“Why’s that?”
“Umm, I filmed it.”
“When did this happen?” The detective’s voice was suddenly alert and interested.
“About two hours ago.”
“And you’re just now calling it in?”
Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap. She was in trouble for not calling sooner. “I thought it was a joke.” She added in a rush, “And honestly, it may still turn out to be a joke. But he’s not answering his phone, and the bars are shut down by now, aren’t they?”
“Most of them, yes.”
“I didn’t want to bother you, but I keep watching the video, and he seems genuinely surprised and I think he’s struggling for real against the ghosts.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not actual ghosts, of course. Guys dressed up to look like ghosts.”
“Riigghht. Where did this possible kidnapping happen?”
“Pirate’s Alley.”
“Of course.” The detective’s voice was dry now. Skeptical.
“Look. Can you just watch the video I filmed and tell me what you think of it?”
A sigh. “Sure. Do you want to come into the station?”
“It might be better if you came to my place. I have a high-resolution computer monitor and editing software that can enhance images, play video in slow motion, and do stop-action views.”
“What’s the address?”
She rattled it off and he responded, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
It turned out to be more like ten, and she worried the whole time that she was just playing into Gary’s hands by calling the police. He was going to stumble in tomorrow morning, hung over as heck, and laugh his head off at her for panicking. And then she would have some tall explaining to do to the stern-sounding police officer.
When the door buzzer sounded, Carrie jogged downstairs to let in the cop...and stopped cold at the sight of the detective standing there. He was tall and would be good-looking with those lean cheeks and chiseled jaw if he wasn’t also so dad-blamed scary looking. That stern frown of his made her want to confess to every petty wrong she’d ever committed. He wore civilian clothes, which surprised her, but he flashed his badge as she peered out the peephole.
She threw open the door and registered that he was close to a foot taller than her. She was only five foot three, so he wasn’t a giant, but still. His waist was lean and his shoulders well-defined. Perhaps what struck her the most, though, were his piercing blue eyes. They were hard, exuding no-nonsense focus. Oh, God. He was everything she feared and loathed about police, and men in general.
“I’m Carrie Price. Thanks for coming.” She held out her hand, unsure of how to act around a police officer who wasn’t eyeing her with suspicion and wishing she wasn’t making accusations of the most powerful man in town.
This cop briefly looked surprised, but then took her hand in his. It was warm. Firm. A thick callus at the base of his thumb abraded her skin. His fingers swallowed hers up, intimidating as heck. Sometimes she really hated being as tiny as she was.
“Bastien LeBlanc.” In person, his Acadian drawl was more pronounced than over the phone.
She nodded, tongue-tied, and settled for turning and heading upstairs. She was vividly aware of him behind her, with a critical view of her rear end. Not that her behind was anything to write home about. She enjoyed running and tried to keep reasonably toned, but everything about her was small in scale. She could never compete with tall, voluptuous women with miles of curves.
Thankfully, she reached the third floor without falling on her face or otherwise humiliating herself. “Computer’s over here.” She headed for the kitchen table, which she had converted to a workspace. “Watch out for the power cords,” she murmured, stepping over an orange extension cord.
“Roger,” the scary detective replied.
That sounded more military than law enforcement. But then, he took the chair she indicated, and she reached over his shoulder to cue up the tape—and the scent of him knocked all rational thought right out of her head. He smelled like...warmth. His cologne was subtle and spicy and entirely edible. It totally didn’t mesh in her mind with the frowning, badass cop.
“I’m the camera operator for a TV show called America’s Ghosts, hosted by Gary Hubbard. I shot this footage of him earlier tonight.”
Gary’s deep voice filled the awkward silence and his image walked backward down the alley onscreen. She watched Detective LeBlanc from behind without comment, letting him form his own first impression.
The two men in black appeared, Gary turned around, and the men dragged him away. The whole incident took less than thirty seconds to play.
“Again,” the detective ordered, his eyes never leaving the screen.
She leaned forward to restart the footage, and her arm brushed against his, her face coming dangerously close to his ear. She jumped, as alarmed as if she’d poked a bear. She might not take crap from Gary, but cops turned her into a terrified teen all over again.
While the detective watched the video, she furtively watched him, noting the tiny frown of concentration, and the way muscles in his jaw rippled as his face tensed. He must be watching the abduction bit now.
He glanced up and caught her blatantly scoping him out. She looked away hastily, her heart racing as if she’d just sprinted a mile. She felt her cheeks heating up. Sheesh, this man made her uncomfortable.
“You said you can do stop-action on this machine?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to run the last part of the video, where the assailants grab Mr. Hubbard, frame by frame.”
She almost said, “Yes, sir,” but managed to mumble, “Coming up,” instead. She had to reach past him again to operate her mouse, and her left breast brushed his right arm by accident. She sucked in a sharp breath and kept her horrified gaze locked on the computer screen. Thankfully, he just leaned forward to study the screen closely as she advanced the video one frame at a time, each frame progressing by one forty-eighth of a second.
“There. Stop,” LeBlanc bit out, startling her. She stopped the video and stared at the image. The two black figures had a hold of Gary and appeared to be goose-stepping him away from her. She’d already seen it a dozen times.
LeBlanc poked at the screen. “Look at how this one is holding Mr. Hubbard’s hand. He’s twisting your boss’s hand behind his back and forcing his forearm upward with the hold.”
“And that’s significant why?” she asked.
“It’s a technique military members are taught for subduing prisoners.”
She frowned. “Would police use the same grip?”
