The Killing Game(43)

The coffeemaker had shut down hours before, so Luke placed his cup in the microwave and zapped it for two minutes. It came out hot as Hades. He carefully took a sip, trying to avoid burning off the top layer of his taste buds, but he couldn’t abide coffee unless it was blistering. Something about a one-time ex-girlfriend who’d poured him a cup and said, “Lukewarm. Made for you, sweet thing.” She, of course, was long gone. Anyone who called him sweet thing and/or made a play on words of his name would be long gone. Luke’s motto was get real or get out. He’d bent that rule with Iris to unwelcome results.

His cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. Speak of the devil . . .

He almost didn’t answer the call, but that was the chicken’s way out. Hitting the Answer button, he said, “Hello, Iris.”

“Well, you don’t have to take that tone,” she replied. “I’m calling to give you some good news.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Corkland isn’t pursuing Bolchoy any longer. Not enough evidence, and well, the Carrera brothers haven’t been screaming for your old partner’s head. Guess we’re all just getting along.”

“Kinda figured as much, after the hearing.”

“Just thought you’d like to know once and for all.”

“Thanks,” he said. Actually, it was a relief, though Bolchoy would still give his right arm to be back with the force.

“Want to catch a drink tonight for a belated celebration?” she asked lightly.

He’d been ducking her calls the past weeks. The last thing he wanted was to start something up again with her. When his thoughts turned to women, they went to Andi Wren. Their relationship was a nonstarter in the romance department, but she’d affected Luke more than any other woman in recent history. Whatever happened there—good, bad, or indifferent—he knew he wasn’t going to backslide with Iris just because it was convenient.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea,” he said.

“Now what does that mean?”

“I’ve got a lot to do, and I don’t know when I’ll be free.” Bock, bock, bock, you chicken. Just tell her! “Iris, I—”

“What the hell, Luke,” she cut him off angrily.

“I want us to be over.” There.

“I just asked for a drink. God.” She was fuming.

“Yeah, well. No. I’m out.”

“Fine. Be a bastard.”

The click in his ear sounded final and he hoped that was truly the case. With Iris, it was hard to say.

His cell rang in his hand and he gazed at it with a certain amount of trepidation. The number was familiar, but it took him a moment. Helena. She’d made the colossal mistake of attempting to kidnap Emily. Just what he’d told her not to do under any circumstances. But no, Helena had driven with her to Los Angeles, ostensibly to save her from being taken by Carlos back to Colombia. But it had turned out that Carlos was just part of the picture. There was another man in LA Helena had taken up with. He was a Hollywood producer—uh-huh, tell me another one—who was on the verge of putting together a blockbuster film, and it seemed Helena had dreams of being an actress.

But Carlos had learned where his wife was and had dutifully gone down there and picked up both Emily and Helena. He’d brought his wife back, kicking and screaming, apparently. Luke had learned of the fiasco from Carlos himself, who’d come into Luke’s office and calmly asked Luke if he was having an affair with his wife. Luke had told him no, that he was in a business arrangement with Helena. Carlos had put two and two together and said quietly, “So, she is sleeping with someone else again,” and left Luke mildly alarmed. He’d phoned Helena and told her Carlos had been to see him, but she wasn’t interested in talking to him. She believed he’d been the one to sic Carlos on her and the producer, though Luke had had nothing to do with it, and wasn’t interested in listening to reason. She’d snapped, “I’m not paying you,” before she ended the call, just in case he’d had ideas about going after her for the two hundred dollars she still owed him. Luke had let her off the hook. Sometimes it was in everyone’s best interest to just walk away. So, now she was phoning him . . . ?

“Luke Denton,” he answered.

“You bastard! You told him where I was again!” Helena shrieked.

Called a bastard twice in the space of a few minutes. Luke generally considered himself an affable kind of guy and was immediately annoyed. “Told who? Carlos? I had no idea where you went.”

“He hired you. He told me he went to see you. And now he’s pressing charges, you f*cking *. I’ll have your license for this!”

“One: He didn’t hire me. Two: If he had, he would have been afforded the same confidentiality I gave you, so if I had known where—”

“He had me arrested. He was just waiting for a reason to get me out of the picture and you gave it to him!”

“Nope.”

“What am I going to do?” she wailed. “You’ve got to help me. You owe it to me!”

“Take a breath, Helena. And put your listening ears on. Carlos did not hire me. He asked me if I was your lover and I said no. He’d already brought you back from LA. That whole idea that Carlos was going to kidnap your daughter? That was a story you gave me. You tried to use me to prove you had a reason to take her first.”