.38 Caliber Cover-Up. Angi Morgan
understood. She hardly understood it herself. She’d lived with someone since college and tolerated way-out-there tastes. Purple was not her favorite color. She wasn’t even certain she had a favorite. Weird. She’d never given it much thought before.
This was a new beginning. A time for new goals. But not the time of night to unpack boxes of old memories.
Tonight, it had taken an hour and her promise she’d come by Sunday before Sean would leave. As far as her brothers were concerned, there wasn’t a problem in the world that couldn’t be solved over a Cowboys game and a grilled steak.
If only their brother Michael’s problems were that simple.
“Michael will wake up and I’ll clear his name.” She had to. She was a cop. A cop whose brother had been accused of murder. Talk about your conflicts of interest.
A thump interrupted her nightly pity party. She hit the mute button on the remote, hoping it was a sound effect from the old Lon Chaney movie on TCM. Nope, there it was again. She crossed the new carpet and tile, looked through the very unsafe, four-paned back door and didn’t see a thing. She shrugged, took a step back and heard another whack on wood.
The back porch’s light lit the entire deck. No one stood on the other side of the triple locks. At least not that she could see. She slid her hand into her holster on the counter and pulled her Glock from its resting place. She’d chosen this neighborhood in North Dallas because of the low crime rate, but someone could think she was an easy mark. Not likely.
And then again, the kids across the street were famous for their practical jokes. She’d heard all about them the day she’d moved in. Just what she needed…a neighborhood of pranksters. If she barged out there as if she was on a drug bust, she’d probably scare those children directly into therapy.
So don’t overreact.
There it was again. A solid bump on the deck. Kids or no kids, she wasn’t going anywhere without her Glock pointed straight ahead.
She should call the local P.D. and teach those kids a lesson. But then she’d have every parent on her back for as long as she lived here. And the last thing a new owner needed was trouble with the neighbors.
No way. She was a trained police officer. She could handle a couple of kids. So what if she scared them with the gun?
It was after eleven. How had so many hours passed since she’d gotten off work? Still dressed in her uniform right down to her shoes. Well, at least she’d changed her shirt when Sean had come over.
Squinting through the lacy curtains the previous owner had left, she now saw a shadowy figure lying on the steps. With her eyes on the body, she quickly unlocked and opened the door. Darby stepped outside and scanned the shadows in the tiny backyard. No potential threats. Nothing. He seemed to be alone.
“Police. Don’t move,” she said, aiming her gun at the suspect.
A man—not a kid—was slumped across the steps. Moonlight shone on a beard-stubbled face and long, dark hair.
“O’Malley?” His head thudded against the wood. “Need…help.”
Okay, so he wasn’t some random nutcase. He’d asked specifically for her.
“Why do you want O’Malley?” Why hadn’t she brought her cell outside to call 911? She continued to hold the man at gunpoint, but he didn’t look as if he was going anywhere. His breathing was shallow and ragged, his eyes were closed and he held his side as if he was injured.
“Gotta stay a…wake.”
“Who are you?”
“Pike said I could trust you,” he panted. “Undercover. No…hospital.” The last of his words faded as he appeared to slip into unconsciousness. His hand fell away, covered in blood.
“God almighty.” Darby pushed her gun down the back of her pants and bent to her knees. She frisked him. He wasn’t carrying a weapon, but there was a photo of Pike on a fishing pier. The reverse side had a map to her house and a coded message from her brother Michael.
Rolling the stranger to his back, she felt his chilly neck for a pulse. “Talk to me. What does this have to do with Michael? What trouble will you be in if I call an ambulance to save your hide?”
Baggy jeans and a black extra-large T-shirt helped disguise the blood seeping across his side. Good grief, she couldn’t let him bleed to death on her back steps. He was soaked to the skin, with no jacket and an empty shoulder holster.
Was he here for the package? How could she be certain he was the person Pike mentioned? But Michael had sent him, so how did it all fit together?
“No docs,” he mumbled. “Verify…two one four…five five five…nine six nine six.”
Darby took one last look at the yard. No movement. It was the wrong thing to do, but she grabbed the unconscious stranger under his arms and pulled him through the door. He moaned, but didn’t give any indication he was waking. She lowered him to the tiled breakfast nook floor.
God, what was wrong with her? She couldn’t do this again. Just call 911 and deal with the repercussions later. Still thinking she shouldn’t get involved, she knelt and yanked the Ozzfest shirt up to the guy’s armpits.
Smooth, sculpted pecs and abs—make that an entire six-pack—would normally have her biting her lip to keep from drooling. But none of it mattered. A small knife wound, covered in blood, marred his left side. She pulled dishtowels from a kitchen drawer and placed them over his wound, closing her eyes.
Deep breath. In through the nose…out through the… Shoot, that only made it worse. The metallic smell of blood mixed with the leftover Chinese takeout on the counter invaded her senses. Her stomach flinched, forcing her memory to a place she didn’t want to revisit.
There was no way she could deal with Pike’s death now. But this guy had asked for her and had something to do with her murdered friend. There had to be someone she could call. She couldn’t let the guy die.
That sealed it. She pulled her purse off the counter, sending quarters, dimes and eyeliner rolling across the floor. Her cell phone bounced once and popped the casing in two different directions. Her badge and lip gloss headed in two others. The man stirred.
“God,” he moaned, his voice as deep as sin. “I passed out?”
He rapidly blinked lashes too long to be considered manly. Yet on him, they framed a pair of ancient amber-brown eyes. Her right hand kept the towels in place as her left slid around her hip and rested on her gun.
“Who are you and why can’t I call a doctor?” she asked.
“Ah, crap. I’m going to puke.”
“Terrific. As if bloodstained grout isn’t enough.” His stomach muscles contracted under the tips of her fingers as she heard the age-old accompaniment to dry heaves. Her own gag forced her eyes shut.
One second she was preparing to jump out of the way. The next her shoulders were pinned to the floor with the stranger straddling her hips, her gun in his hand pointed at the ceiling.
“Pike said you were good. The best,” he said, too confident and boastful in his dominant position. “Well, except me. I need some help, O’Malley. Pike left a package for me, and I need it. Tonight.”
“If you know who I am, then why are you sitting on me?” Faker. He wasn’t the least bit woozy.
One jab in his wound and he’d be writhing on the floor. If he pointed the barrel toward her, she wouldn’t hesitate. But there was something about him… Something that made her wait for his next move. Something other than Pike and Michael instructing her to trust him.
“I’m asking, politely, one more time.”
“Ask any way you want,” she answered.
The solid weight across her legs was uncomfortable. He eased his hand from her shoulder, scooping