| |
THE INTERLOPER FILLED the doorway. Roughly thirty, he didn’t care much about his appearance. His suit hung off him like next week’s dry cleaning. Morning coffee stained his shirt. His tie was crooked. His five-o’clock shadow was approaching midnight, and his dark eyes burned. But when he ran those same smoldering eyes over me, they melted into dark chocolate candies with creamy centers.
“Why if it isn’t Detective Pennyroyal,” I said. “Homicide dick of the Sixteenth Precinct.”
The homicide squad swarmed into the hotel room. Starr made his way out, nodded discreetly in Pennyroyal’s direction, and sauntered down the corridor. He moved like a dancer. Long legs, fluid gait, swaggering carriage. I wondered who the hell he was, what he was after, and how he was connected to Pennyroyal. Before the day was out, I’d uncover the answer to at least one of those questions.
I peeled my eyes away from his departing back and glared at Pennyroyal. “You two know each other?” I asked.
He clamped a fist around my arm and steered me into the hall, banging the door shut in his wake.
Pennyroyal was bullying me just like he bullied everybody else, and I told him so. “You’re just a bully.”
Dark hair tumbled over his furrowed brow. His temper was at breaking point, but he managed to hold in his anger even while his jaw was grinding. “Bully, did you say?” He stared at me from the top of my hair to the tips of my toes. He had a way of undressing me that made me blush.
“A big, ugly, arrogant brute of a bully.”
His smirk was insolent. He still had a solid grip of my arm. We stared each other down. I could see his mind weighing several alternatives: send me off with a pat to my ass; sling me across his lap and give me a spanking; or kiss me until I begged for mercy. Instead, he ripped away my shoulder bag, slapped me flat against the wall, and pinned me there. “Put your hands above your head.”
“The hell I will,” I said, struggling to break free.
“If you don’t cooperate, doll face, I’m going to have to take you in for questioning.”
I stopped struggling. “You wouldn’t dare,” I growled.
“Try me.” He meant it. The second hand of his watch ticked in my ear. I was stubborn. He was immovable. He intended to keep me pinned like a fly on a board until I cooperated. I lifted my arms.
He chuckled. “Higher.”
I muttered under my breath and reached for the sky.
He chuckled again and kicked out my feet. “Comfortable?” It was an ungainly position, knees locked and fingers doing pushups on the wall. My heart began to pound. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He started to frisk me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I sputtered.
“My job.” He ran his hands up and down my legs, methodically searching for contraband. The only contraband I carried was silk stockings and high heels.
“You’re patting me down?”
“Looking for the murder weapon.” His voice was cool. Collected. Vindictive.
“You’re not serious,” I said, my voice tight with rage.
“Damned serious.” He chuckled a third time. “Besides, I love it when you get angry.” He transitioned his search in an upward trajectory, manhandling me, probing, trespassing in extremely private places, and yet being clinical, like a doctor. Except he wasn’t a doctor. He was a cop with attitude.
I glared at him over my shoulder. “You’re scum, Pennyroyal. Slime. A royal bastard.”
“My mother tells me the same thing.”
“She would know.”
He chuckled yet again and completed the pat down according to the police handbook. Professionally, detached, missing nothing, mean as hell.
“You ... you’re treating me like ... like a common criminal.”
“Saying you’re not?”
Then and there, I decided I was going to get him for this. I was going to make him pay. It might take a while, but he was going to be sorry he messed with Iris Grenadine. “Finished yet?”
“Enjoying myself too much.”
His hands came away. He retrieved my pocketbook, rifled through the contents, and made an inventory. “Compact, lipstick, wallet, cash, keys, gum, mascara, checkbook, pencils, pen, Tampons, Kleenex, paper clip, nail file, condom ...”
I swore under my breath.
“... Tootsie Rolls, mints, aspirin, comb, floss, change purse, extra pair of nylons, spiral notebook ....” He flipped through the pages. “Writing a book, Grenadine?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I smoothed out the wrinkles he had ironed into my clothes.
“Okay,” he said, stuffing the notebook back into my purse. “Guess you’re not carrying ... except for the condom.”
“It’s not mine,” I said, narrowing my eyes.
“Yeah, sure, you’re just keeping it for a friend.” He cupped my chin, lifted it to the perfect kissing angle, and planted a smooch on my lips. “Just doing my job, doll face. Shouldn’t take it so personal.”
I used my sleeve to wipe the smooch off my mouth. “Feeling me up is as personal as it gets.”
“Anyone discovered at the scene of a crime usually makes them a suspect.” His smile was smug. He nudged his head in the direction of the hotel room. “So what did you find out?”
It wasn’t the first time he pumped me for information on one of his cases. Damned if I’d give him the satisfaction. “Every Thursday afternoon,” I said. “Your wife Libby.”
Amused, he smiled. It was a winning smile accompanied by slightly crooked teeth, angelic dimples, cleft chin, and sober eyes. “Police Lieutenant Libertine Pennyroyal?”
“And Joe Trueblood,” I said.
The sober eyes clouded. “What about my ex-partner?”
“He’s getting it on with the mother of your future children.”
The winning smile turned down. “Uh-huh ....”
“At a motel near Midway Airport.”
The angelic dimples flattened. He shrugged off his sports coat, meticulously folded it backwards along the spine, and hoisted it over his shoulder by a finger, exposing a yellow sweat stain beneath his armpit. He was built like a skyscraper: solid foundation, sturdy underpinning, flexible joists, private rooftop deck, and two search beacons on constant lookout. If only he would power wash the exterior occasionally, he might attract members of the opposite sex, including Mrs. Pennyroyal. “I know exactly where my wife is Thursday afternoons.”
“Between three and five?”
He wasn’t amused anymore.
“And you call yourself a dick.” I shuffled back toward the hotel room.
He grabbed a wrist and hauled me against his washer-board chest. Anger hardened his eyes, creased the corners of his mouth, and pinched his nostrils.
I glared at his fist. “You’re interfering with my First Amendment rights.”
His voice was constricted with barely contained wrath. “And you’re interfering with a homicide investigation.” He opened his hand.
“Tell me,” I said, reaching for his tie and pushing the knot against his Adam’s apple. “Who had it in for Byrnes?”
Sexual tension had replaced wrath. He curled a finger through a lock of my hair. “The murderer is a jealous husband.”
“If I were you, I’d look for a blonde.”
“We’ll find a skirt, all right.” His lips closed in on mine. “And when we track down the hubby she cheated on, we’ll have our shooter.” He was about to deliver on the promise of a kiss when a bodacious brunette sauntered our way, hips swinging and boobs jiggling.
“Oh, isn’t this too cozy for words,” she said. “Is Iris the prime suspect?” A year older than me and pleasingly plump, Monica Seagraves was shrouded from head to toe in black, better to hide all those candy bars, donuts, and muffins. A picture hat flopping over one brazen eye lent an air of mystery. Like me, she was a beat reporter for the Daily Standard. She’d already beaten me out of more than one scoop.
After licking the end of a flashbulb and screwing it into the socket of her Brownie Hawkeye camera, she said, “Excuse me,” and sashayed into the hotel room. Immediately upon entering, the flashbulb popped.
I turned to follow her inside. Pennyroyal dragged me back and sent me packing with a pat on my derrière.
“Why does she get squatting rights?”
“Unlike you, she’s a real reporter.”
“Oh, I get it. She’s here to whitewash the story,” I said, winking. “Are you sleeping with her, too?”
“Out of here, before I really lose my temper.” He sauntered into the hotel room, slammed the door in my face, and turned the bolt.
