are supposed to stay in the press room,” he said shortly.
“I’m not a reporter.” She waved her hand. “Okay, I was at one time. I’m a features writer now. Mostly for travel and lifestyle magazines.”
“And you’re here to do a story on me.” He glanced at his watch. “At seven o’clock on a Friday night?”
“No story, and why does everybody keep reminding me about the day and time? Writers work at all hours. Silly me, I thought the police station was pretty much a 24/7 seven operation.”
“It is, but not for me. I was on my way out.”
“You were typing.”
“Finishing up a report. Are you in some kind of trouble, miss?”
“It’s Calla, and, no, not me. It’s my friend Shelby, specifically her parents.”
Before he could interrupt or, worse, throw her back to the front-desk diva, Calla told him about how the Dixons had given their life savings to Max Banfield, only to see it go into his pocket.
“I’ve got statements from six other couples right here,” she concluded, fishing in her briefcase for the folder containing the transcriptions she’d painstakingly documented from her recorded phone interviews. “They all implicate Maxwell Banfield as the head of the investment company.”
The detective didn’t even glance at the folder she laid on his desk. “Investments come with a risk. I’m sure Mr. Banfield explained that to his clients.”
“But he didn’t even invest the money. Weeks after cashing the check, the phone number he gave was disconnected and the office abandoned.”
“Fraud is a difficult case to prove.”
“Then your job must be pretty damn miserable.”
He stared directly at her. “It has its moments.”
Was that his attempt to compliment her or was she one of the miserable moments? The guy was impossible to read.
“Look, miss, I—”
“Calla.”
“Fine. Calla.” He shoved her folder across the desk. “I’ve got ten open cases to work. And it looks like one of them is going to be transferred to Homicide, since the harbor patrol found my suspect floating in the East River about two hours ago.”
She pushed the folder toward him. “Then you’ll only have nine cases. You’ve got room for one more.”
“No. I’ll have to work with Homicide exclusively for the next few days, catching them up on all the background, which means I’ll be even more backlogged once they take over.”
Frustrated, Calla rose and turned away from him. Shelby and Victoria were right. The only way they were getting results was to get them on their own. She was wasting her time with the hot, angry detective.
“These statements aren’t admissible in court,” he said.
Calla turned. He’d opened her file. Suspicious of his curiosity, she nodded. “I know. I have the digital recordings to back up everything.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. All these people would have to be interviewed by a cop.”
“So interview them.” She glared down at him, feeling better that she had the height advantage. “You guys know something squirrelly’s going on. Mrs. Rosenberg lives right here in the city, and she told me she filed a report with you guys months ago. Why won’t you help?”
“The case crosses state lines. That makes it federal.”
She leaned over, bracing her hand in the center of his desk. “Oh, that’s just crap. Unless Banfield walks into a bank with a loaded pistol, it’ll be years before the Feds get around to this case. And why should he resort to violence anyway? He’s doing just fine, smiling and lying and taking every meager penny these hardworking people have spent their lives earning. It’s unconscionable.”
He stood, taking her advantage with a single movement. “Where the hell are you from?”
“Texas.”
“That explains it.” He raked his hand through his inky hair, just as she’d imagined earlier.
The state of attraction along with dissent was foreign to her. When she liked a guy, she liked him. She had no idea what to make of this encounter. Or of him and where he stood.
“I’m not supposed to tell you what I’m about to,” he said, sounding as aggravated as he looked. “But I don’t want you going all Wyatt Earp on me and shooting down the guy at the local watering hole.”
“Wyatt Earp’s showdown took place in Arizona, not Texas.”
“You’re sure?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Pretty positive. Not to mention that happened about 130 years ago. Texans are independent and self-sufficient, not idiotic.”
“Stubborn comes to mind,” he muttered. “But whatever. I actually know about Banfield. One of our guys interviewed Mrs. Rosenberg, but we couldn’t find anybody else to corroborate her claim.”
“That’s because Banfield moves all over.”
“He’s technically a Brit. And now he’s bought a hotel in midtown.”
For the first time, Calla realized there was more going on behind the detective’s emerald eyes than resentment. “He certainly has.”
He tapped her folder with the tip of his finger. “I’ll look into the statements of the other victims, though you should know that people are reluctant to go on record about being duped.”
“I have complete faith in your powers of persuasion, Detective.”
“I’ll contact you if I have any questions. You got a card?”
She pulled one from the front pocket of her briefcase and handed it to him. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
His mouth twitched on one side, as if he might actually be tempted to smile. “All part of the community-service motto.”
“Good to know.”
She turned to leave without shaking his hand again. She finally felt as if they’d reached an even keel. The last thing she needed was to incite her lust again.
“And, Calla …”
When she turned, she found his perpetual scowl in place—which somehow didn’t lessen his attractiveness. His toughness made him all the more appealing. “Hmm?” she asked, perfectly aware she was staring.
“We’d really rather keep our information to ourselves for now. Let me look into this. No more victim interviews. Don’t go to the press. Don’t approach Banfield, don’t talk about him, don’t contact him in any way. Clear?”
A
