Beneath Broken (Imperfect Heroes #2) Page 4

  Gage returned with my wine, set it down next to me, and then turned to go back to his buddies.

  I turned my attention back to my best friend. “Sunshine… huh? It’s not easy to find it in the dark and gloomy days I’ve been living lately.”

  “Sweetie, we all have dark days. In your case, you’ve had a dark year or more. But you’ll pull through. You’re beautiful, strong, and resilient. Call the guy, tell him you remembered something about the robbery, and want to meet him somewhere. Get a feel for his vibe. It can’t hurt.”

  I swallowed hard at the thought. It sounded silly. “But what if he’s not into me?”

  She snorted. “Then he’s gay.” She laughed at her own joke. “Trust me, sweetheart, cop or not, he’ll meet you.”

  “But I’ll feel like I’m cheating on Keith or something,” I all but whispered.

  She heaved a heavy sigh. “Babe, sometimes it takes one to get over another. Even if it doesn’t work out with this super-hot cop, you may feel better once it’s over. Bang it out with him a few times. It’ll feel good, if nothing else.”

  I gasped and pursed my lips to keep from smiling at her crude metaphor.

  She sounded like she’d been there, done that, and since we’d been friends for years, I knew she had, so I vowed to take her advice to heart. I sipped my red wine again and contemplated her words.

  I just wondered if I would have the nerve to call Detective Oliver without feeling like I was going to projectile vomit all over my desk come Monday.

  The weekend flew by and I found myself sitting at my desk Monday morning. The glass guys were coming today to repair the damage and I got here early in case they showed up earlier than scheduled.

  Shaky fingers pulled my desk drawer open and I saw Mason’s card lying haphazardly over the pencils and “sign here” stickers that currently occupied the space. I stared at the plain, boring card and set it on my desktop next to my phone, wondering if I would, indeed, call him. I decided I would cross that bridge when I came to it, and right now, I had no bridge-crossing agendas on my calendar. It was Monday, and Mondays sucked no matter which way you sliced them, so I logged into my computer and picked a piece of lint off my brown pencil skirt while I waited for the stupid thing to load Windows. I glanced out of my large plate-glass window and was happy to see the sun shining on the city today.

  My computer bleeped with some incoming emails, which I sorted through without enthusiasm, but Detective Oliver’s card was taunting me from its perch on the elevated phone holder it sat on. I stared at Tampa PD’s gold and blue seal in the corner of the card and smiled to myself. This was insane. Why would I even call this guy?

  I took stock of what I was working with here: A hot cop with a confident attitude who put his life in danger every day. Was this something I wanted to get tangled up with? Hadn’t I just been there, done that, got the T-shirt, and then got burned and left alone in the process?

  Yeah… screw that. If I ever got into a relationship again, I’d find myself a nice, safe stockbroker or computer programmer who worked nine-to-five and didn’t have to deal with danger, deployments, and duty. Seemed kind of hypocritical considering my line of work, but I was too hurt and broken to let myself go there again.

  I threw the card back inside my desk drawer. He was lucky it didn’t accidentally fall into my shredder.

  Or maybe I was the lucky one.

  Chapter 6

  Mason

  I was going to punch Hunter in the face if he didn’t stop with the comments about Harper Mathis and her nonprofit company. Yes, she was hot. Yes, I wanted to pull her ponytail until her head submitted to where I wanted it. But her icy blue glare and aloof attitude had made it clear this was all business. I’m a guy – so was Hunter – we frequently misread signals by women and then often got ourselves into a trick bag of trouble over it.

  He was insistent and relentless that she wanted me. He said he could see it in the way she was checking me out. At that, I laughed. The woman had just had her company ransacked by a greedy maniac. I doubted she was ‘checking me out’… as much as I wanted to believe it.

  That being said, Harper Mathis was a sight for sore eyes. A blonde in a smart business suit that I was sure was hiding some seriously soft curves to go with the sharp edges of her attitude. She seemed to have a shiny blush to her face, which I wasn’t sure was from the Florida heat of summer, or some shyness. I noticed she had trouble making eye contact with me, which made it all the more fun to bore my gaze into hers and watch her fine ass squirm in what I was sure was probably an expensive leather executive chair.

  “You’re stupid,” I heard Hunter say.

  I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye as I tried to keep my eyes on the road.

  “Go to hell, Jenkins.”

  He snorted. “I’m practically there right now, being partnered with you, douchebag.”

  I grinned a little and maneuvered the plain, white police sedan into the parking lot of the precinct.

  As we got out of the car, Hunter smoothed down his hair in the reflection of the car window. “You gonna type the report?”

  I looked at him incredulously. “Of course. Don’t I always? You don’t do shit.”

  He laughed. “That’s right, ‘cause you’re my bitch.”

  “You’re gonna pay for that next time we’re in the ring at Lenny’s.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. The sunlight caught the gel in his blonde hair and I shook my head.

  Hunter was vain, always had his suits pristinely pressed and his hair perfect. He looked like a Ken doll most of the time, which was why I gained so much satisfaction from leaving bruises on his face and that six-pack stomach of his, just to remind him that sometimes life got ugly, and that he was, in fact, human. I gazed at the yellowing bruise on his jawline and grinned. I wondered how he’d explained that to his wife, Reece.

  We walked into the 41st Precinct of the Tampa PD, and as usual, it was a plethora of chaos and noise. Desks scattered everywhere, suspects handcuffed next to a few of them, most of the suspects compliant; some of them, not so much.

  I watched as a scrawny man struggled to get his cuffs loose. He was trembling, and his eyes darted around in pure paranoia. His clothes weren’t clean, and neither was his hair. Scruff painted his jawline and his face was starting to turn red. I kept my eyes on him as he bucked out of his chair.

  A female uniform asked him questions as she inputted his responses into her computer, which mainly consisted of a few “fuck yous” and a, “I’m not telling you shit, lady!” I couldn’t hear what Officer Valdez was asking him, but what I did see was him leap up out of the chair at her last question and begin to kick her. She scooted out and then up and out of her chair as it squealed on the hard floor. I was at them before I could blink, along with everyone else, and it wasn’t long before I had my knee in his back and a fistful of his greasy hair in my hand.

  I leaned down and got close to his ear. “You better chill the hell out because another cop who isn’t as nice as me is about to come over here and show you how to treat a lady.”

  “Fuck you, asshole. Get your knee outta my back!” he rasped out.

  I yanked his head back harder and he yelped as his neck was cranked. I leaned down even closer. “What was that?”

  “Oliver!” I heard my boss yell. He and Hunter came bounding over and pulled me off the guy. Hunter stood him up and plopped him back down in the chair, this time grabbing another pair of cuffs and securing him to the chair with them.

  “In my office!” my boss barked.

  I glared at Shelton Lange as I entered his office, huffing. “Yeah?”

  “Police brutality much?” He folded his arms, his dress shirt and blue tie jutting out under his folded arms as they sat on his rounded belly.

  “Nah, I’m cool,” I replied, running a hand through my short, dark hair and straightening my tie.

  He jabbed a thumb behind him and said,
“Cameras, Oliver, cameras. Come on now.”

  I briefly glanced up at the devices mounted to the four corners of the police precinct and shook my head. “Yeah, I got it. But did you see him try to attack Valdez?”

  Shelton laughed. “Yeah, I think she could have handled him, though.”

  Officer Valdez, a tall Puerto Rican woman with extreme curly brown hair, which she always wore in a tight ponytail, and cat-like eyes came into the office. “Yeah, I had it, Oliver,” she said in her thick accent, her arms crossed.

  I lifted my hands in surrender. “All right. Next time a suspect bucks, I’ll let you take him down.”

  She nodded and went back out to her desk.

  After Shelton dismissed me, I passed by her desk as she glared at the suspect. I stopped walking and craned my head behind me and said, “Oh, and Valdez?”

  “Yeah?” she asked, her eyes still fixed on the computer screen.

  “Don’t forget about the cameras.” I pointed to the corner of the ceiling.

  She flipped me off and shook her head, but I could see a small smile tugging at her full lips. I too bit back a smile and headed for my desk.

  The station had gone back to business as usual, but I kept one eye on the suspect in Valdez’s chair. It didn’t seem like he was going to attempt that again. I hoped he had a huge bruise in his bony back where my knee had been to teach him a lesson. Not that I thought for a minute he was ever going to live a crime- and drug-free life. He looked… and smelled… like he wallowed in misconduct.

  I opened the small manila folder on my desk and pulled out the two pieces of paper inside it. One was the official “Interview of Victim” form we had to fill out when getting information from a victim. The other was my own sheet of notes that I always kept on the side, observations and other things I would notice about my surroundings.

  I shook the mouse to rouse the sleepy computer, and after the Tampa PD logo screensaver disappeared, I put in my password where it prompted me to. The screen came to life and I clicked on the desktop’s icon for police reports.

  I inputted all the information from the form and then leaned back in my cheap government chair and chewed the end of the Bic pen. Who in the hell would rob from a nonprofit? A lawyer’s office, a stockbroker, a bank, I could see, but this company, they seemed to be doing good things. They were helping veterans who were fresh from war and trauma, finding them jobs, counseling, and anything else they needed. I had Googled them when I returned from the call on Friday.

  Something in my gut twisted. Was it rage, or something else? There was just nothing dirtier than taking from those who were already in need. The craving to find who was doing these break-ins had just increased tenfold for me. This was the perp’s fourth robbery of such a place, here in Tampa at least, but this one was the icing on the fucking cake.

  I pulled the pen from my mouth and tapped it against the back of my head.

  “Wa ’sup, Mr. Police Brutality?”

  I rolled my eyes before I lifted them to Hunter’s smug face. “What do you want?”

  “You get the police report done?”

  I ignored his insult. “No, just got the victim information form done, I’m working on the report now. Not that there’s much to go on.”

  He plopped down in the suspect chair I kept next to my desk and folded one leg over the other. “We need to follow that lead from the last break-in.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. “What lead?”

  He picked at something in his teeth and then looked at me with his clear blue eyes. “I read in the previous reports that the old lady from the soup kitchen said some guy had been sleazing around the place, asking financial questions.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes again. “Jenkins, it’s not a soup kitchen. It’s a company that makes sure kids have meals when they’re not in school.”

  He waved in a careless gesture. “Yeah, I know, but in the summers and stuff they open up a place where people can come and eat.”

  “It’s not a soup kitchen.”

  He snorted. “Okay, Mr. Anal Retentive.”

  I was seriously going to give the other side of his smug face a matching bruise next time we were at Lenny’s.

  I dragged my eyes away from his Ken-Doll face and slid them back to my computer screen. I scrolled through old police reports until I found the one I was looking for.

  “Here it is,” I said, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Kids in Need dot org.”

  Hunter came to stand behind me and he looked over the police report. “Definitely the same M.O. Breaks in with violence and steals computers, laptops, tablets, thumb drives, and whatever petty cash they have on hand.”

  “They left the two big-screen TVs mounted to the wall, and the video equipment,” I commented.

  “Dude, have you ever hung one of those TVs? They’re a total bitch to get up. I can’t imagine trying to get one down and carry it out without being noticed.”

  I nodded. “Still, they left two nice projectors and a couple of video cameras.”

  Hunter went to sit back down. “I was thinking. How the hell did a so-called ‘nonprofit’ get all that nice stuff anyway? Those TVs and that video equipment had to be close to 10 grand. It was new, I remember seeing it. And they said all the stolen shit was new, too.”

  “I wondered that too, so I asked. They claimed it was donated, and when I asked for receipts, they eventually gave them to me. It was all pretty legit.”

  “Huh,” was his only response.

  I used my mouse to scroll down to the notes of the police report. It was a separate part of the screen that wasn’t public information.

  “You were right. An Amelia Shanks, age 68, who works as the receptionist, reported that a few days before the break-in, a young guy in his late 20s or early 30s had been into the company asking financial questions.”

  Hunter’s eyebrows scrunched together. “That’s kinda vague.”

  I sighed. “I know. It says here that she only remembers him because he seemed shady and didn’t ask to donate to the company like most of the walk-ins do.”

  “Did it say what kind of questions?” Hunter asked.

  I narrowed my eyes at the screen. “Says he was asking what kind of computer systems they used, and at first Ms. Shanks thought he was a salesman, then he started asking about their profit margin and how much they actually wrote off on their taxes, how many donations they received, their tax filing status, et cetera.”

  “Who was the investigator?” Hunter asked.

  I scrolled back to the top of the report. “Borst.”

  Hunter scrunched up his nose. “Figures.”

  I clicked off the program. “Yeah, no wonder there are details missing.”

  Detective Borst was pushing 60 and didn’t really seem to give a crap anymore. He had once been a good cop, but he was nearing retirement and was probably just tired and burned out. Couldn’t say I blamed him, I knew I’d be there one day. Still, when people failed to get details and do their job, they sort of screwed those of us who had to come in behind them and finish the job.

  Chapter 7

  Harper

  I stood in line at the First National Bank to make my weekly Wednesday deposit. The line was long and I let out a ragged sigh. The heels I’d worn today were a bad decision. I looked down at the black patent leather peep-toe pumps that showed off my pink toenail polish and had to swallow down a smile. They were so cute, though. They were kind of worth the pinching pain. For the most part, I sat a lot of the day, so it wasn’t like they could bother me, but I should have been thinking ahead when I got dressed this morning.

  However, this morning had been like every other day. Slog out of bed – in my case, the sofa – and go upstairs and shower, and then just pluck out whatever business suit I fancied that day, and then found matching shoes.

  “Next!”

  I looked up to see a young man behind a teller station smiling at me, beckoning me with his fingers. I approached him and plastered on my signat
ure fake smile, the one I use to pretend my life was great and I had my shit together, and slid the zippered deposit envelope, along with a deposit slip at him.

  His flirty brown eyes met my stare and I took in his young, perfect face and dark hair, and realized he sort of reminded me of Detective Oliver. Damn, why couldn’t I get that guy outta my head?

  “Just the deposit today, Ms. Mathis?” he asked with a cheeky smile.

  Was he flirting with me? No way, he looked like a college student. I was too old for him.

  I nodded. “Yes, no cash today.”

  He smiled back, punched some keys on his computer, and gave me a receipt. “Have a pleasant hump day, Ms. Mathis.” He grinned at me knowingly and waggled his eyebrows.

  Hump day? Was this guy serious? Oh yeah, he was flirting. Nice innuendo!

  I grunted out a thanks and scurried out of the bank, my super cute shoes clacking on the marble tile of the floor until I reached the Honda, which had been parked out front.

  I got in and started it up, finding myself breathing a bit heavy. What in the hell was my problem? The kid was just flirting with me.

  Get a frickin’ grip, Harper.

  As I got home, I threw the keys on the end table and sorted through the mail without enthusiasm, as usual. I kicked off the beautiful but offensive shoes and slowly walked upstairs and took my signature deep breath before opening my bedroom door. I creaked the door open and again ignored the made bed and everything in the room as I held my breath. I quickly slipped off my clothes and threw them in the hamper. Plucking out a fitted royal blue tank top and some yoga pants, I slid them on and strode quickly out of the room barefoot.

  I let out a sigh as I left the bedroom. I did not want to inhale the scent that still lingered there. The scent of love, a life, and him.