Sweetest Desires (A Sweetest Day Romance) (19 page)

Chapter 25

Randy had just gotten to
sleep when the phone rang, and it took him a few seconds to switch from heavy slumber to full private-detective mode. He rolled over, fumbled for the phone, dragged the receiver across tangled sheets and propped it between his ear and his shoulder. Clearing his throat, he mumbled, “Devlin.”

“Wake up, Magnum PI. I need to talk to you.”

He glanced at the clock, blinking at the brightness of the LCD display. It was nearly midnight. “Cindy?” he said, still not fully awake. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Do you think you could come to Club Revel?”

There was an edge to her voice, one he hadn’t heard before in the few weeks since he’d become reacquainted with her. He rolled to his feet wearing only his briefs and fumbled in the darkness for his clothes. Pulling a T-shirt over his head, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah . . . tell me about it.” Randy curled the corner of his right lip lustfully.

Cindy ignored the comment. “I need you to hurry,” she said.

“You sound anxious. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I won’t be unless you hurry up.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” he said and replaced the phone in its cradle.

He stumbled to the sink for a quick wash and finished dressing. He slipped his watch onto his wrist, gauging the cross-town traffic at this hour on a wee
knight.

He was there in fifteen minutes. He parked his car out front, ignoring the contemptuous frown from the valet, and left it there.

Randy discovered Cindy sitting at the bar with a distinguished looking gent sitting beside her. Randy could tell the man was talking a lot of trash just from his facial expressions. It was ladies’ night so the club was crowded and the music loud.

“Hey,” he said, standing behind her.

Cindy jumped from her chair and hugged his neck. “Darling, what took you so long?”

Randy wished her words were true, but he knew what the scene was all about.

“Hey, babe,” he said, fighting back the temptation to taste her cherry-colored lips and kissing her cheek instead. “Sorry, I’m late. I got caught up in some work.”

The man looked at them sourly and stormed away.

“Whew,” Cindy sighed, returning to her seat. “And not a moment too soon.” Randy took the now empty seat next to her.

“I’m sure you’re used to it.” He ordered his usual from the bartender and glanced at Cindy’s empty glass. “What’re you having?”

“A latte.”

“Yeah? What’s in it?”

“What’s usually in a latte?”

“I thought you might’ve sneaked in a drip or two of rum or brandy, seeing you have something on your mind.”

“Think again. I told you before, I don’t drink beer or liquor, just wine. Besides, I don’t regard wine as an alcoholic beverage.” She turned to him. “If wine was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me,” she winked.

Randy wanted to tell her that the wine Jesus drunk was fresh and new—not old and fermented, but he didn’t care to argue with her logic.

“I got hauled out of bed.” He raised an eyebrow. “Care to explain that one?”

She opened the gummed flap of a nine-by-twelve-inch manila envelope and pulled out three photographs of Freeman only, printed on gloss paper, along with what looked like an address on a sheet of multi-purpose copy paper.

“I need for you to find out who this guy is. I need to know his name, his occupation, and where he lives. And any other information you come across.”

Randy glanced at the pictures and turned back to Cindy, listening with due caution.

“This is an address where you might find him.” She handed over the typewritten paper. “A woman named Katharine lives there. You’ll probably catch him at the house after nine o’clock at night or on weekends.”

He received the paper, stroking her hand in the process. “And what do I get out of the deal?” His naughty grin heightened.

“You’ll get a chance to rekindle, or shall I say, kindle a friendship with an old schoolmate.”

“Is that an ‘ignite’ type of kindle?” He eyed her body hungrily.

Without answering, Cindy rubbed her throat tenderly, cleared it a couple of times, and blew her nose into a napkin.

“Are you okay?”

She curled her fingers into a fist and coughed into it. “Must be a twenty-four-hour virus or something,” she said.

She picked up another napkin and dabbed at her mouth. “I’m going to bed . . . alone,” she said, pus
hing back her barstool and fumbling in her purse.

“You think I wanna catch what you’ve got?” Randy said.

Cindy sniffled and touched the napkin to her nose. “You’ll call me if—” She pulled out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill, shoved her long weave over her shoulder with her free hand, and corrected herself. “I mean when—”

“I’ll call you. And put your money away. I’ll take care of this.”

“Fair enough.” She tucked the fifty back into her purse. “Classmates or not, I still owe you. This is business. After all, you’ve got to eat and pay bills too.” She rewarded him with her million-dollar smile.

“What a minute,” he detained her. “What’re you doing here in the first place?”

“I wanted to meet you in a public spot, and I know you like places like this where women are plentiful.”

“Oh, I see,” he said the wiser. He took a swig from his beer bottle. “You don’t trust being alone with me, or is it you don’t trust yourself?” he grinned slyly.

The only response she gave was a waive goodbye.

In spite of everything, he grinned as he watched her curvy figure sway to the music.

Pausing at a nearby table, she turned to see him watching her. “Get some sleep,” she yelled over the noise, and disappeared through the crowd.

* * *

Randy parked, closed the cell phone and leaned his head back. Idly clicking the Paper Mate with his thumb, he stared out the car window, watching the raindrops fall. His radio was tuned to a station that played back-to-back 1970’s R & B oldies. Hearing The Stylistics crooning “I’m Stone In Love With You” and The Natural Four singing “Can This Be Real,” took him back to his childhood. He remembered his older sister playing the forty-five records over and over on the family’s stereo console.

Engine idling, wipers slapping, Randy lingered in the evening shade, his eyes drawn to the single light burning in the second-floor window. A shadow passed behind the closed shade.

This was the third night he’d been sitting across the street from Katharine’s house, waiting for the mystery man to appear. The only person besides Katharine and the two small children that he’d seen come through the door was a tall, attractive woman whose name he had easily discovered, was Natalie Harper.

Tonight, though, Katharine seemed to be alone except for her children, who had gone to bed at eight o’clock, judging from the lights in their rooms.

Just as he lifted a brown paper bag concealing a beer bottle to his lips, an unmarked cop’s car pulled into Katharine’s driveway. He was nearly certain the man who got out was the one in the photos Cindy had supplied him with. He couldn’t see the face clearly, but the build and the hair were identical. He was dressed in a business suit, but Randy could have spotted him as a cop by his pronounced gait even if he hadn’t seen his car. Something seemed oddly familiar about him. Randy watched as the front door opened and Mystery Cop disappeared inside.

Despite having lost his job as a regular polic
eman, Randy had plenty of connections at police headquarters. He placed a call to his longtime friend, Carrie, a dispatcher with the Department, and asked her to run down the tag. She called back to inform him that the car was assigned to Detective Walter Freeman.

The name rang a bell, and Randy looked again at the photographs, studying them more closely. Now he understood why the man had seemed so familiar. He hadn’t seen him for more than nine years, but Fre
eman had been one of the officers who testified against Randy not long after he’d graduated from the police academy.

During the incident, Randy had left his nine mi
llimeter in his police car—holster and all—parked in a high-crime neighborhood with the rear passenger-side window rolled down one-third of the way. Very easy for any passerby to stick his arm through and lift the gun. No telling what would’ve happened had it fallen into the hands of a criminal or a delinquent.

A concerned citizen had phoned in the incident, and Freeman and his partner, some red-faced guy with an Italian name, or whatever, were sent to i
nvestigate.

Randy had been spending a few moments with a prostitute-stripper when he should’ve been on patrol. He’d pleaded with Freeman not to report him, but Freeman had been outraged, calling his behavior despicable, reckless, and negligent and telling Randy that he’d disgraced his badge and uniform.

The investigation had resulted in Randy being discharged. His appeal to the Board of Commissions had ended in a unanimous decision that upheld the original decision and required his immediate termination. He’d vowed to repay Freeman for denying him a second chance, and now the time had come for a little payback.

* * *

Only a few days had passed since the intimate kiss, and Freeman had been pleasantly surprised by Katharine’s phone call inviting him over to talk and apologize.

The talk had gone well, and he returned to his car with a clear conscience and a renewed friendship. Beyond that, he didn’t dare to hope.

He was backing out of the driveway when a car pulled away from the curb a hundred yards behind him. The placement of the headlights told him it was a midsize late-model sedan. Its high beams reflected off the rain-washed pavement, and he adjusted his rearview mirror to cut the glare.

His fingers touched the Glock nine millimeter he wore when he was on duty, comforted by the familiarity of the cool, smooth steel. He took pride in carrying it, took pride in being a policeman like his father. Calmly, in no particular hurry, he took the next left and waited to see what the other driver would do. A second later, headlights turned the co
rner behind him.

He felt the first prick of annoyance. Who would be tailing him? More to the point, why? Deciding two could play this game, he began zigging and za
gging his way back and forth on the cross streets at a steady, unhurried pace. In his rearview mirror, the headlights maintained an even distance, close enough that their reflection bouncing off the wet pavement blurred visibility, yet far enough away to remain anonymous.

Freeman ran his fingers over the Glock again, remembering what he’d been taught at the academy. Shoot to kill. From the first day of firearms training, it had been drilled into his head. Never draw your weapon unless you’ve already made the decision to take a human life. What that boiled down to, in most cases, was self-defense. If a detective fired his or her weapon, Freeman could almost guarantee that it was to save either his own life or someone else’s.

Whoever his tail was, he was merely trying to annoy Freeman, to draw him into some psychological game of cat and mouse. If he’d meant him any harm, it would’ve been easy enough to corner him or run him off the road. But this game playing was like Chinese water torture, designed to drive him crazy.

And he was getting royally pissed.

In a split-second decision, he slammed on the brakes, and his sedan screeched to a halt. The creep wanted to play? Fine. He’d give him what he was asking for. Heart thundering, adrenaline whooshing through his veins, Freeman snatched up his gun, flung open the door, and stepped out of the car to face his pursuer.

For a full ten seconds, he stood in the rain in the blinding glare of high-beam headlights, legs braced apart, hands gripping the Glock like the ma
verick cop, Martin Riggs, in the
Lethal Weapon
series, the barrel pointed straight at the windshield of the car behind him. The driver shifted into reverse and began backing away, transmission whining as it gained speed. When the car reached the intersection, the driver spun it around and sped off into the rainy darkness, tires screaming on the slick pavement.

Freeman lowered the Glock and slumped against the side of his car, waiting for his thundering heart to slow.

His breathing restored to normal, he climbed back into the sedan and locked the doors. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to his apartment complex and parked, unsnapped his seat belt, and took a quick look around. The street was empty, the streetlights haloed by fog. The tail had apparently given up. But Freeman was more spooked than he’d realized. When he reached for the door handle, his hand trembled. Glancing around one last time, he locked the car and kept his hand on his weapon as he approached the front door.

A new thought flashed across his mind. He wo
ndered if the moron driver could’ve been the jealous husband, Carson O’Connor.

* * *