to be able to make this go away or keep it under wraps,” Brady finished. He hated all this political-posturing crap. He wasn’t good at pussyfooting around, much less putting positive spins on things that weren’t remotely positive. He’d gotten where he was by focusing on one thing and one thing only: getting to the truth. He stood straighter. “To be frank, sir, I need to get back to the station. I’ve got interviews lined up all morning and I can’t afford to waste time on who is going to write what in the morning papers.”
The mayor swung back around, appearing ready to blast him for his insubordination, but abruptly stopped. His expression turned weary, but it was the real grief in the depths of his eyes that made Brady rein in his impatience.
“Just find out who set him up, O’Keefe,” Henley said quietly. “I’ll take care of the media.”
“Sir, with respect, there is no indication of a setup. Not yet anyway.”
“I know Mort rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but I know—knew—him better than most. No way did he die in a seedy hotel while taking part in some sort of kinky sex scandal. There’s something else going on here. Find the truth, Detective O’Keefe. And find it fast.”
“Yes, sir.”
Henley was already on the phone before Brady hit the door. Once in the hall, he added under his breath, “But whether or not you like the truth is not my problem.”
BRADY SLUGGED DOWN the foul dregs of a cold mug of coffee. When he didn’t even wince, he knew it was time to call it quits for the night. He slapped shut the folder he’d been writing in and shoved back his chair. “I’m out of here,” he said to no one in particular. His shift had left hours ago and the midnight shift was already busily at work, not paying him any particular mind. Which was why he worked late more often than not. No one bugged him, his phone didn’t ring and he got a lot done. Besides, when he was on a case, there was nothing else he’d rather be doing. And in this city, there was always a case.
“Detective O’Keefe still around?”
Brady swung his head toward the squad room door. “Who wants to know?”
Sergeant Ross wove through the desks toward him. “Some woman named Mahoney, out in receiving. Says the mayor sent her.”
“I didn’t get a call from Henley’s office.” Even as he completed the sentence he dug under the folders on his desk to the stack of pink message slips the secretary had stuck in his hand the last time he came in. He’d been so besieged, he’d never gotten to them. Henley’s message was the sixth one down. He swore under his breath. “Yeah, all right. Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.”
He shrugged on his suit jacket, but didn’t bother putting on his tie. It was late, he was wiped out and hungry and suddenly wishing he’d left with the rest of his squad. He scanned the message slip again. Erin Mahoney. He smiled wryly. Boy did that name bring back memories. None good. He’d known an Erin Mahoney growing up. She was two years younger than him, but she’d made his life hell right up until the last day of fourth grade when she’d blessedly moved across town.
He spent a moment wondering whatever happened to her, then chuckled. Probably torturing some poor insurance salesman husband and wreaking havoc with the PTA. The image made Brady feel better. He only had to deal with murderers and reluctant witnesses. And whatever flunky Mayor Henley had just shoved in his path.
Still smiling, he pushed through the door, then stopped in his tracks. Her back was to him…and what a back it was. Tall and shapely, with deep auburn hair, she wore a suit so beautifully tailored it almost made him wish he’d taken up Uncle Mike’s offer to work at his clothing store instead of entering the police academy eleven years ago. Never before had a tape measure held such erotic possibilities.
His appreciative smile froze when she stopped chatting up the desk clerk and swung around to face him.
“Terror Mahoney.” He’d said it under his breath, but the mischievous light that twinkled in her bright green eyes signaled that she’d heard him.
“Why if it isn’t Crybaby O’Keefe.” She laughed when he scowled. She turned back to the very attentive desk sergeant. “Thank you, Sergeant Ross,” she said, then bent gracefully and snapped up her briefcase. Despite his dumbfounded state, or maybe because of it, he followed her movement, causing him to reflect on just how much finer a pair of basic black high heels could make prizewinning legs appear.
She walked by Brady in those basic black pumps and opened the door he’d just come through. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Her bright smile and knowing look made it clear she knew exactly where he’d been looking, and that she’d absolutely planned it that way. It was as if the intervening twenty years had never happened. She’d been in his face for less than a minute and she already had him on the defensive. Her weapons had changed a bit—okay, a lot—but they were still just as effective.
Well, he told himself, he was no longer a skinny little ten-year-old. Nor did he adhere to the code of honor that said a man didn’t stand tough against a woman. The first time a woman had pulled a gun on him had ended that notion. Erin’s weapon of choice had always been her mouth.
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask you to postpone this little chat until tomorrow?” he said. “I was off duty about—” he glanced at his watch “—yesterday.”
“I know it’s late, but I’ve been in meetings with the mayor all day. Henley is expecting me in his office first thing in the morning. I need to talk with you before then. I know Henley left a message with you.”
Resigned, Brady sighed, and motioned her toward his desk. “Over there, second desk on your right.”
She turned around, causing him to stop short. “Is there somewhere a bit more private? This is…delicate.”
She smelled good. Damn good. No delicate little floral scent for Terror Mahoney. No, she ambushed men right up front with something spicy and cinnamon sweet. Of course, anything would smell good to him after fourteen hours of bad coffee. Or so he told himself. “You’re here about the Sanderson murder, right?”
“Yes. Can we use an interview room or something?”
“Everyone here knows the details, Ms. Mahoney.”
“First I’m Terror, now I’m a Ms.?”
He found a smile even if he did have to grit his teeth to form it. “When I saw you I remembered you as an eight-year-old pain in the ass. Now I see you’re going to be a twenty-eight-year-old pain in the ass. But I’ve matured.” He swept a hand in front of him. “Have a seat, madam?”
She didn’t scowl. In fact, she laughed and looked him over. “Yes, you have matured.” Her gaze traveled up his chest and over his face. “Quite well, I must say.” She smiled. “And it’s Miss.”
He swore he felt that look ripple over every bristle of his five o’clock shadow. Damn, he was more exhausted than he realized. Brady thought he had done an admirable job of not noticing she’d also matured quite well. Of course he’d noticed, only a dead man wouldn’t have noticed. But at least he hadn’t been obvious about it. “You didn’t turn out so bad either,” he managed to say.
She laughed again. “Boy, how much did that hurt?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she folded her long frame
