Undercover Love (The Women of Manatee Bay, Book 2) (11 page)

For a second, emotion clogged Grant’s throat as memories of the past drenched him with guilt. It seemed like yesterday he’d been standing on this porch, contemplating the best way to break in without being seen. That night had changed his life forever.

Grant pressed the bug beneath the sill.

He studied the man who’d been a part of his teen metamorphosis one final time before setting his jaw and moving away from the window.

No matter the past, the mayor had fallen too far for help now.

A sliver of moon hugged a cloud as Grant strode across the road to his unmarked car. If anyone saw him, they might assume business brought him to the mayor’s.

He started up the car but kept his eye on that lighted window. Neighbors were one thing, but if the mayor saw the car, he might not be so easily fooled. He’d seemed paranoid tonight, offering Grant the chief’s position in a reluctant manner. Grant didn’t want the responsibility of chief. Too much paper pushing and politics. Sergeant was better, a good balance between the lower and higher ranks.

But William said his other applicants had fallen through, that Chief insisted on retiring and that Grant was his only qualified choice.

His phone beeped. Missed call. Grant picked it up and called Charlie back. “What’s up?” he asked as he pulled out onto the road.

“Me and Angel are cooking up some late night steaks on Friday. Wanna come over?”

Grant pressed the accelerator and headed in the same direction as mystery woman. “Thanks man, but I’m beat.”

“You’re off Saturday.”

Grant heard Angel in the background, telling Grant to sleep in. Before Charlie could repeat her, he interrupted. “I have a wedding Saturday. I’m a groomsman so I’m going to be tied up all day.”

“A wedding, huh?” Charlie cackled. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Grant held back his grin, even though no one was around to see it. He slowed to a stop as another vehicle approached the intersection. “Thanks for the invite. Some other time?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Charlie hung up and Grant flipped his cell into a cup holder.

The car opposite him stopped at the four-way. From out of the shadows of the trees, a woman stepped forward. The mayor’s houseguest. She loped in front of the car and the headlights highlighted her long enough to cause the air in Grant’s throat to suction out, replaced by a deep knot in his gut.

He’d warned her. Told her to stay out of things.

Afraid the other car would notice him still sitting at the stop sign, he crept through the intersection, scowling as the other car’s dome lights flashed and drew attention to the mystery woman’s mass of red hair.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Grant woke up the next morning seething.

He’d been an idiot.

Since when did Rachel McCormick follow the law? Let alone advice. He’d been stupid to think she’d stay away from the mayor. Basking in his ire, Grant headed to the office for an early morning shift. Pete had an appointment and they’d swapped shifts. He squinted at the road in front of him, gulping more coffee to chase the fatigue that gripped him. The restlessness. He felt like a kid again, settling into something, then everything getting ripped up out of nowhere. A new house. New parents.

Then his mom coming back…

He shook his head and chugged the rest of his espresso. Childhood was over. He had a life now that didn’t include chaos. There was safety in rules. People didn’t get that sometimes. They only saw the law as something to keep them from what they wanted, rather than protecting them from danger.

He pulled into the station, groaning when he saw Owens’ car in the lot. Could he even pretend to like the guy anymore? But he had to do it. For the city he’d grown up in, for the citizens' sakes. Corruption couldn’t go unpunished.

He parked his truck then went around back and did a basic inspection of his patrol car. Oil check, fluids check. Once satisfied that everything was in order in the front, he popped the trunk and made sure it held a first aid kit and other essentials.

Bracing himself for the inevitable face to face with Mayor Owens, Grant went into the station to check out a shotgun for the trunk and to call dispatch and let them know he clocked in.

William Owens didn’t notice him at first. The suave politician bent over a junior policeman’s computer, studying the screen. Charlie lounged in the corner of the station, boots propped up and hat tipped forward. The chief wasn’t in sight.

Grant moved to his desk. Unloaded his coffee, booted up his computer and sat. Reports waited on his desk, both to be filled and to sign off on. Their receptionist, an older lady who’d moved to Manatee Bay to live with her granddaughter a few years ago after her New York condo had been condemned, peered at him over thick-rimmed glasses.

“I want those pronto,” she said, accent hewing her words into sharp syllables.

“Sure thing, Mrs. Riccio.” He winked at her, satisfied when a blush climbed her age-softened cheekbones. At least he could still have an effect on some women. Because apparently Rachel just traipsed off into danger whenever she felt like it. Didn’t matter how many warnings he gave her, she did whatever she wanted.

What he couldn’t get was what she saw in the mayor. Why she’d been in his living room when from the way she talked, she hated the guy. Not only that, but it had looked as though their silhouettes had been embracing.

He glanced over at William, who now stood at the coffee pot refilling his cup with some of Mrs. Riccio’s thick-brewed sludge. The woman made a mean cup of coffee, that was for sure. Too strong for Grant’s taste.

She didn’t hold it against him, though. She had a bigger problem when he didn’t finish paperwork for her to file. Sighing, he studied the report in front of him. Another complaint from Ms. Dalwigger about Crazy Al marking his territory in her backyard.

He had more important things to deal with. “Hey Charlie, what’s going on with Crazy Al?”

Charlie didn’t move an inch from where he sat. “Thirty days, trespassing. Or a restraining order. Old maid can’t make up her mind and Crazy Al’s enjoying the free food in his cell.”

“Grant.” William sauntered over, steaming Styrofoam cup in his hand. “Have you decided about the issue we talked about?”

Grant felt the attention of everyone in the small station arrowing in his direction. He nudged his chin toward the door to the only interrogation room they had. “Let’s talk in there.”

He followed the mayor in, shoving the door shut behind him. “I decided to take the position.”

Owens’ eyes crinkled at the corners and a grin split his face. “That’s great.” He set his coffee on the table and reached for a quick hug.

Grant endured the pat on his back, taking in the mayor’s familiar cologne overlaid by the thick smell of black coffee. His stomach churned and a deep unease crowded in his chest so tight he felt like gasping for air.

Instead, he pulled back from the hug and ignored the claws of guilt that dug into his conscience. He gave William a tight smile. “Thanks for the promotion.”

“You’re perfect for chief. I’m proud of you, Grant. A boy goes through a lot and you’ve risen above your challenges, become more than what anyone thought you could be.”

“Thanks.” Grant shifted. “I came by last night to tell you my decision.”

“Oh?” William’s brow lifted.

“But it looked like you had company.”

William frowned and reached for his coffee. “This divorce with Gerta and I, it’s been difficult. An old friend was over last night. Have you heard from Gerta, by the way?”

“You haven’t?”

“She was supposed to leave her mother’s yesterday.” William actually had the temerity to look worried. Or maybe it wasn’t an act. If Grant hadn’t seen the proof himself, he would be tempted to believe the Feds were wrong.

“If I hear from her, I’ll tell her you’re worried,” Grant managed to say past the lump in his throat.

“I appreciate that, son.” William swigged some more coffee while Grant tried not to cringe at the familial endearment. “I’m making the announcement in June at the big summer festival on the river. I think your church is sponsoring it? Think they’d have me in to speak?”

“I’ll check on that, sir.” Grant glanced at the door. “I’ve got some reports due so I’m going to head on out.”

“Before you go, whatever happened with that woman? The one who broke into my house?” The mayor snapped his fingers, deep concentration temporarily wrinkling his features. “The McCormick girl.”

“Gerta gave her a key. Not much we could do about that.” He planted his hands on his hips and studied William. “How’d you know who she was?”

The mayor waved a hand. “That doesn’t matter. I think it’s important you keep an eye on her. I think my computer was tampered with. There’s sensitive city information on there.”

“On your personal computer?”

“I take work home with me. Some of the dates on my files don’t match when I remember opening them. I think that girl did something…”

If you only knew
. Grant tamped down his annoyance. “Anything else?”

“I just think she should be careful.”

“Why’s that?”

“Crime is escalating. She seems the sort who takes risks without thinking about the consequences.”

Had she visited the mayor last night? Threatened him?

“She should get a warning at the very least,” the mayor continued. His eyes glittered beneath the fluorescent lights of the room. “Before she gets hurt.”

Aggression rose in Grant, a sharp protectiveness that coursed through his blood and made his fingers itch. “Has there been a threat made against her?” he asked coldly.

William jerked back, suddenly the benign father figure he’d always appeared to be. “I’m just stating my concerns for her.”

“Duly noted.” Grant gave William a stiff nod and opened the interrogation room’s door, chagrinned at how close he’d just come to punching the mayor of Manatee Bay in the face.

***

How good would she need to look to obtain a ballistics report?

Rachel studied herself in the rearview mirror one more time. A little more lip gloss for good measure. Pete had a particularly sweet way of blushing every time she saw him. He was a reliable snitch, too. She wasn’t above using her looks to get what she needed. She smoothed her hair, straightened her skirt, and got out of the car.

Afternoon humidity seeped into her clothes.

If Pete couldn’t share any information on the bullet type, or who the shooter was, then she’d press Charlie. He owed her for a tip she’d passed his way last month.

Bracing herself for glares, she squared her shoulders and marched into the tiny station. It was mostly empty except for the receptionist. Ms. Riccio didn’t even look at her, just kept talking on the phone. She did manage to point her finger in the direction of Charlie’s desk.

Rachel smiled her thanks and shot that way. She slowed as soon as she saw her self-proclaimed uncle snoozing behind the desk. Hat tipped, boots up, as a faint snore trembled through the air.

Perfect, absolutely perfect. Barely containing a grin, Rachel edged behind Charlie’s desk. His boots were propped near the keyboard, but not on it, thank goodness. She glanced again at Ms. Riccio. Still talking, her hands fluttering through the air for emphasis. She didn’t even look Rachel’s way.

She'd have to make this quick because on a normal day, Ms. Riccio kept a glare trained on Rachel's every move.

Breath shallow, Rachel reached forward and nudged Charlie’s mouse. The screen flickered to life. It looked like he’d been in the middle of a report when he’d dropped off to sleep. Minimizing the screen, she clicked to his e-mail and held her breath as the box pulled up.

A list of opened e-mails filled the screen. She shot him a dirty look. Figured he didn’t clean out his inbox. She scanned the subject lines but saw nothing about ballistics or shootings.

Maybe he wouldn’t get that e-mail. Even though he’d been in the force forever, he’d never tried to move up from the rank of officer. More likely Grant, a former homicide detective and now a sergeant, would have that information.

She’d have to look at his desk, but would Ms. Riccio let her over there? She glanced at the desk. Still on the phone.

Closing the inbox, Rachel pulled Charlie’s report back up on the screen and then crouched down. There was always the chance Charlie stored information in his desk. What about the suspect they’d supposedly caught? The one who tried to link her to the shooting?

She’d give anything to read what the perp had to say. A hard knot of determination formed in her belly. Jaw set, she peeked over the edge of the desk at Ms. Riccio. The receptionist hung up the phone and caught her glance. Her eyebrows wiggled in a warning way as she began typing on her computer.
To gossip or not to gossip…

Charlie snuffled beside her, snorting and creaking in his chair. Rachel groaned and straightened from her crouch. She might have a better chance chatting with Ms. Riccio about the suspect, depending on the secretary's mood.

Sparing Charlie one last look, Rachel moved out from behind the desk. “Hey Ms. Riccio, I heard you guys found the guy who shot at me?”

“We did.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “What’s it to you?”

Rachel’s jaw cramped. “A lot. The guy tried to kill me.”

“That’s not what he said.” Ms. Riccio stopped the infernal clicking to give Rachel one of her signature over-the-rim-of-her-glasses look. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but Chief Weathers and Sergeant Harkness aren’t going to be happy to see you here.” She resumed typing a thousand words a minute.

What a bad attitude. Stifling the urge to stick her tongue out at the irascible receptionist, Rachel slapped her hands on her hips. “My taxes pay for this building. I don’t really care if they’re happy or not. Shouldn’t I know who shot at me?”

“Knowing you, you’d like to learn a lot more.”

“Of course.” She used her most humble voice as she sidled up to the receptionist’s desk. “Do you have anything to tell me?”

Ms. Riccio sighed and removed her glasses. She peered up at Rachel, a directness in her eyes that sent apprehension spearing through Rachel to pucker her stomach and dry her mouth.

“You don’t have any business being here,” the receptionist said.

The words stung. Rachel looked away to hide the blanch that must show on her face.

Pushing down the hurt at the point-blank words, Rachel met Ms. Riccio’s gaze head-on. “I do have business here and if you don’t answer my questions, someone will.”

Pursing her lips, Ms. Riccio donned her glasses and resumed typing. “You’ll ruin things again,” she muttered.

“Ruin what? Is there something besides my shooting going on?”

“That boy should be in jail right now, not free to roam the streets.”

“Who?” For a moment Rachel was lost. Then things clicked. Ms. Riccio’s granddaughter was about the same age as Marnie Smith, the girl who’d pointed out waitress Barb’s son as her rapist. Hadn't they been friends? It had taken tons of research and digging to prove Barb’s son not guilty.

“Lee didn’t rape anyone; he was innocent.” Rachel leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is that what this is about? You’re having a bad attitude because I was right and the cops were wrong?”

Ms. Riccio shook her head, refusing to answer, refusing to even look at Rachel. Anger boiled through her and with effort she clamped her mouth shut.

Behind her the door opened and light streamed in.

“Everything all right here?” That deep voice only belonged to one man.

Conscious of her skirt, the lipstick she’d so carefully put on, she turned to face Grant. Chief Weathers came in behind him and sent a nod her way before disappearing into his office. Grant studied her, his eyes flitting from her face, to her lips, then down the length of her outfit.