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Nick closed the trunk and they started for the steps leading to her basement apartment, Alexa leading the way with her keys in her hands. It wasn’t until they got right in front of the door that she realized something was wrong.
“Nick…” She couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stare at the crack in the door.
He followed her gaze, his expression turning stony. “Are you sure you locked it?”
“I’m sure.”
He dropped the bags and reached under his jacket for his weapon. “Go stand on the sidewalk. And call the police.”
“But what if — ”
“Do it, Alexa.” It was a tone of voice he’d never used with her, one that said he was in charge, that for once, he wouldn’t hear her out.
She hurried up the stairs and reached for her phone.
She called in the break-in and waited, arms crossed over her chest, the air seeming colder than it had even five minutes earlier, the people walking past on the sidewalk seeming dangerous.
Nick still hadn’t returned when she heard the sirens. She looked down the stairs and contemplated checking on him, then had a flash of his face, the icy demand in his eyes when he’d told her to wait on the sidewalk.
Two squad cars pulled up next to the line of cars at the curb.
“Did you call in a break-in, Ma’am?” The officer talking to her was short, his youthful face chiseled as if from stone, dark hair shining with some kind of product.
“Yes. My… my boyfriend is in there,” she said. “He’s armed.”
She knew from the early investigation the AG’s office had done on MIS that they were licensed to own and carry countless weapons. She would have to hope the gun Nick was carrying was legal. She couldn’t risk the officers mistaking him for the intruder.
The officers were moving toward the stairs when Nick appeared, hands in the air, wallet open in one of them to reveal his driver’s license. “I’m Nick Murphy, former detective with BPD District Four. The premises has been cleared, and I have a licensed weapon in the holster under my jacket.”
Alexa’s heart was in her throat as two of the officers approached him. They turned him around and instructed him to lock his arms behind his head, then removed the weapon in the holster strapped to his side. She still didn’t know if the rumors about MIS were true, but if they were, Nick was compromising himself for her, was in the worst position imaginable because of her.
When they finished frisking him, they turned him back around, the first two of the officers staying with him while one of the others took his ID to one of the squad cars, still parked near the curb, the blue and red lights flashing.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened while we wait on the ID check?” the young, dark-haired officer asked.
Nick went through everything step-by-step: the trip to Havana (a long weekend, pleasure not business), their return to the apartment, the door ajar. Her dread expanded when Nick described his entry into the apartment: the overturned furniture, her couch sliced open to reveal the stuffing, her pictures and mirrors broken, her dresser drawers overturned, the clothes spilled onto the floor.
He glanced at her when he was done, worry in his eyes.
The officer who’d taken his ID stepped back onto the sidewalk. “ID checks out,” she said, handing him his wallet.
One of the officers, a middle-aged man with a paunch barely contained by his belt, drew his weapon and moved toward the stairs. “Back me up, Malloy.”
The younger officer moved in behind him and the female officer who’d checked Nick’s ID looked at Alexa. “Do you have ID? I’ll need it to file the police report.”
Alexa reached into her bag and handed over her driver’s license. “I work at the AG’s office.”
The woman lifted an eyebrow. “With Imani Washington?”
“She’s my boss,” Alexa said.
The woman nodded and returned to the car while her partner stood next to Nick and Alexa in silence.
Nick moved closer and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry.”
“How bad is it?” she asked into his chest.
“It’s bad,” he said. “But I couldn’t tell if they actually took anything.”
