Job Hunt (13 page)

“She’s not on a power trip,” Gareth growled. “Lisa’s honest. She wants justice for Ricky as much as you do.”

All the fight went out of Jack in a long single breath, and a resigned smile replaced the frown. His fingers uncurled, his shoulders relaxed, and he straightened his arms by his sides. “Then we have us a problem, Gareth,” he said softly. “After everything I heard from Ricky, I don’t give a shit about justice. I want revenge.”

G
ARETH
STOPPED
the Range Rover in front of the barrier at New Scotland Yard and wound the window down. Jack stirred from his doze in the passenger seat, straightening and opening his eyes. He had not spoken a word during the whole drive back into London and—despite Gareth’s protests—his bag rested between his feet in the Ranger’s passenger foot well.

“If they choose to go postal on my ass, I want at least a change of clothes,” he’d grumbled, and dodged Gareth’s attempts to keep the bag at his house.

Jack clearly expected to spend the night in a cell, and the thought made Gareth shudder. He had once tried to detain a rookie Jack for returning from leave late and drunk to boot. The fallout had been spectacular, and nobody was surprised when Jack later outscored his entire team in evasion and escape skills. Jack used to have issues with being physically restrained—held down, cuffed, tied up—even after he’d attended counseling and training sessions, and Gareth didn’t know if those issues had eased in the intervening years or if mayhem would ensue if anyone came near him bearing handcuffs.

“You’re cleared to drive in, sir.” The uniformed guard behind the barrier concluded his checks and caught Gareth’s attention. “An officer will escort you to your interview. Please do not leave the vehicle until he is with you.”

Gareth was familiar with the procedure. It had been a while, but he had been here before. “Do you have a solicitor looking after you, or do you want me to warn mine that he may be needed?” he asked pointedly as he drove down the ramp into the garage.

“I thought nothing is going to happen?”

“I don’t think anything will. But I’m all for putting your mind at rest before you snap.”

Jack snorted. “Good luck with that. I usually need at least a bottle of scotch to shut up my mind and you think you can do it with a phone call?”

“You forget I’m made of awesome,” Gareth said, a touch caustic, just as their escort materialized beside the Range Rover.

T
HE
CONFERENCE
room on the twelfth floor smelled like a curry house. A damn good one, where the chef blended his own spices until the atmosphere swam with mouthwatering aromas and drew in people who hadn’t even planned on eating curry when they left their homes. Late as it was, Jack’s stomach growled at the inviting scent despite the dread that sat like a tight coil in his gut.

In Jack’s experience, giving statements to the police involved smartass comments and defensive posturing, endless hours of mindless waiting, and almost unpalatable coffee—never good food. Dr. Lisa Tyrrell liked to do things differently, if the table to the right of the conference room’s door was any indication. It was covered with a white cloth and set with poppadoms and naan, rice, chutney, and an unexpected array of freshly cooked curries. There were also bottles of Kingfisher, tins of Red Bull, and plenty of bottled water.

“I must have lost the friggin’ keys again!”

Gareth barked a laugh and pushed past Jack, patting his head condescendingly.

“Well, Toto, I really think this isn’t Kansas.” He chuckled and made his way to the conference table, where Lisa and three other people were already busy eating. He claimed a seat, shrugged out of his jacket, and slung it over the back of the plush chair. “Come on, Jack, stop gaping at the munchkins. We have stuff to do here.”

Lisa snorted in amusement, and Jack thought the look suited her. It brought out lights in her eyes and even a dimple in her cheek. Most of all, though, it made her look approachable. More like a person and less like the hardass her file said she was. From across the table, she waved her fork at Jack and Gareth. “We had no idea how long you’d need to get here, so we’ve started. Help yourself to dinner. I’m told the curries get hotter the farther you move from the middle of the table.” She pointed at her plate. “I can vouch for the korma. It’s excellent.”

Jack dumped his bag beside a chair and turned toward the food, picking up a plate as he went. Korma, however excellent, held little interest for him. He aimed for the dish right at the edge of the table: beef in a deep red gravy with lots of visible slices of chili. He smelled cinnamon and cloves in the steam and happily loaded his plate. A few spoonfuls of channa dhal and a couple of poppadoms later, Jack was content to settle down at the table and enjoy a belated dinner, barely noticing when Gareth replaced the tin of Red Bull by his plate with a bottle of Kingfisher.

“The gentleman opposite you is Rafael Gallant from the firearms unit,” Lisa introduced. “And I believe you already know Walshaw and Nell.”

Jack managed terse nods to the men. The burly firearms officer dressed in fatigues seemed a steady sort, but Jack and DI Walshaw had history, and not the kind rehashed fondly over a beer. The statuesque woman on the other side of the table, though, merited a wide smile.

“Hey, Nell, it’s been a while.”

“Still fighting the good fight without any sense of self-preservation, eh?” She smiled back, albeit wryly. “You look good, Jack.”

“And you need your eyes tested. Unless sleep deprivation looks good on me.”

“Sarcasm sure doesn’t,” Gareth grumbled from his side.

“It’s not sarcasm if I’m right.”

“Quit with the cryptic and enlighten us,” Rafael growled. He sounded grumpy, as if he’d been dragged from his normal Friday evening activities at short notice.

“Jack expects to spend the night in a cell.” Gareth cackled, clearly delighted at a chance to tease.

“Jesus! Do we really look that stupid?”

Rafael barked a laugh at Walshaw’s exclamation, and Jack kept his eyes on his plate. Walshaw was a pompous ass with a conveniently selective memory. Jack would have loved to remind him of the score of times the man had tried to get him and Clive Baxter into trouble. Shame Baxter wasn’t here to enjoy the irony. He would have appreciated it.

“Your skills would be wasted in a cell,” Lisa said a moment later. “Really, Horwood—have you
read
your file lately?”

“He was too busy reading yours,” Gareth informed her, gleeful as Puck, when Jack kept quiet and his head down.

“He… what?”

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want to know who you’re dealing with,” Jack defended himself.

“Sure,” Nell retorted. “But none of us would break into protected storage to do it.”

“You would if you knew how,” Jack disagreed. “And if you could be sure not to be caught.”

“I heard that Gatting was heartbroken when you quit,” Lisa said from her side of the table. “I’m starting to understand why he was so desperately hunting around for an incentive he could offer you to change your mind.”

Jack leaned his head against the edge of the seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see Lisa’s face to know that she was studying him as if Jack were some newly discovered species in the zoo. People like Lisa or his one-time boss Tom Gatting tended to see his skills rather than him, and many a time he had allowed himself to be used to further someone else’s goals. Until he’d grown tired of the game.

Sitting there, surrounded by the comforting scents of curry and with his thoughts safely hidden behind his lashes, Jack allowed himself a few moments to mourn. Four months of freedom were gone in a flash. He had managed to extricate himself from the service, had gotten away clean… and now he was right back in the mire because he had gone to help a friend. The relief of not having to face an investigation and possible time in jail paled in comparison.

Gareth’s amber gaze was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. Realization mixed with concern in that gaze, and knowing that Gareth understood and cared eased the tight knot of regret in Jack’s chest. He managed a minuscule nod, a thank-you as much as an acknowledgement. Then Jack straightened and placed his hands on the table in front of him.

“Let’s quit with the bullshit,” he said to the room at large. “It’s late, and I’m tired. Ask what you want to know. Then tell me what you want me to do so I can go home and sleep.”

A
LL
SIX
settled down to work, going over every detail of Jack and Gareth’s foray into the dance club. The detectives made extensive notes, asking question after question. Jack described layouts, observations and impressions, with Gareth adding his own thoughts and opinions. Rafael asked more questions than the other three put together. Not a single one was about the man they hunted. Neither did he speculate about motivations or outcomes. He asked about flooring, lights, doorways, and even the positioning of the columns to a level of detail that neither Jack nor Gareth had a chance to provide.

“Why don’t you go in daylight and check it out? You could always pose as someone from the Health and Safety Executive,” Jack suggested when Rafael asked for the third time about the rooms in the back of the club that Jack hadn’t been able to explore.

“I could at that, but I’d imagine they’d grow suspicious if I asked about air vents and loft space and drains.”

“How about the architectural drawings for the place? That has to be a better start.”

“Might need a lengthy explanation or even a warrant to get those. Can’t wait that long.”

“Don’t wait, then.”

Rafael caught on and cocked his head. “Think you can find them? Now?”

Lisa called a recess and pushed her laptop across the conference table toward Jack with a wry smile. “Leave me a little privacy… if you’re able.”

“Your dirty pictures are completely without interest to me, Doctor,” Jack deadpanned as he pulled up a browser, followed by a command prompt. His fingers started dancing over the keys, and moments later he was lost in reams of data.

Gareth watched him quietly, noting the tired slump to Jack’s shoulders and the tiny creases between his brows that meshed oddly with the intent focus and the swift dance of his fingers. Once he had resigned himself to the situation, Jack had focused on the job at hand. He had answered every question, including Walshaw’s personal, insinuating ones, promptly and in detail, but with as much emotion as he would expend on reciting a shopping list.

Gareth hadn’t been as sanguine. The lanky detective sitting across the conference table really was a first-class ass, one that even his much more sensible partner couldn’t keep in check. Gareth had fought the repeated urge to bash the idiot’s face into a new shape. Not on his own account, but on Jack’s, who somehow managed to ignore the clumsy digs and snide remarks. Gareth didn’t even care that Lisa noticed his ire. He was just grateful that she shut down Walshaw’s idiotic lines of questioning without having to be asked.

Fortunately for Gareth’s peace of mind, Walshaw soon grew bored with the games, and Rafael Gallant was as matter-of-fact as Gareth was himself. He appeared to be planning a mission of some sort and openly appreciated Jack’s help. The two sat close together, heads bent over the screen of Lisa’s laptop while Lisa dismissed Nell and Walshaw for the evening. Gareth was glad for that small favor and waved to Nell as she left.

“You have no idea how close I was to hitting that oaf,” he said a moment later as he joined Lisa by the coffeemaker.

“I could tell.” Lisa passed him a mug. “He wasn’t having digs at you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Gareth poured milk until the mug almost overflowed. If he had to drink the stuff to stay awake, at least he could make it somewhat palatable.

“I don’t suppose it does,” Lisa agreed. “Nell is trying to straighten him out.”

“She’s not having much luck.”

“Give her time.”

“Keep him out of my hair, then,” Gareth growled. “I really… really hate men like that. It wouldn’t even occur to him to do what Jack does, but he has the gall to taunt and judge and….”

“Gareth.”

He closed his eyes and breathed, clutching the mug of hot coffee with both hands until he got his temper under control. It took some doing. “Sorry,” he said as he set the mug down.

“He really got to you, didn’t he?”

Gareth nodded once, not caring whether Lisa was referring to Walshaw or Jack. Her words were true for either man. Walshaw’s comments had been aimed at Jack, but Gareth was the one who’d felt the sting. The detective would never understand what it took to go undercover, how much courage a man needed to use himself as bait. Gareth wished he could ram that knowledge down Walshaw’s throat.

“Tell me about the pimp,” he said instead. “We have a profile yet?”

“Not even ID.”

“He doesn’t have form?”

Lisa shook her head and grabbed a clean mug from the table. “And the forensics guys are really struggling with that beer bottle.”

“Why?”

“The bottle was dewy when the pimp first picked it up. The prints are layered and smudged. Wet glass is one of the worst surfaces to lift prints from… did you know?”

“I had no idea,” Gareth grumbled. “Next time I’ll ask for six beers, a packet of peanuts, and a towel.”

Lisa laughed and patted his shoulder. “Glum doesn’t suit you, Gareth.”

Gareth shot a look across the room to where Jack and Rafael were still huddled over Lisa’s laptop. The two looked cozy, intent on their work, and Gareth bit back a sigh. “Glum’s all that’s left tonight,” he said, feeling cranky. “Really, what have I ever done to deserve getting cockblocked by you?”

“Um… let’s see… left me?”

“How come I remember that the other way around?”

Lisa smiled a little. She leaned her back against the counter next to the coffeemaker, watching it gurgle and hiss as it poured steaming black liquid into her mug. “Probably because it’s true,” she quipped. “Let a girl repent in peace.”

“By ruining my weekend?”