table. Some low-life criminal would be seated on the other side.
He could imagine the partner grilling the perp, over and over, verbally pounding him, not letting him take a breath or gather his thoughts.
Then suddenly the steel door would swing open, and in would stroll a leggy redhead smelling as fresh as a spring garden, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose giving her a look of innocence not often found in the testosterone-driven environs of the police department.
She’d be carrying coffee. Maybe an icy Coke from the machine if it was summer. As she ignored the county law against smoking in public places and offered a cigarette, her eyes, as blue as a County Kerry lake, would be warm and empathetic. Her smooth magnolia drawl would chide her partner for being too harsh. Too rigid.
Of course there’d be a way out of this mess, she’d say coaxingly. Then, leaning forward, perhaps even flashing a bit of lace in the open V neck of the silky blouse that clung to slender curves, she’d offer the lowlife a door out of the box.
Having fallen under her smooth, feminine spell, the perp would leap for it. Only to find himself landing smack on his ass behind bars.
‘‘You’d lose.’’ Her words yanked him from the imaginary scene. The laughter he’d thought he saw hovering on her lips earlier had moved to those remarkable eyes. ‘‘I tended to play the bad cop. Perpetrators didn’t expect it, so sometimes it caught them off balance.’’
‘‘Makes sense to me.‘‘ She’d always, since the first moment they’d met, kept him off balance. ‘‘And did you just say ‘perpetrators’?’’ He’d used the word once during a poker game conversation with Nate, who’d nearly laughed his ass off over what he’d insisted was a Hollywoodism.
‘‘Yeah, I did.’’ She folded her bare arms. ‘‘And if you tell anyone, I’ll have to shoot you.’’
‘‘Works for me,’’ he said agreeably.
It occurred to Quinn as he pulled up in front of the nineteenth-century mansion, that as bad as it was that two men were dead at the hand of some psycho who was maybe planning to terrorize the town and smoke-check a lot more, for the first time in a very long while, he was actually enjoying himself.
10
Valentine was not in a good mood after her nightly newscast as she pulled into the parking lot of the gray stone building flying the orange, white, and green flag of Ireland next to the Stars and Stripes.
Having spent the past sixteen years cultivating sources all around the world, she was frustrated that that damn second shooting had thrown a monkey wrench into her broadcast schedule and she hadn’t snagged an interview with FBI Special Agent Cait Cavanaugh.
That was the bad news. The good news was that no one else had either. So there was still a chance. Especially since she still had a kitten card up her sleeve.
It had begun to rain. She dashed across the cobblestones to the heavy oak door that had a sign stating, OPEN WHEN WE’RE HERE. CLOSED WHEN WE’RE GONE.
The Black Swan pub, decorated with yet more Irish flags and framed photographs of green hills, sparkling blue lakes, and castle ruins, was doing a standing-room-only business. The tall, dark-haired Irishman building pints behind the horseshoe-shaped wooden bar waved to her and pointed toward a two-top booth in the far corner of the room.
His welcoming smile smoothed her rough edges a bit. She waved back, then began making her way through the teeming throng of pirates and wenches. Fortunately, all were too busy partying and tossing back Guinness and Irish whiskey to pay her any notice.
Val wasn’t going to lie; there were times she liked being recognized. When she’d first arrived in the Big Apple from that affiliate in Phoenix, she’d been jazzed at the idea of finally achieving her childhood goal of becoming famous.
That was then. This is now, she thought as she slid into the wooden booth. A hand-painted sign
He could imagine the partner grilling the perp, over and over, verbally pounding him, not letting him take a breath or gather his thoughts.
Then suddenly the steel door would swing open, and in would stroll a leggy redhead smelling as fresh as a spring garden, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose giving her a look of innocence not often found in the testosterone-driven environs of the police department.
She’d be carrying coffee. Maybe an icy Coke from the machine if it was summer. As she ignored the county law against smoking in public places and offered a cigarette, her eyes, as blue as a County Kerry lake, would be warm and empathetic. Her smooth magnolia drawl would chide her partner for being too harsh. Too rigid.
Of course there’d be a way out of this mess, she’d say coaxingly. Then, leaning forward, perhaps even flashing a bit of lace in the open V neck of the silky blouse that clung to slender curves, she’d offer the lowlife a door out of the box.
Having fallen under her smooth, feminine spell, the perp would leap for it. Only to find himself landing smack on his ass behind bars.
‘‘You’d lose.’’ Her words yanked him from the imaginary scene. The laughter he’d thought he saw hovering on her lips earlier had moved to those remarkable eyes. ‘‘I tended to play the bad cop. Perpetrators didn’t expect it, so sometimes it caught them off balance.’’
‘‘Makes sense to me.‘‘ She’d always, since the first moment they’d met, kept him off balance. ‘‘And did you just say ‘perpetrators’?’’ He’d used the word once during a poker game conversation with Nate, who’d nearly laughed his ass off over what he’d insisted was a Hollywoodism.
‘‘Yeah, I did.’’ She folded her bare arms. ‘‘And if you tell anyone, I’ll have to shoot you.’’
‘‘Works for me,’’ he said agreeably.
It occurred to Quinn as he pulled up in front of the nineteenth-century mansion, that as bad as it was that two men were dead at the hand of some psycho who was maybe planning to terrorize the town and smoke-check a lot more, for the first time in a very long while, he was actually enjoying himself.
10
Valentine was not in a good mood after her nightly newscast as she pulled into the parking lot of the gray stone building flying the orange, white, and green flag of Ireland next to the Stars and Stripes.
Having spent the past sixteen years cultivating sources all around the world, she was frustrated that that damn second shooting had thrown a monkey wrench into her broadcast schedule and she hadn’t snagged an interview with FBI Special Agent Cait Cavanaugh.
That was the bad news. The good news was that no one else had either. So there was still a chance. Especially since she still had a kitten card up her sleeve.
It had begun to rain. She dashed across the cobblestones to the heavy oak door that had a sign stating, OPEN WHEN WE’RE HERE. CLOSED WHEN WE’RE GONE.
The Black Swan pub, decorated with yet more Irish flags and framed photographs of green hills, sparkling blue lakes, and castle ruins, was doing a standing-room-only business. The tall, dark-haired Irishman building pints behind the horseshoe-shaped wooden bar waved to her and pointed toward a two-top booth in the far corner of the room.
His welcoming smile smoothed her rough edges a bit. She waved back, then began making her way through the teeming throng of pirates and wenches. Fortunately, all were too busy partying and tossing back Guinness and Irish whiskey to pay her any notice.
Val wasn’t going to lie; there were times she liked being recognized. When she’d first arrived in the Big Apple from that affiliate in Phoenix, she’d been jazzed at the idea of finally achieving her childhood goal of becoming famous.
That was then. This is now, she thought as she slid into the wooden booth. A hand-painted sign
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