J. Kenner - Heated

As I watched, he cocked his head as if he’d heard something, and his eyes skimmed casually over the room. But it wasn’t casual when he found me. Instead, it was a crash, and I stumbled backward simply from the force of it.

I stood there, unsteady on my feet, yet unable to look away from him. The eyes that had only moments before reflected the gentle blue of a robin’s egg now danced wildly, a violent flame that was more than ready to burn.

I could see his body tense, his muscles tightening as if he was a wild animal about to spring. The hunger on his face was unmistakable, and my pulse kicked up as I fought the sudden urge to bolt.

Go, I thought foolishly. Don’t you know you’re the prey?

Maybe I was, but I couldn’t look away. I was captured, locked in place by nothing more than a look. And if he intended to destroy me, I knew in that moment that I would willingly let him reduce me to rubble.

And then it was over.

Deliberately, he turned away, then whispered something into the blond bitch’s ear. She laughed, the sound high-pitched and grating. It was a good thing I’d left my weapon in my glove box, because right then I had the urge to get off a few rounds. As it was, it took all my willpower to keep from stomping over there and seeing whether my best punch would shatter her overly Botoxed forehead.

Fuck.

I wasn’t supposed to be this riled up. On the contrary, I’d been trying to rile him up.

Apparently, my plan had boomeranged.

Double-fuck.

With a massive effort, I got my feet to move. Since I couldn’t think of a better option, I headed for the bar, figuring that wine would either help me think or help soothe my wounded pride. I was diverted, however, by the tall, gray-haired man who was heading right toward me. He opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head once, then continued on my way to the bar. He sidled up next to me a moment after the bartender had handed me a glass of merlot and ordered himself a beer. “Nice party,” he said. “You know the groom?”

“A bit,” I said. “You?”

“You could say that.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Tom Cray,” he said, which wasn’t exactly news to me since I’d known Tom almost my entire life. He’d worked under my father in the Indianapolis field office of the FBI before moving to Chicago. I’d given his office a call when I’d arrived in town two days ago, but apparently he’d moved on, and was now among the big shots in D.C.

“Sloane O’Dell,” I said, and saw understanding in his eyes.

We’d been moving as we spoke, casually stepping away from the bar and away from other people and prying ears. “You’re on the job,” he said, his words reminding me that I hadn’t come to Chicago to get knotted up about a guy. I’d come to find Amy, and I needed get my damn hormones under control.

“Not officially. One of my CIs back home had a friend go missing. Since I’m riding out the last of my medical leave, I thought I’d help her out.”

“Medical?” he asked with paternal concern.

“No permanent damage,” I said, my hand automatically going to my left hip. “Took a bullet, but it’s healing up nicely. Aches a bit at the end of a long day, but I can handle it.” It ached now, and the ridiculous shoes I’d put on for this shindig didn’t help. Not that I shared that little fashion tidbit with Tom.

“And your partner? Hernandez, right?”

“I forgot you two had met. Bastard bailed on me,” I said, but I was grinning.

“Finally retired?”

“Meredith freaked when I got shot,” I said, referring to my partner’s wife. “Said I was young and could take it, but at his age, he’d be laid up, incapacitated, maybe even dead if he got one of those nasty superbugs that you read about infesting hospitals. Meredith’s a bit of a worrier and a lot of hypochondriac. Not great for a cop’s wife. But he was ready. They moved to Wisconsin. An old Victorian she inherited a few years ago. They’ve kept it as a rental, but I think Hernandez is planning to spend a lot of time fixing it up.” I shrugged. “I’d go out of my mind, but I think he’s pretty happy with the plan.”

“So who’s filling his shoes?”

“No one yet. Captain said he’d make assignments when I got off medical.”

The corner of his eyes crinkled. “And I can see you’re doing your best to rest and recuperate.”

I rolled my eyes. “Damn doctors. I’m perfectly fine, but they insisted I take another ten days. So I’m working off book.”

He glanced around the ornate room. “And you think this missing girl might be hiding among the fancy dresses and bottles of champagne?”

“Unfortunately, she’s not making it that easy for me. She was an exotic dancer,” I added, and when his eyes flicked toward Evan Black, I knew he understood the connection.

“You’re thinking the knights might know something about her disappearance?”

“You mean Black, Sharp, and August? Yeah, maybe. Them or someone who works at Destiny. At the very least it’s a starting point.” I glanced across the room at Tyler. “You called them the knights?”

He slipped his hands into his pockets. “From what I understand, Howard Jahn gave them the nickname, and it stuck. You’re familiar with Jahn, I assume?”

“Sure.” It was no secret that Tyler Sharp, Cole August, and Evan Black had been mentored by the late Howard Jahn, one of Chicago’s most revered entrepreneurs.

That relationship, actually, made me wonder about Kevin’s suspicions regarding the three men. I’d done my research, and Howard Jahn had a pristine record and had left a stunning legacy that included a charitable foundation and an endowed chair at the business school at Northwestern. If Sharp, August, and Black were as dirty as Kevin said they were, would Jahn really have associated with them?

I didn’t know. But I intended to find out.

“So that’s why I’m here,” I said to Tom. “What’s your story? Something going down I should know about?”

“I’m here entirely unofficially. I’ve known Angelina’s father—the senator—for years, and I saw her quite a bit when she was dating Kevin. I even know the groom, too. I met him a few months ago through some task force business.”

“Wait, back up. Are you talking about Kevin Warner? He dated Angelina? Why isn’t he here?”

“Not the best of breakups. I think the fact that he tried to nail Angie’s fiancé for Mann Act violations rubbed her the wrong way.”

“I guess it would,” I said, even as the low buzz of anger built in my belly. I worked hard to keep my expression bland and my voice casual. “Question for you—I know you may not be able to tell me much, but just how dirty do you think those three are? I know they got immunity on the Mann Act violations when that whole task force sting went down, but …”

“My take? Usually I think that where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” he said, echoing my thoughts about guilt and immunity deals. “But one thing gives me pause about those three, and that’s Senator Raine.”

“What do you mean?”

“He oversaw the Mann Act task force, so I imagine he knows as much about those men as anyone, at least as it goes to the trafficking allegations. Seems to me, he must think they’re clean. If he didn’t,” he added, with a nod toward Angelina, “I doubt this marriage would be going forward.”

The man had a point. “Kevin seems convinced they’re getting away with all sorts of shit.”

Tom’s mouth curved into a frown. “Kevin may have his own ax to grind,” Tom said. “Still, I think it’s a fair bet those boys have played in the wrong sandbox a time or two. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Hear what?” I asked, innocently even as I tried to order my thoughts. I didn’t know what Kevin’s agenda was, but I was certain he had one, and I had no intention of being used as his tool.

“I’m going to go say hello to the bride,” Tom said. “I’m only in town for the day, but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call my office in D.C.”

“Appreciate it,” I said, though I’ll admit I was a little distracted. Both by the sudden burst of anger at Kevin, and by my general cluelessness at how to exploit that heat I’d seen burning in Tyler’s eyes. What I wanted to do was shove the bimbo out of the way, and take my place at Tyler’s side. But even if I could manage that without getting my face slashed in a catfight, that wasn’t the route I wanted to take. Right now, I had the upper hand. Succumb to desire and go to him, and I lost that advantage.

No, I wanted him to come to me. I just wasn’t sure how to entice him to do that.

And then it hit me.

“Tom!” I blurted. “Mr. Cray!”

He’d only gone a few steps, and now he turned back, his brow furrowed in question.

“Now that you mention it,” I said, “there’s something you can do for me right now.”

Thirty minutes later, I was on the dance floor in the arms of Murray Donovan, a reporter who Tom happened to know had hassled some of the girls at Destiny and pissed off all the knights. Considering everything that Kevin had told me, that made Murray either a very brave man or an idiot for coming tonight.

Idiot though he might be, he was perfect for my purposes.

He was actually the second guy I’d sought out from Tom’s list of potentials, the first being a real estate broker named Reggie from whom I’d disentangled myself after only five minutes. He held me too tight on the dance floor and, frankly, it was a toss-up which was more annoying—the way the beer on his breath mixed with the prime rib and asparagus he’d obviously enjoyed from the buffet, or the manner in which he pinched my ass.

Murray, at least, wasn’t a pincher. But even that small blessing soon faded under the weight of his inane and ill-advised comments about women in general. And the girls at Destiny in particular.

“I’m just saying it made no sense to me,” he said, referring to the way the girls had not only refused his repeated hounding for interviews, but had gotten the knights involved to end the harassment.

“Maybe the girls weren’t interested in being featured in a magazine article.”

“That’s bullshit. The article would have gotten them some attention. Gotten them out of that shit-hole of a life, maybe. And what woman wouldn’t want to be featured in a national magazine?”

“I wouldn’t,” I said, my back already up at the “shit-hole” comment. My first year as a detective, I’d put away a rapist who was targeting exotic dancers. That’s when I’d met Candy. She wasn’t a vic, but she’d been dancing the nights of two of the attacks, and she had a good eye, a solid memory for faces, and a habit of eavesdropping on the clientele.

Like several of the other dancers at the club, she was a single mom, high school dropout. She was raising a kid, studying to take the GED, and doing her damnedest to make a good life for herself.

The job was solid—paid the bills and gave her time to study and be with her little boy. In the past three years, she’d earned the diploma, then started taking business classes at the community college. She’d moved from the dance floor to management, and gotten herself engaged to the bartender she’d been eyeing since his first day on the job, not to mention very happily knocked up with kid number two. She’d carved out a life for herself—a good one—and it all centered on that job.

Sure, there were some clubs that treated the girls like shit, the customers worse, and ran a few profitable-yet-illegal side operations out of the back. But that wasn’t where Candy worked, and it wasn’t what she wanted. She was a dancer with dreams of owning her own club, and never in a million years would she have agreed to be the focus of a magazine article that suggested that either the club was sleazy, or that she was struggling through a life of slime. She was just a woman doing her best for herself and her kid, and I respected the hell out of her for it. Murray Donovan, I could tell, didn’t.

“I wouldn’t have anything to do with an article like that,” I repeated, just to emphasize the point.

“Hell no, you wouldn’t. I can tell just by looking at you. You’ve got too much class,” he added, ruffling my feathers even more. “What do you do, baby?”

“I make it a habit of breaking the nose of assholes who call me baby.”

He snorted. “That’s what I mean. You’ve got too much spunk—too much drive—to whore yourself out like that.”

Honestly, that nose-breaking thing was looking better and better.

“Come on, seriously. What do you do?”

“I work in a government office.”