Sizzle in the City (5 page)

The large, pitiful waiting room, painted a dingy gray and containing no more than ten folding chairs, strained at all the emotions and activity.

In one corner, a group of people stood in a circle, holding hands and praying. A trio of women cried in the other. A pair of children bounced and giggled on their chairs as a harried-looking woman stood nearby and yakked into her cell phone.

Lording over the masses, a bored-looking clerk sat behind a high, imposing faded wood counter and flipped through a magazine.

Lady Justice could hardly be proud.

But then Calla figured the police had a mostly thankless, as well as dangerous, job. They’d no doubt be grateful for her help.

Shifting her briefcase strap on her shoulder, she approached the counter. “I need to speak to someone in the fraud department.”

The clerk never looked up. “Appointment?”

You needed to make an appointment to report a crime? “No, it’s rather urgent. If you could just—”

“Is anybody in immediate danger?”

“Yes, I guess so. My friend Shelby’s parents trusted this guy with their life savings, then he took off for parts unknown, but then we—Shelby, me and our other friend Victoria—read an article last week about how he’d bought a hotel right here in Manhattan. So, you can imagine how surprised we were. Where did he get the money to buy something like that?” She jabbed her finger on the counter to emphasize her indignation. “On the backs of gullible seniors, that’s where. So, as you can see, it’s imperative that I talk to somebody right away.”

The clerk looked up, her expression weary. “Is somebody about to die?”

Calla blinked. “Uh…no, but—”

“Everybody’s busy.” The clerk’s attention went back to her magazine.

It was no wonder Max Banfield was running around free as a bird.

But Calla had been a newspaper reporter in her hometown of Austin before she’d moved to New York and become a features writer. She’d navigated the turbulent waters of Texas politics, she’d interviewed presidents and kings, she’d even gone on safari in Africa last year. And she knew charm would get her further than bullying.

“I know you’re extremely busy,” she said sweetly to the clerk. “But I’m in a bind. I have important information on a fraud case that could really—”

“Are you high?” the clerk asked, nonplussed.

“No, of cour—”

“Do you know it’s Friday night?”

“Yes, of cour—”

“Then go away.”

Okay, maybe charm was overrated.

Before Calla could figure out her next move, a heavyset uniformed officer appeared at the end of the hall.

Calla rushed toward him before anybody in the waiting room could move. “I need to see somebody in the fraud department!”

His gaze flicked over her with a hint of male interest before he rolled his eyes. “Lady, I got—”

“Please. It’s an emergency.”

“It always is.” He sighed and pointed down the hall he’d just emerged from. “Sixth door on the left. See Detective Antonio.”

“Thank you,” Calla breathed, barely resisting the urge to kiss his pudgy cheek.

“Don!” the clerk shouted, leaping to her feet.

“What the hell you want me to do, Mary?” he hollered back. “I got an attempted murder to deal with here.”

Calla barely heard the renewed wailing from the waiting room, she was too busy scooting down the hall.

The sixth door on the left had the pealing, fading letters of Detective Division printed on the smoked glass. Drawing a deep breath and hoping not everybody inside was as cranky as the front-desk clerk, Calla turned the handle.

The room she entered was scattered with several metal desks, each containing a computer monitor and various personal items. A water cooler and coffee station took up most of the space in the back, and directly across from her was a closed office door that read Lieutenant Meyer.

Except for the distant ringing of a phone, it was blessedly quiet.

Better yet, only two people were inside—a woman in a well-worn brown suit, who answered the phone, and a dark-haired man, typing rapidly on a keyboard.

She approached him, confident when she revealed her information, he’d be interested. Detectives moved up the ranks by solving cases, right? Certainly this one would be no exception.

Up close, she realized his hair wasn’t brown but black—thick, wavy and slightly mussed, as if he’d raked his fingers through the locks repeatedly. His hands were large, and his broad shoulders strained against the confines of his wrinkled black shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal darkly tanned and muscular forearms.

This was not a man to be messed with.

“Detective Antonio?” she asked, hating the tentative note in her voice.

After a few more strokes of the keyboard, he lifted his head. His face was handsome and sculpted but hard. His lips might have been full but were flattened at the moment with a scowl. Eyes, green as a shamrock, but imparting none of the cheeriness of Ireland’s symbol, stared back at her with vivid reluctance.

“Yeah?” he returned, giving her a quick look from head to toe.

His expression didn’t soften with the perusal, and she found herself struggling not to be insulted. Granted, it had been a long time since she’d been the Cotton Bowl Queen, but she generally got a spark of interest from most men.

She’d even had her hair highlighted and gotten a glowing spray tan the day before.

Like that matters. Get on with it, girl.

She held out her hand. “I’m Calla Tucker.”

He rose, but not before expelling a tired sigh. “Devin Antonio,” he said, wrapping his hand around hers.

Fire darted through Calla’s body at the touch of his calloused palm. She flinched at the sensation and yanked her hand back, but it continued to tingle in the aftermath. He must have felt something similar since he glanced from her to his own hand and back again.

Now there was heat and anger in his remarkable eyes.

Though the tingling lingered, making her light-headed, she ignored it. She was supposed to be helping Shelby, not flirting.

“Devin,” she said after clearing her throat. “That’s an unusual name for an Italian.”

His scowl deepened. “It’s Irish. My mom was.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. She passed away?”

“Hell if I know.” He extended his hand to the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” she said automatically, though her thoughts were whirling. She’d traveled enough to know war and despair existed everywhere and on many different fronts. But even in abject poverty she’d seen families stick together and work hard to make the most of their circumstances.

She found it incredibly sad that Detective Antonio didn’t know that kind of comfort.

“Reporters are supposed to stay in the press room,” he said shortly.

“I’m not a reporter.” She waved her hand. “Okay, I was at one time. I’m a features writer now. Mostly for travel and lifestyle magazines.”

“And you’re here to do a story on me.” He glanced at his watch. “At seven o’clock on a Friday night?”

“No story, and why does everybody keep reminding me about the day and time? Writers work at all hours. Silly me, I thought the police station was pretty much a 24/7 seven operation.”

“It is, but not for me. I was on my way out.”

“You were typing.”

“Finishing up a report. Are you in some kind of trouble, miss?”

“It’s Calla, and, no, not me. It’s my friend Shelby, specifically her parents.”

Before he could interrupt or, worse, throw her back to the front-desk diva, Calla told him about how the Dixons had given their life savings to Max Banfield, only to see it go into his pocket.

“I’ve got statements from six other couples right here,” she concluded, fishing in her briefcase for the folder containing the transcriptions she’d painstakingly documented from her recorded phone interviews. “They all implicate Maxwell Banfield as the head of the investment company.”

The detective didn’t even glance at the folder she laid on his desk. “Investments come with a risk. I’m sure Mr. Banfield explained that to his clients.”

“But he didn’t even invest the money. Weeks after cashing the check, the phone number he gave was disconnected and the office abandoned.”

“Fraud is a difficult case to prove.”

“Then your job must be pretty damn miserable.”

He stared directly at her. “It has its moments.”

Was that his attempt to compliment her or was she one of the miserable moments? The guy was impossible to read.

“Look, miss, I—”

“Calla.”

“Fine. Calla.” He shoved her folder across the desk. “I’ve got ten open cases to work. And it looks like one of them is going to be transferred to Homicide, since the harbor patrol found my suspect floating in the East River about two hours ago.”

She pushed the folder toward him. “Then you’ll only have nine cases. You’ve got room for one more.”

“No. I’ll have to work with Homicide exclusively for the next few days, catching them up on all the background, which means I’ll be even more backlogged once they take over.”

Frustrated, Calla rose and turned away from him. Shelby and Victoria were right. The only way they were getting results was to get them on their own. She was wasting her time with the hot, angry detective.

“These statements aren’t admissible in court,” he said.

Calla turned. He’d opened her file. Suspicious of his curiosity, she nodded. “I know. I have the digital recordings to back up everything.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. All these people would have to be interviewed by a cop.”

“So interview them.” She glared down at him, feeling better that she had the height advantage. “You guys know something squirrelly’s going on. Mrs. Rosenberg lives right here in the city, and she told me she filed a report with you guys months ago. Why won’t you help?”

“The case crosses state lines. That makes it federal.”

She leaned over, bracing her hand in the center of his desk. “Oh, that’s just crap. Unless Banfield walks into a bank with a loaded pistol, it’ll be years before the Feds get around to this case. And why should he resort to violence anyway? He’s doing just fine, smiling and lying and taking every meager penny these hardworking people have spent their lives earning. It’s unconscionable.”

He stood, taking her advantage with a single movement. “Where the hell are you from?”

“Texas.”

“That explains it.” He raked his hand through his inky hair, just as she’d imagined earlier.

The state of attraction along with dissent was foreign to her. When she liked a guy, she liked him. She had no idea what to make of this encounter. Or of him and where he stood.

“I’m not supposed to tell you what I’m about to,” he said, sounding as aggravated as he looked. “But I don’t want you going all Wyatt Earp on me and shooting down the guy at the local watering hole.”

“Wyatt Earp’s showdown took place in Arizona, not Texas.”

“You’re sure?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Pretty positive. Not to mention that happened about 130 years ago. Texans are independent and self-sufficient, not idiotic.”

“Stubborn comes to mind,” he muttered. “But whatever. I actually know about Banfield. One of our guys interviewed Mrs. Rosenberg, but we couldn’t find anybody else to corroborate her claim.”

“That’s because Banfield moves all over.”

“He’s technically a Brit. And now he’s bought a hotel in midtown.”

For the first time, Calla realized there was more going on behind the detective’s emerald eyes than resentment. “He certainly has.”

He tapped her folder with the tip of his finger. “I’ll look into the statements of the other victims, though you should know that people are reluctant to go on record about being duped.”

“I have complete faith in your powers of persuasion, Detective.”

“I’ll contact you if I have any questions. You got a card?”

She pulled one from the front pocket of her briefcase and handed it to him. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

His mouth twitched on one side, as if he might actually be tempted to smile. “All part of the community-service motto.”

“Good to know.”

She turned to leave without shaking his hand again. She finally felt as if they’d reached an even keel. The last thing she needed was to incite her lust again.

“And, Calla…”

When she turned, she found his perpetual scowl in place—which somehow didn’t lessen his attractiveness. His toughness made him all the more appealing. “Hmm?” she asked, perfectly aware she was staring.

“We’d really rather keep our information to ourselves for now. Let me look into this. No more victim interviews. Don’t go to the press. Don’t approach Banfield, don’t talk about him, don’t contact him in any way. Clear?”

A picture of the party the night before flashed in Calla’s memory. “Oh, sure.” She swallowed. “I imagine the NYPD looks down on vigilantes.”