Silk, Lace & Videotape. Joanne Rock
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by her boyfriend today, she might have actually looked forward to seeing Duke again. God knew she was attracted. Too attracted. Maybe that was part of the problem.
Her judgment in men was more faulty than San Andreas if today’s fiasco was any indication. She wasn’t about to get burned by a flashy police detective who seemed to know where her on switch was located.
“Bye.” Amanda tossed the word over her shoulder as she left the apartment. She trotted to the elevator as fast as her pink heels would allow her. In less than sixty seconds, she was out the door and in a cab headed back uptown, safe from Duke’s knowing eyes and tempting grin.
Only then did Amanda allow herself to relax. The cabdriver was too busy swearing at traffic and the participants on his talk radio program to notice her furtive attempts to retie her merry widow, shielding her chest with her lapels.
She could hardly believe she’d escaped Victor’s apartment without anyone noticing she wore next to nothing beneath her coat. Relief slowly drifted over her, easing the aching muscles in a body that had been rigid for too many hours.
She’d made it out with her dignity and her secret weapon in tact. Amanda patted her coat pocket to reassure herself it still rested there.
She found nothing.
Ohmigod. Horrified, she patted her other pocket.
Nothing.
The cabdriver’s swearing faded to the background as panic seized her. The traffic lights and midday pedestrians blurred outside the windows, her whole attention focused on searching the taxicab seats in the hope her tape had fallen out of her pocket since she’d hopped into the car.
No luck.
She’d lost her secret weapon.
3
DUKE LINGERED IN the doorframe after Amanda left Gallagher’s apartment. He’d watched her click her way to the elevator in those hot pink Barbie doll heels, her walk as confident as if she’d been in running shoes. Behind him, the room already seemed too quiet, less animated.
Damn.
He’d let her breathy voice and glimpses of stocking distract him from his questioning—something that hadn’t happened in nearly ten years on the job with the NYPD. He’d covered his butt by asking her to stop by the precinct tomorrow, knowing the surroundings would keep his mind focused on his case and not Amanda’s legs.
Still, he hoped like hell she wore pants.
The ringing of his cell phone provided a welcome interruption.
He flipped open the speaker as he stalked Gallagher’s apartment one last time. “Rawlins.”
The male voice on the other end didn’t bother with salutations. “The word at the station is that Amanda Matthews looks even better in person than in her file photo.”
Duke’s laid-up partner, Josh Winger, had obviously heard the scoop on the day’s arrest already. “Hey, Winger. If you weren’t such a wuss you could have seen her for yourself.”
“A few more hours and the doc swears I’m non-contagious. Want me to come in and go over the evidence with you?”
Josh had three more years on the force than Duke, but the two of them had been teamed up more often than not since Duke joined the NYPD. They did a solid rendition of good cop/bad cop, and their investigative styles complemented each other.
But Duke hadn’t minded going solo today. Josh would have given him hell if he had seen how Amanda had rattled him.
“I’ve got it covered.” Duke glanced through Gallagher’s CD collection, looking for any stone left unturned in the earlier search. Maybe he’d find that final piece of damning evidence—some irrefutable link between Victor and his drug buddies. “Why don’t you watch a few more Starsky and Hutch reruns and see if you can pick up a couple of pointers.”
“The only thing I’m learning from Starsky and Hutch is that we’re getting rooked on our standard-issue vehicle. I’m thinking we need to talk to the deputy inspector about issuing us something cooler, something packing a little more horsepower.”
Finding nothing in the CDs, Duke moved to the bookshelf, another area that sometimes went overlooked in a search. He found it odd that the small collection lacked a single title on fashion or fabric. “You get the shakes driving over fifty-five anyway. My granddaddy always used to say ‘don’t bite off more than you can chew.’”
“To hear you tell it, Duke, your granddaddy spoke in pithy wisdom from the moment you were born. Did you just make up this ancestor so you could spout clichés and old wives’ tales?”
“My granddad would kick your city slicker ass if he knew you implied he was an old wife.” Duke smiled to think about it. Granddad had a deep suspicion of New York City, but he’d applauded Duke’s decision to police the Big Apple, assuring him there wasn’t a city in the world that needed a Rawlins so badly. “Besides, aren’t you grateful he made sure I always have something to say?”
Josh groaned. “Now I know who to blame. Call me if you find anything more over there, you hear me? I don’t want you blowing your promotion because you didn’t have me to help you out.”
“Go pop your pills, old man. I’ve got it covered.” Duke flipped the receiver closed before Josh could quibble.
He would make Detective, First Grade, without any help from his partner. Josh had made the upward move last year, and Duke’s review approached at the end of May. Once Duke cleaned up the Garment District with a round of solid felony arrests this spring, his record would be prime for an upgrade.
So shall you scale the stars…another bit of Granddad’s wisdom. Maybe a promotion in the police department wasn’t quite so poetic, but Duke worked with what he had. He loved this job.
He headed to the couch cushions, often a goldmine for scraps of notepaper or maybe an incriminating bill of some sort. Gallagher’s couch looked like it benefited from frequent maid service, however.
He moved to the wingback next. The chair still held a trace of Amanda Matthews’s scent—something clean and rain-washed and simple. Like one flower instead of ten.
She was a mix of contradictions. The conservative trench coat and straightforward fragrance seemed at odds with her starlet hairstyle and pink stockings. Any way Duke added it up, Amanda still emerged from the equation appealing as hell.
Too bad she was a society fixture and mixed up with a criminal to boot. No matter how good she smelled, Amanda Matthews earned a place on Duke’s personal “off-limits” list.
Heaven knew, he could spend hours debating Ms. Matthews’s charms, but he had a job to finish. Duke ordered his nose to ignore the flowery temptations as he lifted the gray leather cushion.
A black rectangular case slid to the floor.
“What the…” How had the search team missed this earlier today? Duke rolled on a pair of latex gloves and bent to retrieve the item.
He opened the case, confirming his suspicion that a videotape rested inside. A white sticker labeled it “Private” in pencil.
Storing the evidence in a plastic bag, Duke pondered the handwriting on the sticker. He might not have a graphology degree, but he sensed a deliberateness in the dark stroke of the lines as if the writer had really meant the “Private” warning.
The thrill of crime busting snaked through him—the same thirst for justice that had pushed him through four years of college and almost a decade on the force. He couldn’t wait to go review the tape tonight at the precinct.
It took him less than an hour to make a final sweep of the place and talk to the building superintendent about Gallagher’s comings and goings. Duke made a few last notes and then headed for the lobby, hoping to get back to the station before commuter traffic kicked in.
He