Night Shield (3 page)

She knew. She’d timed it.

And leaving at exactly four was as rare as finding diamonds in the mud. But damned if she wanted to be late for her next meeting with Blackhawk.

It was a matter of pride and principle.

She slammed into her apartment at 4:11 p.m.—thanks to the delay of a last-minute briefing by her lieutenant—and peeled off her jacket as she raced to the bedroom.

Blackhawk’s was a good twenty minutes away at a brisk jog—and half again that much if she attempted to drive in rush-hour traffic.

It was only her second undercover assignment behind her detective’s shield. She had no intention of screwing it up.

She released her shoulder harness and tossed it onto the bed. Her apartment was simple and uncluttered, mostly because she wasn’t there long enough for it to be otherwise. The house where she’d grown up was still home, the station house was second on that list of priorities, and the apartment where she slept, occasionally ate and even more rarely loitered was a far-down third.

She’d always wanted to be a cop. She hadn’t made a big deal of it. It simply was her dream.

She yanked open her closet door and pushed through a selection of clothes—designer dresses, tailored jackets and basketball jerseys—in search of a suitable black skirt.

If she could manage a quick change, she might actually have time to slap together a sandwich or stuff a handful of cookies into her mouth before she raced out again.

She pulled out a skirt, winced at the length when she held it up, then tossed that on the bed as well
to dig through her dresser for a pair of black hose.

If she was going to wear a skirt that barely covered her butt, she would damn well cover the rest with solid, opaque black.

Tonight could be the night, she thought as she stripped off her trousers. She had to stay calm about it, cool, controlled.

She would use Jonah Blackhawk, but she would not be distracted by him.

She knew a great deal about him through her father, and she’d made it her business to find out more. As a kid he’d had light fingers, quick feet and a nimble brain. She could almost admire a boy with barely twelve years under his belt who’d managed to organize a sports-betting syndicate. Almost.

And she supposed she could come close to admiring someone who’d turned those beginnings around—at least on the surface—and made himself into a successful businessman.

The fact was she’d been in his sports bar and had enjoyed the atmosphere, the service and the truly superior margaritas Fast Break provided.

The place had a terrific selection of pinball machines, she recalled. Unless someone had broken her record in the last six months, her initials were still in the number one slot on Double Play.

She really should make time to get back there and defend her championship status.

But that was beside the point, she reminded herself. Right now the point was Jonah Blackhawk.

Maybe his feathers were ruffled because she’d made it clear that two of his employees were on her short list of suspects. Well, that was too bad. Her father wanted her to trust the man, so she’d do her best to trust him.

As far as she could throw him.

By 4:20 p.m., she was dressed in black—turtleneck, skirt, hose. She shoved through the shoes on the floor of her closet and found a suitable pair of low heels.

With a nod to vanity, she dragged the clip out of her hair, brushed it, clipped it back again. Then she closed her eyes and tried to think like a waitress in an upscale club.

Lipstick, perfume, earrings. An attractive waitress made more tips, and tips had to be a goal. She took the time for them, then studied the results in the mirror.

Sexy, she supposed, certainly feminine and, in a satisfactory way, practical. And there was no place to hide her weapon.

Damn it. She hissed out a breath, and settled on stuffing her nine millimeter in an oversize shoulder bag. She tossed on a black leather jacket as a concession to the brisk spring evening, then bolted for the door.

There was enough time to drive to the club if she got straight down to the garage and hit all the lights on green.

She pulled open the door. Swore.

“Dennis, what are you doing?”

Dennis Overton held up a bottle of California Chardonnay and offered a big, cheerful smile. “Just in the neighborhood. Thought we could have a drink.”

“I’m on my way out.”

“Fine.” He shifted the bottle, tried to take her hand. “I’ll go with you.”

“Dennis.” She didn’t want to hurt him. Not again. He’d been so devastated when she’d broken things off two months before. And all his phone calls, pop-ins, run-intos since then had ended badly. “We’ve been through all this.”

“Come on, Ally. Just a couple of hours. I miss you.”

He had that sad, basset hound look in his eyes, that pleading smile on his lips. It had worked once,
she reminded herself. More than once. But she remembered how those same eyes could blaze with wild and misplaced jealousy, snap with barely controlled fury.

She’d cared for him once, enough to forgive him his accusations, to try to work through his mood swings, enough to feel guilty over ending it.

She cared enough now to strap her temper at this last invasion of her time and her space. “I’m sorry, Dennis. I’m in a hurry.”

Still smiling, he blocked her way. “Give me five minutes. One drink for old times’ sake, Ally?”

“I don’t have five minutes.”

The smile vanished, and that old, dark gleam leaped into his eyes. “You never had time for me when I needed it. It was always what you wanted and when you wanted it.”

“That’s right. You’re well rid of me.”

“You’re going to see someone else, aren’t you? Brushing me off so you can run off to be with another man.”

“What if I am.” Enough, she thought, was way past enough. “It’s no business of yours where I go, what I do, whom I see. That’s what you can’t seem to get straight. But you’re going to have to work harder at it, Dennis, because I’m sick of this. Stop coming here.”

He grabbed her arm before she could walk by. “I want to talk to you.”

She didn’t jerk free, only stared down at his hand, then shifted her gaze, icy as February, to his eyes. “Don’t push it. Now step back.”

“What’re you going to do? Shoot me? Arrest me? Call your daddy, the saint of the police, to lock me up?”

“I’m going to ask you, one more time, to step back. Step way back, Dennis, and do it now.”

His mood swung again, fast and smooth as a revolving door. “I’m sorry. Ally, I’m sorry.” His eyes went damp and his mouth trembled. “I’m upset, that’s all. Just give me another chance. I just need another chance. I’ll make it work this time.”

She pried his fingers off her arm. “It never worked. Go home, Dennis. I’ve got nothing for you.”

She walked away without looking back, bleeding inside because she had to. Bleeding inside because she could.

Ally hit the doors of Blackhawk’s at 5:05 p.m. One strike against her, she thought and took an extra minute to smooth down her hair, catch her breath. She’d decided against the drive after all and had run the ten blocks. Not such a distance, she thought, but the heels she wore were a far cry from track shoes.

She stepped inside, took stock.

The bar was a long, gleaming black slab that curved into a snug semicircle and offered plenty of room for a troop of chrome stools with thick black leather cushions. Mirrored panels of black and silver ran down the rear wall, tossed back reflections and shapes.

Comfort, she decided, as well as style. It said, Sit down, relax and plunk down your money.

There were plenty of people to do so. Apparently happy hour was under way, and every stool was occupied. Those who sat at the bar, or kicked back at the chrome tables, drank and nibbled to the tune of recorded music kept low enough to encourage conversation.

Most of the patrons were the suit-and-tie crowd with briefcases dumped at their feet. The business brigade, she concluded, who’d managed to slip out of the office a little early, or were using the club as a meeting arena to discuss deals or close them.

Two waitresses worked the tables. Both wore black, but she noted with a hiss through her teeth that they wore slacks rather than skirts.

A man was working the bar—young, handsome and openly flirting with the trio of women on stools at the far end. She wondered when Frances Cummings came on shift. She’d need to get work schedules from Blackhawk.

“You look a little lost.”

Ally shifted her gaze and studied the man who approached her with an easy smile. Brown hair, brown eyes, trim beard. Five-ten, maybe one-fifty. His dark suit was well cut, his gray tie neatly knotted.

William Sloan looked a great deal more presentable tonight than he had for his last mug shot.

“I hope not.” Deciding a little agitation fit the role, Ally shifted her shoulder bag and offered a nervous smile. “I’m Allison. I’m supposed to see Mr. Blackhawk at five. I guess I’m late.”

“Couple of minutes. Don’t worry about it. Will Sloan.” He offered a hand, gave hers a quick, brotherly squeeze. “The man told me to keep an eye out for you. I’ll take you up.”

“Thanks. Great place,” she commented.

“You bet. The man’s in charge, and he wants the best. I’ll give you a quick go-through.” With a hand on her back, Will led her through the bar area, into a wide room with more tables, a two-level stage and a dance floor.

Silver ceilings, she mused, glancing up, set with pinpoint lights that blinked and shimmered. The tables were black squares on pedestals that rose out of a smoky silver floor with those same little lights twinkling under the surface, like stars behind clouds.

The art was modern, towering canvases splashed or streaked with wild colors, odd, intriguing wall sculptures fashioned from metals or textiles.

The tables were bare but for slim metal cylindrical lamps with cutouts in the shape of crescent
moons.

Deco meets the third millennium, she decided. Jonah Blackhawk had built himself a very classy joint.

“You work clubs before?”

She’d already decided how to play it and rolled her eyes. “Nothing like this. Pretty fancy.”

“The man wanted class. The man gets class.” He turned down a corridor, then punched a code into a control panel. “Watch this.”

When a panel in the wall slid open, he wiggled his eyebrows. “Cool, huh?”

“Major.” She stepped in with him, watched him reenter the code.

“Any of us who’ve got to do business on the second level get a code. You won’t have to worry about it. So, you new in Denver?”

“No, actually I grew up here.”

“No bull? Me, too. I’ve been hanging with the man since we were kids. Life sure was different then.”

The door opened again, directly into Jonah’s office. It was a large space, split into business and pleasure with an area to one side devoted to a long leather sofa in his signature color, two sink-into-me armchairs and a wide-screen TV on which a night baseball game was being battled out in silence.

Automatically she checked the stats in the top corner of the screen. Yankees at home against Toronto. Bottom of the first. Two out, one on. No score.

The focus on sports didn’t surprise her, but the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books did.

She shifted her attention to the business area. It appeared to be as ruthlessly efficient as the rest of the room was indulgent. The workstation held a computer and phone. Across from it stood a monitor that showed the club area. The single window was shielded with blinds, and the blinds were tightly shut. The carpet was cozily thick and stone-gray.

Jonah sat at the desk, his back to the wall, and held up a hand as he completed a call. “I’ll get back to you on that. No, not before tomorrow.” He lifted a brow as if amused by what was said to him. “You’ll just have to wait.”

He hung up, sat back in his chair. “Hello, Allison. Thanks, Will.”

“No problem. Catch you later, Allison.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Jonah waited until the elevator door shut. “You’re late.”

“I know. It was unavoidable.” She turned to the monitor, giving him an opportunity to skim his gaze down her back, over those long legs.

Very nice, he thought. Very nice indeed.

“You have security cameras throughout the public areas?”

“I like to know what’s going on in my place.”

She just bet he did. “Do you keep the tapes?”

“We turn them over every three days.”

“I’d like to see what you’ve got.” Because her back was to him, she allowed her gaze to slide over and check the action in Yankee Stadium. Toronto brought one home on a line drive bullet. “It’ll help to study the tapes.”

“For that you’ll need a warrant.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. He’d changed into a suit—black and, to her expert eye, of Italian cut. “I thought you’d agreed to cooperate.”

“To a point. You’re here, aren’t you?” His phone rang and was ignored. “Why don’t you sit down?
We’ll work out a game plan.”

“The game plan’s simple.” And she didn’t sit. “I pose as a waitress, talk to customers and staff. I keep my eyes open and do my job. You keep out of my way and do yours.”

“Wrong plan. I don’t have to keep out of anyone’s way in my place. Now, ever worked a club?”

“No.”

“Ever waited tables?”

“No.” His cool, patient look irked her. “What’s the big deal? You take the order, you put in the order, you serve the order. I’m not a moron.”

He smiled now, that quick, powerful strike. “I imagine it seems that way when you’ve spent your life on the other side of it. You’re about to get an education, Detective. Head waitress on your shift is Beth. She’ll help train you. Until you’ve got a handle on it, you’ll bus tables. That means—”

“I know what busing tables involves.”

“Fine. I’ve put you on six to two. You get a fifteen-minute break every two hours. No drinking during shift. Any of the customers get overly friendly or out of line, you report to me or to Will.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You’re not a cop here. Somebody puts hands on you in an inappropriate way, you report to me or to Will.”