Relentless

“It could be.” He moved past her into the house and stopped in the middle of the living room with his back to her.

Kate closed the door and watched him size up the place. His silence and lack of visual contact annoyed her, but the full-on backside view of Officer Jacoby made her heart beat faster.

“Shall I lift the cushions so you can check for stolen cars?” Scurrying to the couch, she lifted the center cushion. “Nothing here. Maybe I keep them under the rug.” She stomped her bare foot a couple of times and pulled in a breath as he turned toward her and leveled a stare on her with eyes she guessed never missed a thing.

“Look, Ms. Robear. I didn’t come here to search the place…um, your…”

Heat radiated into her cheeks and she felt her face redden as his all-seeing gaze slid down the front of her robe. Reality along with the feel of air on exposed skin made her draw a sharp breath. She squeezed the gaping lapels together. “I’ll throw something on.”

She hurried from the room, alarmed by the tingle his stare had provoked. She certainly wasn’t a prude, but neither was she ready to provide a peep show for a cop.

Closing her bedroom door, she leaned against it. Why was it he always seemed to be judging her? She had the impression he’d dealt with her car-stealing family. Every cop in New Orleans had. He probably thought all Robears were created alike. Born to boost cars and chop them up for fun and profit.

Well, she took cars legally these days, and if it took every ounce of her persuasive power to convince Officer Jacoby of that, then so be it.

Moving away from the door, she picked out a pair of jean shorts and a plain white blouse and put them on. There was no denying Mick Jacoby was a looker, but he was also a man on a mission—something she’d be wise to never forget. But she had a mission, too. Keeping the Beamer and the five-thousand-dollar bonus that went with it. She composed herself and went back into the living room.

He stood in the same spot where she’d left him. She took a second to appreciate the thigh-hugging black jeans molding the outline of his quadriceps. His maroon T-shirt was pulled tight over washboard abs and bulging biceps hooked to shoulders as broad as the liberties she mentally took with his physique. She’d bet he could tell her how many tiles there were on the ceiling of the local gym.

Looking away, she swallowed and tried to put distance between her thoughts and the situation. Cop. Cop. Cop. Drilled in her mind.

“How did you do at the hospital last night?” She tossed the question over her shoulder while she moved into the kitchen and scooped coffee into the filter, filled the reservoir and turned it on.

“A single piece of buckshot. I’ll live.”

Unsatisfied with his answer, she turned around. “How bad?”

“A fraction lower and you’d have hauled me to Dallas.”

Nibbling her lower lip, she studied him. He was tense, as if standing in her living room made him uncomfortable. She couldn’t have that. “Why don’t we sit down?” She’d be doing herself a favor if she was on her best behavior. “I’ll pour us a cup of coffee and we can talk.”

She hoped he’d position himself on the sofa and relax a bit, but he pulled out a chair at the dining-room table. All business. Her business.

Mick settled into the wooden ladder-back chair, complete with a blue checked seat cushion. If Kate Robear was a car thief, she had to be the best disguised one he’d met. Her small house had a homey feel to it. From the floral sofa to the pictures on the walls, the place held her sultry warmth. He watched her move about the small kitchen. Notes of the song she hummed tickled his ear, but he couldn’t name the tune. Her legs were long and shapely. She carried herself like an athlete. If she weren’t on his witness list, she’d be on his gotta-have list. He shook his thoughts. She was a Robear. That was all he needed to know. No quaint gingerbread house and a cup of hot coffee was going to change that. He had to concentrate.

“Can we get on with this statement?”

“Oh, sure.” She moved into the dining room and set a cup of coffee in front of him. “Do you take cream and sugar?”

“No.” Mick flipped open his notepad, anxious to move his thoughts forward. “Last night, did you notice any other car besides the Beamer?”

“No, but there are lots of pull-ins on Bayou Road. I suppose I could have missed seeing a vehicle, if it was parked in the undergrowth.”

Picking up his cup, he took a slow sip, eyeing her over the brim. She looked innocent enough with a towel around her head and large round eyes that crinkled at the corners when she was thinking.

“I had my friend Gabby drop me off. She waits for me to call her if the mark doesn’t show up. Then she’ll come out and get me.”

“I’ll want to talk to her. See if she saw anything.”

Mick wrote down the phone number Kate gave him. “What about the man you work for?” She hadn’t budged on the point last night. “It’ll go a lot better for you, Kate, if you’ll tell me who you work for.”

“David Copeland. He handles Dallas S & L. I’ve never had a face-to-face with him.”

“How long have you worked for him?”

“A little over six months.”

Mick rolled the man’s name around in his head. He’d have him checked out. “How does he contact you?”

“He calls me the day before a job. Gives me time to make arrangements for Cody.”

“Cody?”

“My son.”

Mick’s heart rate sped up. She had a child?

“Can you tell me what other cars you’ve repoed in the last six months?”

“Sure.” She stood up and went to a small desk, opened the drawer and pulled out a notebook. “I keep track for tax reasons.” She returned to the table and sat down. “Let’s see. October a Porsche 944, owner Stephen Hacker, 1844 Caldwell. In November a Rolls, owner Hugh Keller, 3210 Jasper. I repoed a Mercedes E class in December from Nathan Morris.”

Mick jotted down the make of the car, date and name of the owner. “Address?”

“Looks like 4060 Lindstrom, on the west side. Nice neighborhood. In January, it was a Porsche purchased by Jacob Estes, 4028 Garnet. In February, a red Mercedes convertible, owner Thomas Romaro.”

Mick’s internal alarm went off at a million decibels. Thomas Romaro was the victim of an unsolved homicide. His buddy Schneider was working the case. They’d pulled the guy out of the Mississippi in pieces. “Go on. Have you got an address on Romaro?”

“Westside, near the Garden District…1019. In March it was a Jaguar XJ belonging to Orlando Durant, 4237 Vivian. Last night I went after the BMW.”

Looking up from his notes, he paused, watched her lick her lips and focus her attention on him. The movement shot holes in his control and raised his heart rate, but he didn’t drop his gaze from her face.

“It’s strange. Every one of these deadbeats lived in an upscale neighborhood, but every house looked deserted except for the car in the drive. None of them were in the garage where you’d expect an expensive car to be parked.”

He couldn’t agree more, but it was the dead man that interested him. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but maybe not. “I need a date and time you repoed Romaro’s Mercedes.”

He watched her run a long delicate finger down the list, wondering what it would feel like against his skin and not as a woman administering first aid.

“Looks like February 14. Valentine’s Day. I think it was around midnight because I asked my date to bring me home early.”

“You don’t sound too disappointed.” Mick watched her think; her eyes crinkled at the corners as she looked him square in the face.

“You could say we disagreed, but my love life isn’t open for questions, is it, Officer?”

He liked the challenge he saw flash across her face, then vanish into the smile on her lips. Why was she being so compliant this morning? Belligerent, he could handle. Maybe she was feeling guilty for sticking it to him with a hot Taser, or was it something else? Perhaps a little charm as lubricant to wiggle out of an uncomfortable situation.

“We’ll call it good for now, but don’t leave town.” He watched her face go placid and knew she was thinking about the Beamer and a road trip to Dallas. “How much do you make recovering assets?”

“More than you make getting shot at.”