“I thought you had two righteous suspects here!” he bellowed at the arresting officers.
“We caught them both in the building courtyard,” the big black cop replied defensively. “The scene of last night’s murder. Man-and-woman team is what it looks like to me. Neither was armed, but we found devices on the woman that could be used in a burglary.”
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, but I’d really like those opera glasses back, if you don’t mind...”
The three men stared at me.
I shrugged. “Sentimental value.”
“They also resisted arrest,” added the big cop’s partner.
“Excuse me again,” I called. “Point of clarification? I didn’t resist.”
Franco spat a curse. “Great job,” he told the officers. “You didn’t nail me two suspects. All you brought in was the local coffee lady and her grab-ass boyfriend!”
“Ex-husband,” I corrected.
“Just get the hell out of here!” Franco barked at the uniforms. “And close the door behind you!”
Muttering between them, the two officers departed.
Beside me, Matt was bristling. I knew this situation needed to be defused fast. Not only did Franco look pissed, my ex appeared ready to blow deadlier than Vesuvius.
To his credit, Matt had kept his lips zipped while the cops marched us through the precinct and into this holding room. He’d kept his mouth shut as they forced us to sit down on this long, scuffed wooden bench. He even held his tongue while they chained his handcuffs to a metal bar running behind it.
When they did the same to me, however, Matt cursed out both men in uniform—which was okay by me, because being trussed up like a Sunday roast chicken gave me all the comfort level of a peasant woman being accused of witchery during the Spanish Inquisition.
Around then is when Franco strutted in, his boot hitting the wall. Now the sergeant was glaring at me full out, his face flushing as red as the stripes in the American-flag do-rag covering his shaved head. (How many of those did he have, anyway?)
“I understand you waived your right to an attorney,” he said, dropping his Doritos and Red Bull on a chair in the corner. “You want to talk to me, Coffee Lady? Are you waiving your right to remain smart, too?”
“I have nothing to hide,” I stated, “and neither does Matt.”
Franco stepped closer. “Okay then. Talk.”
“Sure, Sergeant. How are you?” I saw no reason not to be civil. “You wouldn’t want to reconsider that coffee and jelly doughnut offer you made me last evening, would you? Explaining everything would be a lot more comfortable in my coffeehouse, don’t you think?” I rattled my cuffed wrists to make my point.
“You think this is funny?”
“I assure you, Sergeant, there’s nothing about my friend’s murder that I find the least bit amusing. But this arrest? That’s downright hilarious. So would you mind unmana cling me now?” Once again, I cha-chinged my S&M wrist-bands. “This is positively medieval. Plus I’m really hot under all these layers.”
“So...” Franco folded his arms and leered. “You want to strip for me now, honey? Is that it? Tops or bottoms first? I vote tops.”
“You son of a—”
That did it. Matt blew. Straining against his cuffs, he angled his body on the bench enough to violently kick out at the detective’s private parts. Franco jumped back—in plenty of time—as if he were expecting it.
“Calm down, Pit Bull,” he warned, “or I’ll have you put down.”
The threat was harsh, but Franco’s expression appeared borderline amused by the little dance. Matt replied by cursing him out—in several languages.
Franco moved down the bench and kicked the wood, hard. I felt the jolt all the way up my already aching spine.
“I said calm down! Unless you actually want leg shackles and additional charges.”
Matt’s jaw worked, but he settled back and zipped it.
Then Franco stepped closer—a fairly plucky move, considering his privates were once again within my ex’s target range. “Look, Rover, I know you’re tough, okay?” he said, his voice actually carrying a modicum of respect. “That doorman used to be a bar bouncer and he’s no pushover. But understand this. I’m armed.”
“Yeah, Matt,” I whispered. “Stand down already.”
Matt shot me the kind of look you reserve for a kitten who claws you up right after you save her from a nasty mutt. I didn’t blame him. Being hassled by corrupt uniforms in banana republics left Matt lacking respect for pretty much anyone flashing a badge and a gun. Given Franco’s unprofessional manner (and leering comment about my giving him a strip show), Matt’s reaction was downright valiant. But if he didn’t chill, he wouldn’t be sleeping beside Breanne tonight. He’d be sharing a cell on Rikers with a much less attractive anorexic, pierced person.
So I leaned closer to his ear and whispered, “You don’t need to keep defending me. I can handle him.”
Franco smirked, obviously overhearing. “Is that right, honey? Go ahead, then. Handle me.”
“Listen to me, Sergeant, I found something important in that courtyard. Something germane to Alf’s case—”
“Christ,” he laughed, rubbing his eyes. “Nancy Drew’s got another germane clue.”
“I found it on the fire escape—”
Franco met my gaze. “So you admit you trespassed?”
I blinked. “Of course.”
Franco went quiet. My direct admission obviously surprised him. He moseyed back to the chair in the corner, opened his Doritos, munched a few, then popped his Red Bull and took a swig—a cover, it seemed to me, for figuring out how to handle me. Finally, he shook his head.
“Twenty-four hours after a murder takes place next to that building, you have the nerve to climb that fire escape? Are you certifiable? Or just one of those bubbleheaded broads who’ve sniffed too much nail polish remover?”
“Don’t you get it?” Matt snorted with disdain. “She was looking for something you idiots probably missed. Then that scumbag doorman locked her in a Dumpster. In a Dumpster! He should be the one chained up here like a dog! Not me!”
“Listen, dude...” Franco cast me a sidelong glance, then locked eyes with Matt. “Your little ex-wifey here is dressed like a gangbanger, and I’m the one to know, believe me. For all that doorman knew, Coffee Lady could’ve had a Glock tucked between those tasty butt cheeks of hers.”
“Shut your damn mouth about my wife—”
“Ex-wife,” I corrected.
“—or I swear to God I’ll shut it for you.”
Franco put the Red Bull to his lips again—less to take a swig, it seemed to me, than to hide a chuckle.
I groaned, half convinced Franco’s antisocial behavior was part of some good-cop/bad-cop ploy. But only half. For one thing, where the heck was the good cop?
“Sergeant, will you please stop trying to provoke my ex-husband and listen to me. I have something for you. Just uncuff me and I’ll show you.”
Franco eyed me for a long, silent moment. “Where is it? This thing you want to show me”
“It’s right here in my pocket.” I gestured with my chin.
“I don’t know about uncuffing you, Coffee Lady. You look pretty unpredictable to me. You might even go for my gun.” He took another swig of Red Bull. “Plus you look kinda hot, all chained up like that.”
“Fine. Have it your way. Don’t uncuff me. Just put your hand in my pocket and get it yourself.”
Franco smiled. It wasn’t a cheerful, have-a-nice-day sort of smile. It was the sort of smile bad boys give you before they start easing down your zipper.
Matt gritted his teeth. “Don’t go near her.”
Franco’s eyebrow rose. “You heard her. She wants me to.”
“Don’t touch her.”
Oh, good God. “Matt, will you stop letting this guy push your buttons?” I shifted my body so Franco could easily reach into my front jeans pocket. “Just reach in and get it!”