Calling the Play (12 page)

Randi pressed two fingers to the throbbing ache between her eyebrows. Johnny had gotten her up at the ass crack of dawn to go down to the station to file her report and sign off on paperwork. “Asshole,” she muttered.

Johnny was driving her to the station to make sure she went. “What’s that?” he asked sarcastically, putting his hand up to his ear.

“You heard me,” she grumbled. “This is supposed to be my vacation.”

“No,” he said with a big heap of attitude. “This is supposed to be a two-week suspension without pay for your stupid, idiotic car chase last week. And if you had come in on Monday like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t be dragging your ass out of bed on Friday morning to make sure you don’t get that same sorry ass fired.”

“If they want me to work, then they should pay me,” she snapped. “My John Hancock on the report
you
wrote, not me, is worth some Benjamins, bro. So cough up.”

“You are a snotty little brat. I did not raise a snotty little brat. So I can only assume this is because you’re not getting any. Talk to the quarterback lately?”

“You creep me out when you talk about my sex life. Stop it.”

“So you have a sex life? With Oakes?” he persisted. Her headache was getting worse.

“I need coffee,” she pleaded. “For the love of God, this sort of torture should be illegal.”

“So, not the quarterback?” he said, clearly disappointed. “Goodbye season tickets. Screwed the pooch on that one, too, did ya? He seemed like a good prospect.”

“A good prospect for what?” she asked, getting seriously annoyed. “Are we drafting my sex partners now?” She mimicked a sports announcer. “And now, coming up as the thirty-fifth draft choice, Joe Blow! Are you scouting the high schools and junior colleges? I need stamina for my team, bro.”

“You’re just trying to freak me out,” Johnny accused her. He stole a quick glance at her at the stoplight. “You have not seriously slept with thirty-five guys.”

“I started a Ho of the Month Club,” she told him, leaning her head back on the headrest and closing her eyes. “You get a blow job for every referral.” She was pretty sure the number of guys she’d had sexual relations of some kind with was actually higher than thirty-five, but chose to take the high road and didn’t tell him that.

“Jesus, would you stop?” he yelled. “I’m done! I won’t ask any more questions.”

Blessed silence reigned in the car for a few precious minutes. She knew it wouldn’t last, though.

“Come on,” Johnny finally whined. “You can tell me. Did you dump Oakes? Seriously? I mean, why? Was he too needy? Too nice? Too arrogant? Bad in the sack? Bland? Stupid? What?” She cracked open one eye and glared at him. “Those are all excuses you’ve given for previous dumped boyfriends.”

She frowned, trying to remember the guys she’d dumped for those reasons. She couldn’t remember any of them. “I don’t have boyfriends,” she said dismissively. “I have hookups. By their very nature, they’re temporary.”

“Christ,” Johnny muttered. “You are not your mother.”

“We’re all our mothers,” she said prosaically. “We just pretend we’re not, but blood will tell.”

“You are seriously damaged,” Johnny told her, pulling in to the station at last. “Why have I never realized this before?”

“Because you are too seriously damaged to notice,” she told him with a saccharine smile. “Mr. I’m Working On Wife Number Three.”

She was given a hero’s welcome at the station, complete with sarcastic clapping and whistles. She took a bow. “Fuck you very much,” she said to the room in general. “You can catch my encore in interrogation room three, where I will torture a confession from a churchgoing granny.”

This was met with more hooting and catcalls. Randi accepted the good-natured ribbing as her due as she headed for the break room and some much needed coffee. After all, she
had
fucked up. In hindsight, she knew pursuing Tater Sullivan in an unmarked, commandeered civilian vehicle with the civilian as copilot was not her best idea.

“McInish! Get in here!” the captain called, and then stormed back into his office.

“You or me?” Randi asked Johnny. She gazed longingly at the break-room door, still ten feet away. Johnny pointed at her with a smirk. “Asshole,” she said again.

When she entered the captain’s office, he slammed the door behind her. “Do you realize that you’ve jeopardized this bust with your antics?” he shouted. “Sullivan’s lawyer is now claiming that he didn’t know you were a cop. Unmarked car, no identification. He thought you were a bad guy chasing him and trying to kill him. He shot at you in self-defense.”

“That’s bullshit!” Randi said angrily. “He pulled a hard U-turn when he saw the cops coming. If he were innocent he’d have run into their protective arms. And once I was out of commission, he kept right on running from the cops until they caught him.”

“That’s the angle the DA is taking,” he said, falling into his chair. He was overweight, balding, and a bad cop-show cliché. But he was a good guy, and Randi knew he didn’t blame her. “The fact is, I’m getting my ass handed to me on a plate for letting an inexperienced detective go undercover in such a volatile situation. And I’m passing the blame down to your brother. He didn’t go through channels and nobody signed off on you.”

“That’s not fair,” Randi said, worry for Johnny overriding her own troubles. “It was a time-sensitive situation, and I was in the right place at the right time. It was good police work to use that to our advantage, and you know it.”

“Tell that to the DEA,” the captain said with a sigh. “One of their agents was undercover with the SUR. They’re hopping mad about the whole thing. They want Sullivan to turn state’s evidence. He’s a small fish compared to the SUR and their pipeline.”

“Sullivan’s going to walk, isn’t he?” she asked with resignation. She had a sudden flashback to his hands on her, squeezing and petting and invading, like he owned her. She shivered.

“Probably,” the captain said with a shrug. “Bigger fish to fry.” He frowned and pointed at her. “And as far as I’m concerned, that was your last undercover op. I don’t care about ‘right place, right time’ shit.”

She held up her hands in surrender. “No problem. Not my thing. I’m happy to go back to busting burglary rings. Stolen Xboxes are more my speed. All that drug-and-gang shit gives me a headache. And I feel like the whole prostitute thing is stereotyping.”

The captain laughed. “No one can stereotype you, Randi. Go file paperwork and get your ass out of here. You’re on suspension. Enjoy it.”

“Yes, sir,” she said standing up and saluting him. “Thanks.”

Three cups of coffee later and more paperwork than she ever wanted to do again, and her headache had abated only slightly. She was standing around shooting the shit with a few of the guys, waiting for Johnny to take her to lunch and then home, when none other than Tater Sullivan walked into the station. By his side was his attorney, who just happened to be the guy who stood her up for the prom when she was seventeen.
This town is too damn small
, she thought, looking at them both with disgust.

“That’s her,” Tater said, pointing at her with a shit-eating grin. His look said I grabbed your tits and shoved my finger in your pussy, and she wanted to put a fist through his face.

“Randi,” his attorney said, his look as smug as Tater’s. At least she had the satisfaction of knowing he’d never been near her pussy.

“Reginald,” she said coolly. “I see you’re putting your law-school education to good use. God knows we need more idiot drug dealers on the street. Your daddy must be so proud. Oh wait, he’s a scum-sucking defense attorney, too, right?”

“Alleged drug dealer,” Reggie Kline said. “And yes, my father is quite proud of the work I do for his law firm.” He still looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of a Ralph Lauren ad campaign, with a polo stick up his ass.

“That’s right, bitch,” Tater said, running a hand down his shiny, drug-dealer designer suit. “Alleged by you, and we all know your record makes you an unreliable source.”

“My record?” she asked in disbelief. “Which one? My Whitney Houston cover?” She sang a few bars of “
I Will Always Love You
.” “I’ll teach you the words so you can sing it for your prison boyfriend.”

“Ain’t nobody sending me to no damn prison, you fucking bitch,” Tater snapped at her.

“Oh, he cawed me a fuckin’ bitch,” she whined in a little-girl voice. She pretended to rub her fists on her eyes as if she were crying. “He hurt my feewings.”

Before she realized what he was doing, Tater was on her, grabbing her arm and shaking her. For a moment she was back at Kitty Licks, having to sit there and let him manhandle her and touch her intimately. He’d forced her into a back hallway and shoved his hand up her skirt. She’d kept her mouth shut so they wouldn’t pick up on the wire that he was painfully finger-fucking her. With a gasp, she shook off the memory and shoved him, sending him stumbling back into Reggie, and the attorney fell down. Tater managed to stay on his feet. Within seconds, half a dozen cops were on him, pulling his arms behind his back and forcing him to his knees amid shouting and chaos.

“Apologize to the lady,” Johnny said to him, standing in front of Tater, glaring down at him.

“Fucking whore let me down her pants,” Tater sneered. “Some lady.”

“Get off him,” Reggie Kline said, standing up without anyone offering to help. “If you assault my client, we’ll sue.”

“Your client assaulted a cop,” Johnny spat out. “I should arrest him. I suggest he apologize and we’ll let bygones be bygones.”

“Do it,” Reggie told Tater. Tater started to protest, but Reggie stared him down. “Do it, or I walk. The deal on the table is time sensitive, and you’ll be lucky to find another lawyer in time. I don’t have to put up with your idiotic stunts. If you’re too stupid to stay out of jail, that’s on you.”

Randi was surprised at Reggie’s little speech. She was even more surprised when Tater grudgingly said, “Sorry,” without looking at her.

“What was that?” she asked, imitating Johnny in the car that morning, her hand to her ear.

“I said I’m sorry,” Tater ground out between clenched teeth. His arms were still being held uncomfortably behind his back.

“Get up,” she said in disgust. “You’re not worth the paperwork, and frankly, I don’t give a shit if a lowlife like you thinks I’m a fucking bitch. That’s a point for me, in my opinion.”

Brian entered the police station and looked around. Running the stairs that morning had helped clear his head. He needed to settle things with Randi, and the only place he knew to find her was here at the station. He heard shouting from the room behind the closed doors to his left. There was a counter along the back wall where several people were answering phones and typing on computers, and a waiting area to the right. He went up to the counter. “Excuse me,” he said to a tough-looking, uniformed African American female cop. “I’m looking for Detective Randi McInish.”

“She’s on leave,” the cop said flatly without looking up. Her tone contrasted sharply with her Southern drawl. “You’ll have to see someone else.”

“I don’t want to see someone else,” Brian said patiently. “I want to see Randi.”

At that, the cop looked up. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her brown eyes looked him up and down, assessing rather than admiring. “Why?” she asked.

“It’s personal,” Brian said with a polite smile. “Not professional.”

“Then why are you here at the station?” she pressed. “Call her.”

“I don’t have her number,” Brian said. “I just need to talk with her.”

“This isn’t Match.com,” the cop said. “If she didn’t give you her number, then she doesn’t want to see you.”

Brian was taken aback by the cop’s attitude. “I don’t expect you to give me her number,” he told her. “I’d just like to leave a message for her. Is she checking her messages?”

“Maybe,” the cop said, her flat gaze not giving him any clues.

“Then can you please let her know that Brian Mason wishes to speak with her?”

“About what?”

Brian wasn’t sure whether it was curiosity or professional caution that prompted her questions now. “As I said, it’s personal,” he told her politely. “I’m sure if you know Randi, then you know she wouldn’t like me to discuss her personal life.”

“Mmm” was all the cop said. She picked up the phone receiver next to her and pressed a button. “Detective, there’s a Brian Mason here looking for your sister. Mmm-hmm, yes. He won’t tell me. Yes, sir.” She hung up the phone and gave Brian a blank stare. He stared back, refusing to lose the contest. He knew now that Randi’s brother was here, at least. Brian had met him a week ago, the night she and Ty had chased the bad guys and Randi had gotten shot.

She must have gotten the stitches out by now. Had she taken proper care of it? Probably not. He knew swimming two days after you got stitches was frowned upon. He should have said something at the time, but he’d been afraid of rocking the boat, worried that Ty would kick him out if he upset Randi. And he had upset her, or she never would have run away. Ty was miserable, Randi was hiding, and it was up to Brian to fix it. He knew what he had to do, even though it would kill him to give up Ty now, after he’d only just found him again.

The door to the left opened and Randi’s brother pushed through, staring at Brian before looking over his shoulder and shutting the door behind him. He turned back. “Yeah?” he asked. “What do you want? Mason wasn’t it? What, is Oakes gonna sue? Cause that would just be the cherry on top of my day.”

“No, sir,” Brian said. “I’m not here in an official capacity. I’m just looking for Randi.”

“Why?” He radiated suspicion as he stood in front of the doors with his arms crossed, like a guard dog in a rumpled suit. Brian tried to stay calm. This time it wasn’t just cop suspicion, but the overprotective instincts of a big brother that prompted the questions.

“I’m a friend of Ty’s,” he said evasively, not wanting to refuse him, but uncomfortable discussing the reason for his visit with him.

“And?” he asked, not giving an inch.

“And it’s none of your business,” Brian said, exasperated. “Look, can you just give her my number and tell her to please call me?”