OFF LIMITS: Chapter One
Nursing a vicious hangover--and inexcusably late
for work, judging by the captain's glare dogging his heels--Bobby Halloran ran
the office gauntlet of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and yakking
detectives to the sanctuary of his office desk.
Without bothering to remove his sunglasses, he
sank onto his chair, wincing at its grating creak, then raised the steaming
take-out cup of coffee in his hand, gulped half of its contents down in one
swallow, and shuddered.
Nothing like kicking off a brand-new day to the
bitter taste of burnt coffee laced with a chemical chaser of Styrofoam.
Unfortunately, neither the caffeine jolt nor his
slightly scalded tongue did a damn thing to send his headache packing, much less
dull the stale, ashy taste in his mouth. He'd given up cigarettes five years
ago, but still slipped in a smoke when he was shit-faced or deep in a funk.
He wanted to be home in bed with a pillow over
his face, and just to make matters worse, the greasy smell of the egg and
sausage McMuffin he'd bought on his way in made him queasy. Grabbing a bite to
eat had seemed like a good idea at the time, and now he couldn't shove the bag
out of his way quick enough.
What the hell had he been thinking last night?
Drowning his sorrows in booze had never worked, and if he'd had a reason to
believe drowning his guilt would work any better, he couldn't remember it in the
light of day.
As clipped, determined footsteps cut across his
thoughts, Bobby cautiously looked up--and groaned inwardly.
Well, hell, now his rotten morning was complete:
Earnest Emma had arrived in all her perfectionist glory to make him feel even
more inadequate than he'd been feeling just five seconds ago.
She slowed as she approached, and regarded him
with that same flat, dispassionate look she always wore, a look that said she
found him as appealing as something she'd just scraped off the sole of her shoe.
"Late night?"
Not in the mood for small talk, he only grunted.
And downed more coffee.
"Looks like you fought the bottle, and the
bottle won." She moved to her desk. "You're not going to throw up, are
you? Because it's really way too early in the morning for me to deal with
that."
"I'm good."
Barring bright lights, loud noises, or sudden
jostles. Or a whiff of that McMuffin.
"I've got Tylenol, if you need it."
"I'm already on that part of damage
control." Then, belatedly realizing she'd thawed enough to offer him help,
he added, "But thanks."
She'd already dismissed him, though, and didn't
bother acknowledging his thank-you as she sorted her phone messages, presumably
by priority, and then tapped them into a tidy square.
Most cops were control freaks, but Detective Emma
Frey took the freak part of it soaring to whole new levels.
In a rare moment of whimsy-or maybe just a burst
of temper over his latest fuck-up-the captain had assigned the newly arrived
Frey to the desk next to Bobby's. He didn't know much about Frey, beyond that
she'd relocated from the LAPD's Hollywood Division, and she'd barely registered
on his radar so far. He hadn't talked much with her since she'd started work a
little more than a week ago, and every time he ran into her, she looked exactly
the same: crisp, cool, and relentlessly serious in brown suits that fit right in
with her brown-haired, unobtrusive looks.
But even with his morning-after impaired powers
of observation, he couldn't miss the chip on her shoulder the size of the
Superdome.
"Hey, look who finally decided to grace us
with his presence. Glad to see you put your detecting skills to good use and
managed to find your way to work this morning, Halloran."
Bobby looked up to find Captain Derrick Strong,
head of the First District Investigation Unit, staring at him with an
undisguised irritation.
"Sorry. I got tied up in traffic."
Which was mostly true; because he'd been running late, he'd missed the ferry,
got on the Pontchartrain Expressway instead--and ended up ensnarled in rush-hour
congestion.
"Right. Which is why you're still wearing
your sunglasses."
Reluctantly, Bobby removed his dark glasses and
slipped them into his shirt pocket. The hard fluorescent light lanced clear
through his eyeballs, which jump-started the throbbing in his head, then
triggered an uneasy lurch in his belly.
Strong took in the reaction, and his dark, thick
brows pulled together in a straight line. "You missed the morning briefing,
but Frey can fill you in. We had a busy weekend."
Nothing new in that. The First District
encompassed some of the roughest parts of New Orleans, including the Lafitte and
Iberville housing projects, always fertile grounds for sprouting all sorts of
weedy, pernicious vices.
"And you're also just in time to catch a
case."
"Jesus, I hope it's not a murder. My
stomach's not up to blood or brains yet. At least not before one more cup of
coffee."
"Then consider this your lucky break for the
day." Strong tossed a file on Bobby's cluttered desk. "An apparent
burglary with heavy property damage in the Esplanade Ridge area. Delgado started
the preliminary work, but she's going on maternity leave tomorrow, so I'm
transferring the case over now. You two can pick up where she left off."
Bobby straightened from his slouch, suddenly
wary. "What do you mean, 'you two'?"
"Take Detective Frey with you. Show her the
ropes, seeing as how she's new."
Bobby turned toward Frey, whose thin-lipped look
of displeasure revealed she wasn't exactly bursting at the seams with excitement
at this unexpected development, either.
"Captain, I believe I can manage this
alone." Frey shot to her feet, then obviously thought better of it. She
hesitated, but instead of sitting down again, she parked her trim behind on her
desk's edge, her every muscle so taut Bobby half expected her to go twang when
she moved. "I'd like the chance to show you what I'm capable of. And as you
recall from my interview file, I grew up here. I know the area, I can -"
"I appreciate the fact you're eager to make
a good impression, and since you're so gung-ho to prove your credentials, here's
your chance. It's your case." Strong fixed his gaze on Frey, and her face
blanked. "But I'm the one giving the orders here, and you either take
Halloran with you, or you can spend another thrilling week reading procedure
manuals and helping out everybody else with their overloads."
A sudden, faint edge of hostility hummed between
Strong and Frey. Intrigued, Bobby leaned forward and waited as his captain and
his new "partner" stared each other down.
Frey looked away first. "Yes, sir. I
understand."
Bobby thought she put a slight, bitter emphasis
on the word "understand," but he didn't have time to dwell on it, as
Strong had turned back to him. "There's a small problem, though. The reason
I said it's an apparent burglary is that we don't really know if anything was
taken. The renter seems to have pulled a disappearing act. She was hanging
around when the responding officer arrived, but while he was on the radio, she
booked. And since you know this chick, Halloran, you can save time by smoking
her out of her usual haunts and get her in here to make a statement. Or at least
tell us if anything was stolen."
"Who is she?"
"Chloe Mitsumi." Strong grinned.
"Remember her?"
Bobby rubbed at his eyebrows. "She's hard to
forget."
"I bet." Strong turned to Frey, who was
frowning. "Chloe Mitsumi, our victim, is a party girl whose brother is
serving a life sentence in Angola for a whole list of badness, among them drug
trafficking and murder. Halloran helped put him there, and the sister was
something of a pet project with him for a while. You know where to track her
down, right?"
The question was directed back to Bobby, who
nodded as he took a quick sip of his coffee. "Yeah. She lives for the bar
and club scene. I'll find her."
"What else do we know about her?" Frey
asked, all brisk and businesslike, although plainly not happy that he already
had the edge in "her" case.
"She's a hot mama Asian cupcake who's five
feet and ninety pounds' worth of trouble." Strong's grin turned wolfish.
"And she likes flashy clothes and high heels."
"She's not trouble," Bobby said, too
tired to keep the edge of irritation out of his voice.
The captain shrugged. "If you say so, but I
think we can at least agree she's ninety pounds of pure attitude."
Frey arched her brows. "Actually, I was
asking what we know about her convictions or charges, not her fashion sense. Or
lack of it."
"Oh." Strong looked amused. "Well,
let's see...she's been arrested a few times on misdemeanor charges, including
possession of narcotics -"
"She smokes a little weed now and
again," Bobby cut in. "Stays away from the hard stuff."
"Still protecting the lady?" Strong
cocked his head at Bobby. "Presumably she isn't in any trouble at the
moment; she's just a swinger living for the good times and the nightlife. But
what we don't know is if she still has ties to her brother's former associates,
which might account for the break-in. According to Delgado, the place was
trashed."
"She probably pissed off another one of her
loser boyfriends." Bobby pushed himself to his feet, then swallowed,
fighting back a spurt of nausea. "Okay. We're on it."
"And don't screw up. I need you functioning
on all fronts, Halloran."
Catching his supervisor's skeptical expression,
Bobby nodded gingerly. "I'm good."
Strong's stance eased, and he sighed. "Look.
You've got over fifteen years of police work behind you, so I shouldn't have to
remind you that you're a cop, not a missionary. Or a miracle worker. Get over
it."
A tense silence followed, and Bobby could feel
Emma Frey's curious, weighing gaze on him. Well, hell. If she stuck around long
enough, she'd hear all the dirt. The old, the new, and the really juicy stuff.
Then Strong turned to Frey, and she pushed away
from her desk, suddenly wary. "As for you, don't make trouble, and remember
what I said. You're the primary, but you defer to Halloran's judgment until I
say otherwise. You clear on that?"
"Yes, sir."
After pinning them both with a scowl, Strong spun
and walked away. Several seconds passed before Frey turned to him. "So,
Halloran...let's go find your party girl."
Despite never having passed more than fifteen
minutes in her presence at any one time, he noticed the woman had an uncanny
knack for rubbing him the wrong way. Man, he so did not look forward to sitting
with her in a car or working with her for hours on end.
He donned his sunglasses again, then drank the
last dregs of his coffee and tossed the empty cup, along with the breakfast
sandwich, into his trash can. "She's not my anything."
Flashing him a cool look, she snatched the report
off his desk. "That's not what it sounded like to me, but whatever. It's
not like I really care one way or another."
"A word of warning here, Frey: I'm not in a
good mood, so don't yank my fucking chain and we'll get along just fine. "
She didn't so much as blink. "What did
Captain Strong mean by that miracle worker remark?"
"None of your damn business." He walked
toward the door, trusting her to follow, and trying not to wince at the renewed
assault on his senses: burnt coffee, rattling casters, slamming file drawers,
the rise and fall of voices and laughter, humming printers, and the tappity-tap
of fingers on keyboards.
God, it was going to be a long day.
Frey caught up with him within seconds, easily
matching his stride. Bobby gauged her height at around five-ten, and considering
her athletic build, he was willing to bet those pants hid a great pair of long
legs. Earnest Emma might not be exactly hot babe material, but the way she wore
her brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail, emphasized her keen dark eyes, full
mouth, and smooth, fair skin. She had to be in her early thirties, but he
assumed the lack of smile lines meant she wasn't the chirpy type. Nor was she
the chatty type; she didn't say a word during the walk to the garage, and he
didn't feel a need to change that.
When he stopped at his assigned unmarked car,
Frey asked, "Do you want me to drive? I'm not entirely sure where we're
going, but I can -"
"I'll drive. I know where Chloe lives--it's a
house off Esplanade, near Bayou St. John." Without thinking, Bobby opened
her door, only realizing he'd done so when surprise flashed across her face.
Pretending not to see it, he walked to the driver's side, climbed into the car,
and started the engine.
As he'd expected, the drive was awkward, the
silence broken only by the static buzz of conversation from the radio. He
listened absently to it, through his hangover haze, and concentrated on the
traffic while his companion stared straight ahead, hands folded in her lap, back
straight.
Not that her aloofness mattered. Making nice with
Emma Frey would be as much fun as humping a razor-sharp barbed-wire fence, and
he didn't need any more of that kind of fun.
Still, he knew what it was like to be the odd man
out, and taking out his problems on her wasn't right, no matter how shitty he
felt or how much she rubbed him the wrong way.
The silence--and his guilt--gathered steam until he
couldn't stand it any longer. "Look, I'm sorry for jumping all over you
back there. The mother of all hangovers is banging around inside my head, and
I'm... It's been a bad week. It's not like I have anything personally against
you."
She made another one of those little shrugs.
"Forget about it."
Fine. He'd do exactly that.
By the time he turned onto Esplanade, though,
she'd managed to annoy him all over again. She'd looked over Delgado's report at
least three times, and made several calls. Definitely a Type-A, workaholic
personality. The kind that put the anal in "analyze."
Hell, yes, she was everything the perfect
detective should be, and Bobby could see how Strong might find it entertaining
to team them up.
Since it looked as if he'd be spending a lot of
time with her, he'd be doing himself a big favor by turning on the charm and
persuading her to thaw a little and open up--but right now he was too weary,
still riding too close to the edge of last week's fallout, to muster the energy
to even try.
Bobby shook off another spurt of guilt--and the
flash of images it brought. Several minutes passed before he glanced her way.
"I heard you worked in Hollywood."
"That's right."
"What was it like, with all the movie stars
and tourists? We get plenty tourists here in New Orleans, but not many big-name
celebrities."
"It's not that much different." Her
expression remained aloof, but she spoke carefully, as if choosing each word.
"Except sometimes we'd arrest people with higher profiles than your average
wife-beater, drunk, or junkie."
"Did you ever bust any movie stars?"
"Yes."
He waited for her to elaborate, but when it
became clear she wouldn't, he changed his tactics. "So why'd you come to
New Orleans?"
Frey smiled, and it surprised him to realize she
had really pretty eyes--even if the emotion he glimpsed inside them wasn't
friendly. "You haven't heard? I find that hard to believe."
What the hell? "I must've missed the memo.
Care to fill me in?"
"I testified against several officers, who
are now serving time in prison. You could say I wasn't feeling the love in the
workplace, and so I decided it was time for a change of scenery." She
stared out her window, as houses and trees flashed by. "And that's all I'm
going to say about it. If you want details, go talk to Strong."
Great, a rule-book-thumping do-gooder; just what
he needed to further complicate his life. Strong had to be laughing his ass off
right about now, no doubt about it.
After a short silence, Frey turned toward him.
"I know about you. A few of the guys were quick to bring me up to
speed."
For some odd reason, her abrupt change of subject
amused him. Or maybe it was her defiant tone; he wasn't sure. "And did it
scare you?"
Frey made a noise of annoyance. "Cut the
crap, Halloran. You know what's going on here."
A couple of possibilities had already occurred to
him, but he wasn't feeling particularly magnanimous this morning. "Maybe.
Tell me anyway."
Again, her finely curved brows shot upward.
"Some old-timers are having a little fun with the new girl, and they think
it's worth a few laughs to throw us together and see what happens. I'm a
rules-and-regulations kind of cop and you...you're the guy who's known for his
ability to finesse the rules."
She put a slight emphasis on the word
"finesse."
"A friend of mine describes my approach as
creative law enforcement. I like the sound of that better." Bobby glanced
over his shoulder, pulled into the passing lane, and hit the accelerator. The
engine purred with power, speeding past other cars. "And you're probably
right. Even if they were dirty, you ratted out fellow cops. That's not going to
automatically put you on the top of the blue brotherhood's favorite persons
list."
"I'm well aware of that." Her voice was
quiet, controlled-and vibrating with anger.
Officially, hazing and initiations weren't
supposed to happen, but they did anyway. Nobody would ever fess up to it, but
she'd been handed a test. Would she meet expectations without complaint? Act
like a man about it, so to speak, suck it up and take it on the chin? Or would
she make like a crybaby, kick up a fuss, and stir up trouble like a poor, weak
little girl?
Bobby didn't envy her situation; either way, she
was fucked. And, now that he thought about it, he didn't like being used in such
a prank. Sure, he messed around and played practical jokes as much as anybody
else, but something about this struck him as mean-spirited.
Then again, maybe if she'd come across a little
friendlier, less remote and prickly and defensive, she might've met with a
warmer reception.
"For what it's worth, I didn't know anybody
was planning on giving you a hard time."
"I am so tired of this shit." He could
hear both frustration and annoyance in her voice. "I left L.A. so I
wouldn't have to keep proving over and over that I'm a good cop. All I want is
to do my job, and for once I wish people would just look at me and see -"
Aware she was perhaps revealing more than she'd
like, Frey cut herself off with a sigh. "It doesn't matter. And let's get
something straight, Halloran. I'm not playing along. This is my problem, not
yours, and since I really don't need help to work a burglary or find some bimbo
who's probably sleeping off her latest drunk on a girlfriend's couch, if there's
something you'd rather be doing, don't let me hold you back."
Everything she said made sense, but his own dark
mood, coupled with the snotty tone of her voice, pissed him off anyway.
"You have something against me?"
"As I said, I've already heard the lowdown
on you, and maybe your lone gunman style works well for you, but that's not how
I operate. My charges stick because I don't take shortcuts, and I don't
hotdog."
Anger surged, but he held it off. "That
sounded an awful lot like a 'yes' to me, darlin'."
"I need to make a point by clearing this
case, and prove I'm competent and trustworthy. I'm not jeopardizing it by having
you do something impulsive or questionable. I may be the butt of a departmental
joke, but you can bet I'll be the last one laughing. Are we clear on this?"
Bobby turned onto the street where Chloe Mitsumi
lived, a block off Esplanade. "Sure."
He didn't blunt the edge in his voice, and she
took in a long, slow breath, the stiffness in her shoulders easing slightly.
"Really, I don't have anything against
you." She sounded a little less icy. "I'm sorry for coming across as
such a hard ass, but this is important to me. More important than I can ever
begin to explain."
Points to the woman for being direct; he admired
that. And as his mother always said, if you tried hard enough, you could find
something nice to say about anybody.
If Frey had been a man, he'd have given as good
as he got. Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on how a body looked at it --
his mother had also brought him up with a heavy dose of old-fashioned manners
when it came to dealing with women. Not even fifteen years as a cop had
completely cured him of his protective habits toward women, including those who
didn't need even an iota of protecting, and who'd sooner bust his balls than
accept his help.
Like Earnest Emma, sitting right here next to him.
Wonder of wonders, in spite of his aching head
and foul mood, he still managed to keep that lid on his temper. "I can deal
with that."
Frey regarded him with surprise and suspicion.
"So no hard feelings?"
"That you don't want to go slummin' with
me?" He pulled up to the curb in front of an old double-gallery house that
had been converted into apartments. Turning to her, he flashed his widest, most
harmless smile. "Darlin', I'll be so good you'll think I'm a goddamned
choirboy."