style="font-size:15px;"> “I—”
Dallas rapped Shelby’s ankle with the side of his foot. To his shock, she actually did shut up this time.
“Did you see her make a payment?” he asked.
The cop shook his head. “No.”
“Did she handle the merchandise?”
“No.”
“You have her fingerprints on the guns, the warehouse, the crates?”
“Not so far. Forensics is still working.”
The desk sergeant leaned forward and pointed to the sign dangling above his head. “This is booking, not a courtroom. And I’m a sergeant, not a judge. Any chance we can we get her processed before a lineup forms?”
“Is she formally under arrest?” asked Dallas.
“Of course—”
“Think hard.” Dallas stared at the arresting officer. “Did you arrest her? Or just bring her in for questioning? Do you have a warrant? Did you follow due process to the letter?”
The officer’s gaze slid to the sergeant. “Sarge?”
Dallas stared at the sergeant with a you-don’t-want-to-mess-with-a-high-priced-attorney-this-close-to-quitting-time expression on his face.
“Kick her loose,” said the sergeant.
“What about me?” the man beside her sputtered. “If her arrest was bogus, then mine—”
“You wanna share a cell with Buba Junuh?” asked the sergeant, waving his pencil in the direction of the man’s nose. “You just keep talking.”
The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing once as he suddenly became fascinated by the scarred, wood countertop.
“Make sure your client doesn’t leave town,” the sergeant warned Dallas.
“No problem,” Dallas quickly replied.
As soon as Shelby’s cuffs were off, he hustled her toward the door. He was getting out while the getting was good. He wasn’t about to give the officers time to reconsider and end up stuck in a dingy interview room for the next four hours.
He had things to do, places to go.
“Thanks.” Shelby gasped, struggling to keep up with his long strides.
They burst through the door into a spring evening and some comparatively fresh air. Dallas breathed a sigh of relief.
Finally. His duty was done. Another couple of hours at the office and he could grab dinner at Sebastian’s on the way home and let life get back to normal.
The damp pavement glowed under the streetlights as the commuter crowd spilled from the El Station onto the street. A couple of middle-aged men in business suits gave Shelby speculative looks.
Dallas tossed them a don’t-even-think-about-it glare. “You got cab fare home?” he asked her.
She rubbed her arms against the growing chill. “Of course I’ve got…oh, no…” She stopped short. “My purse!”
Dallas stared down another passerby. This one looked like a construction worker, with a navy work shirt and a black lunchbox. Didn’t this woman know not to wander the streets of Chicago in a miniskirt?
“I left my purse at the Game-O-Rama,” said Shelby.
“So, have the taxi stop and get it.”
“They locked it up. I don’t have a key. Gerry has the key.”
Dallas tipped his head back, stared at the streetlamp and swallowed a few cusswords. Why him?
His dad might have taken on every stray south of Jackson Park with a decent sob story, but Dallas definitely wasn’t his father. He’d never be that naive.
With no other choice, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and dropped it around Shelby’s shoulders. “Don’t talk to anyone until I get back.”
She nodded, glancing around the damp, darkening street.
The male pedestrians lurked in the shadows like a pack of jackals, and Dallas could almost feel his father’s genetic code springing to life inside him.
He tamped down the silly urge to keep her close. They’d made it out of there by the legal skin of their teeth. There was no way he was taking her back inside.
Shoot.
Damn.
He let out a chopped sigh. Forget the key to the Game-O-Rama. “I’ll get us a cab.”
2
DALLAS SLAMMED THE DOOR behind her and strode around to the driver’s side, while Shelby swore she’d never complain about taxis again. It was so much nicer in here than in the police car—a cushioned seat, handles on the inside of the doors, a window that opened, and no lurking aroma of vomit, sweat or urine.
She glanced at her watch, wishing she’d thought about her purse on the way out of the Game-O-Rama. Who knew when she’d get it back? Not that she could have managed to grab her purse with the cuffs on. And not that the young cop was likely to have helped her.
The opposite door opened and Dallas slid inside—six feet two, gray eyes, short, dark hair and a set to his jawline that said he’d rather be cleaning his oven than escorting her home.
Had she thanked him? Should she thank him? It wasn’t like his help had come cheap. And she was already planning to dip into her meager savings to pay half of Allison’s rent at the end of the month.
She guessed she could kiss that new pair of Bjorn shoes in Holstead’s window goodbye. Along with the matching leather purse. It was a great sale, too.
She sighed inwardly. “How much do I owe you?”
“Forget it,” said Dallas, slamming his own door.
“What do you mean, forget it? That was ten minutes’ work. I figure it’s fifty bucks, easy.”
He turned and stared at her from beneath slanted brows. She got the feeling his clients didn’t usually try to press money on him.
“What’s your address?” he asked.
Shelby glanced at her watch again. Five-fifteen. Allison would have left for Balley’s by now, and Shelby’s apartment key was in her purse with the rest of her worldly goods. Too bad Flower-Fresh closed at five. Or was that five-thirty?
She leaned forward to talk to the driver through the open, Plexiglas barrier between the seats. “Can you take me to Black and Wheeler?”
“Allison lives on Rupert,” said Dallas.
“Flower-Fresh
