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“I’m sure he wouldn’t, but I’ve never met him so I don’t know if I really care what… Wait. You’re not saying?” Laughter pealed out of me. “Nice try. I’ll believe I’m dating a billionaire when pigs sprout wings.”
“The bacon’s been flying for about a year now, sweetie. Where are you?” The serious tone of her words made my laughter fade immediately.
“I’m just leaving Columbia.”
“The hotel?”
“No, the school.”
“At one in the morning?”
“Long story.” I could only assume that was true.
“I have no doubt. I want you to hail a cab and meet me at the station. Have you talked to Keats?”
“I tried to call him, but some strange guy answered.” A cab drew near, and I raised my arm. The air inside was about a zillion degrees too hot. The driver smelled of paprika and cigars, and combined with the warmth it made the cab feel about as cozy as a harem in Hell.
Mercedes was speaking to the male voice. They were discussing something in hushed tones. I could have made out the words if I tried, but I was too preoccupied with my own thoughts at the moment.
“Cedes,” I whispered.
“Yeah.”
“There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?”
“Yeah.”
The 76th Precinct station looked as tired and worn down as I felt. Old gray concrete walls were streaked with iron stains from snow melting off the old metal roof, and the steps were cracked and stooping.
Inside, a bitchy-looking blonde shot me a glare I wasn’t certain I deserved and didn’t ask me why I was there. She resumed typing the minute I was through the front doors. Unannounced I made my way to the main work floor and scanned the desks for the dark halo of Cedes’s hair. If she was coming from the West Village and I’d woken her with my call, I had probably beaten her here.
A good-looking brunet with strong shoulders and a toned chest that filled out his white dress shirt in a delightful way caught my eye from across the room. His thick black brows knit together, and he cocked his head to the side like a German shepherd who didn’t understand a verbal command.
He stood and started crossing the sea of desks to meet me.
Shit.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, not angry just mystified.
“I, uh… Detective Castilla wanted me to—”
The man ignored me and continued. “Did you find something out about Holbrook?”
“I’m here for…Gabriel Holbrook?”
“Am I holding a different Holbrook on murder charges? Get with the program, McQueen.”
Oh, Jesus, this guy knew me. I hadn’t the faintest clue who he was, and he was talking to me like we’d known each other for a million years. Or at least long enough for him to think it was okay to talk to me like I was a retard.
Which, given the circumstances, was sort of warranted.
But the other part of his sentence was significantly more important right then. They were holding my ex on murder charges. Was I supposed to know this? The sexy detective seemed to think I was part of the investigation.
I should wait for Mercedes, but this was too much to ignore.
“Can I see him?”
“You gonna do a little more of that voodoo you do?”
