Hazardous Duty (6 page)

I nodded and attempted a sweet,
comforting smile.

He’d come back to get the gun, but found
me and Harold there. Had he known I was still inside? Was he in such a hurry to
set the fire and destroy the evidence that he’d decided not to wait, even if it
meant claiming another life?

This man needed to be behind bars.

I had to find Detective Parker and tell
him.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run.”
I jangled my keys and started a slow jog to the car, barely giving notice to
the woman as she fluttered her fingers.

Just as I started Sierra’s car, Harold
came around the corner. He approached my window in long strides, concern etched
in the lines on his face.

I lowered the glass. “Harold, I
remembered something I have to do. I’ll call you later, okay?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Don’t get
yourself into any trouble, missy.”

I grinned. “Never.”

The car rumbled down the driveway and
continued rumbling until I pulled up to the police station. I charged into the
building and tapped my finger on the counter while the receptionist talked on
the phone.

The attractive, overweight young woman
pulled the phone away from her ear and sneered. “Can I help you?”

“I need to see Detective Parker. It’s
important.”

She looked me over. “Is he expecting
you?”

“If he’s smart.”

The woman raised her over-plucked
eyebrows and turned back to the phone. “I need to put you on hold. One minute.”

Her gaze flickered back to me, and I
could have been certain she was sizing me up like an ex-boyfriend’s prom date.
It almost made me wish I’d worn something other than my “I Love Carbs” T-shirt.

“What’s your name?”

“Gabby St. Claire.”

She gave me another once-over before
dialing an extension. “Detective, there’s a Gabby St. Claire here to see you.
Says if you’re smart, you’ll be expecting her.” The woman pulled the phone from
her ear and smirked. “He says go on back. Second door on the left.”

Honesty prevented me from saying “thank
you.” I walked to his office, the rubber bottoms of my black flip flops barely
making a sound against the linoleum floor.

I pictured Parker’s reaction when I told
him what I found out.

“You really will make a great
forensic scientist one day, Gabby,” he’ll say, admiration shining in his eyes.

“It’s all in a day’s work.” I blow on
my fingertips and rub them against my shirt in false modesty.

“I’m hoping you and I will be seeing
more of each other, and not just on a professional level.” His voice is low and
husky, and his eyes are smoldering.

“Why Detective Parker, it looks like
we have a relationship to investigate. Care to join me?”

I came to his door and started to knock,
but before my fist connected with the wood, it open and the detective stared at
me. His gaze wasn’t especially friendly, but not hostile either.

Or was it?

I had a feeling my vision of how this
meeting would play out was closer to a delusion than reality.

“Come in,” Parker said, his back to me
as he walked to the desk. He plopped into a beat-up swivel chair, complete with
duct tape on both of the top corners. He looked at me with so much skepticism
that I felt like a conspiracy theorist for a moment. “What can I help you with,
Ms. St. Claire?”

I stood in the doorway, contemplating
what approach I should take. Coming on too strong would irritate him. Being too
nice would make me easy to ignore.
Middle of the road, Gabby. Middle of the
road.
“Did you find out anything about the gun?”

“It’s being tested now.”

“So you haven’t confirmed it’s the
murder weapon?”

“Not yet.”

The middle of the road was getting me
nowhere. I needed to zip into the fast lane. “On the news they said that the
suspect is behind bars. This gun makes it clear that there could be another
suspect, that the wrong person has been arrested.”

“We won’t know anything until we test
the gun.”

I pushed away from the doorway and
lowered myself into the driver’s seat—er, chair—in front of Parker. I still had
my trump card to play. I put my mouth in gear and charged full speed ahead.

“I found out something that shines new
light on the case.”

An eyebrow quirked. “Did you?”

“A witness places Mr. Cunningham at the
scene of the crime right before the fire started last night. Our political
superstar in the making set the fire in order to conceal the evidence.”

Detective Parker leaned forward and
sighed. “Ms. St. Claire, Mr. Cunningham was in the hospital last night. He’s
not being discharged until this afternoon.”

Chapter Seven

“What?” The neighbor said she
saw Cunningham. He was a guilty man. No questions. No doubts.

No evidence to prove it.

He waved a folder. “I have the paperwork
to prove it.”

“That’s not possible.”

The detective nodded curtly. “You heard
me correctly—Michael Cunningham is a victim here, plain and simple. Don’t try
to twist it any other way.”

“But—”

“No, buts, Ms. St. Claire. Just let us
do our job, and you . . . you go clean houses. There’s no need
of you worrying over this.”

“But, Detective—”

“Trust that the evidence is being
handled by professionals, and let it go. We’ve got it from here.” He rose and
drew in a deep breath. His gaze tried to put me in my place, which was no easy
task. “Thank you for your help and concern. I’ll let you see yourself out.”

I opened my mouth, but found myself
speechless for one of the first times in my life. The next thing I knew I was
on the sidewalk, staring at the one-story red brick building.

What just happened?

I turned around, about to march back
inside, but dropped my hand from the doorknob. I needed time to think this
over. I needed to talk things through with someone else.

But who?

Not Harold, he’d only worry. Not Sierra,
she’d find a way to turn it into a save-the-animals campaign. My dad wasn’t an
option. He had his own problems.

I drew in a deep breath and resigned
myself to ponder it. With one last glance at the police station, I went back to
the car.

***

I parked in the lot of my apartment
building, got out, and slammed the car door, channeling my frustration by
abusing Sierra’s innocent car. I was too upset to go home. Instead, I hurried
across the street to The Grounds, my favorite coffeehouse and hangout. The
converted old Victorian housed a coffeehouse on the first floor and an Internet
café upstairs. It was a hodgepodge of tables and chairs, accented by brightly
colored walls with abstract art slashing through them. On Friday and Saturday
evenings acoustic music filled the shop, and on Tuesdays poetry readings.

I walked into the dimly lit structure,
immediately surrounded by the rich smell of Columbian coffee and the quiet
rumble of chatting java addicts munching on Italian biscotti and French
pastries. Latin music drifted through the overhead, and Swedish oak chairs
scratched across the rusty German wood floor. It made me proud to be an
American.

Sometimes, when crime was low and
everyone else in the city rejoiced—as they should—I had to drag my dejected,
out-of-work self here to slave away for some extra money. The owner, Sharon,
was a sweetheart and more than willing to let me work odd shifts. I think more
than anything she liked to hear my on-the-job stories. But if she wanted to pay
me minimum wage to rehash my days, then so be it. As long as I could keep my
apartment.

I paused in the doorway and allowed the
scents and sounds to ease into my lungs, to curl into my tense muscles. Coming
here always made me feel better. And then I spotted Riley sitting at an old
farm table in the corner and felt better yet. He sat, reading the paper and
sipping on a steaming bright yellow mug.

I watched him a minute. He looked so
astute, almost aristocratic the way he sat casually at the table, slowly bring
his steaming mug to his lips while reading the newspaper. All he needed was to
raise his pinky finger and I’d have been sold.

For a minute, I pictured him doing this
every morning. The thought warmed my heart in ways it shouldn’t, yet the image
seemed so normal, so peaceful. Riley did something to my heart—and my
imagination—that frightened and compelled me.

With a quick wave to pink-haired Sharon behind the
counter, I walked across the wooden floor. Without invitation, I plopped into
the chair across from Riley. I was looking for a distraction, and I’d found a
very nice looking one.

Riley looked up and stared at me a
moment. “Gabby.” His blue eyes made me catch my breath. No man should have eyes
that gorgeous, framed by lashes that long. I had to apply tubes of mascara to
even make mine visible. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the soot.”

Ah, wonderful. Those first impressions
that you never had a second chance to make. “Believe it or not, I don’t always
look like a case study for the loony bin.”

He grinned, showing perfect white teeth.
How does someone with an obvious affection for coffee keep their teeth that
white?

“I didn’t think that at all.” He reached
for his mug and took a sip. “So, how are you today?”

Such a simple question. Up until
twenty-four hours ago, the answer would have been easy. My biggest concern had
been coming up with a catchy jingle. Now the sleuth in me itched to get out.

I’d always had a penchant for mysteries,
starting in seventh grade when I deduced that old lady Jones across the street
had sneaked a dead body from her house under the guise of rolled carpet. I
decided to keep an eye on her and quickly discovered she had a habit of
cleaning in the nude. I concluded spying was better left to the professionals.

I’d moved on to tracking down who had
taken a picture of bottle-cap glasses Suzy picking her nose in the girls’
bathroom at school. Sure I’d been kicked out of school for a week when I
punched head cheerleader Amy Murphy in the eye upon discovering she was the
culprit, but it had been worth it. I’d solved my first crime.

I’d wanted anything to distract me from
my dysfunctional home life—science experiments, who-done-it capers, and, most
recently, musicals. Who didn’t love a happy ending? I sure hadn’t had one yet,
but deep inside I hoped one day the tables would turn.

Riley waited for an answer to his simple
question, so I stuffed my thoughts to the side and blurted out the truth.

“I’m lousy. How about you?”

“Lousy? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t get me started.” I waved my hands
to ward off his questions, noting as they fluttered past that I desperately
needed a manicure. While out, I should buy some of those teeth whitening strips
and some mascara. Riley was putting me to shame. “Let’s talk about something
else. How’s your feathered friend?”

Half his lip pulled up in a disgruntled,
but good-natured smile. “Demanding. Every time I cook something, he squawks
until he gets a piece of it. That bird can down steak, cheese, vegetables,
anything.”

“Didn’t you just bring him home at 2
a.m
.? That’s a lot of cooking for less
than twenty-four hours.”

“I was awake last night and needed
something to eat. Then I fixed breakfast this morning and had an afternoon
snack.”

“Any word on your AC?”

“This weekend.”

I noted the glaring sun bearing down on
the pavement outside. “Bummer.”

He set his newspaper aside and leaned
forward, his eyes warm and friendly, reminding me of a sparkling swimming pool
on a warm summer day. “So, why have you had a lousy day?”

I leaned back and stared at the painting
of a woman hugging her guitar as I contemplated my answer. “Work stuff.”

“Find a stain you couldn’t get out?”

I rolled my eyes. “If only Mr. Clean and
I could fix this mess.”

Riley’s brows shot up and I could see
true concern on his face. “Need to talk about it?”

I drew in a deep breath. Oh man, were
those magic words. “The detective on the case dismissed some evidence I found
while cleaning up after a crime.”

“Are you sure it was evidence?”

I caught his gaze. “I’m positive. If you
saw this evidence, you’d know it, too.”

“Why did he dismiss it?”

“I have no idea.” My jaw clenched
thinking about Detective Parker’s arrogance. “It makes it so clear that the
wrong person has been framed. This morning I even found a witness to confirm my
theory.”

“Did you tell the detective?”

“Of course I told the detective.” I
slapped the table and Riley’s coffee cup jumped. “I might as well hand the guy
a video of the murder being committed.”

Riley ducked, and I realized I’d raised
my voice.

“Sorry, you didn’t deserve that. I’m mad
at Detective Parker and I’m biting your head off. Not fair.”

Riley pulled his hands in front of his
neck. “Okay, as long as my head’s safe from your teeth, go on with your story.”

That wrung a little laugh out of me, but
I was too annoyed to stay amused. “He didn’t care. Said it couldn’t be true,
that I should let him do his job, and I should do mine.”

Riley leaned forward, resting on his
folded, muscular arms. “Sounds like you have some decisions to make.”

I sighed. “I know. That’s the problem. I
have no idea what to do.”

“Give it time and you’ll know.”

“I don’t know if I can. Time is crucial
in police work. If I let this slide, an innocent man could end up charged with
murder. He’s already sitting in a cell.”

Riley nodded. “You’re right. Mr. Clean
isn’t of much use with this one.”

I wished I could talk to him more, share
all the details of what had happened. I couldn’t, though. I barely knew the
man, though I did hope that might change.