play on his sympathies.
There had been a time he would have cut off his hand to spare her the slightest hurt. He had outgrown that kind of foolishness when she ran a spike through his heart and walked away without a backward glance.
He was still plenty attracted to the total package that made up Mari Bingham, even in her loose-fitting scrubs. His reaction to her pissed him off royally. It wasn’t his heart he was risking this time around, but his entire law-enforcement career. He’d better get himself focused or he’d wind up back behind the wheel of a patrol car on graveyard shift. Or working as a nighttime security guard for a local warehouse.
Lightly he cupped Mari’s elbow. She stiffened, but she didn’t pull away. Maybe she was more scared than she let on. Most people were nervous the first time they ended up in this kind of situation and the level of their anxiety had nothing to do with their guilt or innocence.
Wordlessly, he led the way into his home-away-from-home.
“Detective, I’ve got your messages here,” said the civilian receptionist as he approached the counter.
Christine had been hired straight out of high school with an admitted “thing” for cops and their guns. Her jaw worked her ever present wad of gum as she smiled widely and waved several pink slips in the air.
He nodded without breaking stride. She was barely eighteen, but she had already managed to corner him in the break room after shift one evening! Every time he thought about what could have happened if anyone else had come in when he was peeling her off him, he broke into a sweat.
Another phone rang, the new watercooler belched like a scuba diver’s tank and the stereo system pumped out classic country. All conversation in the room shut down abruptly the minute its occupants noticed Mari. Just as they had everywhere else in the county, whispers and rumors connecting her with the Orchid black market had been circulating through the department.
Escorting her through the open squad room, Bryce ignored the detective seated at a desk covered with crumbs and candy wrappers, the two uniforms standing by the coffee machine and the one on the phone. In the far corner, a female officer and a teenage girl in camouflage and combat boots had stopped arguing to gawk. As he hustled Mari past Sheriff Remington’s office and the storage closet-slash-break room, conversations started up again.
A long-haired creep wearing cuffs leaned against the wall. He skimmed his slimy gaze over Mari, but his knowing smirk vanished when he saw Bryce’s glare.
Bryce itched to throw a coat over her, right after he buried his fist in the little prick’s ratlike face. Before Bryce could take her into one of the rooms they used for interviews, Hank Butler waved his phone receiver in the air.
“Collins! Got a second?” he called out.
Bryce waved his free hand in response as he pushed open the first door. Whatever Hank wanted could wait.
Except for the requisite scarred table and beat-up chairs brought over from the old building and the two-way mirror on one wall, the interrogation room was as sparse as a cell. No point in making anyone who was brought here feel comfortable.
Mari glanced around. “Charming.”
“I wasn’t on the decorating committee,” Bryce drawled, dragging back one of the chairs. “Have a seat. Want anything? Coffee?”
“I’ve heard about cop coffee. I’ll pass, thank you.” She might be nervous, but she held her head high. His father used to say her nose was in the air.
“What, no lie detector?” she asked, turning her head. “No rubber hoses, no holding cell?”
“Someone’s already in it,” he lied, “but I guess you could share.”
She sat down gingerly, as though she expected the chair to collapse beneath her. Folding her hands on her purse, she stared past his shoulder.
She might not want coffee, but he needed a shot of something. Right now the sludge in the bottom of the pot was the strongest liquid available.
“Be right back,” he said. It wouldn’t hurt to let her cool her heels for a minute, soaking up the atmosphere while he found out what the other detective wanted. Bryce had waited long enough at the clinic.
Leaving the door ajar, he glared at the guy in handcuffs. As he slid his gaze away, Bryce recognized him as a low-level dealer, one who’d probably end up in jail or dead on the street. Guys like this one got busted all the time, but it never seemed to do much good.
Mari stared at the big mirror and tried not to fidget. Someone might be on the other side, observing her behavior and taking notes. Despite her exhaustion, she scraped back the wobbly chair and walked over to the wall, where she very deliberately studied her reflection. She’d watched Law and Order often enough to know the setup, but let the detectives think she didn’t.
The face staring back at her looked awfully plain, but the lip gloss in her purse seemed too frivolous for the occasion. She limited her primping to tucking some of the loose strands of dark hair behind her ears.
Through the door Bryce had left open, she could hear a couple of male voices. Their conversation sounded guarded, almost secretive, as though they didn’t realize they were being overheard. She had enough problems of her own, so she didn’t pay much attention to their low-pitched discussion.
It seemed like days since she had lost the poor little neonate, weeks since she’d had a good night’s sleep and eons since this cloud of suspicion had first settled over her life.
Feeling slightly dizzy, she sat back down in the hard chair. Where was Bryce? Probably getting even with her.
Let him play his macho games, she thought, smothering a yawn. She would just put her head down for a minute so the room would stop spinning before he came back.
Bryce approached Hank, masking his annoyance. The other detective was overweight and out of shape, with powdered sugar smearing one flabby cheek.
“What did you want?” Bryce asked shortly.
“Got any leads on those vandalized cars out at Ginman’s Lake?” Hank asked with an innocent look on his florid face.
“You called me over for this?” Bryce demanded. Everyone in the department knew Hank Butler was lazy. “It’s your case, Hank. Why don’t you drive out there and ask around? You might learn something.”
Scratching the stubble that bristled along his double chin, the older detective leaned back in his chair, gut straining the buttons of his wrinkled shirt. His little pig eyes glanced past Bryce.
“Didn’t you and the doc used to date back in the day?” Hank asked, trying to sound cool. “I’ll bet you can’t wait to get her alone, huh? Work some kind of deal?”
Bryce ignored Hank’s baiting. He saw that a greasy-haired lowlife had been brought out of the other interrogation room. He and the other dealer had their heads together while the deputy refilled his coffee mug.
“Why are they here?” Bryce asked a deputy.
The deputy glanced over his shoulder. “Street cleaning,” he quipped.
The coffee looked fresh, so Bryce poured two cups. Both of the
