no need for this. Just a few questions.” Although given all that he’d found between the garbage can and the grocery store, he’d have enough probable cause for a warrant.
When the door fully opened again, the woman from the grocery store stood behind the young black woman. He’d thought her beautiful in the grainy video. Up close, she was stunning.
Jet-black hair fell in thick waves, framing a heart-shaped face with just the hint of a cleft in her chin. Her skin was the palest of café con leche and her eyes were large and a startling shade of crystalline blue. Barely thirty years of age.
Peter felt poleaxed as she focused her cool gaze on him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sofia is just a little protective. What can we help you with?”
Her tones were cultured, with a bit of an accent. Southern, not that he was any kind of expert.
“Detective?”
Embarrassed at his almost juvenile silence, Peter stammered as he said, “I’m investigating last night’s shooting. I’d like to speak with you, if you have a moment.”
“Actually, breakfast is a rather busy time—”
His interest was replaced by irritation. “Miss—”
“Ms. Turner,” she corrected with an almost regal lift of her head.
“Ms. Turner. We can either do this here or down at the precinct, which would take substantially more time out of your busy day.” He took out his notepad from his jacket pocket to stress his point.
The young black woman protested at the same time as the vision of beauty said, “Detective, I’d rather not—”
“Ma’am. Please understand. Between the videotapes from the grocery and your garbage can, I have probable cause. I’d rather not complicate this with a warrant.”
What little color she had fled from her face and for a moment he worried she might faint. Instead, Ms. Turner stiffened her spine. “Sofia. Could you make sure the children are ready for school while the detective and I share a word in the kitchen?”
Sofia nodded curtly and glared at him as she stepped away.
Ms. Turner opened the door wider, giving him space to pass, and held her hand out in invitation. “Please come in.”
Peter stepped inside to a whirlwind of activity. Ms. Turner hadn’t been kidding when she said it was a busy time. Sofia and another woman were handing out lunch bags and checking schoolbooks for at least half a dozen children of varying ages and ethnicities.
Ms. Turner walked down the hall adjacent to the parlor and past stairs leading to the upper floors of the converted brownstone. At the far end of the hall, Ms. Turner took the stairs leading downward and he followed.
On the lower level was a large dining room that opened onto a small, neatly kept courtyard. The tiny patch of grass was a bright green from the spring rains and someone had been busy planting flowers.
The dining room table was still littered with the remains of breakfast. At least Ms. Turner was being truthful about that.
She walked to the kitchen located at the front of the building. There was a door at one end and he suspected it was the one that opened into the stairwell where the children had taken refuge last night. “May I?” he asked and at her nod, he confirmed his suspicions.
When he closed the door, Ms. Turner motioned to the worktable. “May I get you something? Coffee? Beignets? I just made them fresh this morning.”
“Ben-what?” he asked, confused, but he took a seat at the table. He hadn’t eaten since an early dinner the night before.
“French donuts.” Ms. Turner poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. The aroma was wonderful. Beside the cup, she added a pitcher of steamed milk and a small silver dish with brown sugar.
“Donuts, huh?” He added sugar and milk to the coffee, took a sip and nearly groaned at how tasty it was.
Ms. Turner didn’t wait for his answer. She gave a wry smile as she placed a plate of the ben-donuts before him. “They say the way to a cop’s heart—”
“Is with donuts? I don’t think so,” he teased back. Then he picked up one of the square bits of dough, which were still warm, and took a bite. This time he did groan, “Or maybe it is. Thank you. I haven’t eaten in a while.”
Samantha examined the detective, trying to make some sense of him. He was in his early thirties, but there was a weariness in his stance and gaze that spoke of having seen too much of life. Handsome, if you liked those Nordic types. Thick hair streaked with varying shades of blond fell in uneven layers around his face. The raggedness of the haircut was boyishly appealing in an “I don’t care” kind of way. He had pale hazel eyes tinged with the tiniest bit of light green.
As they’d walked through the shelter, she’d noticed he was tall and physically robust, inches over her five foot seven height. A rangy kind of build, though with more strength and bulk than a runner. Possibly kept there by the way he ate, she thought with some humor as he devoured the plate of beignets.
“Would you like some more, Detective?”
A wash of pink colored his cheeks and he wiped his mouth with a napkin to remove all traces of powdered sugar. “No, thank you. Do you mind if—”
“We get to the questioning. I’m not sure I can be of much help.” She hoped to avoid any questions that would involve her in the investigation. She couldn’t afford anyone delving into her background too deeply. Plus, despite a feeding earlier that morning, she was feeling weak once again. Losing control in front of this detective…she didn’t want to think about it.
“A tape from the store shows you buying groceries just before midnight. Since I walked the route, I’m guessing you got back to the block as the car drove by.”
“I was already in the shelter when I heard the gunfire.”
“Really?” He raised one sun-lightened eyebrow. “I found a blouse in the garbage. Just like the one you were wearing at the grocery store.”
“Coincidence? Passersby regularly use those garbage cans.”
“Passersby with two bullets in them?”
Samantha smiled and held her hands up to emphasize her point. “Do I look like I’ve been shot, Detective?”
He eyed her up and down and then asked the unexpected. “Mind if I check?”
Peter watched as his request registered. Her blue eyes grew hard like diamonds. Her jaw worked up and down a few times before she croaked, “Excuse me?”
“You posed a rather interesting question, Ms. Turner. Did you expect me not to take you up on it?”
Her eyes blazed with anger. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
Definitely not a New Yorker. Problem was, everything about her made him think of sultry Southern nights and sex, which were the last things he should be thinking about. Recovering, he said, “You can ask one of the other women to come down
