Undone by Moonlight (13 page)

“Unless it was caught there after we left,” Reid reminded her.
“When did you two go by?”

Calla sighed. “The next day.”

Reid shrugged. “I’ll have the techs at the lab look at it. You
never know.”

The guys dug into their snack again, and Calla joined them.
Food was comfort and inspiration according to Shelby. And they could use some of
both.

When Reid’s phone rang, he moved into the kitchen to talk, and
Calla moved into Devin’s lap. “What should Reid’s gang name be?”

He pressed his lips beneath her jaw. “He doesn’t get one. He’s
a reluctant ally.”

“What do you make of his backdoor deal?”

“There are rumors Reid’s due a promotion. If he clears me, he
could get captain’s bars.”

“Maybe he simply wants to help a fellow cop. Seems to me he’s
risking quite a bit by coming to you. Wouldn’t the prosecutor have a fit if he
found out?”

“He would. Which is why we have to keep quiet and find Jimmie’s
killer ASAP.”

“Given all the contradictory evidence, Howard might be able to
get your assault charge dismissed now. You still want to throw your lot in with
Reid?”

“We need him,” Devin reminded her. “It would be nice to do this
as a team.”

Devin wanted to play nice with others? A few months ago, Calla
would’ve never believed it possible.

“That was Detective Anderson,” Reid said, approaching them.
“He’s at Jimmie’s place and wants us to come by, see if you can spot anything we
missed. You know him better than either of us.”

“Wonder if he has a gold lamé jacket hidden in the back of his
closet?” Calla commented as she pushed to her feet.

After she dressed in jeans and sweater, she gave Sharky a cat
treat, then tucked him in his basket. On the way out the door, she was both
excited and encouraged. Before they were fighting against the system. Now that
they were back on the inside, sort of, anyway, she had a whole new respect for
the establishment.

Still, they probably ought to bring their inside man into the
fold, legend-wise. “Hey, Colin, what do you know about Robin Hood?”

* * *

A
T
J
IMMIE
’
S
APARTMENT
,
Devin introduced Calla to Detective Carl Anderson and hoped she didn’t take his
rumpled brown hair and disordered clothes as a measure of his capabilities. His
eyes were sharp as a blade.

The apartment was one room and spare, with a generic navy blue
chair and sofa that were probably rented, a TV rested on a plastic milk crate
and a beige lamp on a wobbly end table.

“Not much in the fridge but leftover Chinese food and beer,”
Anderson began. “We’ve dusted for prints. Haven’t found any but the vic’s.”

So none of the people they saw Sunday night came to this
apartment? Had he actually slept while the suspect went inside? Could the woman
that set off a wrong note have had nothing to do with Jimmie, after all? Had it
been a wild leap brought on by desperation for some kind of solid lead? “How
long’s he been here?”

“Three weeks,” Anderson said.

“And no visitors?” Devin asked, surprised. Jumpin’ Jimmie
scored a Manhattan address and hadn’t invited anybody over? “Wait.
No
other prints?”

Anderson smiled. “None.”

“He’s only been here a few weeks. Where are the former tenant’s
prints? The furniture has to be rented, which equal moving guys’ prints.”

“There’s a bill from the rental company on the kitchen
counter,” Anderson told him.

Reid glanced around, suspicion clear in his eyes. “Somebody
wiped the place.”

“Oh, yeah.” Clearly annoyed, Anderson gestured to the room at
large. “I see why you brought me in, Colin. This whole deal’s off. One, it’s too
neat in here. Where’re the empty soda cans and beer bottles? The TV remote is
tucked neatly in the end table drawer. Two, how’d Jimmie afford this place? The
forestry service ain’t hirin’, last I heard.”

“Excuse me?” Calla broke in. “Forestry?”

“Jimmie’s squirrely,” Devin explained. “The woman was the only
single person we saw. Everybody else was a family or couples.”

“She kept her face turned away from the porch light,” Calla
reminded him. “Do you mind if I look around?”

Anderson shrugged. “A woman’s perspective couldn’t hurt. I
really hate chick killers.”

Calla angled her head. “Why is that?”

“They’re meaner,” Anderson said simply.

“Good to know.” Calla turned and headed straight to the door at
the far end of the room that had to lead to a bathroom.

Curious, Devin followed her.

“I know Anderson and his people checked here,” she said before
he could ask. She wrapped her hand in the scarf around her neck before opening
the doors beneath the sink. “When you’ve got one room, where else are you gonna
hide stuff?” She glanced back at him. “Did anybody check the oven?”

Strangely amused and aroused by her crafty thinking, Devin
knelt beside her. “No idea.”

“They should.” She searched the small area, knocking on the
walls when nothing jumped out at her. “I’ve been watching too many spy movies.”
Blowing out a breath, she pushed to standing—and gasped.

“Those are gardenias.”

As she reached for the ceramic pot of white flowers, Devin
grabbed her hand. “Don’t touch.”

“Don’t you think that’s a wild coincidence?” she asked,
pointing at the arrangement beside the sink.

“No. With this case, there are no coincidences. Evidence?
Maybe.” Devin leaned past the door way. “Anderson, come look at this.”

“Flowers?” Anderson questioned, clearly skeptic of how they
could be significant. “Yeah, we saw them, dusted the pot. No prints there,
either.”

“What about the flowers themselves?” Calla asked.

“Not gonna get anything clear,” Anderson said. “Why
bother?”

Again, Calla wrapped her hand in her scarf as she eased one of
the blossoms from the vase. “I’d bother, and I’d check the stems.”

“This is about that scrap of gold fabric?” Anderson asked.
“Reid gave it to me for the lab to look at. Said it had a floral-like
scent.”

Calla grimaced, no doubt because of the vague description, then
extended the blossom. “Gardenias.”

Anderson’s gaze moved to Devin. “You think there’s anything
here?”

The chances that the flowers were connected to the case and
would lead to a significant development were so low they were in the single
digits. But Calla had been steadfastly loyal to him through everything. No way
he’d hurt her feelings by doubting her now. “Could be,” he said.

“What the hell.” Anderson took the blossom with his gloved
hand, then scooped the arrangement off the sink. “We ain’t got nothin’
else.”

12

The New York Tattletale

Farewell Toast and Getting Toasted in
Style

by Peeps
Galloway, Gossipmonger

(And proud of it!)

This is one of those unfortunate days when I have to fall back on
a cliché—do you want the good news or the bad news first?

Since I can’t leave you with tragedy, here’s the scoop on the
bad, bad stuff.... Remember the guy who accused the hottest cop in NYC of
assault? (Yes, I
know
it was last week! Focus,
people!) Well, he’s crossed that great Brooklyn Bridge in the sky. No victim, no
trial, right? Rather convenient, wouldn’t you say? The cops have closed ranks on
this one, and so far, nobody’s talking. (Don’t fret, my lovelies, I shall not be
dissuaded!) In the meantime, I’m thinking what all of you must be: murder
charges can’t be far behind....

Not that mayhem and murder are going to stop this steadfast
reporter from checking out the latest martini bar in Midtown tomorrow night. I
know, I know, darlings, been there, done that so many times we’ve lost count.
But Swizzle makes an amazing pomegranate martini with extract from the
seeds—which is supposed to be healthy or something, but who cares about
that?
You’ll look as cool as hip-hop legend Cameo
(who’s rumored to hang out there on Thursday nights). Plus, Swizzle is
the
place for the latest trend in mixology—cocktail
popsicles. Not just cool, frozen!

Keep calm and keep your ears tuned,

—Peeps

* * *

“I
F
I
EVER
GET
MY
HANDS
on that Peeps Galloway, I’m
going to teach her the definition of assault—up close and personal.”

Tossing the trashy paper aside, Calla accepted the martini
Victoria handed her. “Blue?” she asked, staring at the tinted liquid in the
glass.

Victoria held up her own glass. Her drink was purple. “Shelby’s
experimenting for a wedding. The bride wants cocktails to match her bridesmaids’
dresses.”

“O-kay.” Calla took a sip. The concoction was sweet with a hint
of something tropical. “Not bad.”

Victoria curled her lip. “Mine tastes like grape-
flavored
cough syrup.”

“You’re a martini snob.”

“And proud of it.”

They were gathered at Shelby and Trevor’s for a gang meeting.
They’d even invited Howard and Lieutenant Reid, though Devin insisted his lawyer
was a consultant and Reid a guest speaker. Calla wasn’t sure why they were so
exclusive all of a sudden, but with his badge still in Meyer’s desk drawer, she
wasn’t going to push him on his reasoning.

Over the past two days of going through case
files—again—probing Devin’s memory for the tiniest of details and getting
not-so-encouraging updates from Detective Anderson, one thing was clear: this
homicidal woman had bested them long enough. It was time to take her
down—whoever the heck she was.

So they’d decided to compile all the theories, case files and
bits of evidence to see if they’d overlooked something or had anything to go on
besides a vague sketch and a vase of white flowers.

Trevor answered the door when the bell rang, and since Howard
was the only one not present, Calla assumed he’d arrived.

“Sorry I’m late,” the lawyer said, rushing down the hall in
front of Trevor. “Traffic was horrible as usual. Instead of cabs, a fleet of
hovercrafts would be handy in this city.”

“Trevor’s been threatening to open a dealership.” Shelby headed
toward the bar. “What can I get you to drink? The custom martinis are a big
hit.”

Sitting on the sofa between Devin and Victoria, Calla poked her
friend before she could argue with Shelby’s sales pitch.

“Scotch and soda would be great,” Howard said.

“Why don’t we move to the dining room table?” Reid suggested.
“I’ve got several—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Howard said, rising, “but I’d like to say
something before we start.”

Devin apparently knew what this mysterious announcement was,
since he shook his head. “Leave it, Howard.”

Howard ignored his client’s directive. “If you don’t find this
mystery woman, they can still prosecute you for the assault charges.”

“We don’t want to go to the prosecutor yet,” Reid said. “As
long as the charges are pending, the killer thinks her plan is working.”

Howard’s smile was weak. “How nice for her. However, I work for
Detective Antonio. I want a guarantee he’ll be cleared of the charges and his
position with the NYPD restored.”

Reid’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “I can’t do that. This is
an undercover operation. Secrecy is imperative, or all our jobs will be on the
line.”

“My heart bleeds, but, amazingly enough, I don’t work for you
or Lieutenant Meyer, either.” Howard reached into his briefcase and pulled out a
piece of paper, which he handed to Reid. “I took the liberty of drawing up a
statement I’d like you to sign. If you don’t, my client’s cooperation with this
investigation will be terminated.”

“Hell” was Reid’s succinct comment.

Howard extended his hands as he addressed everyone else.
“Before the Lieutenant chokes, I’ll explain to the rest of you that in the
statement Reid is agreeing that Devin is innocent of all charges and that he
invited Devin to assist in the investigation. As long as the real culprit is
found and arrested, I’ll destroy the document. If not, I’m going to the
D.A.”

“I’m really starting to like him,” Victoria whispered to
Calla.

“Let’s just hope we don’t have to see that talent in front of a
jury,” Calla returned.

Reid held out his hand. “Do you have a pen? I’ve got a job to
get back to that doesn’t involve extortion.”

With pen and statement exchanged, Howard lifted his glass in a
toast. “Thank you, sir.”

Trevor, impeccable in black pants and a dove-gray shirt, rose
with a smile. “Why don’t I refresh drinks, while you adjourn to the dining
room?”

Calla linked hands with Devin as they crossed the room. “Smile.
Robin Hood is on the case.”

He didn’t, of course, but he squeezed her hand.

He’d been quiet the past couple of days. They’d stayed at her
place, since her fridge and pantry were better stocked. He liked standing on her
balcony as the sun set, and the lights of the city flickered on like billions of
fireflies coming to life at the same time. His lovemaking had been focused and
intense and afterward she was pretty sure he slept little, since every time she
woke during the night, he was rhythmically stroking her back or arm.

Was he slipping away from her, or holding on till the end of
the case? Were past betrayals affecting them as a couple? Or were they building
a relationship that meant something?

Not only didn’t she know, she couldn’t find out.

She was firmly on Detective Anderson’s page. She hated chick
killers—in more ways than the obvious one.

From behind her, someone put their hand on her shoulder.
Turning, she looked up into the smiling brown eyes of Jared McKenna. “Quite a
crew you’ve got here,” he said.

“Thanks.” She worked up a smile. “I know you’re busy. I
appreciate you carving out some time.”

He winked. “The outdoor adventure business is a whole lot more
interesting with you three ladies around.”

As they gathered around the table, Reid stood at one end. “So,
it’s possible Calla was right about the vase of gardenias she found in Jimmie’s
bathroom.”

Like the time she beat that snotty Virginia Porter in the Miss
Sugar and Spice pageant, or the time she won Features Writer of the Year over
backstabbing Will Carrier, Calla summoned a gracious attitude and managed not to
tell Reid
I told you so.
“Way to lead with a
headline, Lieutenant.”

As if he sensed the triumph blossoming inside her, he directed
his attention to her. “The lab found partial and smudged prints on the flowers
as well as the ceramic vase. They’re only partials,” he repeated. “But there’s
enough of one print to be certain they aren’t Jimmie’s. Before everybody gets
too excited, we also haven’t found a match in the database. For all we know, the
print could be from the employee who put together the arrangement at a retail
store or manufacturer, some regular Joe who’s never been fingerprinted.”

“Or it could be from Jimmie’s killer,” Devin said.

Calla could tell Reid considered that a wild leap. “We’re
running down where the arrangement came from to see if it’s sold separately or
already put together,” he said neutrally. “But the print itself is likely a dead
end.”

“Unless you arrest someone to match it to,” Calla added.

“Right. Unfortunately, that gets us nowhere in finding a
suspect to arrest.” The strain of the investigation was etched into Reid’s face.
“NYPD has used our sketch provided by the informant to canvass Jimmie’s
apartment building, but, so far, nobody’s made a match.”

“The informant was bribed to implicate Devin in a drug buy,”
Trevor pointed out. “How reliable could he possibly be?”

“That’s the other problem,” Reid admitted. “We think this guy’s
more scared of us than whoever paid him off, but, ultimately, we have no idea
how accurate the sketch is. He could be purposely misleading us.”

Victoria drummed her fingernails against the table. “For
somebody who’s done so many terrible things and made so many apparent mistakes,
this woman certainly knows how to get her way.”

“We do have one other lead.” This time Reid appeared to
deliberately avoid Calla’s gaze. “The gold fabric Calla found near the alley
where the assault took place was torn from a designer handbag.”

He
had
buried the lead, Calla
realized on a gasp.

Shelby looked confused. “She brought a handbag to commit
assault?”

“Maybe she was trying to blend in,” Trevor said. “A black ski
mask is certainly too obvious. She apparently got away from the scene without
anybody spotting her.”

“We don’t know this is related to our case,” Reid said,
aggravation causing his face to redden. “Do you know how many of those bags were
sold in the last six months in Manhattan alone?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Calla said. They were on to something. They
had to be. “In my book, gardenia-scented fabric plus gardenia arrangement in
dead man’s bathroom equals killer.”

“This isn’t solid evidence,” Reid argued.

Calla understood cops were restrained by laws, codes and rules
the general public weren’t—Reid maybe a little more so than others—but they also
trusted their instincts. And these minor details that may or may not be solid
evidence led somewhere.

If she was right, and this case was about revenge, the
symbolism would be important. Gardenias meant something to her, or someone she
cared about. Calla would bet her life on it.

Seeing her wavy, mysterious figure in her mind’s eye, she
couldn’t wait to flip vengeance back at the homicidal witch.

Devin shoved back his chair and rose. “So, we have a handbag,
an arrangement of gardenias and a sketch given by an unreliable informant who
tried to convince the cops he just happened to be standing around when I bought
heroin.” His gaze swept everyone at the table. “Are you guys sure this isn’t
some elaborate practical joke?”

Calla, along with the rest of the gang, stared
uncomprehendingly at Devin.

“I know I’ve given you a hard time about interfering in police
business,” he continued. “Crazy, I guess, for thinking you should do your jobs,
while you let us do ours. I get the power of
all for one
and one for all,
but—”

“That’s the Three Musketeers,” Calla, Victoria and Shelby all
said at once.

“Okay,” Devin conceded. “Whatever your motto is, but I can’t
get a handle on this case. Gardenias, gold lamé and heroin? Jumpin’ Jimmie
assaults and frames me?” He shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

Actually, the whole business made a sick kind of sense to
Calla, so she didn’t know whether he was finally cracking under the pressure, or
she had a strange sense of logic, but she had no idea what to say to him.

Victoria, sitting on the other side of Devin, wrapped her
fingers around his wrist and tugged him back to his seat. “Women are complicated
creatures, Detective. Don’t worry. You’re in capable hands.”

“Hear, hear.” Howard smiled as he lifted his glass. “Oscar
Wilde, as always, is appropriate.
Women are made to be
loved, not understood.
”

As the other men nodded in agreement, Calla tried to decide if
the statement was an insult or compliment. Women weren’t that complicated, were
they? And did loved mean
cherished
or
good-for-sex?

While both were true, she wondered if the latter was more
accurate for her and Devin. Were they using each other? She’d had a crush on him
for months, and now that the fantasies about intimacy between them had been
fulfilled, did they have anything else to build on?

The extreme circumstances they found themselves connected by
couldn’t be helping. Was he destined to be a hot lover she’d held for a time—or
vice versa—then ultimately had to let go?

Since the idea of letting Devin go made her stomach churn, she
forced herself to smile at Howard, who, with an almost worshipful attitude
toward women, had only been trying to lighten the mood.

“Save it for the courtroom, Howard,” Reid said dryly.

Howard waved the document he’d forced Reid to sign. “What
courtroom?”

“Thanks for the reminder, Counselor.” Reid braced his hands on
the table. “Reluctantly, but at Detective Antonio’s urging, I’ve agreed to share
sensitive NYPD case files with you. Apparently, your—” he paused before he went
ahead “—
group
has had some success with cracking
difficult cases. So I have a task for you.