Guns and Roses (24 page)

I drove from the station to Mercy Hospital. I sat in the parking lot for a long time before I went in and tracked down Gabriel.

He looked both happy and surprised to see me, and ushered me into his office.

“Miss me already?” He grinned then kissed me.

“Yeah, I do.” That wasn’t a lie. “I just came from the station. Greg Keller is dead.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Dead? How?”

Was he assessing me? What I knew? If I knew anything? Did he seen surprised, or was that an act?

I said, “Shot to death. His face was cut.”

“I can’t say I’m upset, not after what he did.”

“Nor can I.”

I kissed him, but I didn’t close my eyes. He didn’t close his either.

He smiled at me. There was something in his expression.

“Do you always shower in the middle of the night?” I asked, trying to make my voice light.

“On occasion.”

He was looking at me, trying to assess whether I was going to push him on this. The only way the police would even look at Gabriel—unless he’d been careless and left evidence at the scene—was if I said he wasn’t with me last night.

Except, that would incriminate me as much as him.

Could I live with myself—with Gabriel—when I suspected him of murder?

“Selena, is everything okay?”

What a loaded question. My heart raced—there was no turning back.

“Everything is just fine,” I said.

“Good.” He kissed me. “I have to prep for surgery, but I’m on-call tonight so I can go home when I’m done. Will you be there?”

I nodded. “I don’t cook.”

“Lucky for you I love to cook.”

He opened the door to leave. I said, “By the way, Gabriel?”

He turned to look at me. His expression was curious, his blue eyes brighter than I’d ever seen them. I could lose time with this man and enjoy every moment.

I said, “I love you, too.”

*****

ALLISON BRENNAN

Allison Brennan is a
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of eighteen romantic thrillers and multiple short stories. She’s currently writing the Lucy Kincaid series, about an aspiring FBI agent overcoming her tragic past. The fourth book in the series,
Silenced
, will be out on April 24
^th
. She lives in northern California with her husband, five kids, and assorted pets. Check out her website at
www.allisonbrennan.com
for more information about her books and how to follow her on Facebook and Twitter.

Lori Armstrong

D
EAD
F
LOWERS

A Julie Collins short story

I fucking hated Valentine’s Day.

Hated it.

With the hatred of a thousand fiery suns kind of hatred.

“Yes, Julie, I know. You’ve been bitching about it for the last three days. Give it a rest.”

I glanced across the conference table at my PI partner in crime, Kevin Wells.

“What?” His handsome face wore a mocking expression. “No, I’m not a mind reader. You’re muttering. But in your case, it’s not really muttering, since I can understand every snarky word.”

“So you’re a fan of Valentine’s Day? You’re picking out a mushy card, a box of chocolates, a bunch of flowers, and a teddy bear... for who exactly?”

“No one, and I’m damn happy not to be dropping a bundle on one day without the guarantee I’ll get laid. Beings you’re in
lurve
and all, I imagine you’re planning to don fetish wear for Martinez for Valentine’s Day.”

I gave him a droll stare. “Really, Kev? Fetish wear?”

“I thought all bikers were into latex, leather and chains, and kinky stuff. I expect Martinez is the type of man to demand you put it on and parade around for his pleasure.”

“Demand? That’d be the first and last time. I’d kick his ass.”

“Sure. And then you’d kiss it.”

My blood pressure spiked when he made kissing noises. “What the fuck is
wrong
with you today?”

Kevin grinned. “I love yanking your chain. Especially the one Martinez used to attach the ball around your ankle. I’m surprised it doesn’t trip you up more often.”

I threw the stapler at him.

He ducked, laughed, then hightailed it out to the main room when the doorbell dinged.

My whole beef with Valentine’s Day, at least this year, was that we, at Wells/Collins Investigations, had spent the last month working on cases to verify infidelity. Following the suspect-ees, hoping to catch them in trysts. The worst ones? When the cheaters were bold enough to meet their no-tell lover in their own homes. For me, it was enough to tarnish the aspect of everlasting love. It made me loathe a day devoted to celebrating lovers.

Wasn’t like Martinez and I had discussed V-day. Not even in the hope-you-aren’t-expecting-an-engagement-ring type of joking around. Martinez and I had been living together for almost a year. The blush wasn’t entirely off the rose, but the petals had started to droop, especially since the first of the year. He’d been distant, which I chalked up to Hombres problems, not anything going wrong between us.

Or had I just gotten complacent?

I knew better than to ask why Martinez always left the room when his private cell phone rang. Secrecy was part of the gig being involved with Tony Martinez, the international president of the Hombres motorcycle club. Part of me was happy he kept me in the dark about his shady business dealings. But another part of me wondered if that mentality made me as much an idiot as the clients who hired us, hopeful the suspicions about their lover’s indiscretions were wrong. After all Tony and I had gone through to be together, he wouldn’t be stepping out on me now... would he?

It especially bugged me, that in the last two months, more often than not, he still crashed at Bare Assets, the strip club he owned, or Fat Bob’s, the biker bar he owned, rather than driving home.

Home. Even after eight months, it sounded strange. The place still felt like I was living in a hotel. We’d done nothing to it to make it ours besides combining our various crappy personal belongings.

After I’d sold my house in Bear Butte County, he’d found a duplex to suit our needs. The house is located out of town, past the airport, and situated on a hill. Which means we have a great view of the front side of the Black Hills of South Dakota and the backside of the Badlands. We’re surrounded by ag land, so no one can show up on our doorstep and get to El Presidente without tipping off his security team.

“Julie? We have a visitor.”

I looked up as Kevin entered the conference room with a smartly dressed brunette. The woman, I guessed in her late-fifties, pointedly stepped over the stapler on the floor, offering her gloved hand and a brittle smile. “Marcia Bueller.”

“Julie Collins.” I studied her for a moment. “Bueller. As in the Bueller Law Office down the hall from us?”

“One and the same. My husband, Glen Bueller, owns the firm. I know he hasn’t utilized your investigative services, despite the convenience.”

Kevin and I exchanged a look. Glen Bueller had leased the small office space six months ago. It’d seemed odd that the lawyer, who looked maybe five years shy of retirement, had left a large prestigious firm to hang out his own legal shingle at the twilight of his career.

“Why don’t you tell us what problem we’ll be assisting you with?” Kevin said.

Gotta love my smooth partner and his optimism.

A long minute passed before she offered, “It’s a... personal matter.”

Kevin’s attention remained rapt. Mine wandered. I hated how some clients dragged out the drama. Wouldn’t make the case more interesting to me. Nothing piqued my interest like cash on the barrelhead.

“Two years ago, Glen took on a junior associate. A young woman, fresh out of law school, who’d spent a year clerking for Judge Raba in seventh circuit district court. When my husband relinquished his partnership last year, Meghan opted to join him in his solo practice.”

I’d seen this Meghan woman. A tall, stacked, gorgeous redhead who could’ve moonlighted as the main attraction at Martinez’ strip club. “Didn’t you object to him hiring her?”

Marcia shook her head. “I encouraged him to hire her since Meghan is the daughter of my sorority sister, Patrice. I expected it’d be a mentor relationship. Then he had a career crisis and resigned from Hall, Nelsen, and Burns to start his own practice. He didn’t consult me in that decision.”

“It’s caused issues between you?”

“Yes, not that I ever expressed my displeasure to him. I soldiered on, being the dutiful wife as I have for the last thirty-five years. But now...” Marcia glanced at her gloved hands, folded on the conference table. “Now I’m afraid they’re having an affair.”

“What makes you believe that?” Kevin asked.

“Little things. The familiar way she touches him. The avidness of his eyes following her every move. The last minute business trips. The fact that when he’s home, he’s not... really there. He’s distracted.”

Don’t compare this situation to yours with Martinez.

Annoyed by my own comparison, I asked, “When did you first suspect this was going on?”

Marcia lifted her chin, glared at me for my impertinent question and then addressed Kevin. “I need to know exactly what’s going on. Irrefutable proof. I assume you can be discreet?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’d like to hire you.”

“Consider it done.” Kevin leveled her with a
trust me I’m a professional
smile. “Hang tight for a second and I’ll get the paperwork.”

I sensed Marcia didn’t want to be alone with me because I’d already figured out she’d known about her husband’s slap and tickle with his associate a lot longer than she wanted to admit.

So what’d happened all of a sudden that she could open the blind eye she’d turned toward the affair? Despite my usual tendency to blurt out the first thing that popped into my head, this time, I kept my mouth shut and put the business ahead of my curiosity.

I fired up a smoke and leaned back in my chair.

Marcia wrinkled her nose. “There are no smoking laws in this city.”

“Would you like me to open a window?” Right. It was ten degrees below zero outside.

“I’m sure the building owners wouldn’t approve of your... habit.”

“Moot point since Kevin now owns the building.” Technically Kevin, Jimmer and I owned it. Jimmer needed a legitimate tax write off, and I needed to invest the paltry sum from the sale of my house since Martinez had paid for ours. And luckily, my buddy Kevin oozed the charm that’d convinced the ninety-something spitfire Verna Doren to sell to us two months ago. I exhaled. Smiled. Waited.

“You and Kevin are partners?”

So damn hard not to snipe back that Kevin and I weren’t partners like her husband and Meghan were partners. “Yes. Kevin started the business, but I bought in after I quit working at the Bear Butte County Sheriff’s Office a few years ago.”

Kevin returned with the contract. I listened while he explained the terms. Marcia signed on the dotted line and they left to take care of payment. Cash I assumed.

I ground out my smoke and wandered to the window, looking at the street below. Dirty snow was piled waist high against the stone façade. A Dumpster in the alley overflowed with cardboard. The dim sunlight was fading fast, tipping us into night. I’d be glad to put this day behind me and go home.

Would Martinez be there tonight? Or would I get another terse phone call telling me not to wait up? I brooded until Kevin returned.

“Jules? You okay?”

“Yeah.” I faced him. “Just ready to be done with these cases today.”

Kevin slid into his seat. “Speaking of cases... what have we got on Natalie Brunson, besides her husband’s suspicion that she’s getting it on with their son’s math tutor?”

“Photos.” I shoved the pictures at him. “They meet every other day in the morning.”

“Think math whiz college kid has calculated how much each bang is worth?”

“Crude, even for you, Kev. Besides”—I tapped my fingers on the pictures—“I don’t know how damning these are.”

“What’s the time between shots?” Kevin asked.

“Forty-five minutes. After the meeting, they lingered on the doorstep, as much as one can linger when it’s three degrees below zero out. They didn’t touch at all, which could be an indication they’re doing the nasty. Or it could be... they’re simply an employer/employee chatting about the kid’s performance, not how the tutor performs in bed.”