The Killing Game(13)

Chapter Three



Early Thursday morning Luke Denton slowly surfaced and immediately realized he was gonna have one helluva hangover. He was lying on his back, on his bed, and he cracked one eye open at the same time his hand encountered warm human flesh lying beside him. That got him awake. He inched his head around enough to see the bare back and arm of Iris Holchek, his ex-girlfriend.

Well, ain’t that a kick in the pants.

She didn’t appear to be wearing much of anything. He did a quick tactile survey and was relieved to discover he was shirtless but still in the aged denim jeans he’d worn the night before.

The. Night. Before.

See, this is the problem, Denton. When she broke it off, you should have been an * and refused to talk to her anymore. You know you never wanted the relationship. And during those first few weeks of hell after Bolchoy’s screwup, she gave you the perfect out. But, oh no, you had to be nice to her. Too polite. Now what the hell are you gonna do?

As if hearing his thoughts, Iris turned over and opened her cool blue eyes. “Hey, lover,” she said.

Uh-oh.

“I’ve been waiting for you to sleep it off, so we could . . .” Her fingers started trailing along his arm and slipped under the covers, tippy-tapping their way down his abdomen toward . . .

He reached down and clamped a hand over her wrist. “Might I ask what you’re doing here?”

She smiled that cat-and-cream smile that had once heated his blood but now sent every nerve ending on red alert, and not in a good way. “You were way friendlier last night.”

“Last night I was strategizing with friends about Bolchoy.”

The chill was immediate. She yanked her hand back and regarded him coldly. “The man’s going to jail. I just don’t see how you can throw your career away over him.” Flinging back the covers, she got out of bed and angrily picked up a scrap of black lace thong underwear that she stepped into, her back to him. Then she shimmied into a tight black dress that he remembered had cost such a fortune he’d thought it was a joke when she’d told him the price. It was her money, so his comment was out of line, but her anger over his disbelief had made him see how the gap between them was expanding, not contracting.

“He’s got to go to trial first, and that might not happen.”

“I told you. Corkland is putting him away. Gleefully. Bolchoy is a black eye on the department, and no one at Portland PD can save him. That’s the mood of the country, lover. Police do bad things, they go to jail, just like everyone else.”

“Whatever Bolchoy did wasn’t a bad thing.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” She stepped into tall pewter heels and searched around for her bag. “Meanwhile, my boss is dropping the hammer on him.”

She was referring to T.J. Corkland, the district attorney who had a serious hard-on to put Bolchoy away. Iris worked in the DA’s office and she was just as eager to put Bolchoy behind bars as her boss, though her reasons were slightly different. Corkland thought it would look good politically to prove that the police weren’t above the law; Iris just wanted Luke to see what kind of a scumbag his ex-partner was. She blamed Bolchoy for Luke quitting the force, when in actuality, Luke had already been pretty fed up with the powers that be above him who made all the decisions. Bolchoy had overstepped his bounds, allegedly manufacturing evidence that proved the Carrera brothers’ guilt—he’d probably done it, too, Luke thought with a grimace, knowing his ex-partner’s penchant to run around the law—and the wrath of the department had descended upon him. No one had Ray’s back except Luke and Opal Amberson, and they’d been warned against picking the wrong team. The result was Luke quit, and Opal damn near did.

Iris had not been happy when Luke left the department. After screaming at him for all she was worth, she had broken up with him, flooding Luke with relief, which her sharp eyes had caught. She’d been instantly hurt, though she’d never said anything to him about it, and let’s face it, he hadn’t wanted to go into it either.

That had been nearly a year ago. Luke had spent the next couple of months wondering what the hell to do with his life. Private security/investigation sort of found him, not the other way around, and he was still working through the hours to get his license. This had pissed off Iris no end. She couldn’t believe he’d given up being a detective with the Portland PD for some kind of “half-assed” private practice. Though they’d gotten under his skin, he’d ignored her rants and had set a course for himself with a determination that was new to him. Iris was no longer his girlfriend, so he was a free man and could do whatever he damned well pleased. Becoming a private investigator was what he chose.

Last night he’d met with Opal and Yates and DeSantos, and they’d all gone down to Tiny Tim’s, which was little more than a hole in the wall, with some of the cheapest beer around. Tiny Tim himself, over three hundred pounds, eschewed all the microbeers and cutting-edge cuisine Portland was so famous for these days, and served up favorite standards like Pabst, Bud, and Coors, along with greasy fries, jalape?o poppers with basic ranch dressing or tarted-up with raspberry jam, onion rings, and hot dogs or hamburgers (lettuce and tomato extra, which the clientele didn’t often opt for). Tiny Tim’s also held a liquor license, and that was where Luke had made his mistake, going for Johnnie Walker Red, sometimes Black, once in a great, great while Blue, depending on how much money he wanted to spend. But last night it wasn’t about money and/or quality, it was about quantity, and Luke had had his fill and then some.