Barbara Dunlop - Out of Order

“Got that arrest report ready for Dallas Williams?” the desk sergeant called to the officer behind him as two uniforms brought a man and a woman to the desk for processing.

Dallas automatically shifted away from the handcuffed female. He was here to get background information on a witness in an embezzlement hearing, and then he was out of here.

“Be about two minutes,” the sergeant called to Dallas. He gestured to the royal-blue, molded plastic chairs that lined the opposite side of the hallway. “Want to have a seat?”

Dallas shook his head. “No thanks.”

Rule number one in the Haines Street lockup was to stay well away from both the furniture and the clientele. He didn’t need gum stuck to the backside of his Armani’s. And he had no desire to chat with the colorful southside characters camped out, waiting for friends and relatives to post bail.

He felt the female prisoner staring up at him and glanced down to meet green eyes that were surprisingly clear and lucid.

“Are you Dallas Williams?” she asked.

She was five-foot-six, with wavy auburn hair that just brushed her tanned shoulders. She was too fresh-faced to be a Lakeshore Drive hooker, but that black tank top and the tight miniskirt gave him pause. She was willowy thin, and he was sure she wasn’t nearly dangerous enough to warrant the cuffs.

“Of Turnball, Williams and Smith?” she continued when he didn’t answer.

“I am,” he acknowledged with a cautious nod.

She smiled, tipping her head to one side, revealing white teeth that had probably cost her parents a fortune. She looked instantly relieved, as if he’d just admitted to being her guardian angel. “Thank goodness. I was going to try calling Greg, but this is even better.”

The desk sergeant pushed a manila envelope across the scarred countertop. “Here’s your report, Mr. Williams.”

“Thanks.” Dallas picked up the police report and started past her for the door. Last thing he needed was to let this woman pour out her soul.

“Wait,” angel-eyes called, lurching toward him before the arresting officer grabbed her firmly by the elbow and yanked her back.

Focusing on her hairline, and ignoring a jolt of hostility toward the officer, Dallas gave her a polite nod of goodbye and kept moving.

“You have to help me,” she cried.

Dallas shook his head, and fixed his focus on the exit door. Fresh-faced or not, he didn’t represent hookers, drug addicts and petty southside criminals. Not now, not ever.

“Please,” she implored, even louder.

Dallas stopped, gritted his teeth and pivoted to face her. “I charge three hundred dollars an hour.”

She drew back in surprise, her eyes widening, their color seeming to lighten. Tank top and skirt not withstanding, she suddenly looked out of place in the harsh grunge of stained walls, scarred furnishings and world-weary cops. “Really?”

“Really,” he answered. Not that her looks made one iota of difference. World-weary or not, the Haines Street squad wasn’t in the habit of bringing in innocent people.

They didn’t need to. They had plenty of criminals to choose from.

“How fast do you think you could get me out of here? Ten? Fifteen minutes?”

“I have an eight-hour minimum on new cases,” he lied.

She blinked, and this time her eyes looked turquoise.

“That can’t be legal,” she said.

“I assure you, it’s perfectly legal. They make you study that sort of thing for the bar exam.”

“Well it’s definitely not moral.”

“You want to debate morality? You’re the criminal. I’m a law-abiding businessman.”

“I’m not a criminal.”

Dallas couldn’t even believe he was having this conversation. Couldn’t believe she had the audacity to take him on. Couldn’t believe she was standing here in handcuffs, eyes shooting sapphire sparks at him for absolutely no reason.

“Pirated software and illegal firearms,” said the arresting officer to the desk sergeant.

Dallas cocked his head sideways, raising his eyebrows at her. Part of him couldn’t wait to see what she had to say about that.

“I was in the wrong job at the wrong time.”

The uniformed cop beside her chuckled and shook his head. Like Dallas, he’d heard every excuse in the book. This one wasn’t even particularly creative.

The woman shot the cop an annoyed glare before turning her attention back to Dallas. She squared her shoulders. “I’m innocent. And I’m Allison Kempler’s roommate. If you won’t help me, perhaps you’d be good enough to let Greg know I’m here.”

At the mention of Allison’s name, Dallas groaned inwardly. Leaving the woman here to be booked and locked up suddenly ceased to be an option. Greg was batty about his new fiancée. If Dallas upset Allison, there’d be hell to pay.

“Greg Smith,” she elaborated. “Allison’s fiancé.”

“Name and address,” said the sergeant.

“Son of a bitch,” Dallas muttered under his breath, stuffing the envelope under his arm and taking two steps back to the counter. “What’ve you got on her?” he asked the arresting officer.

“I’m not paying you twenty-four-hundred dollars,” she said.

“We’ll talk about the bill later,” he said.

“Oh, no, we won’t. Do I look stupid?”

“No.” Crazy, maybe. But definitely not stupid.

“You may think you’ve got me right where you want—”

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

Dallas turned and subjected her to a long, steady stare. It was unseemly to argue about fees in front of the police department. And, quite frankly, right where he wanted her wasn’t in the Haines Street lockup.

It was…

He pulled his thoughts up short, clamping his jaw. Where the hell had that come from?

“We’ll come to a mutually agreeable fee once I get you out of those cuffs,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. She nodded, but he could see it cost her a lot to keep her latest opinion to herself.

The arresting officer flipped open his black notebook. “We have three-hundred pirated copies of Midnight Run, two dozen Uzis, ten AK-47s and a bazooka. And we’ve got another warrant for the garage across the alley.”

Shelby sucked in a quick breath. “I didn’t—”

“As your attorney, I’ve advised you to keep your mouth shut.”

Her eyes emitted some more sapphire sparks.

This time Dallas felt them all the way to his toes.

Perfect. Sexual awareness. Perhaps one of the officers would be good enough to shoot him now.

“Name?” the desk sergeant repeated.

Shelby mutinously kept her mouth shut.

“You can answer that,” said Dallas with a sigh.

“Why, thank you. Shelby Jacobs. I didn’t know about any of the guns. I’ve only been at Game-O-Rama for a week. Ask Allison—”

“Just your name,” said Dallas.

She clamped her jaw shut again and muttered something between her clenched teeth. He was pretty sure it concerned his parentage.

Like he was the problem here.

“Anything connecting Ms. Jacobs directly to the evidence?” he asked.

“We have videotape of her making a pickup.” The cop paused significantly. “She claims she thought it was coffee.”

“I—”

Dallas rapped Shelby’s ankle with the side of his foot. To his shock, she actually did shut up this time.

“Did you see her make a payment?” he asked.

The cop shook his head. “No.”

“Did she handle the merchandise?”

“No.”

“You have her fingerprints on the guns, the warehouse, the crates?”

“Not so far. Forensics is still working.”

The desk sergeant leaned forward and pointed to the sign dangling above his head. “This is booking, not a courtroom. And I’m a sergeant, not a judge. Any chance we can we get her processed before a lineup forms?”