for myself. When he was just inches away, I inhaled, expecting nauseating cologne. I smelled nothing, but felt a twinge of closeness. He was one of those men who used his personal skills to conduct his professional duty. A dangerous habit.
As he retreated with his glass, I realized we were having a four-way conversation. There were words. And then there was the unspoken energy between us. It had been a long time since that had happened to me. I’d spent so much time with AutoMates I’d nearly forgotten how to handle subtext with a human male.
“I heard you were direct,” he said at last.
“Thank you.”
“I’m not sure it was meant as a compliment.”
“Really?” I shrugged. “Imagine that. Have a seat.”
I motioned to the brown leather couch and overstuffed chair by the empty marble fireplace. I’d never spent one iota of time worrying about decor. My apartment was furnished with a collection of hand-me-downs. Seeing it through Marco’s eyes, it struck me as terribly masculine and not very fitting for a woman. Marco would probably be more comfortable in my foster sister’s apartment. It was feminine, like her, with colors like peach and lilac. She had silky hair, high heels for every occasion and seductive reticence. In other words, she was my antithesis.
He settled at one end of the couch and I sank into the nearby armchair. As he leisurely sipped his Vivante, he took in every detail of my apartment and not in the surly, suspicious way of an everyday patrolman. Not even in the cool, jaded way of a seasoned detective. He was more like an art appraiser—scanning ancient plaster walls, my black-and-white framed photographs, the white-brick fireplace that had been painted over a million times, the hardwood floor scuffed by my myriad boots.
Suddenly, I wanted him out of here. “You’re not a regular detective, are you?”
“No, I’m not. I worked in psy-ops for five years.”
Psychological operations. He was a frickin’ shrink. No wonder he gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“Two years ago I went back to the academy to enter a new program designed to streamline the training of solo detectives to replace those killed by the mobs. I graduated yesterday.”
And today he was at my door. This was getting worse by the minute. “Why did you decide to switch from being a shrink to a gumshoe?”
He looked at me with those dark-lashed eyes of his. “You don’t want to know.”
Goose bumps spread over my arms. He was gunning for me. But why? I didn’t think it had anything to do with Alvarez. The mayor’s nine-year-old niece had been molested. The guy got off because he’d been smart enough to leave no DNA. After the trial, I’d found him and brought him to the mayor’s brother for a little justice. That was the end of my involvement. I had a feeling Detective Marco had done some research on me and mentioned the Alvarez case simply to get in the door.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Marco. Is this about the Gibson Warrants?”
His mouth twisted with irony and he took a drink, watching me as he sipped, then said, “No, that’s not why I came. But, since you mentioned it, I’m head of the Fraternal Order of City Police committee working to outlaw your profession. I was actually happy about the Gibson Warrants. They’ve shown the world what I’ve known all along—that you’re nothing more than a bunch of outlaws. This isn’t the Wild West, Ms. Baker.”
“Oh, but it is.” I moved to the edge of my chair. “That’s precisely the point. I don’t approve of what Judge Gibson has done, but I understand it. How many hundreds of thousands of restraining orders have judges given out over the last hundred and fifty years? How many of them have actually stopped an enraged husband from killing his wife? Everyone knows restraining orders are a joke.”
“But if you commit murder to prevent murder, is society any better off?”
“I haven’t decided that yet.” I wasn’t about to tell him that I thought the warrants went too far. For some reason, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“So you want to play God. Are you saying that you—or Gibson—have the power to determine who lives and dies?”
“People are going to live and die no matter what we do.”
“You can’t be that cynical, Baker.”
I gave him an exaggerated scowl. “Don’t be such a Boy Scout. You know as well as I do that rich people almost never pay for their crimes because they can afford great lawyers. And anybody, rich or poor, who is smart enough to keep DNA out of a crime scene will be back on the street, even with a conviction, after only two years. That’s a slap on the wrist. You’ve got to hate that, Detective. All your hard work trying to catch the perps goes to waste.”
“The system sucks, I agree. So why don’t you try to change it instead of compromising it?”
“Because the system is controlled by giant corporations and international crime syndicates who don’t give a damn about life, liberty or the pursuit of happiness, thank you very much. But if I can protect one woman from an abusive husband, or help a victim at least get an apology from his assailant, then at the end of the day I’ve done something worthwhile.”
“An apology?” A sardonic half smile tugged his lips. “Is that all your clients want from their perps after you hand them over? Some of the ex-cons you people haul in wind up at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”
Heat burned my cheeks. “That’s not my fault.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I don’t take any clients who would do that sort of thing. Nor does any other retribution specialist who is certified. We have a professional code and contracts that specify that no perpetrator can be killed or tortured. Surely you know that.”
“What I know is that you’re playing with fire. You can’t take the law into your own hands, no matter what criminals do. Even if what you do is legal, it’s not right. You have to leave law and order to trained officers. We’ll do our job.”
I snorted in derision. “And who are you? Elliott Ness? You think you’re going to clean up this town like Ness cleared out Capone and his gang back in the early 1900s?” I shook my head. “Cops. You’re all either corrupt or egomaniacs who think you’re going to save the world.”
He blinked slowly. “Why do you have such a low opinion of legitimate law enforcement?”
I took in a deep breath. Because the cops who arrested my mother and put her in jail for bookkeeping had been placing bets at her apartment the night before. Because the social workers who put me in foster care the next day knew my foster father had a history of abuse. Because I don’t trust anyone.
“Because,” I said in a rough voice, “even if you do your job perfectly, the bad guys are going to go free. Judge Gibson wants to change all that. While you can argue with his method, I can’t imagine anyone who would argue with the result.”
“So you’ve used Gibson Warrants?”
I leaned back as I thought about my encounter with Drummond. “You might say that.”
His chestnut-colored eyes darkened. “How many people
