Tempted by Fate (32 page)

R
amirez woke early and quietly slipped out from the house. Scowling, he put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking spot. He had an assassin in his bed, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

Well, he knew what he
wanted
to do about it. He wanted to crawl in next to her. Only he couldn’t. He growled as he stepped on the accelerator. Cops didn’t sleep with criminals, and Homicide cops certainly didn’t get together with hit men. He wanted to, though. Badly.

The hard-on he’d had all night was testament to that. But he also plain missed her. He’d hovered at the foot of the stairs for longer than he cared to admit, trying to decide whether he should just go up to her. He couldn’t. In the end, he’d huddled on the couch, staring at the wooden stilettos he’d confiscated from her garter. She had turned his world upside down. He’d lost his bedroom, and his guest room to Morgan. He’d even lost the support of his grandmother, who seemed to be on Willow’s side. Losing his mind was just a short step away. He was pathetic.

Ramirez gripped the steering wheel. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand: bringing in her Bad Man. If he could do that, then Willow wouldn’t have to kill anymore. Hopefully, by that time, he’d have a better handle on what he was going to do about everything else.

He parked his car and strode into the Hall of Justice. Barely acknowledging the guard, he took the elevator up to his office. Even though it was early, there was already an assortment of people working, either from the night before or this morning. He nodded at a couple guys who called out to him, but he headed straight to his desk. His goal was to catch up and get out quickly.

His plan was shot when his partner walked in a short while later. Instead of going to his desk, Taylor snagged a chair and set it next to him. Taylor unbuttoned his suit jacket, which already had some sort of stain on the lapel, leaned on the desk, and rested his chin in his hand.

When there was nothing forthcoming, Ramirez cocked his brow. “Well?”

“I’m waiting,” Taylor said.

“For?”

“For you to tell me where the hell you’ve been.”

“I told you I had some personal matters to take care of.”

His partner shook his head. “I’m not buying it. In the years we’ve worked together, you’ve never let personal matters come before the job. Suddenly that’s changed. Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”

Ramirez stilled. There was no way Taylor could know about him and Willow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” Taylor stared at him in a solemn way that wasn’t natural to his character. “Officer Jenkins called up.”

Ramirez cursed mentally, but he tried to maintain his stoic demeanor.

Taylor watched him like a hawk. “He said you checked out some evidence from the property room.”

“I did.”

“And what about the evidence you didn’t check out?”

Shit.
“I don’t—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Ricardo. Jenkins went through the evidence box and found an item missing. A wooden flute. You aren’t being busted, because I covered for you. I managed to convince him you were distracted.”

It wouldn’t do any good to deny it, so he just nodded. “Thanks.”

“I want to know why,” his partner demanded. “You owe me that much.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“A big part of your job is to communicate with me. You’re the one who’s always telling me that. Now you’re going off half-cocked and I have to wonder what’s going on.” Taylor leaned in. “So what is it?”

Ramirez stared impassively at his partner. “I’m working to solve this case.”

Taylor’s gaze narrowed. “Yeah, I believe that, but something’s still hinky. You’re acting strangely. You’re not focused. It can’t be just the pressure to solve this. We’re always under pressure.”

Yes, but this time there was much more at stake. “I’m working an angle. You need to trust me.”

“Goddamn it, Ricky.” His partner ran a hand over his head. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

He wished he could.

The phone ringing saved him. He held up a finger and
grabbed the receiver. Ignoring Taylor’s imaginative cursing in the background, he answered the call. “Inspector Ramirez.”

“It’s Max.”

Turning his back, he spoke softly. “What do you have?”

“We need to meet. What time is good for you?”

“Give me an hour.” Hopefully, he could find something to occupy Taylor by then so he could slip out undetected.

“See you at the loft,” Max said, hanging up.

Taylor pounced even before he’d put the receiver back down. “Who was that?”

“A friend,” he said, happy not to lie. Taylor, for all his bumbling charm, had a keen sixth sense.

His partner snorted. “Please. Try to come up with something a little more believable.”

He frowned. “Why isn’t that believable?”

“You don’t have a social life, which indicates an absence of friends.”

“Maybe I’ve finally listened to your lectures on life being more than work.”

“See? Another indication that something is very wrong.” Taylor hefted his weight up, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve got your back, even if it means I have to protect you from yourself.”

Ramirez watched him amble out of the pen. He just had to keep his partner occupied long enough to set everything right.

Max was leaning in the open door, waiting for Ramirez, when he arrived. “How well do you know Willow?”

“Well enough.” Scowling, Ramirez walked in. “Why do you ask?”

Max walked past him into the kitchen and picked up a folder placed on the table. “Are you sure?” he asked, handing it over.

Ramirez stared at the file, wondering what it could contain that had Max so leery. “This is about the man we needed to ID, isn’t it?”

Max nodded, sticking his hands in his pockets. “And then some.”

“About Willow?”

“Yeah.”

Ramirez studied the other man’s face, but his metallic countenance gave away nothing. How bad could it be? She’d already told him she was an assassin—what could be worse than that?

He reassessed that statement when he opened the file. The picture he’d checked out from the property room was clipped to the front. Shaking his head, he backed up and started reading the profile from the beginning. Slowly.

Edward Rodgers-Dynes, age sixty-two, born in Johannesburg, South Africa. Dark hair, gray eyes. List of crimes attributed to him: piracy, theft, prostitution, murder. Never been convicted.

“You ready to reconsider your answer?”

He looked up at Max. “This information is accurate? No chance of discrepancies?”

“None.” Max’s response was absolute. “Rhys is many things, but his information is never suspect. In fact, he’d considered a partnership with the man at some time in the past but decided against it. That’s a testament to the guy’s character, or lack thereof. Rhys operates in a pretty big gray area. Rhys deciding someone was unscrupulous is saying something.”

“Understood.” He re-read the one line that caused his teeth to clench:

Widowed. Only surviving relative: one daughter. Willow Rodgers-Dynes.

He looked at the picture of Rodgers-Dynes. Ramirez had thought there was something familiar about him. Now he saw it was the subtle resemblance to Willow. You had to stretch your imagination to see it—except for the eyes.

Did she know? He had to force his hands to relax before he crumpled the pages. All he could think about was whether or not she’d played him for some personal vendetta.

But she’d told him her Bad Man had killed her mother and that she was out for justice. The only piece of information she’d omitted was that he was her father. Ramirez grimaced as reason penetrated the wild flare of emotions. Why would she not tell him? She’d even confessed to being an assassin. This was hardly on the same scale. It had to be because she didn’t know.

Shit.
He slapped the file closed. “Thank you. I owe you for this.”

Max shrugged. “We’ll call it even. In appreciation of you looking out for my wife.”

The not-so-subtle inflection on
my wife
wasn’t lost on him. He flashed a sardonic grin. He was beginning to understand that sense of possession, because he was beginning to feel that way about Willow. Beginning to? Hell, he was halfway to chaining her to his side.

“You have a lot to process,” Max said as they walked out.

“That’s stating the obvious.”

“You’ll let us know if you need anything else?” Max opened the door.

“Are you offering because Carrie would want you to?”

“Of course. I’m not stupid,” the other man said with a smile. Then he sobered. “But we have a vested interest in Willow, as well. I may not trust her, but seeing her hurt wouldn’t benefit anyone, either.”

Ramirez paused in the doorway, frowning. “What sort of vested interest?”

“The sort that is Willow’s to tell, if she feels so inclined.” Max tipped his head. “Happy hunting.”

Ramirez hesitated, wanting to ask more questions, but he knew Max wouldn’t answer. So he nodded and headed to the elevator. When he walked outside, Taylor was leaning against his car, waiting for him.

What the hell?
His eyes narrowed as he strode to his partner, who obviously had no compulsion against following him and invading his privacy. “What are you doing here?”

Taylor squared off for the confrontation, arms folded across his barrel chest. “Saving your ass, you ungrateful cur.”

“
Cur?
” That was over-the-top, even for his dramatic partner.

“Beats
asshole.
If I’m going to risk my hide for you, I want to know what’s going on.”

Heaving a sigh, Ramirez ran a hand over his head. “Listen—”

“No,
you
listen.” Taylor pointed a finger at him. “I’m done with this. You’re going to tell me what the hell you’re up to, even if I have to sit on you until you relent.
And I ate almost all of May’s meat loaf for dinner last night, so I’ve got a couple extra pounds to back me up.”

Ramirez started to tell his partner what he could do with his extra pounds, when a shot rang out. They both turned their heads as a volley of bullets rained down on them.

W
here the hell was he?

Willow looked out the office window for the millionth time. No sign of his car. No sign of Ramirez. He left without saying good morning or good-bye. Hell, he left without saying anything. He hadn’t even joined her in his room last night. What did that mean? She’d stayed up half the night, listening to him puttering around downstairs. She thought he’d come up eventually, even if it was after she’d fallen asleep.

Hadn’t happened.

Now here she was, freaking out from this growing sense of impending doom. Something bad was brewing—something involving Ramirez—and she didn’t know where he was and couldn’t stop it. She kept imagining the worst, and the thought that she might never see him again was unbearable.

The bastard.
He should have told her where he was going. A phone call, was that too much to ask for?

She knew why he’d withdrawn from her, too. Because
she’d told him that she’d killed people. She rubbed her forehead, a headache throbbing dully at her temples. That had to be why he’d left.

“It’s unrealistic to think a Homicide detective would want a relationship with someone who killed people.”

“It is, if the Homicide detective in question is Ramirez,” Morgan answered absently, engrossed with her computer. “That man’s shorts are bound so tight, I’m impressed you were able to shimmy them off him.”

“That’s the thing. He’s not really wound as tight as I thought.” Because if he had been, he would have taken her straight to jail when she’d told him. Instead, he’d given her a chance to prove that she was innocent. “He’s helping me track down the Bad Man. That’s got to mean something.”

“It means that the Bad Man is a worse criminal than you are.”

She glanced at her so-called friend. “Thanks.”