now.” Clare waited until Eve had gotten to the door, then she added, “Tony Gallagher is a disaster waiting to happen. That’s why you’re here, Barrett. To make sure it doesn’t happen.”
“I’ll do my best.” But when Eve opened the door and stepped into the hall, she saw almost at once that their cubicle was empty.
Sometime after she’d been summoned into Clare Foxx’s office, Tony Gallagher had decided to bail on her, after all.
Chapter Two
The second watch had already come on duty by the time Eve packed up her briefcase and purse and got ready to leave. Tony hadn’t come back to the station all afternoon, nor had he called in. Eve had no idea where he’d gone off to, but she wasn’t so dense that she couldn’t take a hint. He was avoiding her.
She drew a long breath, wondering again if she’d made the right decision in accepting this assignment. Not that she’d had much choice. When the request came down from the superintendent himself, you didn’t exactly refuse.
Still, if the brass had known about her past with Tony, would their enthusiasm for giving her this assignment have waned? Eve had considered telling them, but then figured it wouldn’t have made a difference, anyway. They knew she came from the same neighborhood, knew she and Tony had attended the same school. Their paths were bound to have crossed at some point, but as Eve’s commanding officer had pointed out, that made her an ideal candidate for the job. She could, in ways that counted, speak Tony Gallagher’s language. An acquaintance from the old neighborhood had a better shot at gaining his trust than a total stranger.
Of course, that theory had been blown all to hell, since Tony didn’t even remember her. Now Eve was glad she hadn’t told anyone about her crush on the neighborhood hunk, the few passionate kisses the two of them had sneaked behind her father’s back. How humiliating to have tried to make something out of what had turned out to be a big nothing.
“Hey, Barrett,” a masculine voice said from the doorway of her office. “Ready to hang it up?”
Eve glanced up, grimacing inwardly at the man who stood watching her. Vic D’Angelo was the stereotypical homicide detective—tall, good-looking and more than a little arrogant. He was tanned, toned and expensively coiffed, but his taste in clothing appeared heavily influenced by the years he’d spent watching reruns of Miami Vice.
In the two weeks Eve had been there, she’d learned to avoid D’Angelo whenever possible, just as she’d learned, in the two or three conversations they’d had, how much he despised Tony. “Cowboy,” he called him disparagingly.
“I was just about to take off,” Eve told him. She hooked the strap of her purse over her shoulder and came around the desk. D’Angelo made no move to let her by.
“A few of us are heading over to Durty Nellie’s for a couple of beers. Care to join us?”
He’d been trying for days to get Eve to have dinner or drinks with him. Of course, what he really wanted was a roll in the hay. Eve knew his type all too well, and what was worse, she suspected he was of the kiss-and-tell variety. He wouldn’t be able to resist boasting about his latest conquest, but it made no difference to Eve. She had no intention of going out with him, let alone sleeping with him.
As if reading her mind, he shrugged, his hand sweeping down his silk tie. “Suit yourself. It’s no skin off my teeth one way or another. But your new partner’s apt to be there. Might give you two a chance to connect, although, I have to tell you, Cowboy’s not exactly the friendly type. If you want to really connect…” His oily smile reminded Eve of a street pimp she’d arrested once while working vice.
She spared him a withering glance. “However charming your offer, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
“Ah, come on, Barrett. Just a couple of beers at Nellie’s. Give you a chance to get to know some of the other guys around here, too. Who knows? You might even get to like us.”
Eve hated to admit it, but he had a point. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be at this station, and the more she was accepted, the better she’d blend in. Being Tony Gallagher’s partner was already making things difficult for her. He was something of a pariah, though she suspected the image was one he cultivated more than he tried to live down.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”
D’Angelo’s grin was so insolent, Eve almost backed out. “Since you don’t know where the place is, how about we ride together?” he suggested.
“Then I’d have to come back here and get my car.”
“Not necessarily. You could pick it up in the morning.” He let his gaze travel leisurely over her body, lingering on her legs as he released a long, appreciative breath.
When he finally glanced up, Eve gave him a cold glare. “You through?”
“You’re not as tough as you try to let on, Barrett.”
He stepped back to let her through the door. When Eve walked by him, his hand very deliberately grazed her derriere. She grabbed his fingers, bending the middle one back almost to his wrist, then releasing it so quickly he wouldn’t have known what had happened except for the excruciating pain. His eyebrows shot skyward.
“Goddammit!” he roared, his eyes blazing with fury. “Why, you little—”
“Careful,” she warned. “Next time it might be another appendage I feel like bending.”
He muttered another oath, but kept his distance as the two of them walked through the noisy confusion of the squad room.
DURTY NELLIE’S WAS a typical Irish pub that had become a regular hangout several years ago for cops who worked the South Side. Although it was located near the neighborhood where Eve had grown up, she’d never been inside.
She found a parking space near the garbage bins in the back, then hurried around to the front door before D’Angelo arrived in his flashy gold ’Vette. He was the type of guy who would circle the block several times until he found just the right space, so Eve figured she had a few minutes.
The decor inside was primarily green with wood trim, and cut glass that sparkled in the subdued lighting. There was a pool table in the back, along with a dartboard that was seeing some serious action.
The patrons—mostly cops and mostly guys—sat drinking at the long, polished bar or hunched over rickety tables shoved together to make the most of the cramped space. Neon signs over the bar advertised Guinness, Bushnell’s and Bailey’s Irish Cream, while overhead speakers blasted an old U2 song, one of Eve’s favorites.
Heads turned when she walked in, and eyes—appreciative and curious—took her measure. Most of the customers went right back to their drinking. Eve was still wearing her shield, although she’d locked her gun in her trunk. Even the ones who had never seen her before knew she was one of them and therefore commanded, even as a woman, a modicum of respect.
She spotted Tony standing at the end of the bar, leaning over a beer and a shot glass as another man stood talking to him. When the man turned toward the bar, lifting his mug, Eve caught a glimpse of his profile. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he might be Tony’s brother. Nick was a couple of years older than Tony. Eve hadn’t known
