Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2) (8 page)

Chapter Nine

I can’t make it to the gallery. Something came up.

Vague. Elusive. Not even remotely flirtatious. Had he meant to blow her off? Tasha reasoned that honing in on Vishnevsky could’ve taken all of Kevin's time and effort, and she couldn’t fault him for that. She was glad someone was looking out. But hot off the heels of their night together, she had to wonder. Had things moved too quickly? Was this the classic disappearing act that guys tended to pull when the chase was over?

Wind rustled through the trees overhead, as she meandered through the north end of Central Park, following one of the cobblestone paths and holding her camera in her hands. This time the nylon strap was wrapped securely around her neck and though she was hunting for the right subject as she passed stone sculptures and dogwood in bloom, she kept her wits about her, using sly glances to note her surroundings and make sure she wasn’t being followed.

Earlier that day, just before she’d entered Windsor Fine Art, the gallery where her work would be exhibited next week, she had sent Kevin a text message, keeping things light by commenting on the art opening he’d missed and then adding a quick question about what he’d been up to last night. He had responded with banter, addressing how he wished he could’ve made it, but said nothing about how he’d spent his night.

It worried her.

She slowed her step, as a large rock came into view. It was protruding from the side of a hill and the homeless woman seated at its base and inspecting a limp sandwich looked perfect, especially since a pair of Catholic schoolgirls were giggling nearby. Angling her telephoto lens at the woman, Tasha set up her shot. The juxtaposition of wealth and poverty, the bliss and innocence of the girls contrasted with the struggling older woman in rags told the story of two worlds that would never collide.

She snapped a number of shots, at times lowering her camera to wait for a cloud overhead to slink by. The light was good—blazing orange and casting dramatic shadows on their faces—and Tasha was excited about how this photograph would look blown-up.

She was interrupted from the thrilled flow of her shots when her cell phone began vibrating in the back pocket of the jean skirt she wore. Gingerly, she lowered her camera, making sure the nylon strap around her neck wouldn’t betray her—the last thing she needed was to drop and damage her third camera—and grabbed her cell.

It was Kevin. His name along with a cop emoji were flashing across the screen—her way of noting which
Kevin
it was since she had a few friends with the same name—so she quickly swiped her thumb over the LCD, answering the call.

“Hey there,” she said breathily. Her heart rate had pitched through the roof and her hands felt shaky, nerves rattling through her to hear from the man who had been on her mind.

“I have the day to myself again.” Though his words had been inviting, his tone was flat, indicating that something was wrong. “Want to get together?”

“I’m in the park.”

“Riverside?”

“No,” she said with a nervous smile. “Central Park. You’re welcome to join me.”

She gave him the cross street that would get him closest to her end of the park and then described the large rock she was near, but he wasn’t familiar.

“I’ll walk over to 110th and Lenox,” she told him.

He said he’d see her soon and as she tucked her cell into her skirt, she started along the cobblestone path, walking through a flock of pigeons that cooed and flapped off into the air.

When she reached the edge of the park, she glanced around at all the people as she waited. There were a few tourists, but not many since out-of-towners weren’t eager to venture into Harlem. A juggler wearing stripes, his face painted white, was entertaining a group of school kids, and a Hispanic couple in their early twenties was making-out on one of the benches. No Russians. No reason to be on edge, though Tasha knew she couldn’t let her guard drop until Kevin was here.

In a matter of minutes she spotted him across 110th Street. He jogged towards the crosswalk, but missed the signal.

Like a heat seeking missile, his eyes locked on her and though he smiled, the sentiment didn’t reach his eyes.

Did she know him well enough to be certain he looked shaken up?

She wasn't sure she should trust her instincts and yet his expression, the way his shoulders seemed hunched and stiff, the fact that his hands were hidden in his pockets, told her that he had discovered something about Vishnevsky... and it wasn’t good.

The traffic light changed and Kevin walked briskly across the street, pulling his hands from the front pockets of his jeans. The denim fit him well, hugging his thighs, falling loose around his calves, the waistband riding low. He wore a light jacket, but it was unzipped down the front, affording her a peek at the gray tee shirt he wore, his chest firm beneath the taut fabric.

As he stepped onto the curb, he plowed his fingers through his dark hair and the smile he gave her had a degree of ease. She smiled back, feeling butterflies over whether or not they would kiss or hug or do nothing at all...

They neared one another and Tasha let out a small breath of relief that his gaze was traveling the length of her, lingering on the floral button-down and short skirt she was wearing. When his eyes snapped up again to meet hers, his hands drifted to her waist and he pulled her in so naturally that she wondered why she’d been nervous to see him.

She whispered, “That was fast,” as Kevin tilted his head, coming in for a kiss.

When their lips met, the kiss was slow and soft, nothing too passionate for public and yet it conveyed a deeper hunger.

He drew back, studying her face, and asked, “Taking photos?”

“As many as I can,” she said.

“I’m not interrupting you, am I?”

“That depends on what you had in mind.”

He cocked his head and a playful smile spread across his face. “What I have in mind probably shouldn’t be done in a park,” he said, grinning. “But if you want to keep taking photos, I’ll tag along.”

She snorted a laugh and squeezed his arm. “You are distracting,” she admitted before letting out a long sigh. “But you could make for a decent model.”

“Yeah? You want to take my picture?”

“If it’s candid and if I can get you near a few homeless people.”

“Homeless people love me,” he teased, cradling her lower back with his arm as they started off down the cobblestone path that led into the park.

Soon they were walking hand-in-hand, the warm wind breezing through and the sun casting the most beautiful light on the scenery. Being with Kevin was natural and easy. She felt relaxed, all prior anxiety about Vishnevsky and the dark underbelly of this city having been washed away simply because she was with him.

He asked about the art opening he'd missed and anecdotes began pouring out of her, which made him laugh. She then segued into telling him about the meeting she'd had with Abigail Sorenson, the curator at Windsor Fine Art. Tasha had shown the influential woman six of her prints, explaining she would have them blown-up for the exhibition, and Abigail had given her advice on the additional shots she would need to round out the collection.

When they came to a pond surrounded by cherry blossoms, he pulled her in and kissed her deeply. A gust of wind rushed in from the water, causing a flurry of pink pedals to flutter all around them.

It wasn’t until after they had walked deeper into the park and Tasha had captured several shots of unsuspecting vagabonds as well as of Kevin standing under a tree, near the water, beside a statue that to Tasha couldn’t compare to her new man’s good looks, that she asked him about what had kept him from meeting her and her friends at the gallery.

They were sitting on a bench, his arm around her, her hand on his thigh, the late afternoon sun lowering with the onset of dusk. The lamps around the park came on and soon the darkening park twinkled with amber light.

“I know my text was a cop out,” he said in a smooth voice edged with remorse.

She latched on to his pun. “Cop out?”

“I didn’t want to say too much.”

He let that hang for a moment as he gazed across the pond. She analyzed his expression, but couldn’t get a firm read on him, and when he looked at her again, his eyes were so intense that she found her gaze falling to his lap.

“Avandeyev has his hooks in Reilly, my sergeant,” he went on, grimacing. “I had no idea how bad it was. The Russians own my precinct.”

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed.

“I mean I’m not naive. I know dirty cops exist, but as soon as Reilly saw I wasn’t going to drop it... maybe I pushed too hard-”

“You didn’t,” she said to reassure him.

His brows drifted up as if to say,
That’s debatable
, and then he disclosed, “He’s trying to turn me.”

“Turn you? What do you mean?”

“He sent me down to Coney Island,” he explained. “That’s why I couldn’t meet you last night. Reilly thinks the best way to get me to walk away from what happened, what you saw, is to drag me so deep into it that I’m convinced I’m as much to blame as they are.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He gave me an address to a meat packing facility,” he said. “It’s not a legitimate business, but a front for Avandeyev. Vishnevsky was there-”

“What?” she blurted out, squaring her shoulders to him and so stunned that she didn’t even blink.

“I went in full uniform,” he said as if it might calm her down. It didn’t. “I threatened to arrest him.” He began shaking his head and his gaze softened as though he was remembering the ugly encounter. “I played it all wrong. I should’ve gone in plain clothes. I should’ve acted like I was there to sign up for whatever depraved operation they had going. But I went in with two fists in the air... sort of. My sense is that they’re selling drugs, but I couldn’t get a read on it. Instead of welcoming me onto the payroll, as if I’d ever turn like that. Christ, I’d rather be dead than dirty.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Yeah, well...” he trailed off then came to his point. “They threatened me so I threatened them back.” He locked eyes with her, stating, “Manhattan is bigger than the 26th. There are dozens of precincts throughout the city and Avandeyev doesn’t own all of them.” He was shaking his head again and looking off into the darkness that was peppered with twinkling lights. “I’m looking at suspension.”

“Reilly can’t suspend you,” she objected. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“They’ll put something on me,” he insisted. “They’ll find something and connect it to me. With the heat every cop gets in this city for all the bureaucratic mistakes that have been made... bad search and seizures, bad stop and frisks, even using too much physical force to make an arrest could get you pulled off the job. He’ll find something.”

Tasha wanted to convince him that they wouldn’t, that he’d be fine, that he was doing the right thing, and though she knew with every fiber of her being that Kevin Wright was quite possibly the only cop who
was
doing the right thing, she couldn’t promise the rest.

All she could do was lean in and kiss him. His hands grasped her shoulders then slid up her neck until he was holding her face and kissing her with such passion that she could feel his anxiety.

After a long moment—the kiss deepening, Kevin breathing her in, and Tasha moaning softly and resting her hands against his firm chest—he drew back, looked at her, and said, “When threatening to arrest Avandeyev didn't work, I affirmed that no one was going to find out about what happened on the pier. It made me sick to grovel, but I did everything I could to convince him that the crime had been buried so deep it would never see the light of day.”

She nodded to show she was on his side.

“But then I told him that if anyone came after you, Tasha, I would kill them.”

Stunned, her mouth drifted open, but she drew in a deep breath, closing it.

He added, “I don’t think that was the right thing to do. It was a bad move. I could see it in his eyes. He’s too proud, too powerful to stand for a threat like that.”

“Shit,” she said softly.

Staring deep into her eyes, he told her, “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I can’t strike first.”

“So I’m a sitting duck?” she asked fearfully.

“No,” he cut in. “You’re not. I’m not walking away from this. If I have to go to another precinct, get an entire department on board, if I have to go to Internal Affairs and shine a light on this whole thing, I will, whether it means risking my career or not.”

“How could it risk your career if you’re doing the right thing?”

He was somewhere else entirely for a moment, gazing off in no particular direction and shaking his head. “Six months ago, one of the detectives in my precinct was arrested for murdering a prostitute. His name was Whitmore. He didn’t remember picking the girl up. He didn’t remember going back to his place and he didn’t have one shred of memory that he’d slashed her throat. He woke up to discover this poor woman’s body in his bed.” Kevin locked eyes with her. “It was Avandeyev. He had his goons drug Whitmore and all because the detective had tried to get out from under him.”