Internal Affairs. Alana Matthews
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As Lisa struggled to breathe, he loosened his grip on her throat and she stumbled sideways. But before she could move away from him, he grabbed hold of her arm and shoved her back against the wall.
She was too stunned to move. This was the first time he had ever laid a hand on her.
“Don’t you talk to me like that again, you little gold digger.” He held her in place and slipped his free hand inside her robe, grabbing her right breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple. “You may have snagged the gold, but the way I see it, you’ve got a long way to go before you earn—”
A ratcheting sound cut him off. They turned and saw Beatrice standing at the foot of the stairs, a shotgun in her hands, leveled at Oliver.
“You’d best get your paws off her real quick, son. I wouldn’t want to muss up the lady’s new robe.”
Tears of relief filled Lisa’s eyes. She hadn’t even known Bea owned a shotgun—wouldn’t have approved if she did, not with Chloe in the house—but the old woman looked as if she knew how to use it and Lisa welcomed the sight.
“If you think I’m kidding,” Bea continued, “just try me.”
Oliver released Lisa, but his body went rigid, the coldness in his eyes turning into a hard, angry stare. “You don’t have the guts, you old bat.”
“Don’t I?” She moved forward. “My daddy taught me how to use this scattergun when I was twelve years old. I’ve never shot at nothin’ but tin cans, but I’m all too happy to find out what a round of buck can do to a grown man’s face. I don’t imagine it’ll be pretty.”
“I didn’t come here alone,” Oliver told her. “I’ve got men outside and all I have to do is sound the alarm.”
Bea smiled. “You go right ahead and do that, son, see what it gets you.”
He studied her a moment longer, then did as she asked and backed away, throwing his hands up as he moved. “Never argue with a shotgun.”
“Damn right.”
Lisa took a deep breath and said, “Get out of here, Oliver, and don’t come back.”
He snapped his gaze toward her. “Or what?”
“Or I go to the police.”
“Why? Because I copped a feel?” He grinned. “Judging by the way your body reacted, I’d say you were enjoying it.”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Lisa said.
His face got hard and Bea gestured with the shotgun. “Son, I’m about two tics away from squeezing this trigger—and it isn’t much of a target, but I’ll be aiming at your talliwacker.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna regret this,” he said, then looked at Lisa. “Both of you.”
He walked to the front door and yanked it open, then turned in the doorway and smiled at them again, using his thumb and forefinger to form a gun.
“You’re about to find out what happens to women who dump on Oliver Sloan …”
He pretended to pull the trigger, then turned again and went outside.
Chapter Two
The call came in two hours earlier. Gunshots heard by an insomniac, coming from the auto repair shop next to his apartment building.
“Unit Fourteen, we’ve got a possible 142 in progress, can you respond?”
“Roger, dispatch. I’m on it.”
Sheriff’s deputy Rafael Franco was in the middle of his usual graveyard shift, happy to have the distraction after a night of shoveling up street drunks and carting them to the holding tank. It was a part of the job he had never enjoyed, mostly because his skill and brains were being underutilized by the department.
His college diploma still had a bit of wet ink on it, but he was frustrated that he hadn’t yet been promoted.
Rafe had been with the Sheriff’s department for nearly three years now, the newest and greenest member of the Franco family to wear a badge. The Francos and law enforcement went all the way back to his great-great-grandfather Tomas, an Italian immigrant who had joined the St. Louis police force when it was little more than a ragtag group of men with guns and good intentions.
Rafe knew he had a lot to live up to, but he felt restless working the streets, and figured he had already paid his dues. He was tired of patrol duty. What he really wanted was to join his sister, Kate, on the homicide squad, where brains and reasoning and solid evidence-gathering far outweighed your ability to heft a drunk into the backseat of your cruiser.
Unfortunately, Rafe didn’t get the impression he’d be bumped up anytime soon. But a report of gunshots gave him hope. Not that he wished any other human being ill, but if he happened to luck into something big, maybe he’d get a chance to demonstrate his investigative skills.
He also didn’t mind the distraction from his thoughts tonight. As always, he had taken a long nap before reporting to duty, and a dream he’d had was haunting him—a vague, half-remembered remnant from his college years, featuring a girl he had once loved. He had awakened from it feeling disoriented and a little sad, filled with a vague, undefinable yearning that he couldn’t quite shake.
Rafe hadn’t seen the girl in over three years now, but she still showed up on the doorstep of his mind every now and then and he’d often thought of trying to contact her. Their breakup had been mutual—both convinced that they were too young to be getting serious—but Rafe often regretted the decision and wondered if she did, too.
He hadn’t met a woman since who had made him feel the way she had. And that dream, as hazy as it was, hadn’t done him any favors.
THE AUTO BODY SHOP was located on a deserted city street, nestled between a run-down apartment building and an abandoned drive-in liquor store.
The place was dark when Rafe pulled up to the curb. A sea of cars in various states of disrepair crowded the lot out front, making the place look more like a junkyard than a body shop. The garage—a large rectangular structure—was located in back and, by Rafe’s count, sported nine repair bays, each with its aluminum roll door closed and locked for the night.
Off to the right of the building was a connecting office with its front door hanging open, nothing but darkness beyond.
Something obviously wasn’t right here.
To Rafe’s mind, this was an indication that the caller might not have been hearing things. Too often reports of gunshots are nothing more than a car backfiring or kids playing with firecrackers, but that open door suggested something far more sinister.
Rafe called it in, told the dispatcher he was on the scene. That he’d stay in radio contact as he checked it out.
Grabbing his flashlight from the glove compartment, he killed his engine and climbed out of the cruiser. He moved off to his left, not wanting to approach the open door directly, in case the shooter—assuming there was one—was still inside.
Stepping into the sea of cars, he stayed low and carefully made his way around and through them, drawing closer to the office, making sure to come at the doorway from an angle.
He was about ten yards away when he stopped, crouched behind an old Chevy Malibu missing its grill, and peered into the darkness beyond the threshold, looking for signs of life inside.
Nothing but still air in there.
Nobody home.
Satisfied that he was alone out here, Rafe stood up, clicked the radio on his shoulder.
“Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen. Looks like it’s clear out here, but I’m headed inside for a closer look.”
“Do you need backup?”
“I