To Trust a Cop. Sharon Hartley
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Johnson had hired Merlene to conduct surveillance on her husband of fifteen years. Merlene glanced at the photo of a flashy blonde clipped to her visor. If the woman showed up at the house while Patricia spent the next month in North Carolina...well, that was more than enough proof for the high-strung and very jealous Mrs. Johnson.
But Merlene knew she would need much more to prove infidelity to the satisfaction of a judge, so she’d signed a contract to follow Dr. Johnson around Miami for a month, if necessary, to get the goods on him.
Merlene knew how to trail a subject—and not get caught—and now had a license that made it legal.
Just ask my ex-husband, she thought. Now, there was a doctor who’d thought he could get away with anything. Merlene shook her head to rid herself of thoughts of her ex. She didn’t want to believe all men were pond scum, but she’d yet to take a case and discover that the husband had been faithful.
She poured a cup of steaming coffee from her battered Thermos and settled in the seat, her gaze fixed on the Johnson residence. Pat had also promised to recommend her to a friend who did the hiring at a major insurance company if she caught Doc Johnson with his mistress. As she sipped, the strong, hot liquid warmed Merlene. Wouldn’t she just love a regular gig tracking down workers’ comp cheats? That would be more rewarding that chasing cheating husbands. She’d also liked the idea of saving the feds a million or so in Medicare fraud.
A bead of sweat trickled between her breasts, and Merlene pulled her cotton blouse away from damp skin. Miami in August and hot coffee didn’t mix, but she needed the caffeine to stay alert.
She had other props to help, her favorite being Häagen-Dazs Chocolate Chocolate-Chip ice cream slowly melting in a blue cooler. Nothing like a jolt of cool, creamy sugar to keep her focused when she got sleepy. She’d packed plenty of crisp tortilla chips and spicy salsa to munch on. Unfortunately, she didn’t have enough light to read.
With a sigh, Merlene took another gulp of coffee. The night promised to be a long one. She glanced in the rearview mirror and froze midswallow.
A large figure moved swiftly toward her car.
She dropped her cup in the console and rolled up the window. All four doors were locked. Her keys hung from the ignition for a quick getaway.
“Damn,” she muttered, as the shadowy figure became clearer. As surely as the Grand Ole Opry was in Nashville, a cop of some sort was on his way to speak to her. She’d been able to spot a cop since the age of ten.
No uniform, no marked car visible. Detective, maybe? Could Doc Johnson have spotted her and called 911?
Merlene fished her investigator’s license from her purse and waited for the tall, muscular man to get closer. Early thirties, she guessed, and annoyed about something by the way he punched out determined steps. Good-looking dude from what she could tell, but why the blazes would any man wear a tie in August?
He stopped two feet from the back of her car. “Merlene Saunders?” he shouted. “Miami-Dade County Police.”
So he’d run her license plate. Of course he had.
She rolled down the window and dangled her investigator’s license outside. “I’m unarmed.”
The cop approached and grabbed the license. “You’re a P.I.?”
Craning her head out the window to see his face, she nodded. “Any chance I could see your ID?”
He flashed a detective’s badge, and she barely had time to register the name Cody Warren.
“What’s the problem, Detective Warren?”
He handed back the license, placed his hands on her door and leaned forward to look inside. “What are you doing here, ma’am?”
“I’m on a case.” She patted the camcorder. “Conducting surveillance.”
“Does your surveillance have anything to do with Dr. Richard Johnson?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Then we have a problem.”
“We do?” Merlene stared at Cody Warren, and he glared back with a crystal-blue glare she could easily interpret in the dying light. He didn’t want her here.
Well, so what? She didn’t want him here, either. Cops made her nervous. Plus, his presence could attract attention from the Johnson house.
“Why don’t you hop in and tell me about this problem,” she suggested.
He peered into her tiny car, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to sit on your nachos.”
A rush of heat warmed her face. From the chaos surrounding her, it appeared as if a hurricane had blown through her car.
Well, no one ever said conducting a stakeout was easy.
“No problem,” she mumbled, tossing books and snacks into the backseat. She carefully placed the video camera and her new digital camera on the floorboard behind her, then threw her notebook onto the dash next to her binoculars and a deck of cards.
Her compact car became much too small when the cop folded himself into the passenger seat. Damn if his knees didn’t almost reach his chest.
“Does this thing slide back?” Warren asked, reaching for a lever beneath the seat. Before she could answer, he sent the seat zooming back, crackling cellophane and pulverizing her half-eaten bag of corn chips.
He glanced at her. “What the hell was that?”
“My dinner.”
He retrieved the crushed bag from behind the seat and raised an eyebrow. “Very nutritious.”
Merlene lifted her chin. “So I take it you’re with the diet police, Detective Warren. Some sort of special task force to ferret out fat?”
His expression morphed into a scowl. She shifted her weight, knowing she should have curbed her tongue. But that all-knowing male smirk had been too much.
“So what’s your interest in Richard Johnson?” Detective Warren demanded, now all business.
“I’ve been hired to keep track of his activities.”
“By who?”
“That’s confidential.”
He scrubbed his fingers against his chin, and Merlene heard an unmistakable scratch that meant he hadn’t shaved in a while. Long day?
Wishing cops didn’t always make her uneasy, she studied the detective in the fading light. He had an angular yet handsome face, a strong, confident jaw. His nose featured a slight bump, and she wondered if it’d been broken in a fight on the job. From the way he dominated space in the Toyota, he had to be at least six-two. The cotton shirt across his torso confirmed an iron-flat stomach, not an ounce of fat anywhere on him, probably because he never ate junk food.
Good for him.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Saunders?”
Merlene jerked her gaze to Warren’s face. He watched her with a frown. Lord, what was the matter with her, checking out his body? She swallowed. “I’m wondering why the police are interested in Dr. Johnson.”
Cody shook his head. “Mrs. Saunders, the Miami-Dade Police would greatly appreciate your discontinuing surveillance of the doctor.”
“Why’s that?”
“Let’s just say your presence here could jeopardize a lot of work. Interference with a police investigation is something we take seriously.”
“By sitting here I’m interfering?”
“Possibly.”
“Are you going to give me any details?”
“No, ma’am.”
Merlene sighed, knowing she had to do as