Kiss Of The Blue Dragon

“It’s a good group. What of it?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Ms. Baker, this isn’t an interrogation. Relax.”

I forced myself to take a breath. I didn’t let any man close enough to find out what kind of music I liked, much less what perfume I wore. Which was none. I’d rather be down at headquarters asking for a lawyer.

“I thought you went to the store for sugar?” There was a smug gleam in his eyes.

“The sugar shelf was empty. I got a newspaper instead.” I tossed it onto the coffee table, headlines faceup. “It looks like Chicago’s finest still haven’t found the twelve Chinese orphans who were stolen from the Mongolian Mob. People think they can sell kids like cattle.”

He glanced at the newspaper and back at the music files. “Is that the paper I saw outside your front door?”

“I thought you said this wasn’t an interrogation. What do you want, Marco? Ask your questions and get out. On second thought, just get out now.”

His intense focus shifted from the files to me and he cracked a smile. “Having a bad day?”

“Not particularly. All my days are bad. I like them that way. I know what to expect when I wake up in the morning.”

He studied me a moment with a perceptiveness that confirmed my original suspicion. This was no ordinary cop. Finally he turned from my music collection and faced me. “If I told you Mayor Alvarez sent me, would that make you feel better?”

My stomach hit the floor. “No, but it would convince me to let you stay and—what did you call it?—chat.”

“That’s right.”

“You thirsty?”

He nodded. “Sure. The mayor told me you weren’t as scary as you tried to appear. Guess he was right.”

“Isn’t he sweet. Did Alvarez really send you?”

Detective Marco shrugged strong shoulders he’d probably been born with. I resented him more by the minute. I didn’t need some prissy-dick, Brooks-Brothers-police-academy graduate in here pulling rank. What concerned me the most was how he’d found out about my connection to Mayor Ramon Alvarez. I’d done a top-secret retribution job for the mayor, which had been set up by my foster father. I didn’t think anyone but the three of us knew about it.

I went to the sideboard. “What do you want, Detective?”

“Alcohol straight up.”

I poured him a neat glass of classic Vivante—a tasteless liquor that took on any flavor that the imbiber thought about. If you couldn’t make up your mind, the taste would change with every swallow—rum one sip, brandy the next. And you never had a hangover from mixing drinks. I put the glass on the edge of the sideboard.

“So let me guess. Did I rough up an informant of yours?”

He retrieved his drink as I poured one for myself. When he was just inches away, I inhaled, expecting nauseating cologne. I smelled nothing, but felt a twinge of closeness. He was one of those men who used his personal skills to conduct his professional duty. A dangerous habit.

As he retreated with his glass, I realized we were having a four-way conversation. There were words. And then there was the unspoken energy between us. It had been a long time since that had happened to me. I’d spent so much time with AutoMates I’d nearly forgotten how to handle subtext with a human male.

“I heard you were direct,” he said at last.

“Thank you.”

“I’m not sure it was meant as a compliment.”

“Really?” I shrugged. “Imagine that. Have a seat.”

I motioned to the brown leather couch and overstuffed chair by the empty marble fireplace. I’d never spent one iota of time worrying about decor. My apartment was furnished with a collection of hand-me-downs. Seeing it through Marco’s eyes, it struck me as terribly masculine and not very fitting for a woman. Marco would probably be more comfortable in my foster sister’s apartment. It was feminine, like her, with colors like peach and lilac. She had silky hair, high heels for every occasion and seductive reticence. In other words, she was my antithesis.

He settled at one end of the couch and I sank into the nearby armchair. As he leisurely sipped his Vivante, he took in every detail of my apartment and not in the surly, suspicious way of an everyday patrolman. Not even in the cool, jaded way of a seasoned detective. He was more like an art appraiser—scanning ancient plaster walls, my black-and-white framed photographs, the white-brick fireplace that had been painted over a million times, the hardwood floor scuffed by my myriad boots.

Suddenly, I wanted him out of here. “You’re not a regular detective, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I worked in psy-ops for five years.”

Psychological operations. He was a frickin’ shrink. No wonder he gave me the heebie-jeebies.

“Two years ago I went back to the academy to enter a new program designed to streamline the training of solo detectives to replace those killed by the mobs. I graduated yesterday.”

And today he was at my door. This was getting worse by the minute. “Why did you decide to switch from being a shrink to a gumshoe?”

He looked at me with those dark-lashed eyes of his. “You don’t want to know.”

Goose bumps spread over my arms. He was gunning for me. But why? I didn’t think it had anything to do with Alvarez. The mayor’s nine-year-old niece had been molested. The guy got off because he’d been smart enough to leave no DNA. After the trial, I’d found him and brought him to the mayor’s brother for a little justice. That was the end of my involvement. I had a feeling Detective Marco had done some research on me and mentioned the Alvarez case simply to get in the door.

“Let’s cut to the chase, Marco. Is this about the Gibson Warrants?”

His mouth twisted with irony and he took a drink, watching me as he sipped, then said, “No, that’s not why I came. But, since you mentioned it, I’m head of the Fraternal Order of City Police committee working to outlaw your profession. I was actually happy about the Gibson Warrants. They’ve shown the world what I’ve known all along—that you’re nothing more than a bunch of outlaws. This isn’t the Wild West, Ms. Baker.”

“Oh, but it is.” I moved to the edge of my chair. “That’s precisely the point. I don’t approve of what Judge Gibson has done, but I understand it. How many hundreds of thousands of restraining orders have judges given out over the last hundred and fifty years? How many of them have actually stopped an enraged husband from killing his wife? Everyone knows restraining orders are a joke.”

“But if you commit murder to prevent murder, is society any better off?”

“I haven’t decided that yet.” I wasn’t about to tell him that I thought the warrants went too far. For some reason, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“So you want to play God. Are you saying that you—or Gibson—have the power to determine who lives and dies?”

“People are going to live and die no matter what we do.”

“You can’t be that cynical, Baker.”

I gave him an exaggerated scowl. “Don’t be such a Boy Scout. You know as well as I do that rich people almost never pay for their crimes because they can afford great lawyers. And anybody, rich or poor, who is smart enough to keep DNA out of a crime scene will be back on the street, even with a conviction, after only two years. That’s a slap on the wrist. You’ve got to hate that, Detective. All your hard work trying to catch the perps goes to waste.”

“The system sucks, I agree. So why don’t you try to change it instead of compromising it?”

“Because the system is controlled by giant corporations and international crime syndicates who don’t give a damn about life, liberty or the pursuit of happiness, thank you very much. But if I can protect one woman from an abusive husband, or help a victim at least get an apology from his assailant, then at the end of the day I’ve done something worthwhile.”

“An apology?” A sardonic half smile tugged his lips. “Is that all your clients want from their perps after you hand them over? Some of the ex-cons you people haul in wind up at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”

Heat burned my cheeks. “That’s not my fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I don’t take any clients who would do that sort of thing. Nor does any other retribution specialist who is certified. We have a professional code and contracts that specify that no perpetrator can be killed or tortured. Surely you know that.”