Cuff Me(84)
“Dang it,” she muttered when he didn’t pick up. He was still at work. She could call into dispatch, get him on the radio…
But that seemed excessive. It wasn’t even an open case, and she didn’t have proof beyond the blurry scan of a small-town newspaper publication that was a half-century old.
It could wait.
She texted him to call her, then put the phone back down.
Her stomach rumbled, telling her the only thing she’d eaten was a handful of chips.
Jill went back to the kitchen and started to go through the motions of making a sandwich. Bread. Mayo. Mustard. Ham.
She cut the sandwich into neat triangles and then stared down at it without taking a bite.
The tingle she’d felt earlier was more of a buzz now. Distracting enough that she couldn’t seem to think about anything except Lenora Birch being pushed over the railing of her home. Probably by someone she knew. Trusted.
Someone who had a grudge…
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
She poured a glass of the wine Elena had brought over, wanting to calm her nerves. But that too sat untouched next to the sandwich.
The buzzing was getting louder.
“Okay, fine,” Jill muttered to herself. “It can’t hurt to have the conversation.”
She headed to the bedroom, pulling out a pair of slacks and a blue button-down. She pulled her hair into a ponytail before grabbing her badge.
And her gun. She wasn’t an idiot, after all.
She checked her phone as she headed toward the front door. Nothing from Vincent. Jill hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should have him meet her.
Then she remembered that she was supposed to be sick, but Vincent was still working. For all she knew, he was knee-deep in the middle of an active homicide case, and if she pulled him out of that for a not-quite-hunch on a cold case that they weren’t supposed to be working on…
She patted her gun reassuringly as she opened the door. She was a damn good cop with a firearm. She could certainly handle talking to a frail sixty-six-year-old lady on her own.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Vincent was about four minutes away from catching Jill’s “flu” in order to avoid a huge backlog of paperwork, when his father called.
“Pops,” Vin said, answering his cell.
“You busy?”
Vincent glanced down at his computer, then at the Post-it note that served as his to-do list.
Flipped over the Post-it note, looked at the list that extended to the other side.
Looked back at the computer and that patient, blinking cursor.
“Nope,” he replied.
“Good. Got time for a late lunch? I’m close to Darby’s.”
Vincent raised his eyebrows at that. Partially because it was nearly four o’clock. That was a really late lunch. And also because his father rarely left Staten Island these days except to go to church.
In fact, Tony Moretti was increasingly becoming a homebody as he gradually adjusted to retirement. If he could be coaxed from the comfort of his house, it would have been for a good cause.
And in the case of Vincent’s father, the only thing that qualified as a good cause was meddling in his children’s business.
Vincent was apparently the offspring du jour.
“Sure, what time?” Vin asked. If nothing else, he was curious to see what he’d done this time to warrant the lecture.
“How about… now? I’m a couple blocks away.”
Vincent rolled his eyes. Of course he was. “Sure. Meet you there.”
Vin was nearly out the door when Captain Rodriguez called his name. Swearing softly, Vin turned around.
“Going somewhere, Moretti?”
“Lunch.”
His boss frowned. “Didn’t you just go on a coffee run, like, twenty minutes ago?”
“That was for coffee. Now I need food.”
The captain crossed his arms. “You know, I’ve always been tolerant of your methods since you’re damn good at getting results, but between Henley’s leave of absence, and then the Lenora Birch case, and now Henley being out sick again—”
“I know,” Vincent said, trying to make his face look apologetic. “It’s actually for that very reason that I’m headed out to grab a bite to eat with my father. He’s determined to talk some sense into me, and I’m all too ready to listen.”
Rodriguez’s frown lifted slightly at that. “Your father? The police commissioner?”
Former, actually, but Vin wasn’t about to make that distinction just now.
“Well, all right,” his boss said slowly. “Don’t take too long. And what’s the story with your partner; is everything—”
Vincent was out the door before his boss could finish the question.
Vincent was pretty damn good at bullshitting about just about everything, but any mention of Jill still rubbed like salt on an open wound. He’d been doing his best not to even think about Jill. He sure as hell didn’t want to talk about her.
Didn’t want to talk about the way he couldn’t go to sleep because she wasn’t beside him. About how he’d handed any cases to other detectives the past couple days because he couldn’t bear to work without her.
Hell, even coffee didn’t taste good anymore because she wasn’t there to drink it with him.
Lauren Layne's Books
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