The Good Daughter (2 page)

“Don’t screw with me—” Vince lunged.

Mike grabbed him by the arm and jerked. “Let’s go, Vince.”

Vince fought the grip for a moment, then cast Newcombe one more murderous scowl before shaking off Mike’s hold.

Newcombe walked away, cocksure grin in place.

Vince started to follow. Mike grabbed him again. “Come on, man. Don’t play into his hands. He already hates your guts for making him look like a fool seven years ago. Just sit back and let the department go through its paces.”

“Over my dead body.” Vince stared at the too-slick dresser who’d tried to ruin his career once. Newcombe’s ambitions had only grown since then.

“Vince, pick your fights. This is not the time.”

“Damn it.” Vince exhaled in a gust. “I’ve got work to do. I don’t need that jerk hanging me out to dry for months.”

“Then leave him alone and quit antagonizing him, you thickheaded bastard.”

Vince grimaced. “Pushed my buttons, didn’t he?”

Mike grinned. “Like a pro. I have no idea why I’d want to buy a beer for someone so stupid, but first round’s on me.”

Vince smiled faintly. “Because no one else will let you drive.”

Mike slugged him on the shoulder and laughed. “For that, the next two rounds are yours.”

Vince shot a glance back at the crime scene. “Just a minute, Mike. I’m gonna check with the boss.”

“Sure thing. I’ll be in the car.”

Vince approached his supervisor, Sergeant F. T. Woods. “Sarge.” He nodded to the man who ran his detail with an iron fist but would go to the wall for his squad.

“Be careful with Newcombe, Vince,” Woods said. “You know you’re not on his Christmas-card list.”

Vince met his gaze evenly. “He’s not on mine, either.”

Woods studied him. “You’re taking too many chances lately. You should have waited for backup.”

“The creep wasn’t just a dealer and a pimp. He had this thing for kids—”

“No one’s taking his side. My beef’s with you. You’re a good cop when your head’s on straight. I’m wondering if you need to be using some of the vacation days you’ve got piled up. Go away somewhere.”

Vince recoiled. “No.” He shook his head hard. “Hell, no. Sarge, you can’t—”

The older man’s eyes didn’t soften. “I’ll do whatever’s necessary to see that you don’t burn out. Losing Quintanilla was rough, and you’ve had three difficult cases in a row. I say you need a change of scenery.”

Vince stiffened at the mention of the cop who’d been like a father to him, shot down in cold blood nine months earlier. No one had paid for it, but someone would, if
it was the last thing Vince did. He couldn’t afford to leave town.

He sighed heavily, tired just thinking about the days ahead. Nodding toward the body, he spoke. “I’ll get time off whether I want it or not.”

“You know what they say, Vince.”

Vince glanced up at the humor in his sergeant’s voice.

“Hell’s only a way station on the road to Internal Affairs.”

Vince grinned in spite of the weariness creeping through his body now that the adrenaline was gone. “I always suspected Newcombe had a forked tail tucked down his pants.”

Woods chuckled and leaned closer. “Plastic surgery to remove the horns was the story I heard.” He clapped Vince on the shoulder. “Go on. Flynn’s waiting. There’s nothing left for you to do tonight. But get some sleep, hear?”

They both realized it wasn’t likely. Bedtime was when the doubts crowded up on your chest and shoulders, whispering nasty thoughts in your ear and squeezing the breath out of you.

Nope, Vince knew he might as well go buy Mike a beer. Anything was better than being alone with his failures.

“Sure, Sarge.” He waved and started off.

“And Vince?”

Vince turned back.

“Play it straight with the doc. Maybe she can figure out what the hell you think you’re trying to prove.”

Any trace of a smile vanished. “Just doing my job, boss.”

Sergeant Woods nodded grimly. “Me, too.”

C
HLOE SLID
into her car and reached toward the ignition, knowing she should return to the cocktail party.

Instead, she sank against the seat cushion. She didn’t want to spend another hour—another minute—making chitchat. Her gaze cut back to the lights at the crime scene. Adrenaline surged again, and one knee jittered as she considered going back. Trying to talk to Coronado once more. Being a part of a world where important things happened, where men put their lives on the line instead of throwing around their influence and money—

She exhaled on a long, distressed sigh. Coronado was through talking for tonight. She’d only make things worse.

Her parents wouldn’t like it, nor would Roger, but a cocktail party was out of the question now. She’d go home, get a good night’s sleep and be ready to do her job tomorrow.

You sure as hell don’t look like you belong here, Doc.

She put the key in the ignition.

She did. She would. She just had to prove him wrong.

V
INCE SWORE SOFTLY
in the moonlight as he fumbled his key in the lock and tried not to drop his mail. Push
ing the front door open, he stepped into his living room, grasping for the light switch.

“Aiiyyowww!”
A shrill cry split the air.

Vince stumbled and righted himself quickly, flipping the switch and flooding the room with lamplight. A streak of brown-and-white fur darted underneath the table behind the sofa.

“Damn it, cat, stay out from under my feet. You’re the one who can see in the dark, not me,” he grumbled. Dropping to his heels, he stared at the form blinking at him four feet away, one ragged ear flopping while the other flicked back and forth. A scroungy tail switched like a whip. Vince reached out and was rewarded with a hiss that dropped to a near growl. “Yep, that settles it. I’m definitely getting a dog. I hate cats.”

Vince rose to his feet and stood, hands on his hips. “You heard me, didn’t you?” He pointed toward the door. “Go on—I’ve been telling you for two weeks now, no cats allowed.”

Golden eyes blinked. The tail settled. The cat lifted one front paw and began grooming himself.

“Yeah, sure. Like nonchalance is going to impress me. Man’s best friend is definitely not a cat. I’ll feed you tonight, but tomorrow, you’re outta here.” Vince threw his keys and the mail on the heavy oak table beneath an Amado Peña print of a pueblo done in vivid slashes of turquoise, black and terra-cotta, then headed toward the kitchen. He opened the pantry and pulled out a can from the tall stack of Feline Fancies. A brush of warm body against his ankles made him look down.

“Oh, yeah, now you care. I’ve got a long memory,
pal.” After yanking the pull tab from the top, he set the can down on the scarred oak floor he’d found lurking under ancient linoleum, then filled an empty bowl with fresh water. His gaze wandered to the strips of yellowed wallpaper hanging from the shiplap wall across from the sink. Only one more wall to go in here. About time. This shotgun cottage in the once-grand South Austin neighborhood of Travis Heights had been his for a song. It hadn’t stopped eating time—and money—since.

Still, it was his, the first real home he’d ever had. The work remaining might consume years, but that didn’t matter. He’d spent thirty-two years rootless; he’d spend another thirty-two working on this place, if that was what it took.

He walked to the refrigerator and looked inside, taking stock. Leftover pizza, a six-pack of beer, a tomato with a beard. He spied a couple of eggs and smiled. Scrape away some of the blue shadows on that cheese, and he could have an omelette.

Not all that hungry yet, he wandered back in to peruse his mail first. Junk mail, junk mail, bill, junk mail— A postcard stayed his hand.

Tino’s handwriting. Where had he gotten a postcard of the Bahamas? He was still in prison.

Vince squinted at the tiny scrawl. It took him a minute to sort out the coded phrases, then he cursed beneath his breath. Tino was getting out. Left the day after the postmark.

And he wanted to see his old friend Vince.

Hell.

Once he and Tino Garza had been as tight as brothers
in the way only surviving the streets together could make you. He’d happened upon a fight where Tino was trying to hang on to some food he’d stolen—and losing. At fifteen, Vince had been as big as most grown men and had had two years on the streets behind him. Tino, at nine, had been as naive as a babe.

They’d joined forces, and Vince had taught Tino to survive. Too well. Only the influence of one cop who cared enough to battle for him had kept Vince from winding up in prison just like his friend.

Then patrolman Carlos Quintanilla had cared about Tino, too, but hadn’t been able to save him. Tino had disappeared into gang life, and Vince only barely escaped the same fate.

Carlos was dead now, and the loss of the man who’d been the closest thing he’d had to a father was a big black hole inside Vince. The crime was unsolved, and some nasty rumors about corruption circulated. Vince would never believe that Carlos had been on the take. He’d also bet money that Alfonso Moreno, head of a syndicate called Los Carnales, had ordered the kill, but Moreno had been jailed at the time, and there’d been nothing to tie him to it. Now Moreno walked free, while the best man Vince had ever known was lying six feet underground.

He had to get back on the job so he could keep looking for the evidence to nail Moreno. He couldn’t afford any more distractions. What did Tino want with Vince after years with next to no communication?

He threw down the postcard and walked back to the kitchen, already knowing that he’d be wasting his time
trying to sleep. The two beers he’d had would be no help, and he wasn’t drinking any more just to dull the edges.

But as he’d told Dr. Cool and Elegant, he wasn’t sorry Krueger was dead, only that he hadn’t suffered.

She hadn’t flinched when he’d said that, nor when he’d baited her. The only time she’d reacted was when he’d crowded her space.

He sneered. Probably afraid he’d sweat on her fancy dress.

He just wanted her to stay out of his head. He himself didn’t even like looking in there. She’d be better off to leave him alone and let him get on with his job. Then he remembered the soft brown eyes and how they’d surprised him. High-class blondes were supposed to have icy blue eyes, maybe green, not warm, molasses-brown. Women like her weren’t found at crime scenes, wading through the muck and blood.

A contradiction was Chloe St. Claire. Her clothes screamed money. She couldn’t want to mess up her perfectly manicured nails or get a wrinkle in her silk gown. Why would a woman like that be digging into the brains of cops? All pearls and high society, she should be revolted by dealing with someone like him—rough, angry and a killer. Yet he couldn’t forget the feel of that slim, pale hand on his arm or the sound of that low, calm voice. For a moment, Vince had felt himself relax a little, caught up in the oasis she’d created around her, untouched by the blood and violence.

It didn’t matter. They came from two different worlds—the unwanted son of a whore and the cherished
daughter of the elite. He had no choice but to see her tomorrow as part of the IAD drill, but he’d blow smoke at her until she was satisfied, then he’d be on his way, back on the job in a few days.

He drew the eggs from the refrigerator, cracked them into a bowl, then whipped them with quick, angry strokes as he thought about the sympathy he’d seen in her eyes. As if it wasn’t just her job. As though she really cared.

Vince shook his head.
Don’t waste time on me, Doc. Go soothe someone who needs it.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Chloe glanced up at the knock on her office door. “Come in, Wanda.” But instead of her secretary, Don Newcombe stepped around the door, smiling. “Shrunk any good heads lately, Chloe?”

She couldn’t help a grin in return. She and Don had become friends after a particularly grueling Internal Affairs case a year ago. He was a tough investigator, a little too cynical for her taste, but understandably in the context of what he faced day after day. Still, she’d always found him to be fair.

“Hi, Don. Long time no see.” Suddenly, she realized that they might be working together again. Her smile faded. “Is this business or pleasure?”

“It’s always pleasure when I get to see you.” But there was no flirtation in his voice—another thing she respected about Don; he treated her like a sister or valued friend. He’d never made a move on her, never displayed a need to demonstrate his masculinity. In a department filled with macho, he was a welcome change. She took the compliment exactly as stated and smiled back. “Same to you, but you didn’t answer my question.”

His gaze grew solemn. “A little of both. I hear you’re
on the Coronado case, and I wanted to warn you to be careful.”

Chloe stiffened. “I’m always careful.” She had far too much practice at it.

“Aw, Chloe, I didn’t mean that you don’t know your job. Just be wary of Coronado. He’s not someone you want to trust. Did you get anything useful from him last night?”

Her unease grew. “My conversations with him are confidential.”

“I’m only asking if he’s cooperating with you.”

She wanted to laugh but kept her face impassive.
Vince Coronado
and
cooperative
didn’t belong in the same sentence. “We’ll do fine.”

“It won’t be a cakewalk with him.”

“Don,” she warned, “I will not discuss him with you like this.”

He threw up his hands. “Hey, not trying to trespass, but I want you to tell me if he does anything to alarm you.”

She rounded her desk, her discomfort fading. He was a good friend. She stopped right in front of him in the doorway and smiled. “I’m a big girl. I appreciate your concern, though.”

Movement behind him drew her glance. There stood Vince Coronado, eyes flashing anger. Chloe sighed inwardly. “I have to go now, Don, but I’m glad we’ll be working together again.”

“Me, too.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Just remember—I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

When he turned and saw Coronado, his smile vanished. Chloe tensed as he headed straight for the detective, whose hands were clenched at his sides. Their brief exchange was too low to be heard, but agitation radiated from both men.

Chloe grimaced. This was really going to help her session.

As if he’d read her thoughts, Coronado shot her a black look that should have shriveled her right there. She understood his worries; she’d simply have to allay them.

Sighing once more, Chloe gestured to her door, then walked back inside.

W
ANDA GLANCED UP
. “Hey,
cher,
how you been…” Her voice trailed off at his glower. “Go on in, Vince.”

“What the hell was he doing—” His head swiveled back toward Chloe. “Never mind. I’ll let Doc tell me what she and her buddy Newcombe were talking about.” He still had a hard time believing what he’d seen when he’d entered the reception area. After all she’d said about wanting to help him, about confidentiality—

She was in bed with the enemy, for all he knew. That she was dating Assistant D.A. Roger Barnes was common knowledge around the department, and she and Newcombe had looked pretty cozy just now. Between the two zealots, her bed must be crowded. He stalked through the doorway.

“What do you think you just saw, Detective?”

Her icy tone took him by surprise. “I know what I saw.”

“I ask you again, what do you
think
you just saw?”

“I
know
that I saw the woman who holds the keys to my future all but falling into the arms of a man out to ruin me.”

She struggled visibly to stem a retort. He considered it a small victory that she was so rattled. “
Not
that it’s any of your business, but I respect Detective Newcombe.”

“You’re even more naive than I thought. Newcombe is a liar and a cheat.”

Her eyes widened. “I’ve worked with Don on several occasions, Detective. He’s a tough man, but above all, he’s fair. He plays by the book.”

A long night and what was shaping up to be an even longer day ratcheted his temper beyond the breaking point. “Then you, Dr. St. Claire, are a fool. Worse, you’re dangerously incompetent if you can’t read the man better than that. You’re too green, and I’ve got a career on the line—I’m wasting my time here.” He whirled toward the door.

Before he could exit, she was in his path, one hand out to block him. “Stop right there—”

Vince blinked, amazed at how fast she’d moved.

Anger sparked in her eyes, but with visible effort, she banked it. “Detective, perhaps both of us should take a minute to calm down and sort this out.”

“Why? It was a mistake to think I could put any stock in what you said last night.”

“You’re wrong. I meant it—I want to help you.”

“You can’t do that and be in league with Newcombe.”

“I’m not in league with Don—Detective Newcombe.”
When he snickered, she leaned forward. “I’m going to forget your insult that I would stoop to trading confidential information. I told you last night that everything we discuss is strictly between us. I’ve done nothing to earn your distrust.”

Vince flexed his fingers, his jaw tightening. “He couldn’t wait to hotfoot it down here to get to you first.”

Her gaze remained steady. “I revealed nothing about you.”

“But he asked, didn’t he?”

“He only wanted to express concern.”

“Yeah.” Vince laughed harshly. “I’ll bet. Did he try to tell you I’m a dirty cop?” She only wavered a tiny flicker, but he saw it. “I thought so. What else did he say? That you should be afraid of me?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her chin rose. “I’m not afraid.”

Vince closed the distance between them, crowding her space. Nerves sparked in her eyes. “Sure you’re not.”

She swallowed visibly. “I don’t believe you would hurt me.” Her eyes spoke of determination, if not faith.

He had to give her credit. A complex woman, this one.

“Detective—” One slender hand settled on his arm. The warmth somehow eased the ragged edges of this morning. “I will not lie to you. What we say is confidential from anyone and everyone. I’m willing to keep trying until you trust me. You’ve got so much to deal with now—please, let me help you.”

She had that right. He was alone in the jungle with
threats all around, some visible, but more were only noises disturbing his peace of mind. He wanted to believe her, but—

“Give me a chance, Vince. We’ll take it slowly. I don’t mind having to earn your trust.” Golden-brown eyes held his.

Hearing his first name from her shouldn’t sway him, but he was too tired to think much more right now. He craved distance, time to sift through all that had happened. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to sit here and see what she did. She had an oddly soothing effect on him. That calm, quiet manner created a peace he sorely needed. He’d just have to be careful what he said.

Anyway, there was no getting around this meeting. If he wanted his job back, he had to walk through the procedure. No one said he had to tell her anything important. Vince stepped away, giving her room.

Chloe exhaled. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he muttered.

“You will be,” she promised.

He questioned again what it was about her that made him want to believe her. So what if she was beautiful, he’d known plenty of good-looking women. Maybe that wider-than-normal, luscious-as-hell mouth gave him pause, but tight-ass wasn’t his style. She shouldn’t appeal to him at all.

Now, though, her features more mobile, her composure ruffled, he was surprised at the hints of passion he saw running beneath the surface. She might have perfected quite a facade, but in that moment, he couldn’t help wondering…

He swore silently. He’d never find out, and it didn’t matter. He only had to bluff his way through this procedure well enough to get her to cut him loose.

“I’ll try to make your time in the Arctic Circle bearable,” she said.

He couldn’t help a quick grin of surprise.

“You thought we weren’t aware of the term?” She gestured to two cozy chairs in the corner, a small table with a lush green plant breaking the sterility of police-department decor. “Please, have a seat. Would you care for coffee?”

“Let’s not pretend we’re going to be friends, Doc,” he warned. “Trust me on this—we’re not.”

She merely gave him a calm stare. “We can sit wherever you prefer, Detective. I like those chairs because they’re comfortable, but the choice is yours.”

He stabbed a finger toward the more spartan desk and side chairs. “Forget comfort. Let’s get this done.”

Color rose beneath her skin, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “I’d like to leave ourselves open to the possibility that this may be more productive than you think.”

Touché, Doc,
he thought. She might like calling the shots, but he had news for her: so did he. One eyebrow lifted, Vince settled into a chair, gesturing for her to begin.

But instead, she let the silence draw out.

He stifled a smile. This was starting to get interesting. She couldn’t win this game, of course. He’d grilled a lot of suspects; he had one of the highest clearance rates in the department. Silence wouldn’t work on him.

Neither broke the impasse for a long, long span.

Then she spoke. “Did the dead boy have a family to grieve for him, or are you the only person who cared?”

Vince jolted at the unexpected tangent. “His mother’s a junkie. She’s only sorry now because her meal ticket is dead.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Kids get left to scramble for themselves all the time, Doc. A whole lot of kids never have June Cleaver for a mom.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Vince froze. “We were talking about the kid, not me.”

She met his gaze evenly. “But the depth of your grief over him has roots farther back, doesn’t it?”

“Doc, I told you to stay out of my head.”

“It’s common knowledge that you go hard on anyone who harms women or children.”

Vince clenched his jaw. “So what?”

“So talk to me about why you feel this strongly.”

“You don’t mind people treating children like animals, maybe even mutilating and torturing them? You didn’t see the kid—I did. The bastard used a razor to make tiny slices all over his body and let him bleed to death.” He drew a savage satisfaction in seeing her eyes widen, her body recoiling.

For about ten seconds, then he felt as if he’d impaled a butterfly on a pin. All color had left her face. “You said nothing shocks you. Don’t you know that adults do hellish things to children every day?”

She rose gracefully and walked to the console in the corner, where she poured a glass of water.

He saw her fingers tremble. And sighed. “Okay, Doc. Here it is. I’m sure my file shows that I never knew my father and my prostitute mother abandoned me at age four. It probably shows that I spent my childhood bouncing around from one foster home to another. Well, at one of those lovely homes, full of such goodness of nature that they took in stray kids, was a father who got off on making his son be his whore—”

Her glass struck the console.

“Still want to hear my story?”

She picked up another glass. “Would you care for some water, Detective?” Her voice was nearly inaudible.

When he didn’t answer, she turned around, her face once again a perfect mask. “Detective? Water?”

He could almost have imagined her previous distress. Dr. Cool and Elegant had every hair back in place. “No. Thanks.”

She crossed back to her chair and sat down, taking dainty sips. “Please continue.” Her voice was too controlled.

“Forget it,” he said. “It’s not important.”

Temper flashed in her eyes. “I’d like for you to finish your story.”

“That’s the last thing you want.”

“You’re wrong.” Her gaze fixed on his. “I do want to hear what you have to say.”

“How long have you had this job?”

“A year and a half.” At his snort, she drew herself
up very straight. “Detective, simply because I’ve had a privileged upbringing doesn’t mean I have no interest in making the world a better place. You don’t have the market cornered on justice.”

Whoa. Steel in that backbone. “I never thought I did.”

“Very well.” She accepted the apology he hadn’t offered. “Please tell me how you feel about what happened to that boy.”

He’d rather crawl through an ant bed with honey smeared on him. “No one thought it was important then, why should you?”

“You reported it? How old were you?”

She wasn’t going to give up. He bit back an oath. “Not right then. I was eight. The boy’s father threatened me, told me no one would believe me.”

“What happened?”

“Two days later, I found myself in another foster home. The father was right. No one listened.”

“What happened to that boy?”

“How would I know?”

“You didn’t check? Later, when you were grown?”

He felt the same frustration that had choked him first as a kid, then as a cop who’d been ten years too late to save Peter. Staring out her window, he swallowed hard. “Peter killed himself when he was fifteen.”

“I’m sorry.”

He thought she probably meant it. “It doesn’t help.” He turned to face her. “Being sorry, I mean. I’ve been sorry for twenty-four years and Peter’s still dead.”

“So you’ve been trying to make up for it ever since.”

He ground his teeth. “I’m no knight in shining armor.”

“Some people would say you are.”

“Not Newcombe.”

“Tell me what happened between you.”

No point in discussing it. She could read the file. Newcombe was a thorn in his side and would be until he got the better of Vince, which wasn’t going to happen.