Good Girl Gone Bad (18 page)

Maybe her real identity would be somewhere in the file. Phil shuffled through several more pages near the end when she came across a datasheet.

Bingo. Margery Flint, a.k.a. Ruby, 14865 North Capital, Apt. 373, Lansdowne.

She jotted down Ruby’s last known and continued through the reports.

Most of it she knew. It all came out in the IA. She’d seen the transcripts her father was given by his attorney, but seeing it didn’t mean he was guilty.

She needed to track down Ruby and ask her point blank why she lied, and who coerced it.

She got on the computer and logged into the data bank at the PD. She did a reverse on Margery’s addy and came up with her phone number. She’d attempt a conversation over the phone first, then hopefully she could set up a meeting.

Her finger shook as she dialed the number. Nervous energy infused her limbs. After all these years, she was going to speak with the woman responsible for ending her father’s illustrious career, which in turn provoked his suicide.

“Hello?” a low throaty voice answered. She sounded old, tired, and nicotine battered.

“Margery Flint?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Philamina Zorn. I wanted to know if I could talk to you about my father Mac.”

A long pregnant pause followed. “Miss Flint?”

“I have nothing to say about Mac.”

“Miss Flint, please, I need to know who set him up. I want to clear his name.”

“No one set him up. Mac had his demons.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Stop trying to make him the saint he portrayed, and don’t call me again.”

Phil stood for a long time holding the phone to her ear, the dial tone droning angrily. Hot tears dripped down her cheeks. It was a lie! It was all lies! Her father was not the man they said! He couldn’t be. The man she knew was honorable.

After several long minutes she hung up the phone, drained of energy and feeling punk.

She looked at the scattered files on her kitchen table and in a surge of anger swiped them with her arm, sending pages scattering all over the floor.

“No!” she screamed.

Impulsively, she ran to the foyer and grabbed her helmet. She needed to get away, to clear her head, to sort out the mess her life had become.

An hour later, feeling no better, Phil turned back onto her quiet street. She groaned under her helmet. Ty’s black pickup truck was parked next to her stranded Taurus.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“G
o home, sir. It’s my day off and I’ve filled my quota of off-duty police work.”

“This is personal.”

Phil swept past his tall figure propped casually against her front door. She jammed the key into the lock, the force veering it off the mark. Frustrated, she shot him a look that said, “Shut up or get your lights punched out.” He cocked a dark brow at her and smiled leisurely. He looked good enough to eat. Damn him. She didn’t want this distraction. She wanted to feel sorry for herself, alone, for a little while longer.

Without taking his eyes off her face, he reached down and took the keys from her hand. “Officer Zorn, you don’t ram it in like that. You’ll almost always fail in securing access.”

He ran the edge of the key down her arm and across her knuckles. “For success, lubrication is desired.” He grinned at her, positioning the tip of the key at the lock entrance. He slipped it in and something inside her moved. She licked her dry lips. “As you can see,” he continued, “when guided by the right hand, it slips right in.” He turned the key. The click of the tumbler turning echoed in her heart.

He pushed the door open and stepped back. “After you.”

She speared him with a glare and shook her head, pulling the rubber band from her thick ponytail. Stalking past him into her house, she tossed her helmet on the oak table in the entryway. Using her teeth, she pulled her gloves from her hands and flung them on the sofa.

She shook her head again and ran her fingers through the soft tangles. Curious at Ty’s silence, she turned to face him. He stood in the doorway. The late-afternoon sun behind him illuminated his silhouette, his legs braced as if on the bow of a ship, his hands fisted at his side. The impact of his masculinity hit her hard, a woman reacting naturally to a man.

Phil smiled, a soft kittenish smile, and sauntered toward his big frame. “Do I turn you on, sir?”

Ty cleared his throat before he spoke. “Yes.”

She pirouetted in front of him. While she wanted him to do naughty things to her, her inner cop wanted inside that brain of his.

“Wanna make another bet?” She reached behind him and pushed the door closed.

“No.”

She pressed closer to him. His black T-shirt strained against the wide plane of his chest. His black jeans hung snugly, accentuating the lean muscles of his thighs and his impressive package.

“That’s too bad. I was going to let you win this time.”

She laughed at his sharp intake of breath.

Game over. She wanted answers. “Did you kill Scott Mason?”

He opened the front door and reached down, picking up a small shopping bag she hadn’t noticed earlier. But then, she had been solely focused on Lieutenant Studly. He closed the door.

“A little late to be asking that, isn’t it?”

“Not really. I’m sure if you did off him you had a good reason.” Her stomach growled. She walked into the kitchen and was greeted by scattered paper all over the floor. She bent to gather them up.

“What’s all that?” Ty asked.

“None of your business.” Quickly, she shuffled the papers into a semblance of order and stuffed them in a drawer at her computer desk. Her stomach growled again. Ignoring Ty’s raised brow, she strode back to the fridge.

He strode up behind her as she opened the fridge door, looking for something cold to drink. She really needed it now. He stood so close to her, his heat scorched her neck. The fine hair there spiked and as much as she wanted to move forward to her father’s killer, she couldn’t get the vision of her body writhing beneath Ty’s sweaty thrusting body out of her mind.

Goose bumps erupted along her arms. “Do I turn
you
on, Officer?” His breath caressed her neck.

She bent down to grab two bottles of water. Her ass rammed right into his thighs. Without missing a beat, Ty slipped his hands around to the front of her hips and pulled her hard against him. “Just what I thought. Why are we wasting time?”

She stood up quickly and wheeled around. Shoving her shoulder into his chest, she pushed him hard out of the way, then closed the fridge door. “Because, sir, I don’t share, and the next guy who fucks me has to like me.”

Thrusting a cold bottle in his hand, she strode past him to her desk and covered her scattered notes with the latest edition of
Cop Talk
magazine. She faced him. His expression was contemplative, as if he were asking himself whether he liked her enough to fulfill her terms.

“Are you having sex with Candi?”

“No.”

“Have you?”

He grinned. “No.”

“Have you had sex with anyone else at the club?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why all the questions? Did your captain instruct you to pump me?”

She shut her mouth. Ty smiled, his lips forming a tight line. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Did you kill Mason?”

“No, but someone sure beat the shit out of him. His face is a mess, and the back of his head is missing.”

Phil grimaced at the visual. Scott Mason was many things, most of them not very nice, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.

“Who found him?”

“An anonymous call to the PD.”

Hmm. Smelled to her. “That stinks of a setup. Who besides me wants to see your ass hung out to dry?”

He sauntered toward her, stopping at the table. “Lots of people on both sides of the law.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Open it and see. Why did you lie to Mossa?”

She set her bottle down on the table and opened the brown bag. “Lie about what? You were with me.”

“Not until nine, like you said.”

She shrugged. “So I got my times mixed up.”

“Admit it, Zorn, your letter-of-the-law credo would have me in jail right now when you know as well as I do I didn’t kill Mason.”

She shrugged, refusing to admit he was right. She still hadn’t come to terms with lying to her superior officer and didn’t want to think about it right now.

Pushing it from her mind, Phil reached into the paper bag and pulled out a water-filled plastic bag. She held it up against the light. A fish. A pretty one. Long, deep red fins with the barest hint of purple at the tips. Beautiful. “What’s this?”

“A fish.”

“No shit, Sherlock. What kind and why is it here?”

Ty reached into the bag and pulled out a quart-size round bowl and a little plastic container of food. “It’s a Beta, or as some call them, a Siamese fighting fish. Since you like to argue so much, the two of you should get along. He’s yours.”

Phil shook her head and put the plastic bag back into the paper bag. “Nope, I don’t have fish. If you haven’t noticed—” she gestured at the Spartan room—“I don’t even have a live plant in here. I kill everything.”

Ty pulled the fish back out of the bag and untied the plastic. In one quick maneuver, he poured the fish and water into the bowl. “Consider him a thank you for helping me out today.”

Phil eyed the fish swimming happily around in circles. “For the record, women like sparkly thank-you gifts.”

“Women want to take care of things, males specifically, so here’s your fix.”

“Your mother didn’t.” She bit her bottom lip. Why did she goad him about his mother? Was it to get a real live emotion out of him other than anger?

Ty stiffened, his jaw tightened, and his dark complexion paled a few shades. “Forgive my mistake.
Normal
women want to take care of men.”

“Do you forgive her?”

Ty shrugged and opened the little container of food. He poured a few of the tiny balls into his hand and dumped them into the bowl. The fish went to town, slurping them right up. “Pig,” Phil muttered.

“She was what she was long before she made the mistake of having me.”

“You aren’t a mistake.”

Ty laughed, the sound harsh. “A lot of people out there would argue that.” His eyes softened for a moment. “But thanks for the sentiment.”

For the first time, Phil saw Ty as he must have been as a boy. His dark hair long and unkempt, his big green eyes hungry for love. She wondered how many times he reached out to his drug addict mother only to be rejected. Could she blame him for being such a hard case? Why should he trust anyone, women especially?

“Do you trust me?” she asked softly.

Just as softly, he answered, “No.”

Her gut rippled. “Fair enough.”

He smiled a half smile. “Don’t take it personally. I don’t trust anyone.”

“I’m not your mother, Ty.”

His eyes flashed before they softened. He stepped closer to her and reached out, taking a lock of her hair between his fingers. Absently, he rubbed it. He flashed her a wicked smile. “I hope not, otherwise I’d be giving Oedipus a run for his money.” He brought the lock to his nose and sniffed. “While I’ve had dreams of wringing your pretty little neck, I dream more of sinking myself deep inside of you.”

Phil gasped and pulled her hair from his hands. “Stop talking about having sex with me.”

“Can’t help it. You’re a walking advertisement for all things carnal.”

“Is it always about sex with you? Have you ever gotten to know a woman for herself first?”

He took back the lock of hair she pulled away. “I don’t have time to form emotional attachments, or the inclination.”

Phil stood her ground. “You talk about sex like it was shooting hoops, or eating a meal. How fun can it be if there’s no emotion involved?”

“Lust is an emotion, so is desire. You don’t have to have an emotional attachment to a masseuse to enjoy a massage, do you?”

“That’s different.”

“Why? It’s touching, rubbing, stimulating.”

“It’s not the same, and you know it.”

“The only difference is there isn’t penetration.”

Phil laughed. “I’ll tell you what, Lieutenant, I’ll let you give me a massage and we’ll call it even.”

Ty grinned and stroked her neck with the back of his knuckles.

She instantly warmed to the idea. She’d been dying for a foot massage. “In fact, let me jump in the shower and you can give me the foot massage of all foot massages.”

“What do I get out of it?’

“The satisfaction of knowing you can touch a woman in an intimate way without penetration.”

He scowled. “A lesson I hardly want to learn.”

She smiled up at him, looking forward to his big hands on her sore feet. “I’ll return the favor.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

Phil hurried back to the shower. She found herself humming as she lathered up.

It occurred to her that the only place for a good massage was her bed. The sofa was too soft and lumpy and she was afraid the kitchen table would collapse.

After toweling off, she slipped on a pair of white terry cloth shorts and a matching midriff top. She smiled. It didn’t leave much to the imagination.

She went about laying out a fresh sheet on her bed and grabbed a bottle of her favorite lotion. Pulling her hair back into a ponytail, she headed back into the kitchen, where Ty stared broodingly down at her new pet.

“I’m calling him Bubba.”

Ty looked up at her and cocked a brow. “Bubba?”

She nodded and said the name again. “Yep. Hopefully he’ll live up to the name. Big, dumb, and harmless. And for his own good, he better be able to survive without food for days.”

Ty chuckled. “It’s a good thing they breathe surface air, or he might die from asphyxiation.”

Suddenly, Phil liked the fact that she had someone, okay, a fish, to come home to. Who knew, if she didn’t kill this one, maybe she’d get him a friend.

She picked the bowl up and set it on the kitchen counter near the window. Soft morning sun flooded the room and this way he wouldn’t fry. “I hope I remember to feed him.”

“I’ll remind you.”