Sizzle in the City

“Is your brother a crook?” Shelby asked abruptly.

He nearly stumbled. It was rare for him to be knocked off stride, and this woman had done it twice in ten minutes. “No. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged as the elevator doors slid closed. “Just curious.”

CALLA WALK ED AWAY FROM a lovely spring evening, through the police-station door and into chaos.

The large, pitiful waiting room, painted a dingy gray and containing no more than ten folding chairs, strained at all the emotions and activity.

In one corner, a group of people stood in a circle, holding hands and praying. A trio of women cried in the other. A pair of children bounced and giggled on their chairs as a harried-looking woman stood nearby and yakked into her cell phone.

Lording over the masses, a bored-looking clerk sat behind a high, imposing faded wood counter and flipped through a magazine.

Lady Justice could hardly be proud.

But then Calla figured the police had a mostly thankless, as well as dangerous, job. They’d no doubt be grateful for her help.

Shifting her briefcase strap on her shoulder, she approached the counter. “I need to speak to someone in the fraud department.”

The clerk never looked up. “Appointment?”

You needed to make an appointment to report a crime? “No, it’s rather urgent. If you could just—”

“Is anybody in immediate danger?”

“Yes, I guess so. My friend Shelby’s parents trusted this guy with their life savings, then he took off for parts unknown, but then we—Shelby, me and our other friend Victoria—read an article last week about how he’d bought a hotel right here in Manhattan. So, you can imagine how surprised we were. Where did he get the money to buy something like that?” She jabbed her finger on the counter to emphasize her indignation. “On the backs of gullible seniors, that’s where. So, as you can see, it’s imperative that I talk to somebody right away.”

The clerk looked up, her expression weary. “Is somebody about to die?”

Calla blinked. “Uh … no, but—”

“Everybody’s busy.” The clerk’s attention went back to her magazine.

It was no wonder Max Banfield was running around free as a bird.

But Calla had been a newspaper reporter in her hometown of Austin before she’d moved to New York and become a features writer. She’d navigated the turbulent waters of Texas politics, she’d interviewed presidents and kings, she’d even gone on safari in Africa last year. And she knew charm would get her further than bullying.

“I know you’re extremely busy,” she said sweetly to the clerk. “But I’m in a bind. I have important information on a fraud case that could really—”

“Are you high?” the clerk asked, nonplussed.

“No, of cour—”

“Do you know it’s Friday night?”

“Yes, of cour—”

“Then go away.”

Okay, maybe charm was overrated.

Before Calla could figure out her next move, a heavyset uniformed officer appeared at the end of the hall.

Calla rushed toward him before anybody in the waiting room could move. “I need to see somebody in the fraud department!”

His gaze flicked over her with a hint of male interest before he rolled his eyes. “Lady, I got—”

“Please. It’s an emergency.”

“It always is.” He sighed and pointed down the hall he’d just emerged from. “Sixth door on the left. See Detective Antonio.”

“Thank you,” Calla breathed, barely resisting the urge to kiss his pudgy cheek.

“Don!” the clerk shouted, leaping to her feet.

“What the hell you want me to do, Mary?” he hollered back. “I got an attempted murder to deal with here.”

Calla barely heard the renewed wailing from the waiting room, she was too busy scooting down the hall.

The sixth door on the left had the pealing, fading letters of Detective Division printed on the smoked glass. Drawing a deep breath and hoping not everybody inside was as cranky as the front-desk clerk, Calla turned the handle.

The room she entered was scattered with several metal desks, each containing a computer monitor and various personal items. A water cooler and coffee station took up most of the space in the back, and directly across from her was a closed office door that read Lieutenant Meyer.

Except for the distant ringing of a phone, it was blessedly quiet.

Better yet, only two people were inside—a woman in a well-worn brown suit, who answered the phone, and a dark-haired man, typing rapidly on a keyboard.

She approached him, confident when she revealed her information, he’d be interested. Detectives moved up the ranks by solving cases, right? Certainly this one would be no exception.

Up close, she realized his hair wasn’t brown but black—thick, wavy and slightly mussed, as if he’d raked his fingers through the locks repeatedly. His hands were large, and his broad shoulders strained against the confines of his wrinkled black shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal darkly tanned and muscular forearms.

This was not a man to be messed with.

“Detective Antonio?” she asked, hating the tentative note in her voice.

After a few more strokes of the keyboard, he lifted his head. His face was handsome and sculpted but hard. His lips might have been full but were flattened at the moment with a scowl. Eyes, green as a shamrock, but imparting none of the cheeriness of Ireland’s symbol, stared back at her with vivid reluctance.

“Yeah?” he returned, giving her a quick look from head to toe.

His expression didn’t soften with the perusal, and she found herself struggling not to be insulted. Granted, it had been a long time since she’d been the Cotton Bowl Queen, but she generally got a spark of interest from most men.

She’d even had her hair highlighted and gotten a glowing spray tan the day before.

Like that matters. Get on with it, girl.

She held out her hand. “I’m Calla Tucker.”

He rose, but not before expelling a tired sigh. “Devin Antonio,” he said, wrapping his hand around hers.