Skin Deep (Station Seventeen #1)(33)
Carmen nodded. “Danny might be moving up in the game, but he ain’t gonna forget his roots when they mean he can make a fast buck or get an easy lay. He still slums it sometimes, doing business over by the park on Atlantic Boulevard Friday and Saturday nights. Skinny guy, really curly dark hair. Talks about himself in the third person all the time, you know ‘Danny Marcus says he’s ready to play,’ and stupid shit like that.”
She paused to laugh, although the sound didn’t hold a whole lot of joy. “He has a thing for Hispanic girls. He’ll probably love you. ’Til he finds out you’re a cop, anyway.”
“Thank you, Carmen. You’ve been really helpful.” Isabella took the other four twenties from the back pocket of her jeans, carefully putting them into the tip jar before taking a step back from the counter.
“Aren’t you gonna eat your pizza? I thought you said you were hungry.” Carmen pointed to the paper plates still splitting the divide between them, but Moreno just smiled.
“The pizza’s for you. Take care of yourself, mija. I’ve got an appetite for something far bigger than food.”
8
Isabella coaxed her cell phone to life with a quick tap of her thumb, the time stamp display cutting through the shadows around the pier and filling her chest with a whole lot of oh-hell-yes. She had just about an hour to scope out the park on Atlantic Boulevard and figure out a strategy for her next move. If—no, when she spun this Danny Marcus thing just right and got him to give up the wrestler guy, she’d likely have enough of a lead on whoever was hurting the women in those pictures for Peterson to open an investigation. With the mention of high-end “parties” and the way Wrestler Guy had been obviously recruiting prostitutes, there was no chance the connection between all the pieces was merely a coincidence. All she needed was some sort of hard evidence from Danny to link the whole thing together.
Evidence she was a lot less likely to get with Walker going along for the ride. And judging by the way he was walking no more than a foot beside her on the boardwalk and looking way too sexy for his own good—not to mention way, way too expectant about the next move—convincing him to let her fly solo was going to be a ten-foot-tall order.
“I’ve got some time to kill before I head down to Atlantic Boulevard.” Isabella kept her voice as neutral as possible, as if she were remarking on the weather or hockey scores or anything else that didn’t have a massive bearing on breaking the case in front of her wide open. “Nothing starts moving in that neighborhood until at least midnight, so that gives me plenty of time to drop you back at your car.”
Walker’s mouth curled into a smile, and really, was it too much to ask that he have crooked teeth or bad breath or something that would keep her freaking lady bits in check?
“You’re not taking me back to my car,” he said, and she stopped short on the pavement leading back to the dilapidated side street where they’d left the Mustang, crossing her arms over her chest so tightly that the seams of her jacket dug into her shoulders.
“I agreed to let you come with me to the pizza place, Kellan.”
“Yes you did, Isabella,” he replied in the exact same tone, and shit. So much for the first name thing working on him. “And now I’m going to come with you to the park on Atlantic Boulevard to try and find Danny Marcus.”
Tread carefully, girl. “I don’t need a chaperone.”
“Well that’s a relief, because ‘babysitter’ isn’t on my resume.” Walker spun a gaze over the dusky street, tipping his head toward the spot where her car stood a half a block away before they both started walking again. “I’m not trying to mess with you, but my original argument stands. Pursuing this case off the books in a rough neighborhood without backup is dangerous. Not to mention stupid.”
“Thank you,” she said, although fuck all, he was right. Atlantic Boulevard definitely wasn’t brimming with milk and cookies, especially after midnight. Still, putting her own ass on the line was one thing. Putting someone else’s, especially when that ass belonged to a civilian? That was risky with a capital R. “I already bent the hell out of the rules by bringing you to the pizza place.”
“You’re bending the rules by doing all of this, with or without me. The least you can do is let me make sure you won’t get yourself shot, stabbed, or worse.” Walker paused, his feet coming to a stop beside her Mustang. “Would it make you feel any better to know I have tactical training?”
Curiosity pumped through her veins, riding her quickening pulse, but she stuffed it back in favor of popping the locks on the car and climbing into the driver’s seat. “Unless it’s with the RPD and you have a super-secret badge I don’t know about, no.”
Walker slid into the passenger seat, his body radiating both stealth and strength and his jaw hard-wired in determination. “Even if my training came courtesy of the Army Rangers and I could put a kill shot on damn near anything within two hundred yards of here using nothing more than the Glock in your glove box?”
Holy crap. She knew he’d spent some time in the Army, but… “You were a goddamn sniper for the Army Rangers? How come you never said anything?”
“Because.” He blew out a barely audible breath. “It’s not something I advertise, just like I imagine you don’t brag about being a cop.”