Courting the Cop Page 4

  In the silence, Brody reached across and squeezed her free hand lying on the bed. “I’m sorry.”

  His simple words triggered a rush of emotion to well up in her chest. She’d come to learn that grief was like this, dormant for some weeks, then choking out at sudden moments. The comforting strength of Brody’s hand seeped through her veins, pushing back the sadness, but a moment later he withdrew his touch, leaving her feeling unbalanced.

  “I’ll try not to get in your way,” Brody said.

  She was struggling to come up with a reply when he leaned toward the camera, his entire body tensing.

  “Hang on, Katherine O’Brien’s coming out of her house.”

  Standing, Abigail spotted Mrs. O’Brien leaving in her gray coat over a black dress, a large purse clutched under one arm. Brody had jumped to his feet, hands already zipping up his jacket.

  “I’m going to follow her. See where she goes.”

  “I know where she’s going. To Sunday mass at St. Agnes on Twelfth Avenue.”

  Brody’s lips pulled down at the corners. “Great. I haven’t been to mass since my sister’s wedding ten years ago.”

  “You’d better stick to one of the back pews in case she notices you.”

  His lips curved up, accompanied by a wink of his eye. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”

  “Well, you don’t exactly look like the church-going type.”

  “You seem to hold a strong opinion about what type I am. We’ll have to have a long chat about that sometime.” His gaze flicked over her before returning to the window, and she could see his thoughts being tugged back to his job. “Gotta go. Will you be around later? I want to double-check the camera’s recording properly.”

  “I’m going out at two, so get back before.”

  “Sure.” He paused to look her over once more. “And thanks. For everything.”

  Seconds later, he was gone, moving with surprising speed and quietness, leaving Abigail alone with her thoughts and her morning coffee.

  At a quarter of two, Brody was back at Abigail’s apartment. After trailing Katherine O’Brien to and from church and not seeing her talk to anyone except the priest, he’d had to duck out to his mom’s place for Sunday lunch, a new tradition which she’d instituted when she’d recently retired. Brody and his older sister Shannon loved their mom and couldn’t fault the way she’d raised them, but it seemed Moira Donovan was trying to make up for all the meals she hadn’t cooked her children when they were young, and so he, Shannon, her husband Liam and three kids were summoned every fortnight to Sunday lunch. His younger sister got off because she was away at college.

  Shannon hadn’t been too pleased when he’d told her he had to get back to work.

  “You work too hard,” she grumbled even as she kissed him on the cheek. “You don’t spend enough time with family.”

  “He’s only doing his job,” his mom came to his defense.

  “He’s just like you, Mom. A chip off the old block.”

  Moira shrugged and patted Brody on the shoulder. “Stay safe out there, son. Oh, and take this with you. I noticed how hungry you were.” She pressed a foil-wrapped parcel of leftover beef roast into his hands.

  Brody kissed his mom and stuffed the leftovers into his jacket pocket as he left. Several lumps of dry, stringy beef were already taxing his indigestion, so these well-meaning leftovers would have to be donated to a starving mutt. What his mom lacked in cooking skills, she more than made up in enthusiasm, and he always forced himself to have seconds of whatever she concocted.

  Popping a couple of Tums into his mouth, he drove off to Abigail’s place. He wasn’t officially on duty, this was all unpaid overtime, but like the rest of the detectives in his unit, if he didn’t put in extra time, usually unpaid, he’d never get through his cases. Besides, Michael O’Brien was his most important case, in his opinion anyway.

  When Abigail opened the door for him, he had to blink twice before he recognized her, and then he had to remember to breathe because she’d knocked the air out of his lungs.

  She wore a red-and-white polka-dot dress nipped in at the waist and flared out at the hips. Her hair was done up with a cheeky curl on top, more curls cascading on the sides, shiny like maple syrup. Her eyes were big with eyeliner, and her mouth, oh sweet Jesus, her mouth glowed a deep, matte fire-engine red.

  She said something to him, but the words floated over his head as he watched her full, red lips move and imagined them pressed up against his. He mumbled something in reply, his brain slow to respond, probably because all his blood had suddenly rushed southward.

  When she turned and climbed the stairs in front of him, he found himself in even more trouble as his gaze latched on to her legs revealed by the knee-length dress. Retro red shoes and sheer black stockings with seams that snaked up the back of her legs. For the life of him, he couldn’t look anywhere else. Those delicate black seams had him hypnotized as he tracked their length upward. Was she wearing a suspender belt? What else did she have on underneath that flouncy skirt? With each step she took, her petticoat rustled and the seams on her stockings flexed, and by the time they reached the top of the stairs, his cock was pressing painfully against his zipper.

  “Where are you going all dressed up like that?” he managed to get out when they were inside her apartment.

  “There’s a fifties fair over at city hall.” She swished her dress, looking slightly self-conscious as she led him into the living room. Some old-style rockabilly music was playing “Let’s Go Do the Hop”, it sounded like. “What do you think of my getup?”

  Think? He wasn’t capable of thinking anything except that he’d really like to sit her on his lap and trace his fingers all the way up her stockings. Immediately he felt hot under the collar and a little bit dirty.

  “I think you look great,” was his scintillating response. It wasn’t often he was tongue-tied, but there was something about Abigail that made him feel like he was trying to draw his gun with his left hand instead of his right. He cleared his throat, wanting to say something more intelligent. “So what made you a fifties fan?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “My aunt had a lot to do with it. She was a young woman in the fifties, and she’d tell me all about the movies, the music, the fashions, the things young people used to do in those days. It was her heyday, and she loved reminiscing about it. In many ways she preferred the good old days.”

  “And you? Do you think life was better then?”

  Shrugging, she drifted her hand over the back of an armchair. “There’re plenty of things about the ‘good old days’ that weren’t good, like sexism, racism, repression. But what Aunt Edna missed most about the fifties were things like romance and courting, and I have to admit she sold me on that.”

  Brody almost snorted. “Romance and courting? Aren’t you confusing that with the lack of safe, readily available contraception?”

  “Is that all you think about? Sex?”

  It was pretty much dominating his thoughts currently, with the rockabilly music playing in the background and her prancing around in that flirty, sexy dress. Most of his dates wore far less, but that dress and those stockings were driving his imagination crazy.

  “I’m pretty sure your fifties guys thought about sex as much as men do today.”

  She blew out a sigh, her red lips puckering up in a way that spelled danger to Brody’s jeans zipper.

  “I’m not denying that. I’m merely saying that back then, before the sixties sexual revolution, there was a kind of innocence to dating and courting. There was a ritual that people understood.”

  “We still have rituals.” You spot a hot girl, you buy her a drink, you smile, and later you take her home. That was pretty much his ritual, and it worked most of the time.

  Abigail shook her head. “Men and women would talk and flirt and banter before even going on a first
date, and then they’d likely go on double dates. After a few dates like that, if they still liked each other, they’d progress to going steady, and the boy would give his girl something like his class ring or his letterman sweater.”

  Was Abigail for real or was she taking the piss out of him? “I don’t know about class rings or letterman sweaters, but I find modern dating just fine.”

  “Of course you would.” She frowned at him.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She moved over to the CD player and turned off the music. “Well, I don’t want to be rude, but you strike me as the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of guy, of which there are too many in this world.”

  Annoyance sparked in Brody. “I don’t know who you’ve been dating, but the women I date don’t have any complaints, and they don’t ask for my frigging class ring or my letter jacket. Guess they find the wham-bam part more than satisfactory.”

  Abigail’s hands clenched in the folds of her dress, and he was sorry he’d riled her, but jeez, she’d just accused him of being a manwhore. Which, if he was honest enough, wasn’t anything new. Others had called him that and it hadn’t bothered him. But somehow it bothered him now.

  “I didn’t mean to get personal.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that when I barely know you.”

  That made him feel like a complete jerk. Why did he care so much what she thought of him?

  “No, you weren’t far off the truth. I don’t go in for the whole flowers-and-dinner-dates thing because frankly I don’t want a relationship, and the women I choose to be with know that. There’re no illusions or promises from either side. We both know what we’re getting into, and when it’s over there’re no tears or accusations.”

  His conscience squirmed as he spoke. In the past a few women had thought they could change him, and when he’d disappointed them there had been bucket-loads of tears and accusations. But that had happened a few years back. He was older and wiser now, and he stuck to the type of woman who wasn’t hoping for a rosy happily-ever-after, at least not with him.

  “That’s a very pragmatic approach. I wish I could be so rational, especially after…” Abigail fingered the soft material of her skirt as her voice petered out.

  Who? he wanted to ask. Who was the dumbass who was responsible for that sudden drooping of her lips?

  A heartbeat later, she shook back her hair and squared her shoulders, like she wanted to get rid of her negative memories. She picked up a key from a side table and held it out to him.

  “Here’s a spare key to the apartment. You might as well have it if you’re going to be coming and going here.”

  He frowned at her trusting gesture. “You’re sure?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “As long as you knock first before using the key, and don’t come bursting in during the night.”

  “Thanks.” As he took the key, their fingers brushed together, and unfamiliar warmth stole through his veins. Her sexy legs had made his groin swell, but now a more complex urge came over him. He wanted to drift his fingers all over her from top to toe, wanted to hold her in his arms and breathe in the scent of her hair. The urge was so strong, so weird, he found himself flinching back.

  “I won’t be long in here,” he said abruptly. “I’ll try to keep out of your way until Tuesday. What time’s your Knit and Natter session?”

  “Ten o’clock.” Curiosity reflected in her eyes before she turned to pick up her coat and purse. “Goodbye, Detective.”

  “Have fun at your fair.”

  But not too much fun.

  “Is that the place?” Shane slowed the car as he peered at Abigail’s storefront. “A Coffee and a Yarn? What kind of shop is that?”

  “She sells mostly yarn supplies. The coffee’s just a side thing to encourage business,” Brody replied.

  “What’s she like, the owner? Is she a tiny old spinster with ten cats in her apartment?”

  Brody shrugged. “She doesn’t have any cats.” He motioned at the side street. “That’s Hillcrest Road, O’Brien’s mother’s address.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I visited her before, remember?” Shane swung his car into the side street, and they cruised past Number Three. On a windy Monday afternoon, the house was neat and drab, the drapes open, no sign of any activity. “Nothing happening there. You sure O’Brien’s going to show up some time?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s the best bet I’ve got.” This morning Brody had talked to some of his snitches, and the word on the street was still the same. O’Brien had cheated Fat Eddie out of ten grand, and no one wanted to be seen with him anymore. He was running out of options, which meant sooner or later he’d try his last option—his mother.

  Shane twisted his neck toward Abigail’s apartment on the opposite side of the narrow street. “Is that your stakeout? The room at the back?”

  “Yeah.” Brody didn’t mention his stakeout was in Abigail’s bedroom.

  “Want to show me the layout up there?”

  “Some other time. You got that robbery over in the projects, don’t you?” His partner gave him a strange look, like he sensed Brody was hiding something. Brody continued, “Drop me off at the end of the street. I’ll get back to the station on my own.”

  “You okay there?” Shane asked as he drew the car to a halt.

  “Sure. See you later.”

  Brody got out and strode away before his partner could ask any more pesky questions. By rights he should introduce Shane to Abigail and walk him through the setup in the apartment, but he was reluctant. He didn’t want his partner meeting Abigail yet, and besides now might not be the best time as she might still be pissed off with him from yesterday. Funny how their little difference of opinion nagged at him, the aggravation increased by the memory of her fifties pinup sexiness. No, better to stay out of her way at least until tomorrow, when he would be making coffees in her store and not alone with her.

  He made his way into Abigail’s apartment, trying to tamp down his sense of intruding. Without her presence, he took a longer look around her bedroom. The room was neat, the bed made, clothes put away, drapes drawn to let in the weak November sunshine. She wasn’t rich, but she chose her belongings with care. A soft pink-and-green quilt covered her bed, a single white chrysanthemum stood in a slender vase on her nightstand next to a pile of books. A slender leather-bound volume sat on top. A book of poems, maybe.

  Before he could help himself, he flipped it open, half-expecting to find a wanky inscription to her from some poetry-loving dude. But there was none. He shut the book, feeling guilty about snooping through her things but also oddly relieved to know the book on the top of her pile wasn’t a gift from her ex-boyfriend.

  Shaking his head, he concentrated on what he’d come here for. He sat in the chair by the window and reviewed the footage recorded on the camera. He soon realized he hadn’t set the motion sensor correctly, so there were tons of footage of cars driving by and people crossing the street. Sighing, he settled down to go through it. No one except for Katherine O’Brien had visited her house in the past twenty-four hours. Sunday was usually when family dropped by, but it seemed Katherine had no close relatives nearby.

  He adjusted the motion sensor on the camera, wiped out the useless footage and left the apartment. He went downstairs, shut the door, checked it was secure, and exited via the gate leading into the rear lane.

  A small, elderly woman dressed in purple sweat pants and hoodie scowled at him. “Who’re you? What are you doing here?”

  Brody took a step back, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. “I’m just visiting.”

  The woman had a fierce expression and wiry red hair anchored by a black headband. “Who? Who were you visiting?”

  “Abigail. I was visiting Abigail.”

  “Liar. She’s in her store right now. How did you get into h
er apartment?” She pulled a cell phone out of a hoodie pocket. “I’m gonna call the cops.”

  Brody shook his head. Did all the females around here think he looked like a suspicious character? And why didn’t they feel more threatened by him? By rights this hobbit-sized woman should be nervous about confronting a big guy like him, especially if she suspected he was up to no good, but she wasn’t shaking in her shoes. Either she was naïve or a secret ninja granny.

  “No cops, please.” He tried on an ingratiating smile as he waved the apartment key at her. “Look, Abigail gave me a key to her apartment so I could come and go when I liked.”

  The secret ninja granny stared at the key. “What? She gave you a key?” Disbelief slowly melted away to be replaced by a roguish grin. “Oh ho. That girl’s been keeping secrets from us.” She looked Brody up and down. “I can see why. What’s your name, darlin’?”

  Brody backed away another step. He had a feeling he’d rather the secret ninja granny karate-chopped him instead of calling him darlin’.

  “Brody.”

  “Well, isn’t that a nice name for a nice young man. Hello, Brody. I’m very pleased to meet Abigail’s new fella.”

  New fella? Did she mean…oh, no, she couldn’t. Just because he had a key to Abigail’s apartment, how could she jump to the crazy conclusion that he was Abigail’s new fella?

  “Um, Mrs…”

  “Call me Sophia, darlin’.” She leaned closer, her eyes glistening with inquisitiveness. “How long have you and Abigail been seeing one another? I’m so glad she’s getting some fun back in her life. She’s had a hard year. But then, you know all about that, I’m sure.”

  The urge to tell secret ninja granny that he and Abigail weren’t dating died on his tongue. Why not let her think he was Abigail’s boyfriend? That would explain why he had the run of her apartment, and why he popped in and out at odd hours. Besides, he needed to get away from this spot pronto. Arguing here so close to Hillcrest Road would only draw attention to himself, possibly from O’Brien’s mother. He couldn’t risk his whole stakeout on one nosey grandmother.