Maggie K. Black - Undercover Holiday Fiancée

A smile curled at the corner of her lips. “And what exactly do I do?”

“You know. You say the right things. You make everything work the way it’s supposed to. You fix things.” He didn’t know how to explain it, let alone define it. She was just smart about seeing the bigger picture stuff. He tended to fight in the moment.

“And how do you expect me to explain to the police how a mild-mannered teacher and hockey coach took out three Gulos?” she asked.

“One has a dislocated shoulder and mild concussion from trying to throw a bad punch that didn’t land quite where he expected.”

“You should be thankful you didn’t dislocate your shoulder again,” she said.

Despite himself, Trent chuckled. “Another was accidentally shot by his buddy whose aim was off, and a hockey coach kindly checked his wound and told him to put pressure on it. The third was already pretty badly roughed up in a fight with a brave and beautiful lady cop. All I did was make sure he tripped while running down the stairs after her. They were all very clumsy.”

“Real cute, Trent.” Her lips pursed and he could tell she was impressed, despite herself. “But if you ever call me that again, I’m decking you for real.”

His face paled as his brain caught up with what his mouth had said. He’d called her beautiful. She had to know she could make a guy’s tongue forget how to form words just by walking into a room. But why had he said it? “Sorry.”

“Fine. But don’t ever let me hear you call me Lady Cop again. It’s Detective Brant. Got it?”

“Got it.” Relief swept over him. Her hand slid back to her pocket. It was that move people made when trying to check something was still in their pocket, and it was the second time she’d done it. He could feel his detective instincts buzzing at the back of his brain.

“You were right,” she said. “I was here working out because I’d heard about the payara and I wanted in on the investigation.

“When I trained under Butler, he was so sharp. I can’t begin to imagine why he hasn’t solved the payara case yet. But I’m putting my name in for a detective sergeant’s job this spring and don’t want the fact that I trained under Butler wrecking that for me. Hopefully, I can help clear him. If not, maybe I can confront him in a way that’s respectful of his long career.

“Either way, I’m asking you, Trent, cop to cop, to find me an official role on the case. Nothing undercover or in your way. I can chase leads, conduct interviews or review evidence. Whatever you need. Just let’s call our bosses and get me officially assigned to assist you from behind the scenes.”

He laughed. It was a reflexive, defensive move and one he immediately regretted. Hadn’t she heard him? He was down to his last week before this entire assignment had to end. And now he was supposed to ask for a provincial officer to be assigned to his federal case and find something for her to do? “No. Sorry. I’m not bringing someone else in officially at this stage. I want unofficial advice from you, nothing more.”

Chloe took a step back and pulled out a cell phone. “I took this off one of the Gulos.”

Trent felt his heart stop. She was holding a drug dealer’s cell phone right out in front of his nose, and he needed it. They both knew how easily he could slide his hand around her slender wrist and take it from her, and that if she were a hostile, or a civilian, or someone other than Chloe Brant, he just might. Instead he watched as her fingers tightened around it.

“You know as well as I do, I’m under no obligation to hand this over to you,” she said. “I could log it through the OPP and let you make an official request for the data, which we both know could take a while to go through. After all, I haven’t received official confirmation of anything you’ve told me. All I’ve got to go on right now is trust. Nothing more—”

There was the crash of glass doors shattering. Loud voices shouted in the hall behind him, announcing police presence. Chloe slid the phone back into her pocket. “I’ll find you and we can talk later.”

She stepped out into the hallway, her badge held high.

Trent counted slowly backward from a hundred. Then he stepped out into the hallway. A cop stood in front of him. She was young, blonde and wearing a bulletproof vest. She pointed her weapon at Trent. “Hands up! You’re under arrest!”

THREE

Trent raised both hands above his head.

“I’m Coach Travis Henri,” he said, giving his undercover name. “I’m the Trillium College hockey coach. Who are you?”

“Constable Nicole Docker.” She didn’t even blink. “Hands behind your head.”

Trent held his tongue and complied, letting her cuff his hands behind his back and then lead him into the main foyer. With each step he fought the urge to remind her that she hadn’t told him what he was being charged with or informed him of his rights. It was his job to figure out where the drugs were coming from. Incompetent cops weren’t his problem. Not unless they were making or selling payara.

“Constable, let him go!” an authoritative voice barked to their right, accompanied by the sharp sound of footsteps. Trent looked up. A tall, uniformed man in his late sixties was striding down the hallway. It was Staff Sergeant Frank Butler. “And get those ridiculous handcuffs off him!”

Trent watched the staff sergeant approach as the female officer removed his cuffs. Butler was an elder by cop standards, with short-cropped white hair, a healthy outdoor tan and the kind of athletic build that looked like he could easily take on men a third of his age and win. But he was jittery, too, with a slight but telltale shake to his limbs that Trent usually associated with people who had something to hide. “It’s Coach Henri, from Trillium, right?” he said.

Trent nodded. “That’s me.”

“I’m Frank Butler, Brandon’s grandfather,” the staff sergeant said. He stretched out his hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced.”

The handshake was a little too firm and Trent couldn’t help but notice that Constable Nicole Docker had seemingly evaporated.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Trent said. Despite nodding to each other at hockey games, Trent and the staff sergeant had never actually had much of a conversation. That was on purpose. Trent had learned long ago that when he was trying to maintain a cover, the less time he spent talking to local cops the better.

“I apologize for all that.” Butler frowned. “I imagine that was your first time in handcuffs. Must’ve been quite the shock to the system.”

Trent laughed. It was a safe, noncommittal response. He’d been handcuffed and arrested more times than he could count. It had usually been as part of his undercover work. But the first couple of times he’d been an out-of-control teen, just on the edge of the Wolfspiders gang’s grasp and dealing with the fact that his twelve-year-old sister had been killed when he’d failed to show up to walk her home from school.

“They were under orders to be on the lookout for someone matching your description,” Butler continued. “We saw someone in a mask and mistakenly thought it was a threat. But Detective Brant explained that it was all just a silly misunderstanding and that you’d been trying to help. Next time, keep your head down, stay out of trouble and leave matters to the professionals, all right?”

“Understood,” Trent said. He wondered if there was a reason Butler was pushing him away from the case, beside the fact that he presumed he was a civilian. “Brandon and the other third-line players got out okay?”

“They did, thankfully,” Butler said. “Thank you for telling them to hide.”