Dana Nussio - Strength Under Fire

Delia was just standing up from the chair, but his comment caused her to pop up so quickly that her holstered weapon bumped the desk. “What do you mean? I never said—”

He shook his head. “Forget I said that. I meant to ask how you were wrong about me.”

Because she didn’t want to confess that he’d already hit on the exact answer like a nail driven home by one perfect strike, she scrambled for another reason. “I was wrong to think you’d tried to avoid speaking to the media because public relations wasn’t your forte.”

“Oh. Then you were right the first time.”

He tipped his head to the side, his chuckle low and sexier than it had any right to be, especially right there in the squad room where just anyone could hear it. Delia refused to think about other locations where a sound like that would be perfect. Places with low lighting and soft music—

“Nope,” she said to the both of them. She shook her head as much to clear it as to disagree with him. “Not buying it. Just listen to you. You’re a walking, talking public-service announcement. ‘Serve and protect the people of southeast Michigan’? In front of a camera, you could convince residents that they want us to give them speeding tickets.”

“Thanks, I guess. But let’s hope I don’t have to prove it now that the media attention has died down.”

Delia needed to finish the report before her suspect was transported to jail, but she was stalling. She had a job to do, and she could only stand there searching for something clever to say that might keep him there longer.

“You’re a good cop, Trooper Morgan.”

She swallowed. Those were the words she’d worked so hard to hear. Words that meant everything to her. She sneaked a calming breath, exhaling in slow puffs. Maybe she should have expected that he might be the first to say those words to her, but she couldn’t have guessed how much they would humble her.

“Thanks. Um, you, too, uh...Lieutenant.” Strange how she was tempted to call him Ben, even here where it would be frowned upon. The way she would talk to a friend.

The side of his mouth lifted. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments, but if you’re handing them out, I’ll be happy to take a few big ones, please.”

“I’m serious. Really.”

And she was serious, even if he was determined to deflect the praise. Stranger still, she was suddenly tempted to say more. Thoughts she should keep to herself. Like that he was a real hero. And how incredibly rare people like him were. Maybe even how lucky she was that someone like him wanted to be her friend.

But someone threw open the door to the parking lot then, a strong-arm invasion of winter gusting inside. Kelly Roberts and Grant Maxwell hurried into the squad room, still laughing over some earlier joke while they brushed snowflakes off their covers and uniforms.

Delia straightened, gripping the edge of the desk. She appreciated the jolt from the frigid air almost as much as she did the interruption. At least both gave her a chance to rethink what she’d been about to say.

Things she’d had no business saying. She was grateful for the growing collection of witnesses and the comforting hum of conversations other than the tape repeating inside of her head. The one that demanded to know why she was tempted to let down her guard with Ben Peterson. But most of all, she was grateful for all of these things that saved her from saying words she couldn’t take back.

CHAPTER FOUR

“PERFECT TIMING.”

Delia turned toward the voice to find Jamie Donovan next to her as they sloshed toward the post building. Nearly soaked after just stepping out of their patrol cars, they didn’t bother sprinting for the door.

Jamie shook his head, spraying more droplets in Delia’s direction. “What’s with the downpour in January? Isn’t this supposed to be snow? In the Upper Peninsula where I grew up, this would be snow.”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, are you, Toto? Here sometimes it’s snow, and sometimes it’s rain.”

“This is so not Oz,” he grumbled.

She had to agree with that. “It’s going to be a nightmare tonight. When all of that freezes...” She shook her head, imagining the work ahead for the midnight-shift troopers. That shift was the only one where troopers were partnered for patrols, and they would definitely need their partners tonight. “Let’s just hope drivers slow down.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“Well, maybe nonfatality accidents, then.”

He nodded. “Let’s hope.”

Delia smiled as she pulled open the door, waved Trooper Donovan in and entered behind him. She’d had an actual conversation with one of her fellow troopers, if weather and traffic counted as valid topics. Would Ben be impressed that she’d tried anyway? Not that she worried about what he thought or agreed that all of this “connecting” was necessary, but still. Who knew? Maybe there was something to his team theory. If it helped her make the right impression at this post, playing along with his idea wouldn’t be all bad.

“Nothing like driving through a monsoon—”

Jamie’s words cut off, and he stopped so quickly that Delia bumped into him. When he didn’t move, she stepped around him as she shed her soggy jacket. That several troopers were spaced around the room, coats still in their arms, wasn’t all that surprising given that they were all coming off their shifts. Only the superior officers, Ben included, were there with them, but out of place, lined up along the back wall instead of at the front of the room where they usually presented updates at the beginning of their shifts.

All of them were preoccupied with the tiny flat-screen mounted high in the corner. Even Gail Jacobs, who never hurried anywhere, rushed into the squad room, took a spot along the wall and stared up at the television. Without saying more, Jamie crossed the room and took a place near the a few troopers on the opposite wall.

Delia slipped into an empty spot in the back and brushed some of the water from her bun. Her stomach was tight, as if it knew something she didn’t. Just down from her, Ben frowned, looking as confused as she felt. The ten o’clock news from one of the Detroit stations filled the TV screen, a graphic of a state police shield and a photo of the Brighton Post building flashing behind the news desk.

Ben groaned. “It can’t be that slow of a news week.”

Whatever the cheery newscaster was reporting must have been a teaser because the station went to commercial, leaving them staring at an ad for basketball shoes.

“I thought we were finished with this,” Ben said in a low voice. “Don’t they have anything else to report on? A road-rage incident maybe?”

A few murmurs and shifting of feet prevented the room from being silent, but Gail remained eerily quiet, which was no more like her than hurrying was. She stared at the screen as if willing the newscast to return from the commercial break.

Delia rubbed at the gooseflesh beneath her uniform sleeves. Her throat felt dry. Something definitely wasn’t right. She didn’t know what was going on, but this wasn’t another follow-up on the bank-robbery story. The guarded expression on Lieutenant Campbell’s face confirmed her suspicion that this report would offer no good news.

Ben glanced from one officer to the next, his hands pressed to his sides. “Would one of you tell me what this is all about?”

Lieutenant Campbell’s gaze flitted to the screen and then back to him. “We’re not really sure yet, but—” As the newscast flashed on again, he stopped and gestured toward the screen.

“In a News 3 exclusive,” the newscaster began, “two Detroit attorneys have filed a class-action lawsuit in response to the Department of Human Services’s use of what has been called the ‘rocket docket’ to determine...”