melt down into the tight fibers of the carpet and disappear.

“Way to go, O'Malley,” she muttered to herself. Her eyelid ticked furiously. She reached up to rub it, took a deep breath, and swallowed what pride she had left. “I'm sorry. I don't usually jump to insulting conclusions. I don't know what to say other than this hasn't been one of my better days.”

Two years in St. Paul, seven in Minneapolis. A detective, a narc. Impressive record, especially for a woman. Mitch knew what a fight it was for a woman to make it in this business. The odds stood against women, shoulder to brawny shoulder, in the form of a fraternity as old as dirt. Equal opportunity quotas notwithstanding, Ms. O'Malley had to be tough and she had to be good. It looked as though the effort was costing her today.

Her efforts would cost him, too, he thought irritably. He ran a department and a life that were equally well ordered and calm. He sure as hell didn't need some woman charging in, waving her bra like a banner, spoiling for trouble where there was none to be had.