The Woman Who Wasn't There. Marie Ferrarella
the moment she would be.
“Clyde was going to testify against Mendoza in court.”
“Clyde?” Troy looked at the inert body, trying to picture the man responding to the name. He didn’t look like a Clyde. He didn’t look very much like anything at all. Except dead.
“Clyde Petrie,” Delene provided. “He was involved with drugs since he was fourteen. At seventeen he dropped out of school, thought he’d make a better living for himself by pushing drugs instead of doing something that his high school diploma might land him. He was picked up twice for dealing. Managed to elude jail both times. Second time landed him on probation. It made him feel lucky.”
Which had been Clyde’s downfall, she thought. Thinking herself lucky had been hers, as well. She’d thought herself lucky to have caught Russell’s eye. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Third time was the charm for the county. This time the judge wasn’t going to let him slide,” she continued. “He was going to get sent away for the maximum.”
“But he got another stab at probation,” Troy guessed, from her presence. “Why?” And then, before the woman or her companions could answer, he remembered what she’d said at the beginning. “Because he made a deal to give evidence against Mendoza in open court.”
“You’re quick.”
There was no missing the sarcasm in the woman’s voice. But Troy played it straight. He glanced in Kara’s direction. His partner had just looked up and their eyes met. “Rubs off from the company I keep.”
He was rewarded with a wide grin and a chuckle, both from Kara. His brothers had taught him that it never hurt to have your partner in a good mood.
Delene drew her own conclusions from the quick exchange between the duo. The detectives were sleeping together, she guessed. She never knew a good-looking man who didn’t try to take advantage of his looks. The homely ones took a little longer to come up for their turn at bat. But they always came.
She frowned. “Whatever.”
Already she was trying to distance herself from the scene. From the man who lay dead on the floor. She wished she could view the individuals she dealt with as just case files, the way Jorge did. He’d told her she’d be a lot better off that way, and she didn’t doubt it. But detaching herself would also mean surrendering the last bit of humanity she still possessed.
“Might be off base entirely,” Delene continued. “But you might find that Mendoza’s worth a look.”
And so was she, Troy thought. A look, a gaze, an out-and-out, clock-stopping stare. The longer he looked at her face, the more flawless it seemed.
And the more out of place the woman appeared at the scene.
What was her story? he wondered. What was she doing, banging on motel doors before dawn, trying to raise the dead and defiant, not to mention the dregs of society? Without her uniform, she belonged in a pure, pristine setting.
Especially without her uniform on, he thought, doing his best to suppress the smile that fought to curve his mouth.
“Mendoza. Absolutely,” he agreed, realizing that he had been staring. He cleared his throat, as if that would erase the awkward moment. “Where can I get in touch with you?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “If I have more questions?”
“Probation office.” The answer came from the armored tank at her side as the man put his bulk in between his petite team leader and the tall detective. Almost grudgingly, Jorge offered up a cream-colored business card with the probation department’s main office’s phone number. The small card appeared that much smaller when contrasted against his wide, powerful, deeply tanned hand.
Troy took the card, raising his eyes to the woman’s beefy protector. One side of his mouth lifted in a lopsided, amused smile. He’d had no idea that guardian angels came in the extralarge size. “Thanks, Jorge.”
Jorge’s expression never changed, never softened. “Officer O’Reilly,” he corrected. “Or Agent O’Reilly, if you prefer.”
So much for law enforcement being one big, happy family, Troy thought.
“And for the record, I’m Adrian Jones,” the tall man told him.
Jorge and Adrian, Cinderella’s two ugly stepsisters, Troy couldn’t help labeling them as the two men flanked—and all but towered over—the delicate blonde. Except that in this case, Cinderella’s stepsisters were highly protective of her.
“We’d better get going,” Delene said to the two men with her.
There was no point in their hanging around. She didn’t relish making this report to the head of the department. Or calling the D.A. for that matter. She knew that the detectives would probably take care of it, but she’d been the one to make the initial suggestion to the D.A., letting him know about Clyde’s connection to Mendoza. Taking pity on Clyde.
Look where her pity had gotten him.
“And just for the record,” Troy called after the woman just as she and the two men began to file out, “what’s your first name?”
“I think he means you,” Jorge growled. “Want me to take care of it?”
Delene shook her head, then glanced at the detective. “Something you don’t need to know,” she told him just as she began to walk out the door.
Troy raised his voice. “I’ll need a full statement.”
“You’ll get it,” she promised. “After I give it to my boss.” With that, she exited. Jorge and Adrian followed.
Approaching Troy, Kara made a series of small, undefinable noises that indicated her enjoyment of what had just transpired. “Well, she sure put you in your place, didn’t she?” Kara laughed.
“Did she?” Troy murmured, getting down to work. “I hadn’t noticed.”
But he was going to make Agent D’Angelo sit up and take notice. He was never one to walk away from a challenge, and everything about the petite blonde had been a challenge.
“Why haven’t you hit on me, Cavanaugh?”
The question came without any preamble, moments after Troy had once more stuffed himself into his partner’s torture chamber of a car. He was busy counting the seconds until they reached the precinct, trying to ignore the very real pain in his back. Two minutes into the ride and his legs were a lost cause.
“Right now I’m seriously thinking of just hitting you for letting yourself get talked into buying a car left over from the Spanish Inquisition,” Troy muttered, more to himself than to her.
And then as her question penetrated, he looked at his partner. She slowed her vehicle to a stop at the first light they reached. Kara Ward was a lively, attractive woman with a pretty face and a sharp mind. But he thought of her as he thought of Janelle. As a sister. They had chemistry, but as partners, not as a man and a woman.
“Why?” he asked, uttering his words slowly. “Would you like me to hit on you?”
She lifted a single shoulder in a dismissive shrug. The light turned green and she shifted her foot onto the gas pedal. “I’d like to feel you thought I was worth the effort.”
Since he loathed getting into any kind of physical altercations, diplomacy had become second nature to him.
“Kara, you are very much worth the effort,” he assured her with warmth. “But what we have now works, and if I hit on you and somewhere down the line you decide that you don’t want any part of me—” he was careful to make it seem like all the choices were hers “—where would that leave us? Looking for other partners. Partners who might not be as in tune to us as we are to each other. So, for the sake of work relations, I don’t act on any impulses I might have about you.”
She