really ought to dress normally, honey,” Lola added as I turned back to her. “Best way to get a man.”
I glanced at her outlandish everyday wear and shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My outfit looks normal to me.”
My whole body suddenly gave a quick shiver, like a divining rod honing in on water. My head jerked toward the window and a chill settled over my shoulders. “Someone’s here.”
It couldn’t be Drummond. How would he know where I lived? I’d given him a fake name and told him to meet me at the green lot down the street, luring him with the promise of a shady construction deal.
As I’d hoped, his desire to make some quick bucks had overcome any concerns he’d had about who I was and why I’d chosen him to help me with the scam.
The doorbell rang a second later.
Lola gave me a strange look. “How did you—?”
“Just sit tight. Don’t worry if you hear anything…unusual. Not even if you hear gunfire. I’ll be okay.”
I skipped sideways down the stairs, pulled out my Glock and flung open the door. I took aim at a man who had slightly curly dark brown hair with a touch of premature gray at his temples. He wore a sleek, camel-colored sport coat that stopped at his knees. His wide stance and packed build made it clear he wasn’t intimidated. He looked at me over the barrel of my gun with a deepening frown.
“Is that thing registered?” he asked in a deep voice.
“Yes. What’s it to you?” I started to lower the weapon when I realized this man wasn’t Tommy Drummond. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
“Detective Riccuccio Marco. I hope you’re not going anywhere, Ms. Baker, because you and I need to have a little chat.”
Chapter 2
The Wild, Wild Midwest
“Sorry, I’ve got plans,” I said and shut the door. Another knock. I reopened it and smiled. “Look, Detective, I’m working.”
“So am I.” Eyes that had seen it all and questioned everything glanced down at my gun, which I’d put in its holster, and back up to my tattoo. “What exactly is it you do?”
I had the feeling he already knew, but I’d play along. “I’m a Certified Retribution Specialist. I’m getting ready for an appointment.” I started to shut the door. He stopped it with a strong arm.
“It’s important, Ms. Baker.” With that he pulled out a hologram badge from inside his sport coat and flipped it open.
I watched with a sinking feeling in my gut as a three-dimensional display of his head pivoted for my benefit on the business-card-size disk. With his chiseled jaw and seductive, dark eyes, he was movie-star gorgeous, and I never trusted handsome men.
I turned from the hologram to the real thing, my gaze skimming over his bare ring finger. Even though he had to be at least thirty-five, he wasn’t married. Why bother when he probably had women falling at his feet? I’d met men like him before. I’d almost married one, in fact. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
I tipped up my chin and sneered. “Yeah, so you’re a real cop with a real 3-D badge. I’m impressed. I still have to get going.”
His exquisite mouth widened with a patient smile. “If I can’t come in and chat, then I’ll have to assume you’re hiding something.”
My jaw muscles tightened and I said in a low voice, “I’m not hiding anything, Detective. I’m a professional. I’m just doing my job. A job, incidentally, I wouldn’t have to do if you and your brothers-in-arms were more successful at yours.”
I glanced over his shoulder and saw a lumbering big blond man on the sidewalk across the street. He glanced from a piece of paper to the street sign. Oh, my God, it was Drummond. I touched the fake warrant tucked in my hip pocket. I couldn’t whip this out in front of a cop. Marco’s gaze followed my hand, which I then tucked into my pocket, pretending to strike a casual pose. From the corner of my eye, I saw Drummond get his bearings and head down toward the green lot. Somehow, I had to get rid of Detective Marco before Drummond got tired of waiting for me and left.
“Look,” I said, clearing my throat, “I apologize for what I just said. I’ve been a little sensitive ever since the Gibson Warrant controversy blew up in the press. Some police officers seem to be blaming me and my colleagues just because a judge decided to start giving out death warrants. But I assure you, my profession is just as dedicated to law and order as yours. Now that you mention it, Detective, I would like to chat.” I smiled like a Southern belle offering a mint julep. “Won’t you come in? I’ll be with you in a minute. Actually, maybe a few. I have to buy some, uh, sugar at the corner store.”
His strong, smooth forehead wrinkled with doubt. “Sugar?”
I pointed to the left. “It’s just two doors down.”
Clearly, he wasn’t buying it, but I knew he’d borrow the excuse if it gave him a chance to check out my place without a warrant. I didn’t care what he’d find. Well, except for Lola. But she could handle this guy with her hands tied behind her back.
As soon as Marco climbed the stairway to my living quarters, I shut the door and raced down the street, stopping at the corner of the blond-brick apartment building that bordered the west side of the green lot. Drummond was sitting on a bench reading a magazine.
I scoped out the rest of the lot, which was an abandoned area with a few trees and a jungle gym. Empty as usual. It was time to move. For a split second fear chilled me and the contrasting Chicago summer heat suffocated my skin. Beads of sweat slid down my back. I was aware of my muscles—strong biceps, small but rock-solid thighs, sinewy shoulders—especially at times like this when adrenaline pumped them to the max. I was also aware that retribution specialist was a role I played and Detective Marco’s arrival had thrown off my rhythm.
I took a deep, calming breath and walked down the gravel path to the middle of the tiny park. I stopped twenty feet away. “Drummond,” I called.
He looked up and put the magazine aside. “You da one who called?” he said in a typical Chicago dems-and-doze accent.
“Yeah, I called.”
“What’s dis all about? You got some kinda job for me?”
“It’s about Janet.”
He stood and rubbed his palms on his thigh-clad jeans. He towered a foot and a half above me and looked like an overstuffed bear—one that bench-pressed about two hundred and fifty pounds. He had a scruff of blond hair, a drinker’s nose and mean, bloodshot eyes. I’d been briefed on Drummond by the director of the abuse shelter and had hired a private investigator to fill in the gaps. I’d done my research and knew what to expect, but the prospect of fighting a guy who weighed three times as much as I did was always daunting, no matter how much I tried to psych myself up for the fight.
“You a cop?” he said, his eyes glazed with confusion.
“Don’t you wish.” I moved in closer.
“A lawyer? I ain’t givin’ her a divorce.”
