A Stetson On Her Pillow. Molly Liholm
rocker and not a bare-boned, hard-assed flimsy excuse for a chair. Why, such a chair wouldn’t even last through one fight at the Two Horse Watering Hole back home.
Laura glanced at the stranger who was standing silently behind them, opened her mouth, but then closed it again without a word of protest. Clint knew she was annoyed at being assigned to work a case with him. For some reason, Laura Carter had taken one look at him six months ago and decided she didn’t like him.
Of course, he didn’t like her much better.
But if successfully completing this assignment meant that he had a chance to move up to the vacant detective position in Homicide he would work with anyone—including Laura Carter.
He wondered if the rumors about her were true. She had transferred into their unit six months ago after an alleged affair with her boss. Her new boss, Sam Clark, hated having the brass chose his officers for him. Anytime the captain had joined the team for drinks Clint had heard him say that the reason his unit had such a good arrest record was because he chose his detectives without political interference.
Until Laura Carter.
Clark had given her all the crappy assignments, like looking for bond jumpers and investigating small-scale burglaries and purse snatchings. When she’d caught a burglar who’d been stealing from local businesses for over a year, Clark had grudgingly commended her on a job well done.
Laura took a deep breath, looking like a particularly ornery mule about to set out on its own path, ignoring the fact that it would never find its way back home. Clint decided to rescue her before she made another mistake and complained about the assignment further—especially the part about being married to him.
“Darlin’, most of the single women on Chicago’s finest would jump at the chance to be Mrs. Clint Marshall. If there’s one thing us Texas men are known for, it’s for treating a woman right.”
She stiffened even more. He wondered if any man ever got her to loosen up enough to uncross her gorgeous legs and… Well, he wouldn’t let his thoughts continue on their ungentlemanly path. No matter what Ms. Laura Carter thought about his manners, his mother had raised him right.
He let his lips quirk in a half smile as Laura studied him coldly. Her porcelain skin turned even whiter as a slash of pink burned along her high cheekbones. “First, no matter how foolishly some of the other women in this department behave, I’m not part of your female fan club,” she said. “Second, I wouldn’t identify myself by my husband’s name even if he was a Nobel Prize winner for establishing world peace and finding a safe, nonpolluting, inexpensive form of energy.” She tightened her lips in a thin line as she contemplated the unappealing prospect of being married to him. “Mrs. Clint Marshall. That is so outdated and macho! Finally, the last thing I would ever want from you would be to be treated just right.”
She thrust out her chin and glared at him, sparks sizzling from those blue eyes. For the first time Clint saw that there was a tiny ember of fire in her. What could be more fun than to make it burn higher—to make the rigid, frigid Laura Carter burn with anger—and then maybe something else? He wondered what she would be like in bed, with those long, slim legs wrapped around a man, her hair loose and wild about her face. Startled out of his unexpected fantasy about Laura, he winked at her. “Trust me darlin’, if you don’t want it, then you’ve never been treated just right.” He drawled the last two words in his best Texas twang.
“Stop calling me darling,” she said between gritted teeth.
Her angry gaze locked on to his amused eyes, and Clint felt a jolt jump between them. Hot damn, he sat up a little straighter. There might be more to this filly than he’d imagined.
Laura, however, had not felt any similar connection as she turned to appeal to their captain. “Sir, pretending to be Detective Marshall’s wife seems unnecessary for this case, why we could—”
“It is completely necessary.” Clark was only in his late forties, but the lines in his face and the ever-increasing amount of white in his salt-and-pepper hair proved to Clint that he was right in his own plan to return to his hometown before the constant unrelenting pressures of big-city policing had him looking the same. The captain shoved aside the salad he was having for lunch and poured two Advil capsules into his palm from his always open bottle.
Laura frowned. “You shouldn’t take so many—”
She snapped her mouth shut when Clark glared at her.
He chewed the tablets and swallowed. “Trust me, if it was up to me, the last officers I would team up would be you two—not because I care what either of you thinks of the other, but because you are both new to my department and I don’t particularly like either of you. Now, however, you’re coming in useful. So you’re going to do exactly what I say.” He glared at them.
Clint kept on his good old boy face and Laura never twitched a muscle in hers. She was tough, he had to give her that.
Clark picked up a glass of murky greenish brown liquid and, holding his breath, swigged it. A newlywed, he’d taken to drinking the green bile as part of a health kick. He put down the glass and grimaced. “Damn, this stuff tastes so terrible it has to be good for you. Now, listen good while I go over the facts of the case—the faster I have you out of my office the better. Peter Monroe is target of the Special Financial Investigation’s case,” he nodded at the slim, blond-haired man.
“Peter Monroe of Monroe Investments?” Laura asked, a note of admiration in her voice. “He started out with nothing and has a multibillion dollar empire today.”
“That’s him,” the skinny man said. “Special Agent Vincent Garrow, SFI. I’ve been on the Monroe case for twenty months.”
So he was right, Clint thought. Garrow was an accountant or some kind of financial expert. SFI were police officers with briefcases and business degrees working on insider trading, embezzlement, scams and other financial shenanigans. It was not a department Clint wanted to be part of. He preferred people to numbers. “He must be very good to have avoided being caught doing anything guilty in that time,” Clint said. “In almost two years he must have at least cheated on his expenses.”
Garrow ignored Clint and tossed a folder on Clark’s desk. “This is everything on Monroe, including lists of his investments and businesses he’s bought and sold.”
Laura opened the file and scanned a few pages. As Clint suspected, she fit in with the pencil pushers. “Monroe’s wealth is even greater than Fortune magazine said it was, but why do you think he’s doing anything worth investigating?”
Garrow wiped his palms with his handkerchief. “We received a tip almost two years ago about Monroe laundering Russian mob money through his investment divisions.”
“If the information was solid enough for SFI to begin a full-scale investigation,” Clint asked, “why haven’t you brought charges against him?”
Garrow leaned over Laura’s shoulder and picked a piece of paper out of the file. Clint noticed Garrow linger, a little too long, close to Laura. Garrow saw Clint watching him and dropped his gaze. “Russian Mafia money definitely went through Monroe’s companies, but we can’t connect it directly to him. In fact, every piece of dirty money we’ve followed into Monroe Investments has been tied to a different division. We haven’t been able to connect anything directly and specifically to Peter Monroe—only to five of his senior executives.”
“So he’s very smart—and you can’t pin anything on him. I’m surprised you still have a full investigation on him,” Clint said. “Why don’t you arrest the suits and sweat them until one talks.”
Garrow smiled sourly. “Our case isn’t strong enough—the clues add up but broken down it’s just circumstantial evidence. High-priced lawyers will poke enough holes in our case to keep each of our suspects out of jail. We want the brains behind the money.” He stroked his upper lip and Clint wondered if he’d been on assignment recently where he’d worn a mustache. “We don’t have a complete team on Monroe anymore. In fact, for the