Kylie Brant - Hard To Handle

Instead of passing the seat Meghan had vacated, Gabe pulled out the chair and sat down. “Wadrell, how’s it going?”

“Connally.” The other man’s voice held an edge of wariness. “Oh…you know. Still chasing bad guys.”

“Yeah, I heard about your big case.” Gabe looked around, signaled the waitress to their table and ordered a couple of beers. “Got a lot of press on that one, didn’t you?”

The man shrugged. “You know how the media is. Warring gangs are good for headlines, especially when drug dealing is thrown into the mix.”

“Not to mention the sensationalism of using a psychic to help round up the leaders.” The waitress delivered the beers, and Gabe nudged one of them toward the other man, then handed the woman some bills.

Wadrell eyed him for a moment, then lifted the bottle to his lips. “That didn’t hurt any, of course.”

“Yeah, that was a different angle.” Gabe scratched his jaw. “Can’t say I’ve ever worked with one. Was she really any help?”

There was still a note of caution in the other man’s voice. “Yeah, Barton gave us some good leads. She called in and said she’d run into two of our guys in a dive they frequent. She was referred to me and came up with a couple leads about their activities that checked out. We started using her.” He shook his head and reached for a cigarette. “I don’t care if you believe in that kind of thing or not, the broad knew things, okay? We’d run a suspect in, place Barton behind the one-way glass. She’d observe for a while, give us some tips, and then we’d interrogate them. We put away most of the members of the gang that way. Slick operation. With her help we nailed them in the questioning. They never knew what hit them.”

Gabe tried not to covet the cigarette the other man was smoking. He failed miserably. “You’re telling me she read their minds or something?” He didn’t bother to keep the disbelief out of his voice. He’d never put much stock in that kind of hocus-pocus. He still wasn’t convinced that Wadrell believed in it, either; he was just as likely to have grabbed the opportunity to make headlines. “How do you suppose the press caught wind that you were using a psychic? And her identity?”

Setting the bottle down in front of him, Wadrell said, “You know how the media is. Can’t even call them leaks when the department itself is like a sieve.”

“Yeah, I know how it is. Just plain bad luck that the lady up and died before you made cases on all the guys involved.”

“Who, Barton?” Wadrell leaned back in his chair, visibly more relaxed now. “Yeah, too bad she bought it, but she really wasn’t much help there at the end, anyway. The last few things she gave us didn’t pan out. We’ll round up the others. It’s just a matter of time.”

“That was her sister in here earlier, wasn’t it? Meghan Patterson.”

Wadrell’s hand froze in the act of reaching for his bottle. “Yeah, so?”

Gabe lifted a shoulder. “Recognized her. She claim to be psychic, too?”

With a leer, the man said, “If she is, I hope she didn’t read my mind tonight. You know what I mean?”

“Way I hear it, this Patterson’s got a major beef with the department.”

Wadrell nodded. “She’s got some crazy notion her sister’s car accident was no accident at all—that the gang we were busting set it up to get her out of the way. Nothing to that, of course, but she won’t let it go.”

Comprehension dawned, and with it, a shimmer of anger. “Oh, so that’s the angle.” At the man’s silence, Gabe lowered his voice conspiratorially, buddy to buddy. “C’mon, Wadrell, you gonna pretend you’re cherry on this? You’re stringing the sister along like you might be able to get more information on the accident for her, all the while hoping she’ll throw a little action your way.”

The smirk that settled on the man’s lips was an open invitation to a clenched fist. “Well if there’s any action to be thrown, I’m gonna be the one to catch it. That is one fine piece of woman.”

Gabe leaned back in disgust. “Yeah, and why wouldn’t she be interested in a prince like you? Did you have something going with this Barton, too?”

The other man drained his beer, and set the bottle back on the table. “Naw. Not that she wasn’t a looker. But there was a hard edge to that one, you know? Compared to her, this Patterson is a babe in the woods. The sister was downright spooky.” Catching the scowl the bartender was aiming at him, he ground his cigarette out in the ashtray.

A few more minutes convinced Gabe that Wadrell had no more information that was of interest, which was good, because his tolerance level had lowered alarmingly. Gabe threw a couple bucks on the table and rose. Self-serving jerks like Wadrell gave him the heaves. There was no doubt in his mind that the other detective had been the one to alert the media, anonymously, of course, that a psychic was helping with his case. Wadrell would hand over his grandmother to get some exposure. It had been unprofessional and, once the media had dug up Barton’s identity, downright dangerous for the woman. With guys like Wadrell in the department, it was no wonder Meghan was down on the CPD.

He pushed open the door, the cold slap of wind in his face a wicked contrast to the heat in the bar. Given the circumstances, he could understand why Meghan was convinced Wadrell’s suspects had arranged to get rid of her sister. It could have happened just that way. But according to the detective, it hadn’t.

There was a movement to his left, alerting him to the figure huddled against the building. He took his time reaching into his pocket and unwrapped a piece of gum.

“Buses stopped running a couple hours ago.”

Meghan pulled the collar of her coat up closer around her throat and refused to look his way. “I’ve got a cab coming.”

“It must be taking its sweet time. How long have you been waiting?” He figured it had been at least a half hour since she’d left the bar.

Determinedly she kept her gaze fixed on the street. “I’ve called twice. It won’t be much longer.”

Resting his shoulders against the brick building, he studied her. “Be a lot warmer to wait inside.”

Finally she turned to him. Even the darkness couldn’t prevent him from noting that her gaze wasn’t friendly. “I’m fine out here. I don’t need company. You’re free to be on your way.”

Those words were delivered with just the right amount of haughtiness—duchess to serf. He supposed with her background she’d grown up giving orders. Too bad he’d never learned to take them.

“I’ve got my car. I could give you a lift home if you want.”

She’d returned to face the street. “That won’t be necessary.”

He nodded. “Your choice. Hope for your sake that cab arrives soon, though. Some men might be forgiven for thinking that your hanging around out here means you’ve changed your mind about ending the date so soon.” He heard a slight sound in the darkness that he fancied was her teeth clenching together.

“It was not a—”

“Date. Right. You said that.” Giving a shrug, he pushed away from the wall. “Well, if the cab doesn’t show, I’m sure Wadrell would enjoy escorting you home.”

He started in the direction of the parking lot. He’d gotten only a dozen steps when he heard her voice again.

“Wait. Maybe…maybe you’re right.”

He looked over his shoulder. The frigid breeze was combing reckless fingers through her hair, and she pushed it back over her shoulder with an impatient hand. “Those are words every man likes to hear, ma’am. Exactly what was I right about?”

Her chin lifted to an imperious angle, and it took little imagination to guess the effort it took to keep her tone civil. “I guess I will take that ride, after all. That is, if you’re sure it won’t take you out of your way.”