Valentine's Day Is Killing Me (11 page)

Besides, she’d read enough women’s magazines to know that a guy who was so clearly into himself would not be a good lover, because he was into himself. Duuh. Period. She’d read and heard all the horror stories, plus sat shiva with enough girlfriends explaining about their lackluster experiences with professional guys, athletes, music icons…well, groupie status didn’t count, because you knew what you’d get if you went to bed with a drunk, high, self-absorbed fool, but still, it was more fodder for her already overworked mind.

However, the reaction she got when she returned to work was almost laughable. Her boss was so angry the woman seemed ready to levitate, but her coworkers looked like they were about to lift her to their shoulders and do a Superbowl victory dance…albeit, while cutting her heart out.

Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough!

Ray drummed his fingers on his steering wheel as he sat in his unmarked Crown Victoria on Seventeenth and Market. In all his born days, he’d never heard Marcus Dorchester sound like he had on the phone. He stared at the hands-free unit in utter disbelief as his friend took a cool, distant tone with him. Marc?

“Like I said, Mayfield, this one isn’t for the whole penal process. I’m serious, man. I thoroughly interviewed her at lunch, down at Twenty-One, and if you boys need a case-breaker, she isn’t it. You back the hell off, or I’ll go deep into my personal-favor bag of tricks and pull out a silver bullet. We clear?”

For a moment, Ray couldn’t answer. “You feeling all right, man? Everything cool down at the firm?”

“I am fine. I am very lucid at the moment. What about what I said don’t you understand?”

Silence strangled the airwaves between them for a moment, and then Ray found a chuckle bubbling within him. “She ain’t no chicken-head, is she?”

A long whistle filled the vehicle through the speakerphone.

“Definitely not,” Marcus said. “She’s…”

“She blew your mind, is what she did.” Raymond chuckled and put his gears in drive. Mirth dissipated as he watched Jocelyn Jefferson leave the building with a mink coat draped over her arm. Damn, he knew it! Guilty as sin. She was stashing payoff gifts at, of all places, her job.

“In a word, yes.” Marcus said, after a moment.

“Well, all that notwithstanding, I still have to be sure she’s not involved. If not, play on, my brother. If so, she’s going down to turn up the heat on Phat.”

“She’s not involved,” Marcus argued, his tone becoming brittle through the mounted receiver. “And, I’m not playing,” he added. “Maybe for the first time in my life, I’m not running game.”

“Neither am I,” Ray said, merging with rush-hour traffic. “Then I guess we both have to do what we have to do.”

He hated his job. Conflict wore on him hard as he pulled his vehicle up to the bus stop and depressed the automatic windows. “Miss Jefferson, would it be possible to have a word with you?” When she squinted and acted like she couldn’t make out who he was, he flashed his badge, which got her attention—along with everyone else’s waiting for the bus.

She dashed toward his car and jumped in before the light changed, holding the coat to her breast like a child would hold a rag doll. “What’s wrong now? Am I in trouble again? This lawyer came to my job and said all this stuff could happen to me if I was in cahoots with some underworld figure, but I’m not!”

“Talk to me about the coat, Miss Jefferson. Off the record.” He wished he hadn’t added that last qualifier, because whatever she said might have to go down as evidence.

“Oh, this?” she said, laughing and looking down at it as though she’d forgotten she was holding it. “It’s my professor’s dead wife’s coat.”

“Are you implying that you and he are involved in a murder, as well as—”

“Oh my God!” Jocelyn flung the coat on the dashboard and it slipped to the floor. “Murder?” she squeaked. “Professor Bryant killed his wife? Oh shit!”

“No, no, I didn’t say he killed his wife. I’m asking you if you are trying to tell me—”

“What, you think I killed somebody?” She snatched up the coat, fury blazing in her eyes, replacing all innocence. “I have never in my life been so utterly—let me out. I have an attorney. I am going to walk back to—”

“I’m sorry. It’s my job to ask questions and assume nothing.”

She folded her arms over her chest with the coat wedged between them and her breasts. “Since the moment you saw me, you assumed everything!” She shot a hot gaze out of the window. “Take me to campus, walk me into Professor Bryant’s office, and you will see that he came to collect me from the station last night, because I was wearing—oh, you know what I was wearing. He found a coat in his closet for me to put on—probably because it was the first thing he grabbed, and the poor man obviously had this in his house because he couldn’t bear to part with it—then saw me safely inside my apartment, because the police were too stupid to lock my door, so he was concerned that while being unnecessarily questioned, my apartment could have been burglarized, and today, I took it to work so I could just drop it off on the way home and say thank-you to the man who, by the way, got out of his bed at no o’clock in the morning and saw me home—
that
is a
gentleman
. You guys at The Round House would put an innocent woman with no clothes, no coat, no money out in the—”

“I’m sorry,” Ray said, rubbing his palms down his face as the light turned red. Every time he encountered this woman, she turned what seemed perfectly logical around into something that sounded crazy, and everything that sounded crazy, coming from her, made perfect sense.

“Well, you should be!” Jocelyn said loudly, inching closer to the door. “I am fit to be tied! I just cannot understand why you people keep harassing me!” She spun on him and looked at him hard. “Racial profiling? Gender profiling? What is it? A conspiracy?”

He fought not to smile. “Would you like me to drop you off on campus?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she said curtly.

“Since we didn’t provide a ride last night, I could provide one today as a good-faith gesture…I don’t mind waiting to drop you home.”

“Fine.”

He watched her from the corner of his eye as he drove. She so reminded him of his younger sister who once had a fiery spirit. But it broke his heart to see that fire snuffed out before its time. The streets had claimed his baby sis—messing with the wrong thug had put her behind bars; now the streets had her again with drugs wringing the life out of her, and his nieces and nephews were being raised by grandmom.

Taking the back way up to Temple University, by Spring Garden, then up Sixteenth through the residential badlands that expressway drivers never saw, Ray stared out the front window, wondering how something so good could turn so bad so fast. Same thing happened with Sharon, the first girlfriend he ever had. She was young, impressionable, foolish, just as anyone is at that age. A smooth brother with a wad of bills in his pocket and a nice car had siphoned her away from his side, only to have her accidentally riding in the wrong car on the wrong day. Gone at fifteen. A stray bullet owed no one an explanation. Both of them wept along with her family at the funeral.

Raymond turned the corner and double-parked on Montgomery Avenue. “I should walk you in—not because I don’t trust you, but it’s dark, you have a fur in your arms, and I don’t trust the streets.”

He watched her begin to protest, ready-made attitude just waiting to leap from her mouth, but then he saw her pause, glance out the window, and then over to him.

“All right,” she said quietly. “But this is a delicate delivery. Okay?”

He cocked his head to the side, not quite sure what she meant.

She sighed. “My professor is a really nice man,” she said, stroking the coat. “Very lonely, very nice, respectable. But, he’s not my type, and I can’t keep something that is so expensive and obviously means so much to him, or was given to someone that meant a lot to him—it isn’t right.” She looked up at him, her pretty eyes catching streetlights. “I don’t want him to feel embarrassed by your presence, or like I’m trying to strut in there with some guy, even though you’re a cop…or have him think that you made me return this. I don’t know what I’m trying to say—all I know is that everyone deserves to have their dignity respected, especially when they went out on a limb, put their feelings out there, and didn’t get the response they’d hoped for…what I’m trying to say is…”

“I understand. It’s cool. I’ll walk you to the building entrance and get back in the car. I’ll wait for you and drop you off. All right?”

She nodded and slipped out of the car, not waiting for him to come around and open the door. That he was about to do that gave him pause. This wasn’t a date, wasn’t a thing…this was just a gesture of apology for hotly pursuing a wrong lead, which may have inconvenienced her.

But as he walked her to the building doors and then watched them close behind her, it took him a moment to pull himself away from the glass panes. She waved and offered him a little smile, and then disappeared onto the elevator.

Everything about her made him return to his vehicle slowly. His eyes had told him the woman was a fraud; now something deeper that he couldn’t place his finger on told him the woman was legit. Had a heart of gold. The average sister would have worked the man out of a full-length fur, or done whatever she had to in order to put investment protection around it, using her body as a deposit. The way Jocelyn Jefferson spoke blew him away. He smiled just thinking about how her crazy, long, unpunctuated sentences rolled out when she was in a tizzy. But the soft, gentle sound of her near-whisper when she was calm and introspective in his car made his stomach clench. She cared about people’s feelings, even some old dude who was vulnerable…whom she could have probably worked to get good grades.

Raymond Mayfield looked at his shoes. He didn’t like feeling like this—out of sorts. He liked sure bets. Hard evidence in hand. Hated not knowing and having judged wrong. He understood Dorchester’s dilemma. This was the kind of woman who made men fight for her, or die trying. But that thought was absurd. There was no fight to be had. Jocelyn Jefferson wasn’t playing games, pitting men against each other in some gift-giving scheme, wasn’t working a soul…except every man who accidentally came in contact with her, by just being who she was.

He looked up when he heard footfalls coming in his direction. Odd, but he could pick hers out from all the other pedestrian students walking by. He hadn’t bothered getting into his car. What was the point? He needed to open the door for her this time. It was cold outside, but he really didn’t feel it. Maybe she’d like a cup of coffee before she went home, though?

Words were failing him as he watched her let out a long exhale, rake her gloved fingers through her mane, and stride toward him. Her lovely eyes were lowered, as if she’d just gone to a funeral. The chilly night had added a rose tinge to her butter-soft cheeks. Her gorgeous legs seemed even longer in her black hose and boots…a thoroughbred stride, disciplined, smooth, graceful, head up and back straight…wind taking her hair over her shoulders, putting glistening tears in her eyes. He opened the door on reflex, like a limo driver.

“It’s cold out. You need a cup of coffee,” he said, then could have kicked himself. It was supposed to be a request, not a command like he was talking to a junior officer. What was wrong with him?

She nodded and sniffed and closed her eyes. He watched her as he rounded the vehicle and slid into his seat, and shut the door.

“Everything cool?” He waited, his heart racing, and he wasn’t sure why.

She leaned her head back and didn’t open her eyes. “He was a real gentleman—took it well, but he was so disappointed. I feel awful.”

He couldn’t respond. He was too elated that she’d passed up the offer, too spellbound by the calm compassion she exuded, and too blown away by the serene acceptance on her face…the way her hair spilled across his headrest…the timing of the sigh ran all through him. Her scent filled the inside of his car. Something was happening that wasn’t even supposed to go down like this. He started his ignition. He knew it already—he and his boy Marcus might fall out over this one till the end of time.

“Don’t feel bad,” he finally said, as gently as possible, trying desperately to focus on the traffic. “He’s a man, and men are used to rejection.” Ray inwardly cringed. The statement didn’t quite come out the way he’d meant it.

She looked at him with an expression of utter disbelief. “Men have feelings—don’t you?”

She’d rendered him temporarily speechless.

“Uh, yeah, but…what I’m saying is—”

“The man has been widowed for five years, and hasn’t dated a soul.” She folded her arms over her chest, sat up straighter, and stared at him hard, occasionally adjusting her seat belt strap with nervous agitation. “He’s looking for companionship, friendship, someone who shares his same interests and dreams, and to laugh with on a pillow at night…someone he can share the trials and tribulations of his job with, someone who will have his back when he feels pushed against the wall, and he thought maybe I could do that. He’s devastated. You don’t just give a woman a
twenty-thousand-dollar
coat on a professor’s salary and think nothing of it. I can only imagine what he’s going through…I haven’t dated in years, and I know…” She suddenly pursed her lips and looked out the window.

A wave of conflicting emotions rushed through his system. Irrational jealousy dominated for a second, and he jettisoned it away. What was wrong with him? Why did he care that her prof had a thing for her? It wasn’t his business or his concern. Then instant confusion gave way to a resounding
oh yeah
—he could definitely dig where the man was coming from—five years! He was feeling more than a year real bad right now himself; five would have made him a lunatic.

Then whatever was rippling through him flipped and changed into a sudden awareness that this woman had just spilled her guts in his car. Hope was sending very crazy messages to the rusty dating synapses in his brain…did
she
say
years
? This fine, smart, misfit angel hadn’t gone out in years? She’d told him that back at the station, but he didn’t believe it, then. Oh, Jesus…what was wrong in America? Had the brothers lost their minds?

She wanted to leap from his car and run shrieking into the night. Why had she just told this very handsome cop all of her personal business in one run-on sentence? Was she crazy? He’d already seen her at her worst, thought she was a felon, a prostitute, then an arms-, drugs-, and flesh-peddling ringleader’s woman. Now she had openly admitted to possibly being a university charity case, with a professor who was on her, which would make the man surely question her validity for even holding a doctoral seat in a class. All she could do was stare out the window and take in very small sips of air.

“I hear you,” Ray said quietly. “I didn’t mean to come off with the cold comment. You’re right. Men
do
feel, so I can only imagine what the brother is going through. Might take him a while, but eventually, he’ll be all right.”

She peeped at the man driving the car. His mellow response made him seem like so much more than just a cop, Five-O.

“It would be easier if you didn’t have to see him all the time, but you do. You’ll feel funny, all weirded out when you bump into him; he’ll be feeling some type of way…carrying a torch and yet having to play it cool. The hard part is when there’s a heavy chemical attraction, the woman is gorgeous like you, and you just have to watch her from afar and know somebody else is with her.”

Jocelyn turned her body around in her seat and gave Detective Mayfield her full attention. “Sounds like the voice of experience,” she said quietly. “How’d you deal with it?”

He stopped suddenly at the yellow light, not trusting his reflexes to blow through it. They both lurched forward. Her question had thrown him for a loop.

“I didn’t say I had direct experience like that, just could speculate on what that would be like.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes scanning the side of his face. “It just sounded so realistically accurate that I figured only a person who’d gone through something like that could relate.”

He kept his eyes on the light. Her voice was like a low-intensity interrogation lamp, making him begin to sweat. He didn’t want to talk about Debra, ever. What went down was wrong, and still a tender wound.

“Happened on my job,” he said flatly when the light changed. He forced a chuckle; he had to laugh. His mouth was on autopilot for no reason under the moon, but telling this woman the truth seemed like the only thing to do right now. “On Valentine’s Day. I had to work; she was off. I begged my partner to ride shotgun with another officer, and to allow one of the rookies to switch with me, just for a few hours, because I couldn’t wait to get home early to see her. It was gonna be a surprise. Boy, was I the one who walked in and got a surprise.”