Michele Dunaway - Capturing the Cop

“That, too,” Cliff admitted with a sly grin. “So?”

“So what?” Someone had left the front-page section of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch on the table and Garrett pulled the newspaper toward him. The Cardinals had won again.

As for the deliberate delay, Garrett figured his best friend deserved some grief for his impertinence. That Garrett had lost a poker game and gotten himself into this situation didn’t matter; in life post-Brenda, Garrett was a man determined to control his own destiny as much as he could. And that meant making Cliff squirm. Call it part of the guy code.

“Even a few of us against one is intimidating to any man,” Cliff said lamely. “They were going to be here, but I stopped them.”

Garrett grinned, the image of the counter girl in her silly high-school outfit entering his head. He’d been thinking about her all night.

“But I’m not any man. I’m Garrett Krause, bachelor god. All women want me.”

Cliff practically spit out his sip of coffee he started laughing so hard. “Such ego. You’re a thirty-six-year-old has-been with only a cat to keep him warm at night. Now, did you place the personal ad or not?”

Garrett couldn’t resist. He gripped the edge of the table with both hands, leaned forward and stared Cliff in the eye. “No,” he said.

Cliff’s reaction was textbook. In the midst of another drink, he muttered and sputtered. His hand shook, sending hot java over the edge of the cup and splattering onto the white table. “Great. Not only did you wimp out, but I could use a paper towel.”

“Napkins are over there next to the fridge.” Garrett gestured magnanimously with his left hand. False concern laced his voice. “You didn’t nail the floor, too, did you? Who knows how often they mop that.”

“No, I didn’t get the floor. I got me, instead. Not that you’d care about that. Tell me why we’re friends?”

“Because we’re the only ones who can tolerate each other?” Garrett quipped.

“Ha-ha,” Cliff said, but a smirk had crept over his face.

Garrett took a drink of water before holding out the bottle. “Do you need some?”

Cliff set the mug down and began to daub the half-dollar-sized dark spot that had formed on his T-shirt. He accepted the bottle. “Yeah, I need some, or I’ll be a leopard all day. That’ll make me seem real professional when we go question the victim’s neighbors.”

“So did he do it?”

Cliff’s jaw dropped as some of the other detectives crowded into the doorway. “I told you they weren’t going to wait.” He turned to the other officers. “What do you think he did?”

“I think he’s a chicken,” Pete said. At fifty-something, he’d been on the force for over thirty years and married equally as long.

“Even I know how to place a personal ad,” Mason said, moving his six-foot-seven frame into the room. He towered over the rest of the men. “Come on, Garrett. How difficult can it be to fill out a simple form? Hell, we fill out paperwork all day. You had to be good at it, or they wouldn’t have made you a detective. No one wants to read a cruddy report.”

Ben simply stared at Garrett speculatively. “I don’t think Garrett’s that stupid,” he said. “He made a bet. I’m sure he followed through somehow.”

Ben was only one year younger than Garrett, but being the youngest didn’t always mean slow to catch on, Garrett thought. No wonder Ben had advanced to detective early.

“So what’s up your sleeve?” Ben asked.

Garrett made a show of studying his bare arms. “I didn’t place the ad,” he said.

“You admit you didn’t!” Pete slapped his hands against his thighs. “We had a deal. Boy, you’ll pay for this one. My wife even agreed you’re lame.”

“Moira said that?” Mason asked, his attention on Pete.

“She did,” Pete said. “Although, I didn’t tell her about the bet. Just that you refuse to date anyone.”

Garrett felt his mouth crook upward. Pete’s wife sent the guys baked goods weekly. She was everyone’s sweetheart. She’d disapprove of the bet.

“Pete, you can tell Moira that I am not lame. The deal was a date. Well, I got that. I will go on one date.”

Cliff looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t place the ad. How?”

Garrett kept his face poker still. “The girl behind the counter asked me out.”

“You—” Mason stopped himself before the foul language he was about to utter spilled out. “You dog,” he said instead.

“That’s me,” Garrett said, grinning. “All I have to do is call her, go on one date and then everyone gets off my back and leaves me alone. Bet fulfilled.”

It was Ben who asked, “Is she cute?”

Garrett paused for a moment and then shrugged. The guys didn’t need to know that she’d appeared in several of Garrett’s dreams last night, forcing him to take a very cold shower this morning.

“The girl I met is fine,” Garrett replied, refusing to describe Olivia in any detail lest she become the subject of gossip. “Besides, it’s only one date. That was the deal.”

Four faces frowned their disappointment. “One date,” Cliff confirmed. “Yeah, that was the deal. Next time we’ll have a Legal Affairs guy sit in on our poker game to make sure the bet’s airtight.”

“You do that,” Garrett said. He retrieved his water bottle, capped it and arched it into the trashcan. “Now, don’t we all have work to do? Brainstorm the motives and possible suspects in the Sampson case or something?”

“The guy was missing two years before that dog found his bones. Five more minutes won’t matter. When’s your date?” Mason asked.

“I haven’t set it up yet,” Garrett admitted. “I’m supposed to call her.”

“Do you have her phone number?” This question came from Ben. “I’d like some verification. Not that I don’t trust you, but…”

“I don’t trust him,” Pete said. “We all know what happens to men who get cornered. Well? Do you have her number, Garrett?”

“Of course I do.” Garrett reached into his wallet and pulled out the piece of paper. He handed it to Pete. “Home and cell,” he said. “Her name’s Olivia.”

The men passed the paper around. Ben peered at it longest, then held it up. “This handwriting might be female.”

“It is,” Garrett said.

He reached for the slip, but Ben stepped back. Then Ben picked up the lounge phone and, before Garrett could stop him, dialed. He held out the receiver to the still-seated Garrett.

“It’s ringing,” Ben said.

SHE WAS LATE. Olivia drummed her fingers against the leather steering wheel of her Saab convertible. The clock on the dash read 9:05 a.m. Her two-hour weekly workout with her personal trainer had gone over, and she was running a half hour behind. She pulled up at a red light and frowned as a strange noise mingled with the music on her radio.

Her cell phone, resting in the cup holder, was ringing. None of her friends or family ever called her this early. Had they panicked at work already because she was always extremely punctual?

But when she picked up the phone, she didn’t recognize the 314 area code glowing on the caller ID display. She pressed talk. “Hello?”

“Is this Olivia?”

The deep baritone voice washing over her sounded oddly familiar, and she worked to place it. “Yes.”

There was a brief pause before the sexy voice spoke again. “Hi, Olivia, this is Garrett Krause. We met yesterday afternoon at the Monitor classifieds office. Remember?”

Oh, she remembered, all right! Butterflies took flight in Olivia’s stomach, and she ignored the car horn blaring behind her. A bad girl didn’t care that she was late for work, or that the stoplight telling her to go had turned green. A bad girl cared that the man who’d haunted her dreams last night was actually calling. Olivia had been betting he wouldn’t phone, and mentally preparing herself not to be too disappointed. But he had—and the next day, too!