Sizzle in the City. Wendy Etherington
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turned. He’d opened her file. Suspicious of his curiosity, she nodded. “I know. I have the digital recordings to back up everything.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. All these people would have to be interviewed by a cop.”
“So interview them.” She glared down at him, feeling better that she had the height advantage. “You guys know something squirrelly’s going on. Mrs. Rosenberg lives right here in the city, and she told me she filed a report with you guys months ago. Why won’t you help?”
“The case crosses state lines. That makes it federal.”
She leaned over, bracing her hand in the center of his desk. “Oh, that’s just crap. Unless Banfield walks into a bank with a loaded pistol, it’ll be years before the Feds get around to this case. And why should he resort to violence anyway? He’s doing just fine, smiling and lying and taking every meager penny these hardworking people have spent their lives earning. It’s unconscionable.”
He stood, taking her advantage with a single movement. “Where the hell are you from?”
“Texas.”
“That explains it.” He raked his hand through his inky hair, just as she’d imagined earlier.
The state of attraction along with dissent was foreign to her. When she liked a guy, she liked him. She had no idea what to make of this encounter. Or of him and where he stood.
“I’m not supposed to tell you what I’m about to,” he said, sounding as aggravated as he looked. “But I don’t want you going all Wyatt Earp on me and shooting down the guy at the local watering hole.”
“Wyatt Earp’s showdown took place in Arizona, not Texas.”
“You’re sure?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Pretty positive. Not to mention that happened about 130 years ago. Texans are independent and self-sufficient, not idiotic.”
“Stubborn comes to mind,” he muttered. “But whatever. I actually know about Banfield. One of our guys interviewed Mrs. Rosenberg, but we couldn’t find anybody else to corroborate her claim.”
“That’s because Banfield moves all over.”
“He’s technically a Brit. And now he’s bought a hotel in midtown.”
For the first time, Calla realized there was more going on behind the detective’s emerald eyes than resentment. “He certainly has.”
He tapped her folder with the tip of his finger. “I’ll look into the statements of the other victims, though you should know that people are reluctant to go on record about being duped.”
“I have complete faith in your powers of persuasion, Detective.”
“I’ll contact you if I have any questions. You got a card?”
She pulled one from the front pocket of her briefcase and handed it to him. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
His mouth twitched on one side, as if he might actually be tempted to smile. “All part of the community-service motto.”
“Good to know.”
She turned to leave without shaking his hand again. She finally felt as if they’d reached an even keel. The last thing she needed was to incite her lust again.
“And, Calla …”
When she turned, she found his perpetual scowl in place—which somehow didn’t lessen his attractiveness. His toughness made him all the more appealing. “Hmm?” she asked, perfectly aware she was staring.
“We’d really rather keep our information to ourselves for now. Let me look into this. No more victim interviews. Don’t go to the press. Don’t approach Banfield, don’t talk about him, don’t contact him in any way. Clear?”
A picture of the party the night before flashed in Calla’s memory. “Oh, sure.” She swallowed. “I imagine the NYPD looks down on vigilantes.”
“You bet your cute Texas ass we do.”
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