Hot Property (2 page)

“Oh, yeah. Faye. Born to shop, all right.”

“Problem was, she wasn’t born to pay for it all.” The thought of all those credit card bills made Michael’s skin crawl. He’d escaped from Faye just in time to avoid bankruptcy and had spent the last seven years paying off her debts.

The van’s door opened and a young woman
climbed out. The first thing Michael noticed about her was how the March wind caught the hem of her short skirt and lifted it just far enough for him to get a glimpse of pale pink panties.

“She matches the description those homeless guys gave us,” Joe said.

Michael brought his hormones into line and paid attention to what really mattered. The woman was petite, about five foot two, maybe 110 pounds, with auburn hair piled on top of her head. Oval face. Full, pouty lips. Legs up to her armpits, shown to perfection by a short blue dress. She wore clogs on her feet.

He’d bet her eyes were green. “Yeah, she matches, all right.”

“I’m calling in her plates.”

While Joe consulted Records for the van’s registered owner, Michael watched the woman, fascinated. Wow. Could she possibly be the brazen hussy who’d been selling hot merchandise all over town, always one step ahead of the cops? The description sure didn’t do her justice.

“Damn.”

“Something happening?” Joe asked, squinting through the tinted glass of their surveillance van.

“No, she’s just gorgeous … uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what?”

“She just pulled a big shopping bag from the van. Looks like she’s delivering something.”

Joe hung up the cellular and read from the notes he’d just taken. “Van’s registered to a corporate entity, Born to Shop.”

“Might have guessed she’d shield herself behind a corporate veil.”

The woman walked into the Trade Mart at a fast, efficient clip, then immediately struck up a conversation with the fence. The cellular rang. Michael picked it up.

“The girl who just came in,” the snitch whispered. “She’s got deco jewelry—boxes of it. I gotta go.” He hung up.

Michael turned to Joe. “Work on the search warrant, okay? Let’s haul in the fence. I’m following Miss Born to Shop.”

“Wait, I thought I was gonna follow the suspect.”

Michael winked. “That was before I got a good look at her.”

In twenty seconds flat he was in his car, parked nearby. The woman came out within a couple of minutes and got into her van. She didn’t look hurried or hassled. In fact, she paused before pulling out of her parking space to read something, then made a note before donning her sunglasses.

Cool cookie, Michael thought. He couldn’t wait to find out what her story was.

Wendy pulled into a spot close to the bank’s front door, then walked right up to a teller. Amazing, considering it was five minutes to three. Any later and she’d have been holding on to this ridiculous wad of cash overnight.

Mr. Neff hadn’t said anything about cash, she thought, exasperated.

The teller smiled sweetly. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to deposit this money into this account.” She handed the teller a fat envelope along with the deposit slip Mr. Neff had prepared.

The teller counted the cash, then started punching buttons on her machine.

“Wait.”

Wendy jumped at the terse command coming from behind her. She whirled around, thinking someone was trying to butt in line, ready to give the rude interloper a piece of her mind. When she saw the man, however, all her words died in her throat. He was big, he was gorgeous, and he looked mad enough to chew her up and spit her out for fertilizer.

It was the mad part that reduced her to silence. That and the law enforcement shield he had in his hand, identifying him as Detective Sergeant Michael Taggert.

“Excuse me, sir?” the teller asked, looking bewildered.

The stranger grabbed Wendy’s arm with one powerful hand and slapped handcuffs over her wrist.

“This woman is under arrest for transport of stolen goods. I’ll need that cash she was about to deposit as evidence.”

Now the teller looked truly alarmed. “I’ll get the manager.”

Wendy finally found her voice. “Are you out of your mind?” she asked the detective. “What is it you
think I’ve stolen, you moron? You’ve obviously got the wrong person. Now uncuff me
right now
.”

The cop had the nerve to smile at her. “You won’t get free for a long, long time if I have anything to say about it.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” she said, speaking through her gritted teeth and smiling. Perhaps all the people staring at them would think this was a prank. “I’m a member of the Chamber of Commerce. I know the mayor personally. I’m a taxpayer. My tax dollars pay—”

He repeated the last part with her. “—pay my salary, I know. Believe me, lady, I’ve heard it all.” He pulled a card from his pocket. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“Like hell. Who exactly do you think I am?”

“—if you choose to give up that right, anything you say—”

“I know the spiel. I watch TV too. What have I done?”

“—can and will be used against you …” He went on, oblivious to her ranting. She soon found both her hands cuffed behind her. She was escorted in this humiliating fashion to the branch manager’s office.

No help there. The officious manager handed the cop her deposit slip and Mr. Neff’s cash and hustled them out a back door in an effort to avoid bad publicity.

“I’ll never bank here again!” she called out over her shoulder as Michael Taggert dragged her away.

“No great threat, since you’ll be in jail,” the detective said as he stuffed her into the back seat of a bland four-door sedan.

Okay, deep breaths, Wendy told herself. Think about this for a minute. She was the victim of mistaken identity. As soon as this Neanderthal took her to the station or downtown or wherever, the cops would immediately realize the error of their ways and let her go with big fat apologies.

She would have grounds for a huge lawsuit, she mused. But instead of asking for money, she would demand that Sergeant Michael Taggert crawl on his oh-so-handsome hands and knees and beg forgiveness.

This pleasant little fantasy lasted only as long as it took to clear the bank parking lot. The cop’s car was making the most god-awful sounds.

“Does this car have a muffler?” she asked as they chugged along in the thickening traffic. Late afternoon was a bad time to be heading downtown. “It sounds terrible.”

“I’m sure it has a muffler.”

“Oh, you’re not taking the Tollway, are you? Harry Hines is faster.”

He ignored her advice and headed for the Tollway. “I got to hand it to you, you do cute real well.”

“I’m not trying—” She stopped. What was the point? She was trying to be helpful. That’s what she was programmed to do. That was what she loved to do. Some people just didn’t appreciate it.

A new thought occurred to her. “Is it my van?” she asked. Everything about the sale last week had seemed
legitimate at the time, but she’d gotten a deal on her new company vehicle that had seemed almost too good to be true.

Taggert put on the brakes and, instead of entering the Tollway, turned onto a side street. He switched off the engine. He waited. If the silence was supposed to make Wendy want to spill her guts, it was working.

“I’ve got all the paperwork at the office,” she said, desperation creeping into her voice. “Don’t you want to see it?”

“Lady,” he finally said, “you are in a heap of trouble. Frankly, you look too smart for the dumb act to be convincing. So why don’t you knock it off and tell me who you’re working for?”

She sat up straighter and met his all-too-direct gaze in the rearview mirror. “I’m self-employed.”

“Then you’re a damn good thief.”

She sighed. They were talking in circles.

“Listen, miss, I can’t make you any promises or cut you any deals. Only the D.A. can do that. But I can assure you of one thing. This process will go a lot easier for you if you cooperate from the beginning. So let’s start over. Where’d you get the bankroll?”

“The bankroll … well, why didn’t you ask that in the first place?” Now they were getting somewhere! “That’s Mr. Neff’s money. Oh. Okay, I see.” Her brain clicked as everything fell into place. This had nothing to do with her van. “The jewelry. You’re telling me the jewelry Mr. Neff gave me to sell is hot?”

“Duh.”

“If you would just say what you mean instead of
trying to be clever and intimidate me, we could have cleared this up a long time ago! Barnie Neff is a client of mine. He’s a shut-in, and I run errands for him. He gave me his mother’s jewelry to deliver to the guy at the Gold and Diamond Trade Mart. No way is it stolen.”

The cop whipped out a notebook and started scribbling. “Neff? N-E-F-F?” He stopped writing and extended his arm, then stretched his neck to one side and the other, as if he had a backache.

“Yes,” she answered, watching the play of muscles along his shoulders and upper arm. Her body tensed with unwelcome awareness of the fact that her adversary was male—very male.

“You run errands for him?”

“I just told you that. It’s what I do for a living.”

“And you go to his house?” Taggert asked hopefully.

“Yes. He lives at 2824 Monty Avenue. But surely you don’t think Mr. Neff is some kind of criminal.”

“Let me put it this way. That nice man in the store who bought the jewelry from you? He’s a well-known fence with a record as long as your legs.”

“Don’t you mean arm?”

“Yeah, as long as your arm. That’s what I said.”

She decided not to argue with him, but she made a mental note: Detective Michael Taggert had noticed her legs. The knowledge gave her a guilty thrill and a small sense of … power? He wasn’t as cold to her as he pretended.

He hunched his shoulders and bent his head forward
again. She could almost feel his discomfort herself. “I know a good massage therapist,” she offered.

He turned around to give her a look she couldn’t quite read. Had she said something wrong? Then he shrugged, winced at the pain, and turned away from her. He grabbed a cellular phone from somewhere and dialed with a series of quick jabs.

“Michael Taggert here, Theft Division? Yeah, I need you to check out an address for me.” He repeated the address she’d given him.

“Mr. Neff is a harmless little old man,” Wendy tried again. “He’s on oxygen. He never leaves the house.”

“You better hope he’s not harmless. ’Cause he’s your ticket out of jail.”

Michael tried not to feel sorry for Wendy Thayer as he watched her go through the booking process. So she’d grown up without a father. So she didn’t have anything more alarming on her record than a couple of parking tickets. She was also a struggling business owner who’d suddenly started making money.

He’d tried to question her further about her dealings with this mysterious Mr. Neff, but she’d asked for a lawyer, so he’d had to quit. She’d made her phone call and claimed the lawyer was on his way.

To her credit, she didn’t cry or whine the way a lot of women did when they were fingerprinted and had mug shots taken. She held her chin up, and at every opportunity she stared daggers at him.

But every so often her lower lip trembled, sending shots of awareness right to his core. She was beautiful. No matter what she’d done, she caused a response in him at the cellular level.

After an eternity she was brought to an interrogation room and left to stew while they waited for her attorney. Michael watched her through the two-way mirror. She paced, she bit one fingernail down to the quick, she sighed.

How could someone with everything she had going for her turn to crime? She hadn’t grown up in the projects. She wasn’t a drug addict or a single mother with babies to feed and no job. He supposed she was drawn by the thrill.

When her lawyer showed up, Michael wasn’t surprised to see that it was Nathaniel Mondell, a high-priced defense attorney favored by white-collar criminals and tax-fraud artists all over the Metroplex. The fact that Wendy had those kinds of connections was just another indication of her guilt, as far as Michael was concerned.

Too bad. A part of him wished she was just some sucker who’d been duped into taking the risk for the real thief. But she seemed too smart for that. Besides, there were the earrings they’d found in her purse.

After giving her a few minutes alone with the lawyer, Michael entered the interrogation room. He shook hands with Mondell, whose pleasant round face and pale, blinking eyes behind thick glasses hid a sharp legal mind.

Michael set up the recorder. They covered the basics—name, address, age.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Your birthday’s today?”

“Yeah, and this isn’t how I’d planned on celebrating,” she replied tartly.

“Hmm. I’ll be damned.”

“What?”

“Uh, nothing.” The last thing he wanted was to bond with his suspect because they shared a birthday. This was a first, though. He shook his head and got right down to it. He was known for his lightning-quick, killer interrogations.

“We checked out the address you gave us on Monty. The house was completely empty, abandoned. Still want to stick with your story?”

After flashing a look of bewilderment, Wendy glanced over at Mondell and shrugged. “I must’ve given you the wrong house number. I was upset—”

“Try again.”

“Look, Mr. Neff was there this afternoon. He was baking banana bread.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He had a brown sofa and a rug with pink flowers and a, a telephone. Electricity. Yes, that’s it.” She turned to Mondell. “You can check the utility records, can’t you?”

Mondell smiled indulgently. “We’ll check all of this out, don’t worry.”

“Okay, suppose I take your word for it,” Michael said. “This Neff guy was there, but he moved out in a
hurry. How do you explain these?” He plunked a small velvet box onto the table.

“I, um, uh-oh.”

“Wendy,” the lawyer cautioned.

“Those are some earrings Mr. Neff gave to me as payment. He said they were rhinestones or something.…”

Michael could tell by the look of dread on Wendy’s face that she knew what was coming.

“They’re real?” she squeaked.