The Killing Game (6 page)

“I’ll text you,” Andi said. Trini had a tendency to promise all kinds of things and then seldom ever came through.

“You’re really going to like him,” she called as Andi headed for the locker room, her eyes searching for any sign of Carrera. “I’m telling you, he’s more your type than mine.”

She seemed to be alone. At least she didn’t meet anyone as she slipped into the women’s room. There was no one about, so Andi went to her locker and pulled out her bag of clothes, then took a quick shower and redressed.

Her mind was a jumble of images, her emotions raw. She thought about the baby and the note and those tense few moments with Brian Carrera, and Ray Bolchoy and Lucas Denton . . . private investigator.

Determinedly, she set her jaw. She had to protect her baby and herself. And who better to protect her than the man who’d quit his job with the police in solidarity with his friend, who believed the Carreras had literally gotten away with murder?

At her SUV she reached for her cell and made a quick search of Lucas Denton’s Internet information. His office was in Laurelton, close by. She flexed her fingers over the steering wheel. She had some errands to run, and there was a good chance Denton would be at the hearing this morning. Putting the vehicle in gear, she backed out of her spot at SportClub Laurelton, feeling better for having a plan.

Chapter Three

Early Thursday morning Luke Denton slowly surfaced and immediately realized he was gonna have one helluva hangover. He was lying on his back, on his bed, and he cracked one eye open at the same time his hand encountered warm human flesh lying beside him. That got him awake. He inched his head around enough to see the bare back and arm of Iris Holchek, his ex-girlfriend.

Well, ain’t that a kick in the pants.

She didn’t appear to be wearing much of anything. He did a quick tactile survey and was relieved to discover he was shirtless but still in the aged denim jeans he’d worn the night before.

The. Night. Before.

See, this is the problem, Denton. When she broke it off, you should have been an asshole and refused to talk to her anymore. You know you never wanted the relationship. And during those first few weeks of hell after Bolchoy’s screwup, she gave you the perfect out. But, oh no, you had to be nice to her. Too polite. Now what the hell are you gonna do?

As if hearing his thoughts, Iris turned over and opened her cool blue eyes. “Hey, lover,” she said.

Uh-oh.

“I’ve been waiting for you to sleep it off, so we could . . .” Her fingers started trailing along his arm and slipped under the covers, tippy-tapping their way down his abdomen toward . . .

He reached down and clamped a hand over her wrist. “Might I ask what you’re doing here?”

She smiled that cat-and-cream smile that had once heated his blood but now sent every nerve ending on red alert, and not in a good way. “You were way friendlier last night.”

“Last night I was strategizing with friends about Bolchoy.”

The chill was immediate. She yanked her hand back and regarded him coldly. “The man’s going to jail. I just don’t see how you can throw your career away over him.” Flinging back the covers, she got out of bed and angrily picked up a scrap of black lace thong underwear that she stepped into, her back to him. Then she shimmied into a tight black dress that he remembered had cost such a fortune he’d thought it was a joke when she’d told him the price. It was her money, so his comment was out of line, but her anger over his disbelief had made him see how the gap between them was expanding, not contracting.

“He’s got to go to trial first, and that might not happen.”

“I told you. Corkland is putting him away. Gleefully. Bolchoy is a black eye on the department, and no one at Portland PD can save him. That’s the mood of the country, lover. Police do bad things, they go to jail, just like everyone else.”

“Whatever Bolchoy did wasn’t a bad thing.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” She stepped into tall pewter heels and searched around for her bag. “Meanwhile, my boss is dropping the hammer on him.”

She was referring to T.J. Corkland, the district attorney who had a serious hard-on to put Bolchoy away. Iris worked in the DA’s office and she was just as eager to put Bolchoy behind bars as her boss, though her reasons were slightly different. Corkland thought it would look good politically to prove that the police weren’t above the law; Iris just wanted Luke to see what kind of a scumbag his ex-partner was. She blamed Bolchoy for Luke quitting the force, when in actuality, Luke had already been pretty fed up with the powers that be above him who made all the decisions. Bolchoy had overstepped his bounds, allegedly manufacturing evidence that proved the Carrera brothers’ guilt—he’d probably done it, too, Luke thought with a grimace, knowing his ex-partner’s penchant to run around the law—and the wrath of the department had descended upon him. No one had Ray’s back except Luke and Opal Amberson, and they’d been warned against picking the wrong team. The result was Luke quit, and Opal damn near did.

Iris had not been happy when Luke left the department. After screaming at him for all she was worth, she had broken up with him, flooding Luke with relief, which her sharp eyes had caught. She’d been instantly hurt, though she’d never said anything to him about it, and let’s face it, he hadn’t wanted to go into it either.

That had been nearly a year ago. Luke had spent the next couple of months wondering what the hell to do with his life. Private security/investigation sort of found him, not the other way around, and he was still working through the hours to get his license. This had pissed off Iris no end. She couldn’t
believe
he’d given up being a detective with the Portland PD for some kind of “half-assed” private practice. Though they’d gotten under his skin, he’d ignored her rants and had set a course for himself with a determination that was new to him. Iris was no longer his girlfriend, so he was a free man and could do whatever he damned well pleased. Becoming a private investigator was what he chose.

Last night he’d met with Opal and Yates and DeSantos, and they’d all gone down to Tiny Tim’s, which was little more than a hole in the wall, with some of the cheapest beer around. Tiny Tim himself, over three hundred pounds, eschewed all the microbeers and cutting-edge cuisine Portland was so famous for these days, and served up favorite standards like Pabst, Bud, and Coors, along with greasy fries, jalapeño poppers with basic ranch dressing or tarted-up with raspberry jam, onion rings, and hot dogs or hamburgers (lettuce and tomato extra, which the clientele didn’t often opt for). Tiny Tim’s also held a liquor license, and that was where Luke had made his mistake, going for Johnnie Walker Red, sometimes Black, once in a great, great while Blue, depending on how much money he wanted to spend. But last night it wasn’t about money and/or quality, it was about quantity, and Luke had had his fill and then some.

“Are you going to the hearing?” Iris asked, drawing on a line of lip gloss with her left index finger.

“I think I’ll wait for the CliffNotes.”

“You’re not going for the friend you defended so much you
quit your job
?”

“That would be a yes . . . I’m not going.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’ve never understood the finer points of why I quit.”

She thrust one fist on her hip. “Maybe you can explain it to me.”

“Doubtful,” Luke said as he climbed out of bed.

Two bright spots of color bloomed on her cheeks, little red flags of suppressed fury. “You oughta be more grateful to me for pulling you out of that
bar
. If you’d gotten in your car, you’d be in jail just like your good buddy, Ray.”

“I wasn’t driving. I took Uber.”

“You kissed me when we got back here,” she declared, practically in a shout.

The noise caused his head to throb. “I was drunk. I was worried about Bolchoy. I’m still worried about him.”

“You kissed me!” she repeated.

“I do remember,” he snapped, his patience shredding. “You took off my shirt and
you
kissed
me
. I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is, it doesn’t look like I’m giving it to you. So, I guess I’m saying thank you? For seeing me home?”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“You’re not the first to point that out.”

“Jesus, Luke.” She glared at him. “When are you going to wake up?”

“I’m awake.”

They glared at each other. Luke was the first to break away, his attention distracted as he considered what time it was. He might go to the hearing, but he had an eleven-thirty appointment, so maybe not. And Iris didn’t have to know until he showed up, or didn’t, anyway.

“Bolchoy’s going to prison,” she said again. “He falsified evidence and Corkland’s got him dead to rights.”

Luke shrugged. He didn’t know exactly what Bolchoy had done and he didn’t care anyway.

“Why are you going down for him? He didn’t ask you to. If you go back to the department and talk to your lieutenant—”

“I’m not going back.”

“—he’d give you your job back. I’m just trying to help you.”

“I don’t want the job back. I told you. I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing.”

“I can’t play this game forever, Luke. I mean it.” Tears stood in her eyes.

He shook his head. “I gotta get to work.” With a headache threatening to break into a crusher at the back of his skull, he brushed past her to his walk-in closet, the one nod to luxury in his two-bedroom/one-bath apartment.

“For God’s sake, Luke ...” she trailed off.

“Iris, go home. Or to the courthouse, or wherever.

“You just can’t wait to get rid of me, can you?” she asked bitterly, sweeping up an airy black scarf that she threw around her shoulders. Her makeup wasn’t even smeared, and he wondered how the hell she managed that.

“We’ve been through this scenario before. A couple of times.”

“We need to talk. No matter what you think, we need to talk.”

“I’m all talked out.” He pulled out another pair of jeans and a white shirt, freshly pressed, and took them to the bathroom. Iris followed him and tried to hold open the door with the palm of her hand. “Iris,” he warned.

“Listen to me. Just listen.” She pushed back on the door when he tried to close it with slow but steady pressure. “You can’t help Bolchoy. He doesn’t want to be helped. He wants to be right, and he’s wrong. He forged the Carrera brothers’ names on those confessions. He
admitted
he did it. This case is not subject to interpretation. You know it and I know it. It’s going to trial.”

“The Carreras have intimidated and coerced and threatened. They zero in on their next real estate acquisition and drive everyone out. They don’t care how. They pretend to offer a fair price, but they never follow through. Anyone who thwarts them ends up in some kind of ‘accident,’ or some other misery befalls them. That’s what I know.”

“You can’t be a one-man vigilante on this. The judicial system will get them eventually. Go back to Portland PD, or finish with that law degree. Luke, come on ... don’t let this get in our way.”

He yanked open the bathroom door so hard, she fell forward and had to catch herself. “I’ve got a different job now.”

“Private investigating?” she said with a sneer. Her eyes widened a moment later when he clamped his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and steered her toward the front door. She actually tried to dig in her heels and grip the sides of the door frame. “My purse!” she yelled and, with a pungent swear word, he was forced to let go of her.

“Don’t move,” he warned in a cold voice as he turned back and swept the purse from the nightstand, returning a few moments later and slapping the clutch bag into her hands.

She gripped it in one hand, then raised up both in surrender. “This is ridiculous. Honestly, Luke. Come on.”

“You don’t like what I do. You don’t like my friends. You don’t really like me.”

“That’s not true—”

“Darlin’, this is over.”

To his consternation, her skin pinkened and he sensed that she was about to cry. She didn’t do it often, but she was about to do it now. “I love you,” she said tremulously.

He shook his head, unable to come up with an answer to that one. The movement aggravated the headache forming like a storm. He eased Iris out the door, and this time she went meekly, as if all the stuffing had been smacked out of her. It made him feel bad, but not bad enough to change his mind. He needed to be separated from her. For good.

Turning the lock on the door, he headed back to the shower, stripping off his jeans. He stood beneath the hot spray for a good ten minutes, then dressed in the fresh clothes on the counter. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to midforearm, then combed out his wet hair, the light brown strands unnaturally dark from the water. He stared into his own blue eyes, registering how harsh the light felt. Evil drink. What good had it gotten him? Bolchoy wasn’t going to go free. Iris had been right about that.

“Rule number one, buddy,” the older detective had told Luke when they’d first been partnered. “Stay the fuck out of my way.”

Luke had been taken aback. It was his first job as a detective and he’d been assigned to homicide, a real coup. Or, at least he’d thought so in the beginning, until he realized everyone was having a good old hah-hah at his expense because he was teamed with Ray Bolchoy. Nobody, but nobody, wanted to be partnered with the gruff old-timer. Better to stay back in robbery or work missing persons, or vice . . .
anything
but homicide with the stubborn, single-minded detective.

In those early days, Luke had learned that Bolchoy had a lot of rules, although most of them were superseded by rule number one. Luke tried hard to stay the fuck out of his partner’s way, though a few times he’d made the mistake of getting underfoot in an investigation, at least according to Bolchoy, and then there’d been hell to pay. It took years before Bolchoy trusted him enough to truly treat him as a partner, so many in fact that Lucas’s brother, Dallas, had urged him to quit long before he actually had.