Night Shift (4 page)

She resented him for that, for his intrusion, and for the simple fact that he was a cop.

But that was personal, she reminded herself. She had a job to do.

“That was INXS taking you to midnight. It’s a new day, Denver. March 28, but we’re not going out like a lamb. It’s eighteen degrees out there at 12:02, so tune in and heat up. You’re listening to KHIP, where you get more hits per hour. We’ve got the news coming up, then the request line. Light up those
phones and we’ll rock and roll.”

Boyd waited until she’d run through the news and moved to a commercial before he marked his place in his book and rose. He could feel the tension thicken as he sat in the chair next to Cilla.

“I don’t want you to cut him off.”

She stiffened and struggled to keep her voice carelessly sarcastic. “My listeners don’t tune in for that kind of show, Slick.”

“You can keep him on the line, on the studio speakers, without sending it on air, right?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to—”

“Cut to a commercial or some music,” Boyd said mildly, “but keep him on the line. We might get lucky and trace the call. And if you can, keep the request line open until the end of shift, to give him enough time to make his move.”

Her hands were balled into fists in her lap as she stared at the lights that were already blinking on the phone. He was right. She knew he was right. And she hated it.

“This is an awful lot of trouble for one loose screw.”

“Don’t worry.” He smiled a little. “I get paid the same whether the screws are loose or tight.”

She glanced down at the clock, cleared her throat, then switched on her mike. “Hello, Denver, this is Cilla O’Roarke for KHIP. You’re listening to the hottest station in the Rockies. This is your chance to make it even hotter. Our request lines are open. I’ll be playing what you want to hear, so give me a call at 555-KHIP. That’s 555–5447.”

Her finger trembled slightly as she punched the first lit button.

“This is Cilla O’Roarke. You’re on the air.”

“Hi, Cilla, this is Bob down in Englewood.”

She closed her eyes on a shudder of relief. He was a regular. “Hey, Bob. How’s it going?”

“Going great. My wife and I are celebrating our fifteenth anniversary tonight.”

“And they said it wouldn’t last. What can I play for you, Bob?”

“How about ‘Cherish’ for Nancy from Bob.”

“Nice choice. Here’s to fifteen more, Bob.”

With her pen in one hand, she took the second call, then the third. Boyd watched her tighten up after each one. She chatted and joked. And grew paler. At the first break, she pulled a cigarette out of the pack, then fumbled with a match. Silently Boyd took the matches from her and lit one for her.

“You’re doing fine.”

She took a quick, jerky puff. Patient, he waited in silence for her to respond. “Do you have to watch me?”

“No.” Then he smiled. It was a long, lazy smile that had her responding in spite of herself. “A man’s entitled to some fringe benefits.”

“If this is the best you can do, Slick, you ought to look for another line of work.”

“I like this one.” He rested the ankle of his boot on his knee. “I like it fine.”

It was easier, Cilla decided, to talk to him than to stare at the blinking lights on the phone and worry. “Have you been a cop long?”

“Going on ten years.”

She looked at him then, struggling to relax by concentrating on his face. He had calm eyes, she thought. Dark and calm. Eyes that had seen a lot and learned to live with it. There was a quiet kind of strength there, the kind women—some women—were drawn to. He would protect and defend. He wouldn’t start a fight. But he would finish one.

Annoyed with herself, she looked away again, busying herself with her notes. She didn’t need to be
protected or defended. She certainly didn’t need anyone to fight for her. She had always taken care of herself. And she always would.

“It’s a lousy job,” she said. “Being a cop.”

He shifted. His knee brushed her thigh. “Mostly.”

Instinctively she jiggled her chair for another inch of distance. “It’s hard to figure why anyone would stick with a lousy job for ten years.”

He just grinned. “I guess I’m in a rut.”

She shrugged, then turned to her mike. “That was for Bill and Maxine. Our request lines are still open. That’s 555–5447.” After one quick breath, she punched a button. “KHIP. You’re on the air.”

It went smoothly, so smoothly that she began to relax. She took call after call, falling into her old, established rhythm. Gradually she began to enjoy the music again, the flow of it. The pulsing lights on the phone no longer seemed threatening. By 1:45 she was sure she was going to make it through.

Just one night, she told herself. If he didn’t call tonight, it would be over. She looked at the clock, watched the seconds tick by. Eight more minutes to go and she would turn the airwaves over to Jackson. She would go home, take a long, hot bath and sleep like a baby.

“KHIP, you’re on the air.”

“Cilla.”

The hissing whisper shot ice through her veins. She reached over reflexively to disconnect, but Boyd clamped a hand over her wrist and shook his head. For a moment she struggled, biting back panic. His hand remained firm on hers, his eyes calm and steady.

Boyd watched as she fought for control, until she jammed in a cassette of commercials. The bright, bouncy jingles transmitted as she put the call on the studio speaker.

“Yes.” Pride made her keep her eyes on Boyd’s. “This is Cilla. What do you want?”

“Justice. I only want justice.”

“For what?”

“I want you to think about that. I want you to think and wonder and sweat until I come for you.”

“Why?” Her hand flexed under Boyd’s. In an instinctive gesture of reassurance, he linked his fingers with hers. “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” There was a laugh that skidded along her skin. “I’m your shadow, your conscience. Your executioner. You have to die. When you understand, only when you understand, I’ll end it. But it won’t be quick. It won’t be easy. You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.”

“What have I done?” she shouted. “For God’s sake, what have I done?”

He spit out a stream of obscenities that left her dazed and nauseated before he broke the connection. With one hand still covering hers, Boyd punched out a number on the phone.

“You get the trace?” he demanded, then bit off an oath. “Yeah. Right.” Disgusted, he replaced the receiver. “Not long enough.” He reached up to touch Cilla’s pale cheek. “You okay?”

She could hardly hear him for the buzzing in her ears, but she nodded. Mechanically she turned to her mike, waiting until the commercial jingle faded.

“That about wraps it up for this morning. It’s 1:57. Tina Turner’s going to rock you through until two. My man Jackson’s coming in to keep all you insomniacs company until 6:00 a.m. This is Cilla O’Roarke for KHIP. Remember, darling, when you dream of me, dream good.”

Light-headed, she pushed away from the console. She only had to stand up, she told herself. Walk to her car, drive home. It was simple enough. She did it every morning of her life. But she sat where she was, afraid her legs would buckle.

Jackson pushed through the door and stood there, hesitating. He was wearing a baseball cap to
cover his healing hair transplant. “Hey, Cilla.” He glanced from her to Boyd and back again. “Rough night, huh?”

Cilla braced herself, pasted on a careless smile. “I’ve had better.” With every muscle tensed, she shoved herself to her feet. “I’ve got them warmed up for you, Jackson.”

“Take it easy, kid.”

“Sure.” The buzzing in her ears was louder as she walked from the booth to snatch her coat from the rack. The corridors were dark, catching only a faint glow from the lobby, where the security lights burned. Disoriented, she blinked. She didn’t even notice when Boyd took her arm and led her outside.

The cold air helped. She took big, thirsty gulps of it, releasing it again in thin plumes of white smoke. “My car’s over there,” she said when Boyd began to pull her toward the opposite end of the lot.

“You’re in no shape to drive.”

“I’m fine.”

“Great. Then we’ll go dancing.”

“Look—”

“No, you look.” He was angry, furious. He hadn’t realized it himself until that moment. She was shaking, and despite the chill wind, her cheeks were deathly pale. Listening to the tapes hadn’t been the same as being there when the call came through, seeing the blood drain out of her face and her eyes glaze with terror. And not being able to do a damn thing to stop it. “You’re a mess, O’Roarke, and I’m not letting you get behind the wheel of a car.” He stopped next to his car and yanked open the door. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”

She tossed the hair out of her eyes. “Serve and protect, right?”

“You got it. Now get in before I arrest you for loitering.”

Because her knees felt like jelly, she gave in. She wanted to be asleep, alone in some small, quiet room. She wanted to scream. Worse, she wanted to cry. Instead, she rounded on Boyd the second he settled in the driver’s seat.

“You know what I hate even more than cops?”

He turned the key in the ignition. “I figure you’re going to tell me.”

“Men who order women around just because they’re men. I don’t figure that as a cultural hang-up, just stupidity. The way I look at it, that’s two counts against you, Detective.”

He leaned over, deliberately crowding her back in her seat. He got a moment’s intense satisfaction out of seeing her eyes widen in surprise, her lips part on a strangled protest. The satisfaction would have been greater, he knew, if he had gone on impulse and covered that stubborn, sassy mouth with his own. He was certain she would taste exactly as she sounded—hot, sexy and dangerous.

Instead, he yanked her seat belt around her and fastened it.

Her breath came out in a whoosh when he took the wheel again. It had been a rough night, Cilla reminded herself. A tense, disturbing and unsettling night. Otherwise she would never have sat like a fool and allowed herself to be intimidated by some modern-day cowboy.

Her hands were shaking again. The reason didn’t seem to matter, only the weakness.

“I don’t think I like your style, Slick.”

“You don’t have to.” She was getting under his skin, Boyd realized as he turned out of the lot. That was always a mistake. “Do what you’re told and we’ll get along fine.”

“I don’t do what I’m told,” she snapped. “And I don’t need a second-rate cop with a John Wayne complex to give me orders. Mark’s the one who called you in, not me. I don’t need you and I don’t want you.”

He braked at a light. “Tough.”

“If you think I’m going to fall apart because some creep calls me names and makes threats, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t think you’re going to fall apart, O’Roarke, any more than you think I’m going to pick up the pieces if you do.”

“Good. Great. I can handle him all by myself, and if you get your kicks out of listening to that kind of garbage—” She broke off, appalled with herself. Lifting her hands, she pressed them to her face and took three deep breaths.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For taking it out on you.” She dropped her hands into her lap and stared at them. “Could you pull over for a minute?”

Without a word, he guided the car to the curb and stopped.

“I want to calm down before I get home.” In a deliberate effort to relax, she let her head fall back and her eyes close. “I don’t want to upset my sister.”

It was hard to hold on to rage and resentment when the woman sitting next to him had turned from barbed wire to fragile glass. But if his instincts about Cilla were on target, too much sympathy would set her off again.

“Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks.” The corners of her mouth turned up for the briefest instant. “I’ve poured in enough to fuel an SST.” She let out a long, cleansing breath. The giddiness was gone, and with it that floating sense of unreality. “I am sorry, Slick. You’re only doing your job.”

“You got that right. Why do you call me Slick?”

She opened her eyes, made a brief but comprehensive study of his face. “Because you are.” Turning away, she dug in her bag for a cigarette. “I’m scared.” She hated the fact that the admission was shaky, that her hand was unsteady as she struck a match.

“You’re entitled.”

“No, I’m really scared.” She let out smoke slowly, watching a late-model sedan breeze down the road and into the night. “He wants to kill me. I didn’t really believe that until tonight.” She shuddered. “Is there any heat in this thing?”

He turned the fan on full. “It’s better if you’re scared.”

“Why?”

“You’ll cooperate.”

She smiled. It was a full flash of a smile that almost stopped his heart. “No, I won’t. This is only a momentary respite. I’ll be giving you a hard time as soon as I recover.”

“I’ll try not to get used to this.” But it would be easy, he realized, to get used to the way her eyes warmed when she smiled. The way her voice eased over a man and made him wonder. “Feeling better?”

“Lots. Thanks.” She tapped out her cigarette as he guided the car back on the road. “I take it you know where I live.”

“That’s why I’m a detective.”

“It’s a thankless job.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead. They would talk, she decided. Just talk. Then she wouldn’t have to think. “Why aren’t you out roping cattle or branding bulls? You’ve got the looks for it.”

He considered a moment. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment, either.”

“You’re fast on the draw, Slick.”

“Boyd,” he said. “It wouldn’t hurt you to use my name.” When she only shrugged, he slanted her a
curious look. “Cilla. That’d be from Priscilla, right?”

“No one calls me Priscilla more than once.”

“Why?”

She sent him her sweetest smile. “Because I cut out their tongues.”

“Right. You want to tell me why you don’t like cops?”

“No.” She turned away to stare out the side window. “I like the nighttime,” she said, almost to herself. “You can do things, say things, at three o’clock in the morning that it’s just not possible to do or say at three o’clock in the afternoon. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to work in the daylight anymore, when people are crowding the air.”