had obviously yielded center stage to this Hollywood bit of fluff.
“More?” he echoed. “More as in how?”
“As in riding along with you for the next week or so.” She uttered every word as if it were a sane request.
If granted at all, ride-alongs were usually conducted by patrol officers along routes they knew ahead of time were going to be safe, or as safe as could be hoped for. He and Reese did not patrol fantasyland. They went where the action was.
This time, he scowled darkly at her. “During work hours?”
Moira had a feeling she was being challenged. Nothing made her feel more alive. It reminded her of the old days. “That would be the point.”
“Oh, no, no. Sorry, out of the question. We don’t do taxi service.”
Brian took a step forward, his message clear. Shaw was to toe the line.
“Shaw—” Brian began, then looked surprised as Moira held up her hand, unconsciously silencing him. Ever since she could remember, she was accustomed to fighting every battle for herself. She’d come here looking for resistance, because only a real, dedicated detective was going to be of use to her.
“You wouldn’t be driving me around. I’d be an observer. You wouldn’t even know I was there,” Moira assured him.
The way she looked at him made Shaw feel as if there was no one else in the room. He supposed that was part of her attraction. And her weapon. He shook himself mentally free.
“I highly doubt that.”
A man would have to be dead three days to be oblivious to her. He saw amusement play along her lips. Shaw deliberately shifted his eyes toward his uncle, who seemed rather amused by the whole exchange. Had everyone gone crazy? Shaw shifted, his body language asking for a private audience with his uncle.
“With all due respect, sir, wouldn’t she be better off observing another woman?” He thought of his sister. Now there was someone who wouldn’t mind serving as tour guide. She had the patience, the temperament for it. “Callie, for instance—”
Brian shook his head. “None of the female detectives are in Vice and Vice is what Ms. McCormick wants to observe.”
“Then team her up with another pair of detectives,” he suggested firmly.
Reese made a strange, protesting noise that sounded like the gurgle of a castaway going down for the third time.
Moira hardly heard the other man. Her attention was focused on Shaw. It was this man or no one.
“I don’t want another pair of detectives,” she told him, rising to her feet and looking up into his eyes. She wasn’t a short woman, but he made her feel like one. Was he protesting because this arrangement would make his girlfriend jealous? “I want this pair.”
“No offense, ma’am,” he said evenly, “but what you want really doesn’t concern me.”
Ma’am, she thought. If she tried hard, she could almost see him tipping the brim of an off-white Stetson. Because this man was off-white, not the pure hero type, not quite the black-hearted loner he made himself out to be.
It’s going to be fun, getting under your skin, Detective Cavanaugh, she thought. And fun was part of the reason she was in this business. The money was the other, because without money, she wouldn’t be able to take care of those who needed caring for.
“It does this time, Detective,” Brian told his nephew sternly. “Ms. McCormick requested a detective who wasn’t going to get bowled over by the fact that she earns her living making films.” He looked at Reese. “I’m assuming that you’ll be able to pull yourself together and do the department proud by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Moira repeated. She was clearly disappointed. At least that was something, Shaw thought. “I was hoping we could get started today.”
Brian shook his head. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by being unreasonable. “I think Detective Cavanaugh would appreciate a day’s head start to prepare for this ‘role’ himself. Wouldn’t you, Detective?”
“At least,” Shaw muttered. That gave him a little less than twenty-four hours to come up with an excuse, he thought.
Moira had learned long ago to take disappointment well. It was in her nature to roll with any punch that was thrown. A nomadic life with a con-artist father who was always one step in front of the law had taught her that.
She nodded, glancing at her perfect candidate’s partner. She knew if it was up to Detective Reese, they would get started this moment. But Detective Cavanaugh was the one who piqued her interest.
“Fine. Bright and early tomorrow morning, then?” she asked Shaw.
“Bright and early,” Shaw responded. The words squeezed themselves out through teeth that were tightly clenched.
Damn it. Why him? Why, of all the available candidates in the precinct, had he been the one to have gotten the short straw? He hadn’t even picked it, it had been thrust into his hand. Any one of the others would have been happy about having this motivation-seeking pain-in-the-butt riding around with them. His uncle had only to look around to know that.
For the remainder of the day, from what Shaw could see, Moira McCormick stayed at the precinct, initially getting a grand tour from his uncle, then being handed off to another beaming detective, Ed Rafferty. The latter, usually the personification of grumpiness, was beaming from ear to ear as he took her from one department to the other. Ordinarily, Rafferty spent his time behind a desk since a bullet had found him one dreary twilight, giving him a permanent limp and an overwhelming desire to remain among the living.
From the sound of it, Moira McCormick had an unending supply of questions. Great. Just what he needed, Shaw thought miserably.
Shaw steered clear of the traveling circus with its growing audience. For most of the day, he wasn’t even in the precinct. A snitch known to him only as Barlow had called offering up for sale a tiny piece of the current puzzle he and Reese were pondering. Shaw had bought the information from him, telling Barlow to secure more. He and Reese were following up on what had started out as a simple prostitution bust and was turning out to be a rather intricate sex-for-hire ring that dealt with underage prostitutes.
There were days when the good guys won and days when the bad guys did. This, Shaw thought, stretching out his legs before him as he sank into his chair, was one for the bad guys.
Maybe it would be better tomorrow.
And then he remembered. Tomorrow Miss Hollywood would be in his car. Tomorrow would definitely not be better. The only thing he could hope for was that she would quickly tire of playing the role of researcher. He’d given one more try at talking his way into a reprieve, but his uncle wasn’t about to grant it.
“Look, it’s for the good of the city,” Brian had said. “They’re going to be filming a lot of the outdoor shots here. That’s going to bring in a great deal of money, Shaw. Money’s good for the local economy, good for the force. Salaries don’t come from the tooth fairy.”
The discussion, Shaw knew, had been doomed from the get-go.
Contemplating
