A fact which left him working with a fiery dynamo of a woman to close an investigation that had become a huge powder keg.
There wasn’t a chance in hell they’d come through this unscathed.
“NO FINGERPRINTS on the box,” Mick reported after hanging up the phone with the lab two days later. “And since Sergio Alteri is in jail, he has an iron-tight alibi on this one. Any ideas where to go now?”
Donata spun in her desk chair, unable to think clearly about the case with Sean an ever-present fixture in her brain. Desks and detectives blurred as she twirled back and forth, searching for ideas and wondering if she’d ever make peace with her past.
She’d confided in Mick about the pictures since she trusted him to be discreet. He hadn’t asked to see the photos, nor had he tried to strong-arm her into entering the pictures for evidence, for which she’d be eternally grateful. Mick was a good friend and damned attractive too. But the chemistry just wasn’t there—not the way it had always been present for her whenever Sean walked in a room.
“The prison log shows a lot of letters going in and out of Ray Brook Correctional Facility, but no visitors for Alteri.” That made the investigation tougher, but the news had pleased Donata on a personal level since she liked to think that his so-called friends had all forsaken him. Even his mistress—the obnoxious Rosie Gillespie—hadn’t bothered to keep in touch.
“We’d better get a list of his correspondents. In the meantime, I’m meeting with Sean today to go over his evidence again since he’s been working on connected cases for a while.” She felt self-conscious bringing Sean up and couldn’t say why, except that she’d been thinking about him far too often. He’d surprised her with his thoughtful handling of the picture episode the other night. “We didn’t come up with any great ideas the first time, but I was still reeling from the appearance of the photos. I think today we’re going to visit some of the more prominent webcam streams and see what happens when we subscribe to the services advertised online.”
And wouldn’t that be interesting to spend time in close quarters with a man who occupied a few too many of her fantasies the past few days?
“You’re traveling risky terrain.” Mick didn’t approve of methods that involved her in anything illegal.
Three days ago she would have nixed the tactic, too. But that was before the stakes had been upped. Clearly, whoever had been planting webcams in teenagers’ bedrooms was starting to sweat the possibility of getting caught.
“I’ll be careful.” She wouldn’t jeopardize her career—or her shot at destroying an illegal business making a bundle off insecure girls.
“What if it’s not Sergio behind it all, Donata?” Mick stirred his coffee slowly, the inevitable clank of his spoon a rhythmic ringing that seemed to echo his subtle warning.
“We’ll get this guy either way.”
“Just don’t let your anger at him cloud your judgment.”
Good advice. Except that she wondered if he thought her judgment might be off when it came to the case—or when it came to men in her life.
SEAN RAN HIS P.I. business out of a squat building in SoHo. He owned a storefront on the street and lived in the loft a few stories above it. The loft was Donata’s destination now that it was after business hours even though they would be technically talking business.
She traced the neatly etched lettering on the glass door at street level that read Beringer Investigations. Sean’s neighborhood had a warmer feel than her more sterile residential street full of working couples and upwardly mobile singles who left the neighborhood vacant during the day. Here, a nearby coffee shop kept a busy flow of foot traffic and the funky old architecture of the building across the street had attracted a photo shoot with two stylists scampering in and out of a fashion scene featuring an elegant-looking man and woman wearing long spring jackets while they battled playfully with closed umbrellas as if they were swords.
What was the world coming to when the only people having fun had been paid for their elaborately staged efforts?
Turning the doorknob, Donata tried to remember the last time she’d felt as light-hearted as the people in the photo shoot pretended to be. Unfortunately, her most fun memories had all been tainted with the later realization that her partner in fun had been a liar and a cheat, and now possibly a perv to boot.
Inside the building, a second door labeled Beringer Investigations was closed while an old elevator sat side by side with a staircase. Donata started up the stairs as Sean’s directions had suggested, and after a single flight she heard a door open above her then a familiar voice shouted down.
“You won’t believe this.”
She looked up to see Sean hanging over the rail two floors above. The central staircase wound around a corridor open throughout all the floors. Apparently he owned this side of the building, while a landlord rented apartments to a handful of tenants on the other side of the building that opened onto the next street.
She’d half hoped she’d imagined the sizzle factor between them, but it was back again in full force judging by the pleasant buzz of attraction humming through her veins just looking at him. So frigging inappropriate. But she liked the way he treated her with a certain amount of respect. Sean’s attraction communicated itself through subtleties rather than a gaze fastened to her cleavage like some guys.
Too bad she’d screwed up so badly with him four years ago when he’d taken her in for questioning. No way would this guy ever act on the heat between them now. Not that she necessarily wanted him to. But she still regretted the misunderstandings of their past.
“What won’t I believe? Did the bad guys confess?” She picked up her pace, her aerobic conditioning one of the sweetest side benefits of her job. She could bang out flights of stairs as easily as most people strolled through a park.
“No.” He dangled some black cords over the stairwell. “After I set up that fake ID online I’ve got pervs from all over the country mailing me electronic equipment to help me set up a Web site with high-quality imagery.”
She closed the distance between them, winding her way around the highest landing to see the gadgets he’d been showing her—and swallowing back some major drool over the man. A webcam was the only item she recognized in a small pile of technological-looking loot.
“How can anyone send you equipment without knowing your real name?” Her years as a patrol officer had given her face-to-face experience with more overt crime—rape and domestic abuse. Drug sales gone bad and drive-by shootings. The Internet criminal was new to her, although she’d read case files on a few online money-making rackets. Normally, the NYPD handed over those investigations to specialized departments.
“Some guy who’s buying into the fact that I’m a teenaged girl showed me how to set up a wish list through an online superstore. Anyone who knows my wish list name can send a present through the site while my personal information remains anonymous.”
“And you wished for a webcam?” She didn’t want to break department protocol to make this bust, and she wondered how this tactic would go over in court.
“Of course not. I just went along with it to let the guy think I was a teenage girl. I put some bubblegum pop CDs on there and other stuff then forgot about it until a box showed up with all
