The Good Daughter (3 page)

And he had to find Tino. “It doesn’t matter. Are we through yet?”

She blinked. “Why?”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“You’re on restricted duty.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “People to see, places to be.”

“But what’s the rush?”

He glanced at her. He wasn’t going to tell her about Tino. Newcombe would have a field day knowing he would be meeting with an ex-con buddy. But he needed her goodwill to get back on the job. With a sigh, he forced himself to settle into the chair.

“You were going to tell me about you and Don,” she prompted.

Vince shot her an amused grin. “You’re damn persistent, aren’t you?”

Her generous lips curved. “Be warned, Detective. You might as well give up all your secrets now and save yourself some trouble.”

Vince found himself caught in that teasing smile,
despite how much he wanted out of here—
now.
“Not much to tell. He had an agenda. I made him look bad. He won’t ever forget it.”

“He investigated you?”

Vince nodded. “He was convinced I was taking kickbacks from a couple of pimps to leave their girls alone.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Because he was new to the job and didn’t check his facts well enough. He was ambitious and too eager. Hell, he watched
Serpico
too many times, for all I know. Bottom line is, he screwed up and lost his first big chance for glory. He knows it and I know it. Most of the department does, too. He may have done everything right since then, but he’ll never be able to put that failure completely behind him as long as I’m around to remind him.”

“He’s done a thorough, careful job when I’ve worked with him.”

Vince shrugged. “You can believe whatever you want.”

She seemed troubled. “I can’t imagine—”

“Your prerogative.” Frustrated and oddly disappointed, he stood up, towering over her. “Doc, I really gotta go.”

“We’re not through, Detective. You can walk away now, but you’ll just have to come back. Please make an appointment with Wanda for tomorrow.”

He didn’t have time for this. He planted his palms flat on her blotter, leaning much too close. “Can’t wait
to see me, Doc? How about instead I buy you a beer? That way we can really get to know each other.”

Visibly steeling herself, she held his gaze. “I don’t date clients, Detective.”

Smiling, he pushed away from her desk. “Well now, that’s good news, isn’t it?” He walked toward the door, pausing before he opened it. “You just go ahead and write your report, then I won’t have to be your client.”

“Detective.” Her tone commanded him to look at her.

When he did, he saw exasperation—and resolve. “I take pride in my work, just as you do, and we’re not done. We can make this hard, or we can make this easy. It’s your call.” She followed him to the door.

He thought about the statement he still had to organize, about searching for Tino, about how he had to get Newcombe off his back. Leaning inches from her face, he pitched his voice low. “Stop pushing me, Doc. I don’t have time for this.”

“You don’t have any choice, Detective.”

He had to give it to her. Though he had a distinct size advantage over that delicate frame, she didn’t back down an inch, some of that passion he’d seen earlier sparking in eyes gone wide and dark.

“It doesn’t have to be this difficult,” she said.

“Tell that to Newcombe.” He stalked out the door.

V
INCE STORMED
past Wanda, swearing under his breath.

“Hey,
cher,
where you goin’ in such a temper?”

Hearing her voice, he felt the anger drain right out
of him. Wanda Dupree had been a records clerk back when he was a rookie, and had saved his hide when he’d messed up on an affidavit that could have invalidated a search. He respected the tiny Cajun who never seemed to find a good man. Wanda was on the downside of fifty, yet something sensual smoldered in the air around her. She never lacked for companionship, but she tended to pick the worst of the litter with unerring accuracy.

He turned back with a grin, aware as he did it that there’d be a smart-aleck one on her face. “Me, Wanda? You know I’m even-tempered and mild.”

Wanda snorted, then broke into a racking cough.

“Sugar, you got to ditch those coffin nails.”

Sassy as ever, she retorted, “
Cher,
there’s three things that make life worth living, and not a one of ’em good for you.”

“You just haven’t found the right man.”

“That’s ’cause you never asked me.”

Vince shook his head. “I know when I’m out of my league. I’m just a poor country boy, not ready to run with the big dogs always sniffin’ around after you.”

She laughed, coughing slightly again. “Get out of here, you con man.” Her gaze sobered. “She’s a good person, Vince.” Her head tipped toward Chloe’s door. “Helps a lot of people.”

His grin vanished. “I don’t need a shrink. I’m fine.”

“Of course you are,
cher,
” Wanda soothed. “But everybody needs a friend sometimes.”

Vince knew that she truly cared. “I can get a dog if I need someone to talk to. They don’t talk back.”

Wanda giggled. “Go on, you. I’m writing you down for tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.”

“Write all you want, sugar. I won’t be here.” He saluted as he walked away.

C
HLOE CROSSED
the grass blanketing the front yard of her little gray house, with its glossy black shutters. Something inside her, as always, eased at the mere sight of it. The smell of freshly mown grass wafted down the block.

Her parents still didn’t understand why she lived in this eclectic Rosedale neighborhood filled with small, unremarkable houses. Trees lined the streets, sheltering an odd assortment of neighbors—families with small children, senior citizens who’d bought their homes new in the forties, single professionals like Chloe, gay couples. Its main virtue was proximity to the University of Texas and downtown; as a result, prices had risen but were still modest compared with old-money Tarrytown, where her parents lived. They might have understood if she’d bought a Northwest Hills condo, but a small two-bedroom whose oak floors she’d refinished herself? They still shook their heads over it.

But it was hers, purchased with her own money, decorated with no thought to a spread in
Southern Living.
She loved every inch of it.

Picking faded scarlet blossoms from the round white pots on her porch, Chloe inserted her key in the lock of
her Chinese-red front door. She drank in the rich scent of her roses, the sharp spice of the geraniums. Rustling trees outside soothed her, the sound fading with the closing of the door. After shedding her high heels, Chloe padded across the faded green-and-rose Aubusson rug she’d picked up for a song at a secondhand store.

On the way to the refrigerator, Chloe cast a glance at the old rosewood clock on her mantel. She didn’t have a lot of time; Roger was picking her up for dinner and
La Bohème
at six-thirty. She loved this particular opera, but her session with Detective Coronado had been only the beginning of a long and frustrating day. For a second, she studied the telephone and considered the flak she’d take if she canceled.

Roger didn’t deal well with surprises.

Even if he did, it would be rude and thoughtless of her. Unacceptable behavior in a St. Claire.

Chloe sighed, then drank a quick glass of orange juice and headed for the shower.

Relaxing her stiff neck under the heated spray, she let her mind drift, mulling over the past several hours. One image stood out: the glint of anger in Vince Coronado’s eyes. A fire burned deep in his belly to right old wrongs. Chloe suspected that he’d never forgotten what it was to be a child adrift in a system too often callous and ineffective. She marveled at his caring; he could so easily have turned his back on all that and run away as fast as the wind.

But he hadn’t. Instead, he was eating himself alive over not saving a boy he barely knew. The boy had a mother, but it was Vince who was his champion.

Vince, who was rough and raw, and undeniably sexy. His outrageous invitation sprang to mind. Alone now, Chloe could afford to consider what an evening spent with Vince would be like—

She shook her head. It didn’t matter. He was her client, no matter his wishes. Still, Chloe indulged herself in a slowly widening smile, pondering just how different it would no doubt be from an evening spent with Roger.

And what her parents and Roger would say if they knew how much, for a few insane moments, she’d been tempted to find out.

V
INCE STRODE
into the squad room to write up his statement for IAD. He planned to slip back out before somebody made him answer phones in the captain’s office. He’d find some other way to pass his restricted-duty time.

“Vince,” Woods called out from his doorway. “Come on into my office.”

He noticed Sarge’s frowning glance at something behind him. His gut clenched when he saw Barnes and Newcombe approaching. Newcombe smirked in triumph, his dark eyes hard with menace. “You heard your sergeant, Detective. Let’s go.”

“I didn’t hear your invitation, Newcombe.”

“I don’t need one. Now, get in there, unless you want to discuss this with a crowd.”

Vince glanced up at Barnes, noting the hostility radiating from the man cops called Mr. GQ for his always-perfect looks.

“Newcombe’s right. You don’t want everyone hearing this,” Barnes said.

Vince’s fingers flexed, clenching into a fist. He’d like to stand his ground and have it out here, but his instincts told him that whatever this was about, it was bad. With a brisk nod, he preceded them into the room, his mind racing.

Criminals had more rights than cops under investigation. He just had to be cool and see what was happening. He hadn’t done anything wrong. It would all work out, he told himself.

So why didn’t that reassure him?

Barnes closed the door quietly, while Newcombe walked around to the side of Sarge’s desk, crossing his arms across his chest, a smug smile on his face. “I knew you were dirty, Coronado. You’re finished and it’s about time.”

“What are you talking about?” Vince glanced over at Woods. Sarge wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Barnes planted himself at Vince’s right side, radiating hostility. “You lied to me, Coronado. You made me look bad in an election year. I don’t need problems.”

If only Vince knew what he meant. He decided to stay quiet and see who spoke first.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Newcombe taunted. He shot a superior grin toward Barnes. “I told you he did it on purpose. The law means nothing to him.”

Vince couldn’t stand still for that. The law meant everything to him. Why else would he put up with this stinking system? “That’s not true and you know it. It was a good shooting.”

Newcombe smirked. “Not with a bad warrant.”

Vince recoiled. “What do you mean?”

Barnes responded. “You gave false information in your affidavit to obtain the search warrant.”

“The hell I did.”

“There were no drugs at Krueger’s, Coronado.”

He already knew that much. Everyone on the scene last night was aware that the shipment hadn’t arrived. It made things iffy for him, but they still had probable cause. “You got his ledgers.”

“The so-called ledgers are garbage—they’re nothing. We’ve heard from your source, and she says she never told you about the drug room you alleged to exist on the premises, nor did she ever tell you that Krueger kept his records there.”

Vince was stunned. Gloria Morgan was his friend. He’d baby-sat her child, for heaven’s sake. He’d bought the kid presents and taught him how to throw a football. Worse yet, he’d cared about both of them, tried to get her to leave the life, move out from under Krueger’s thumb. What was going on?

“You got to her, didn’t you?” he accused Newcombe. “You’d do anything to paint me the villain.”

“Don’t make this worse, Vince,” Woods warned.

Vince whirled on him. “How could it get any worse? He wants me off the force any way he can get it.”

Barnes intervened. “She never talked to Newcombe, Coronado. She spoke with me. I’m the one you’ve got to worry about. You told me it was a good bust.”

“It was.”

“We’ve got nothing to show for it but the dead body of a man everyone knew you wanted taken out.”

“I had good information.”

“Your source says not.”

“I acted in good faith. She’s given me tips before that led to arrests. That’s allowed.”

“She says she’s only seen you in passing, swears she’s never exchanged more than hellos with you.”

Vince stared at Barnes. Newcombe smirked behind him. He wouldn’t look away from the D.A., wouldn’t back down. It had been a good bust. He wanted to look at Woods to see if his sergeant’s confidence was slipping, but he would not give Newcombe the satisfaction—nor Barnes.

Barnes broke the impasse, checking his watch and frowning. “I’m going to be late for a dinner engagement.”

Vince’s jaw tightened.
With the woman who wants me to trust her?
Not hardly.

He itched to grind his fists into something, preferably Newcombe’s face. He forced his fingers to uncurl. “This isn’t over. You can’t take me down this way, Newcombe.”

“I won’t have to. You’re going to hang yourself. One less hot dog on the streets.”

“Then they’ll be a lot safer for your shiny behind, won’t they? Get me off the force and make the world safer for slime like you, you pathetic—”

Barnes stepped in the path of Newcombe’s charge. “Get out of here, Coronado. We’ll deal with you soon enough.”

“Yeah, got to tidy up the reputation before campaign season, right? Well, I’ve got news for you, Barnes. You’re backing the wrong horse. It was a clean shooting, and people are lying to you. I’m not your problem.”

But Barnes wasn’t listening. He’d already pronounced sentence. Vince bit back a curse, knowing there was nothing else to say. It was up to him to figure out what Gloria was doing—and why.

Finally, he looked over at Woods, but the sergeant’s face was impassive. Maybe he believed Vince, maybe not. Vince got the message. He was on his own. Without another word, he left the room.

“V
INCE
?”

Deep in thought, he almost didn’t hear the soft voice behind him. He turned and saw a face filled with worry. “Sally.”

“How are you?” Her head came barely past his shoulder, her long, dark hair braided neatly, completing the starkness of her black uniform. At her shoulder, the radio mike jiggled slightly when she moved. “Me? Fine.”
Just great.

Solemn gray eyes scanned his face. A rookie under his training the last year he was in uniform, Sally had developed a crush on him. On the rebound from his divorce, he’d made one of his bigger mistakes. Only two nights, but he still didn’t kid himself that it had been smart. He’d been relieved that she’d taken it well when he’d backed away. They still went out to grab a beer now and again, but he was careful to keep things light.

“Vince, if I can do anything…” Obviously, she’d heard about last night’s events.

“It was a good shooting, Sally.”

“But the warrant—”

Vince cursed under his breath. News did travel fast. “What have you heard?”

“Word is that Newcombe says he’s got you cold.”

“Newcombe’s an idiot.”

“A lot of people think he’s solid.”

“Not when it comes to me.”

“Vince, you know I—” She stopped, then cleared her throat. Her eyes glistened as if with tears, but that couldn’t be true. Sally was too much cop to be sentimental. “I want to help you. Promise me you’ll tell me what I can do.”

He smiled at her. “You’re a good friend.” A tiny flicker of pain sparked in her eyes. “I don’t know where all this is headed. Newcombe has wanted my hide nailed to the barn door for a long time, but he’s dead wrong on this one.”

“I believe you. All you have to do is ask for help, anytime, anyplace, Vince. Even if it’s just for company.”

He was sorry that he hadn’t been able, back then, to give her what she deserved. “Thanks, kiddo. I gotta be going now, but I’ll catch you later, all right?”

Sally managed a tiny smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He nodded and gave her a thumbs-up before heading back to his desk. Sally was quickly forgotten, however, as thoughts of Barnes and Newcombe stalked him.
Dinner engagement.
With Chloe St. Claire.

Just give me a chance, Vince. I don’t mind having to earn your trust.

Trust. Sure, he was going to trust her now.

Vince looked around the squad room, seeing it anew. Wondering how long it would be before he would be back at work, could belong again.

You’re finished.
Newcombe’s confident sneer.

Rapping his knuckles twice on the scarred metal surface of his desk, Vince stifled a quick shiver.

Newcombe was wrong. He had to be.

“C
HLOE
?”

She roused herself from perusing the operagoers below them. Having box seats had always been a treat; Chloe enjoyed scanning the crowd between acts almost as much as the performances.

“You’re lovely this evening,” Roger said. One finger trailed along the side of her neck.

She faced him, easing away from his touch. “Thank you, Roger. You’re quite dashing yourself.” It was true. He was always impeccably turned out. Tailor-made, most of his clothes, including this charcoal-gray suit. His blond hair gleamed under the amber houselights.

He touched the knot of his burgundy tie as though it was a totem. “You’re quiet tonight—rough day?”

She couldn’t—and wouldn’t—discuss Vince Coronado with him. “I have a headache. Probably just the heat.”

Roger smiled, reaching for her hand. “Not long until ski season in Utah. How does a week in Park City sound?”

Chloe wondered why he’d never noticed that she hardly skied at all when they went. He loved it, so he assumed she did. Just like her parents, Roger concerned himself more with what Chloe should be doing than what she might want. “Cold weather would be welcome,” she demurred.

He lifted her hand to his lips. “It’s a date.” A figure entering the next row caught his eye. “Excuse me, darling. I need to speak to Tom Griffin a moment.”

Chloe nodded, turning back to her people-watching.

And found herself caught in the gaze of the man who’d been too much on her mind today.

She blinked. Vince Coronado—here? At the opera?

He touched his forehead in salute. She broke the contact, wishing for her opera glasses to be sure she wasn’t seeing things, but Roger had them in his pocket.

As the houselights lowered, Chloe chanced one more glimpse. It was really Vince, and his eyes remained locked on hers long after she should have looked away. He didn’t release her until Roger settled into the seat beside her.

Chloe tried to lose herself in the music; however, it was not so easily managed as in the past.

“C
HLOE
, will you come with me? I need to speak to Tom again.”

She shook her head and smiled. “I’d rather wait here. My head is still pounding.”

“Very well. I won’t be a moment.” Roger slipped into the crowd bunching at the exit.

Chloe struggled to understand the strength of her reaction to Vince Coronado. Unbridled emotions had been discouraged in her household; dignity was paramount. Beyond her upbringing, her profession had made her all too aware of the price of losing control in any manner. Roger had never pressed her on having sex, their relationship based on the sounder principles of common backgrounds and views. He’d never stirred her to want more.