Superstition (43 page)

A CNN team decided to do a piece on the competency of the investigators, which quickly boiled down to a piece about Joe. When Nicky heard some of the rumors about what they were planning to air, she was appalled. And angry. And disbelieving.

She immediately phoned Sarah Greenberg and had their fact-checking department run a background check on Joe, just to be sure.

Sarah called back with the results at about seven o’clock Wednesday night, moments after Nicky had wrapped up an interview with Marsha Browning’s nephew, who, disappointingly, turned out to have been the man Mrs. Ferrell had identified as having closed Marsha’s curtains on the night of the murder. The nephew had been at her house to drop off some family photos. He’d left at about nine, which meant that if he wasn’t the killer (and Nicky didn’t think he was, although Joe refused to remove him from the suspect list until certain DNA tests came back), he was the last person to see Marsha Browning alive, which meant he was still a viable interview.

But Nicky forgot all about Marsha Browning’s nephew when she heard what Sarah had to say.

“It’s true,” Sarah said. “Every bit of it.”

“It can’t be.” Nicky was so shocked that she was surprised she could speak at all.

“It is.” Sarah was brisk and certain. “You have good instincts, Nicky. This definitely has all the elements of a huge spin-off story. Go get it, girl.”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks, Sarah.” Nicky felt sick to her stomach as she disconnected. She was sitting in the front seat of her Maxima, which was still parked in front of the nephew’s house, and for a minute she couldn’t do anything but stare out her windshield at the last crimson feelers of the sun as they streaked across the darkening sky. Gordon, who’d captured the interview on camera, honked as he drove past. Since that was the last interview that Nicky had scheduled for the day, he was heading out to get some shots of the beach and the sea as night fell. Yanked from her reverie by the sound of the horn, Nicky waved, checked her rearview mirror to ascertain that her police escort was still with her—he was—then started her car and pulled away from the curb.

It was only as she reached the end of the street that she realized what she had to do.

She had to warn Joe.

IN THE MIDST of chaos, he had managed to develop a routine, Joe reflected as he stepped out of the shower.Around suppertime each day, he stopped by his house, made some phone calls, fixed himself a quick meal, and fed the pig. Feeding the pig wasn’t something he had to do, really. Dave kept its dispenser topped off with pig chow, so the animal wasn’t going to miss a meal if Joe didn’t come home. The thing was, though, Joe liked to grab supper while he was at the house, and he found it impossible to eat with the pig staring through the back window at him unless he fed it something, too. Although Dave had gone back to his own house after spending only one night at Joe’s, the pig remained on a strictly temporary basis. Amy refused to have it back, and Joe was too eager to have his house to himself again to insist that Dave take it with him. Besides, as he had reasoned at the time he’d agreed to the arrangement, since he wasn’t going to be at home much in the foreseeable future, what harm could it do?

He had discovered the answer to that when he’d watched that little clip of himself and the pig on TV.

If his pals back in Jersey had seen that—and he hadn’t heard anything to suggest that they had—they’d be laughing still.

The good news was that he hadn’t seen Brian since he had told him to get the fuck out of his life. If he’d known getting rid of the bastard was that easy, he would have done it a whole lot sooner.

The bad news was that he had so many other problems that Brian was the least of them.

Today, because he was hot and sweaty and dead on his feet when he stepped through the door of his house, a shower had been added to his usual routine. Joe was toweling off when his cell phone began to ring.

Hitching the towel around his waist and hotfooting it toward the living room, where the TV was turned to ESPN and his phone rested on the coffee table, he picked it up and answered.

“Joe?”

He would know her voice anywhere: Nicky.

“Yes. What’s up?” He was immediately alert, since she only ever called him to report bad things.

“I need to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

A beat passed. He frowned a little as he registered the quality of her silence.

“In person,” she said. “In private.”

“Are you okay?” There was something bothering her, that was for sure. He’d never heard that particular tone from her before. He didn’t think she was in danger, there wasn’t enough urgency in her voice for that, but . . .

“I’m fine. Can we meet somewhere? Now?”

“I’m over at my house. We can talk here. Do you know where it is? 264—”

“I know where it is,” she interrupted. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Then she hung up.

By the time Joe got dressed, her car was pulling up out front. He saw it through the big front window, went to the door, opened it, and stepped out onto the stoop, waiting for her. It was almost—but not quite—full dark, and lights were on in the houses up and down the street. The air was heavy with a humidity that was new to him, and it smelled more of overabundant plant life than of the sea. Kids playing a few yards over were loud enough to drown out every other sound. As Nicky walked toward him across his front yard, which badly needed cutting, he was struck by how much he liked watching her move. In deference to the heat—the temperature hovered around eighty degrees but had been much higher earlier in the day—she was wearing some kind of slim, sleeveless dress that ended above her knees. It was a kind of acidy yellow-green, a color that was unwearable by anyone except a true redhead, and her legs flashed long and slim and pale below it. Bill Milton, her cop escort, who had pulled up behind her, waited in his cruiser, presumably watching her cross the lawn, too. Joe waved acknowledgment at him. Then Nicky was on the stoop, looking at him, her expression almost fierce in the shadows, and he smiled at her because he couldn’t help himself.

On her, fierce looked good.

She didn’t smile back.

“CNN is getting ready to air a story I think you should know about,” she said without preamble as she walked past him into the living room.

Must be bad if she was coming to warn him, Joe thought with resignation as he closed the door behind her and immediately felt dog tired all over again. It was one more thing to deal with, and he was fresh out of both patience and time.

“About what?”

She turned to look at him. “You.”

HE WAS WEARING a dark gray T-shirt with a Miami Heat logo and worn jeans, Nicky saw with a sweep of her eyes. His hair was unruly and faintly damp, and his feet were bare. The faintest suggestion of soap and steam hung in the air, although they were standing in the living room, with nary a bathroom in sight—but then, it was a small house.

She was watching him for a reaction, but the one she got wasn’t what she expected. He gave her a small smile.

“If it’s the pig again, Dave’s going to be directing traffic for the rest of his life.”

“It isn’t the pig.” As she spoke, he was moving, closing the curtains, stepping past her to pick up the remote from an end table by the couch and turn off the TV; she had to turn to keep him in sight. “It’s you.”

“Me.” He blew out a sigh, turned to look at her, and gestured toward the couch. A single lamp lit the living room, which seemed to lack any ornaments or pictures, even on the walls, but it was neat and clean, with functional if not especially well-coordinated furniture. “Want to sit down while you tell me all about it?”

She didn’t move. Her pulse was elevated. Her stomach was in a tight knot. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. She became aware of all these things only as she looked at Joe and tried to reconcile this man who now loomed large in her life with what she had just learned.

“You were a dirty cop,” she said.

He went very still. Then his face changed. It tightened, hardened, and his eyes went flat and black.

He didn’t say anything.

“You took payoffs in exchange for providing protection for a drug ring you were supposed to be investigating.”

His hands flexed at his sides. Except for that, he stood motionless, as if he was waiting. She knew what he was waiting for: the rest of the story.

“Unfortunately for you, the DEA was investigating this particular drug ring, too, and they set up a sting. They got you on tape accepting cash, ten thousand dollars at a time. Several times. You were caught red-handed, along with three other cops. When the feds sprang the trap, you were all in a warehouse with the drug traffickers. Somebody started shooting, and when it was over, nine people were dead, including the other cops. You were critically wounded, shot twice in the head. They expected you to die. When you didn’t, they arrested you in the hospital, charged you with multiple offenses, including murder, and sent you off to a prison hospital to await trial. You were still there when the charges were dropped on a technicality. Only you couldn’t get your job back. No way. So you wound up here.”

A beat passed in which they stared at each other. Then his eyes flickered.

“Now you know my secret,” he said lightly, mockingly.

Her heart plummeted right along with her stomach. She sucked in her breath as the pain of it went through her like a knife. He was still Joe—still tall, dark, and sexy, with the power to make her go weak in the knees; still a man she would unhesitatingly trust with her life. But she had sensed before that there was another side to him, a dangerous side, a side she hadn’t met and didn’t want to, although she now knew irrefutably that it was there.

“It’s true.” Her tone made it a statement rather than a question.

He moved then, heading, she thought, for the doorway that led into the kitchen. “Want something to drink?” he asked. “I know I do.”

She caught his arm, stopping him as he walked past her. His biceps felt warm and hard with muscle beneath her hand.

“Is it true?” She had to ask even though she knew that it was, even though CNN was going to do a feature on it, even though Sarah Greenberg had confirmed it for her.

He looked down at her. His mouth curved into the smallest of sardonic smiles, but his eyes, dark and unreadable, didn’t match.

“What do you care?”

Nicky looked deep inside herself and realized something.

“I care,” she said.

Then he moved his head, and the way the lamplight hit his face changed. She saw two pale, ragged scars gouged out of the bronzed skin of his temple that disappeared into the unruly thicket of his black hair.

Her gaze fastened on them. She caught her breath.

“Is that where you were shot?” Even as she asked it, her hand was rising of its own accord to gently touch the puckered flesh.

He caught her hand just as her fingers slid over the roughened skin, his grip hard, his expression savage, and for a moment, as their eyes met and held, she thought he was going to fling her hand away from him, utterly rejecting her instinctive soothing of the terrible marks.

But instead his eyes flared and his hold gentled.

“Yeah, that’s where I was shot,” he said, his voice husky, and, still holding her gaze, he carried her hand to his mouth. He kissed the back of it, then her fingertips, one by one. Nicky felt the touch of his lips against her skin like a brand. Her breathing suspended, her heart lurched, and when he lowered her hand and his head dipped toward her mouth instead, she closed her eyes and tilted her head and kissed him back, their mouths soft and hot.

Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her harder and her brain went a little fuzzy. She wrapped her arms around his neck and went up on tiptoe and kissed him with all the pent-up emotion that had been locked inside her since she had spoken to Sarah Greenberg on the phone.

It was a soul-shattering kiss, electric with desire. He felt so warm, so solid against her, and he smelled just faintly of soap and tasted just faintly of cigarettes, which was another way she knew it was Joe, and she wanted him so much that her heart pounded and her stomach clenched and, deep inside, her body tightened and began to throb.

When he lifted his head and broke the kiss, she made a tiny sound of protest as she opened her eyes to see what he was doing. He was looking at her, his face just inches away, his eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming, a faint flush high on his cheekbones. She could feel the solid bands of his arms around her, feel the rise and fall of his chest against her breasts, feel the unmistakable proof of his desire for her against her stomach.

“Joe.” Her heart was in her voice.

“I’m a dirty cop, remember? You should go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

To stop him from talking—and to stop herself from thinking—she closed her eyes and kissed him again, pressing her mouth to his, sliding her tongue inside his mouth, rocking into him. He let her kiss him for a moment, his mouth pliant and responsive but no more, but then his arms tightened around her and suddenly he was kissing her like she wanted to be kissed, like she needed to be kissed, like a man kisses a woman whom he’s crazy about. His mouth was hot and wet and hungry, insistent, and his tongue moved against hers, stroking it, coaxing it, staking its claim to her mouth. She returned the kiss with wild abandon and felt fire shoot clear down to her toes.

Then his hand found her breast, covered it, and caressed it through the thin layers of her dress and bra. Nicky felt the heat of that hand, the weight of it, and her legs turned to Jell-O. Her breast swelled into his palm. Her nipple went rigid. She clung to him, suddenly dizzy, as he lifted his mouth from hers.

“We’re not on the beach now,” he said in a low, thick voice as his mouth slid across her cheek to her throat. The whisper of his breath feathered across her skin. The hot, wet glide of his mouth over the sensitive cord at the side of her neck made her shiver. She knew what he was asking, and just the thought of it made her heart thud and her insides melt.