All A Man Can Do. Virginia Kantra
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waistline. You’re—what?—thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?”
“Forty.”
Just out of her age range and way out of her league. She looked at his hands, clasped on the table in front of him. His fingers were long and blunt-tipped, the nails neatly trimmed but otherwise neglected. “You’re not married now, but you were once. Maybe more than once. You’re straight. You don’t smoke, you drink beer, you vote Democrat and think Republican. How am I doing?”
He waited while their waitress, a straw-haired blonde in wilted polyester, filled his cup. “Pretty good…Sherlock.”
Maybe he had a sense of humor after all. Maybe she had a shot at a story. She had been so afraid, back at the station, that Sweet’s snotty comment or her own impulsive confession had ruined everything. But maybe there was a real, live, warm human being buried inside the Man of Ice.
She smiled engagingly. “Your turn.”
He took a sip of coffee. Black. “A good detective doesn’t theorize ahead of his facts.”
She sat up straighter on the vinyl bench. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’d have to spend more time with you before I developed any theories.”
She was deflated. Provoked. “That’s an interesting pickup line,” she said coolly.
“Just making conversation until our order gets here. Tell me about your ride in a police car when you were fourteen.”
The Man of Ice was back. “That was a long time ago.”
“But you remember. Were you scared?”
“I’m not scared of anything.” But she had been. Oh, she had been.
“So tell me about it.”
“It wasn’t anything. Kid stuff. Shoplifting.” It had been her brother’s birthday, she remembered. Mark had had his eleven-year-old heart set on a football, and she’d had her heart set on getting it—on getting anything—for him. Both of them had been disappointed. End of story.
“And you’ve been on the straight and narrow ever since,” Denko said dryly.
She raised her chin at his challenge. “Pretty nearly.” No point in pouring out the particulars. She was big on telling the truth. But not about her own past.
The waitress arrived with their food. She started to set the grapefruit in front of Tess when Denko stopped her.
“Other way around,” he said. “You’ve got us mixed up.”
Noreen wasn’t the only one who’d turned things around, Tess thought morosely. She stared at her plate. A mound of butter slid from the stack of pancakes to plop against the lonely orange wedge. For crying out loud, she was the reporter. She was used to getting people to talk, to confide in her. She was good at it.
But Jarek Denko was better.
She picked up her knife. “So, what brings a big, bad detective from Chicago to our little town?”
“How do you know I’m from Chicago?”
That was a cop’s trick, answering a question with another question. Reporters used it, too.
“I asked the mayor,” Tess said. “Were you fired?”
He didn’t get mad. “No.”
She poked a wedge of pancake. “You can’t have moved here for the excitement.”
He almost smiled. “No.”
“Then, why did you move here?”
“Personal reasons,” he said briefly.
Tess sniffed. “Oh, that’s illuminating. What kind of personal reasons? Breakdown? Breakup?”
A brief gleam lit those remote gray eyes. “What do you want, Miss DeLucca? My medical history or a blood test?”
Oh, boy. He wasn’t—he couldn’t be flirting with her. Could he? She swallowed a lump of pancake. “If you want to share.”
“No.”
“Trouble on the job?” she prodded sympathetically.
He eased back in the booth, his gaze steady, his voice calm. “Why don’t you ask the mayor?”
“I did. She said you were a regular Boy Scout.”
His smile appeared, a thin sliver in the ice. “That would be my brother. I was an altar boy.”
“You’re Catholic?” Ha. Her mother would love that. Not that Dizzy DeLucca was a saint herself, but she wanted one for her daughter.
The new police chief nodded.
“So, you have a brother. Any sisters?” Tess persisted.
“One of each.”
He was answering. This was good. At least, it was an improvement. “And what do they do now?”
“She’s a librarian. He’s Chicago PD.” Jarek took another sip of coffee and set his cup precisely in the center of the saucer. “How about you?”
“One brother.”
“Yeah? Older or younger?”
“Younger. Listen, do you—”
“He live with you?”
“I live alone.” She moistened her lips and flashed him her best smile. She was not letting him take control of this interview again. “Fishing, Chief Denko? I didn’t think you brought me here to hear about my personal life.”
He didn’t laugh. “I didn’t bring you here. What do you want, Miss DeLucca? A favor? A lead?”
“An interview. For the Eden Town Gazette.”
“Why didn’t you ask me back at the station house?”
“Because I was afraid you’d say no.”
He nodded again, not saying anything.
Tess picked at the chipped edge of one nail. “Well?” she asked finally.
“No,” he said.
She scowled. “Why not?”
“I’m not news.”
“You know that’s not true. People are always interested in their public officials. Even in Chicago, you’d get a column. Up here, you get the front page and my undivided attention. You’re the biggest news to hit town since Simon Ford.”
Denko looked blank. So he didn’t know everything. Tess found that reassuring.
“Simon Ford,” she repeated. “The inventor? He bought Angel Island.”
“You mean, he bought a house there.”
“No, he bought the island. The point is, you’re our lead story. Well, unless my editor decides to run with the new traffic light out at the high school or the Lutheran ladies’ zucchini cook-off. But I think we’ve got a good chance.”
A corner of his nicely shaped mouth quirked up. “I’m flattered. But, no.”
“What do you have to lose?”
“My privacy?” he suggested dryly.
She arched her eyebrows. “What do you have to hide?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well, then…” She let her voice trail off expectantly.
He eyed her with a combination of amusement and annoyance. “You’re persistent.”
“In my job, you have to be.”
“In my job, too. And I’m not convinced letting it all hang out