Night Tales
Nora Roberts
--5 Night Shield (09-2000)--
Synopsis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Successful businessman Jonah Blackhawk owns a string of popular nightclubs. He knows that he wouldn't have survived his childhood spent on city streets without the intervention of Boyd Fletcher, the cop who refused to give up on him. When Boyd asks for Jonah's help in solving a series of high-ticket burglaries, Jonah can't refuse. What Jonah isn't prepared for is the detective assigned to the case. Strong-willed, blond, and beautiful, Detective Allison Fletcher is Boyd's daughter--she's also the woman who just might shatter Jonah's determination to remain heart-whole and single.
Undercover at the nightclub, Allison works closely with Jonah and it isn't long before the chemistry between them explodes. Given his past and the fact that she is Boyd's daughter, Jonah is convinced that he should leave her alone. But Allison has other plans--ones that propinquity and mutual passion are likely to bring to fruition if she and Jonah can only stay alive.
He didn't like cops.
His attitude had deep roots, and stemmed from spending his formative years dodging them, outrunning them—usually—or being hassled by them when his feet weren't fast enough.
He'd picked his share of pockets by the time he'd turned twelve and knew the best, and most lucrative channels for turning a hot watch into cold cash.
He'd learned back then that knowing what time it was couldn't buy happiness, but the twenty bucks the watch brought in paid for a nice slice of the happiness pie. And twenty bucks cannily wagered swelled into sixty at three-to-one.
The same year he'd turned twelve, he'd invested his carefully hoarded takes and winnings in a small gambling enterprise that centered around point spreads and indulged his interest in sports.
He was a businessman at heart.
He hadn't run with gangs. First of all he'd never had the urge to join groups, and more importantly he didn't care for the pecking order such organizations required. Someone had to be in charge—and he preferred it to be himself.
Some people might say Jonah Blackhawk had a problem with authority.
They would be right.
He supposed the tide had turned right after he'd turned thirteen. His gambling interests had grown nicely—a little too nicely to suit certain more established syndicates.
He'd been warned off in the accepted way—he'd had the hell beat out of him. Jonah acknowledged the bruised kidneys, split lip and blackened eyes as a business risk. But before he could make his decision to move territories or dig in, he'd been busted. And busted solid.
Cops were a great deal more of an annoyance than business rivals.
But the cop who'd hauled his arrogant butt in had been different. Jonah had never pinned down what exactly separated this cop from the others in the line of shields and rule books. So, instead of being tossed into juvie—to which he was no stranger—he'd found himself yanked into programs, youth centers, counseling.
Oh, he'd squirmed and snapped in his own coldblooded way, but this cop had a grip like a bear trap and hadn't let go. The sheer tenacity had been a shock. No one had held onto him before. Jonah had found himself rehabilitated almost despite himself, at least enough to see there were certain advantages to, if not working in the system, at least working the system.
Now, at thirty, no one would call him a pillar of Denver's community, but he was a legitimate businessman whose enterprises turned a solid profit and allowed him a life-style the hustling street kid couldn't have dreamed of.
He owed the cop, and he always paid his debts.
Otherwise, he'd have chosen to be chained naked and honey-smeared to a hill of fire ants rather than sit tamely in the outer office of the commissioner of police of Denver.
Even if the commissioner was Boyd Fletcher.
Jonah didn't pace. Nervous motion was wasted motion and gave too much away. The woman manning the station outside the commissioner's double doors was young, attractive with a very interesting and wanton mass of curling red hair. But he didn't flirt. It wasn't the wedding ring on her finger that stopped him as much as her proximity to Boyd, and through him, the long blue line.
He sat, patient and still, in one of the hunter-green chairs in the waiting area, a tall man with a long-legged, tough build wearing a three thousand dollar jacket over a twenty-dollar T-shirt. His hair was raven-black, rain straight and thick. That and the pale gold of his skin, the whiplash of cheekbones were gifts from his great-grandfather, an Apache.
The cool, clear green eyes might have been a legacy from his Irish great-grandmother, who'd been stolen from her family by the Apache and had given the brave who'd claimed her three sons.
Jonah knew little of his family history. His own parents had been more interested in fighting with each other over the last beer in the six-pack than tucking their only son in with bedtime stories. Occasionally Jonah's father had boasted about his lineage, but Jonah had never been sure what was fact and what was convenient fiction.
And didn't really give a damn.
You were what you made yourself.
That was a lesson Boyd Fletcher had taught him. For that alone, Jonah would have walked on hot coals for him.
"Mr. Blackhawk? The commissioner will see you now."
She offered a polite smile as she rose to get the door. And she'd taken a good, long look at the commissioner's ten o'clock appointment—a wedding ring didn't strike a woman blind, after all. Something about him made her tongue want to hang out, and at the same time made her want to ran for cover.
His eyes warned a woman he'd be dangerous. He had a dangerous way of moving as well, she mused. Graceful and sleek as a cat. A woman could weave some very interesting fantasies about a man like that—and fantasies were probably the safest way to be involved with him.
Then he flicked her a smile, so full of power and charm she wanted to sigh like a teenager.
"Thanks."
She rolled her eyes as she shut the door behind him. "Oh boy, are you welcome."
"Jonah." Boyd was already up and coming around his desk. One hand gripped Jonah's while the other gave Jonah's shoulder a hard squeeze in a kind of male hug. "Thanks for coming."
"Hard to refuse a request from the commissioner."
The first time Jonah had met Boyd, Boyd had been a lieutenant. His hair had been a dark, streaked gold, and his office small, cramped and glass walled.
Now Boyd's hair was deep, solid silver, and his office spacious. The glass wall was a wide window that looked out on Denver and the mountains that ringed it.
Some things change, Jonah thought, then looked into Boyd's steady bottle-green eyes. And some don't.
"Black coffee suit you?"
"Always did."
"Have a seat." Boyd gestured to a chair then walked over to his coffee machine. He'd insisted on one of his own to save himself the annoyance of buzzing an assistant every time he wanted a hit. "Sorry I kept you waiting. I had a call to finish up. Politics," he muttered as he poured two mugs with rich black coffee. "Can't stand them."
Jonah said nothing, but the corner of his lips quirked.
"And no smart remarks about me being a damn politician at this stage of my game."
"Never crossed my mind." Jonah accepted the coffee. "To say it."
"You always were a sharp kid." Boyd sat on a chair beside Jonah's rather than behind the desk. He let out a long sigh. "Never used to think I'd ride a desk."
"Miss the streets?"
"Every day. But you do what you do, then you do the next thing. How's the new club?"
"It's good. We draw a respectable crowd. Lots of gold cards. They need them," Jonah added as he sipped his coffee. "We hose them on the designer drinks."
"That so? And here I was thinking of bringing Cilia by for an evening out."
"You bring your wife, you get drinks and dinner on the house—is that allowed?"
Boyd hesitated, tapped his finger against his mug. "We'll see. I have a little problem, Jonah, I think you might be able to help me with."
"If I can."
"We've had a series of burglaries the last couple of months. Mostly high dollar, easily liquidated stuff. Jewelry, small electronics, cash."
"Same area?"
"No, across the board. Single family homes out in the burbs, downtown apartments, condos. We've had six hits in just under eight weeks. Very slick, very clean."
"Well, what can I do for you?" Jonah rested his mug on his knee. "B and E was never my thing." His smile flashed. "According to my record."
"I always wondered about that." But Boyd lifted a hand, waved it away. "The marks are as varied as the locations of the hits. Young couples, older couples, singles. But they all have one thing in common. They were all at a club on the night of the burglary."
Jonah's eyes narrowed, the only change of expression. "One of mine?"
"In five out of the six, yours."
Jonah drank his coffee, looked out the wide window at the hard blue sky. The tone of his voice remained pleasant, casual. But his eyes had gone cold. "Are you asking me if I'm involved?"
"No, Jonah, I'm not asking you if you're involved. We've been beyond that for a long time." Boyd waited a beat. The boy was—always had been—touchy. "Or I have."
With a nod, Jonah rose. He walked back to the coffeemaker, set down his cup. There weren't many people who mattered enough to him that he cared what they thought of him. Boyd mattered.
"Someone's using my place to scope marks," he said with his back to Boyd. "I don't like it"
"I didn't think you would."
"Which place?"
"The new one. Blackhawk's."
He nodded again. "Higher end clientele. Likely a bigger disposable income than the crowd at a sports' bar like Fast Break." He turned back. "What do you want from me, Retch?"
"I'd like your cooperation. And I'd like you to agree to work with the investigating team. Most specifically with the detective in charge."
Jonah swore, and in a rare show of agitation, raked his fingers through his hair. "You want me to rub shoulders with cops, set them loose in my place?"
Boyd didn't bother to hide his amusement "Jonah, they've already been in your place."
"Not while I was there." Of that, he could be sure. He could sense cop at half a mile, while he was running in the other direction in the dark.
And had.
"No, apparently not. Some of us work during daylight hours."
"Why?"
With a half laugh, Boyd stretched out his legs. "Did I ever tell you I met Cilia when we were both on night shift?"
"No more than twenty or thirty times."
"Same smart mouth. I always liked that about you."
"That's not what you said when you threatened to staple it shut."
"Nothing wrong with your memory, either. I could use your help, Jonah." Boyd's voice went soft, serious. "I'd appreciate it"
He'd avoided prisons all his life, Jonah thought. Until Boyd. The man had built a prison around him of loyalty and trust and affection. "You've got it—for what it's worth."
"It's worth a great deal to me." He rose, offered his hand to Jonah again. "Right on time," he said as his phone rang. "Get yourself some more coffee. I want you to meet the detective in charge of the case."
He rounded the desk, picked up the receiver. "Yes, Paula. Good. We're ready." This time he sat at the desk. "I have a lot of faith in this particular cop. The detective shield's fairly new, but it was well earned."
"A rookie detective. Perfect." Resigned, Jonah poured more coffee. He didn't bobble the pot when the door opened, but his mind jumped. He supposed it was a pleasant thing to realize he could still be surprised.
She was a long-legged, lanky blonde with eyes tike prime whiskey. She wore her hair in a straight, sleek tail down the middle of her back over a trim, well-cut jacket the color of steel.
When she flicked those eyes over him, her wide, pretty mouth stayed serious and unsmiling.
Jonah realized he'd have noticed the face first, so classy and fine-boned, then he'd have noticed the cop. The package might have been distracting, but he'd have made her.
"Commissioner." She had a voice like her eyes, deep and dark and potent
"Detective. You're prompt Jonah, this is—"
"You don't have to introduce her." Casually Jonah sipped fresh coffee. "She has your wife's eyes and your jaw. Nice to meet you, Detective Fletcher."
"Mr. Blackhawk."
She'd seen him before. Once, she recalled, when her father had gone to one of his high school baseball games and she'd tagged along. She remembered being impressed by his gutsy, nearly violent, base running.
She also knew his history and wasn't quite as trusting of former delinquents as her father. And, though she hated to admit it, she was a little jealous of their relationship.
"Do you want some coffee, Ally?"
"No, sir." He was her father, but she didn't sit until the commissioner gestured to a chair.
Boyd spread his hands. "I thought we'd be more comfortable having this meeting here. Ally, Jonah's agreed to cooperate with the investigation. I've given him the overview. I leave it to you to fill in the necessary details."
"Six burglaries in a period of under eight weeks. Estimated cumulative loss in the ballpark of eight hundred thousand dollars. They go for easily fenced items, heavy on the jewelry. However, in one case a victim's Porsche was stolen from the garage. Three of the homes had security systems. They were disengaged. There have been no signs of break-in. In each case the residence was empty at the time of the burglary."
Jonah crossed the room, sat. "I've already got that much—except for the Porsche. So, you've got someone who can boost cars as well as lift locks, and likely has a channel to turn over a variety of merchandise."
"None of the goods have turned up through any of the known channels in Denver. The operation's well organized and efficient. We suspect there are at least two, probably three or more people involved. Your club's been the main source."
"And?"
"Two of your employees at Blackhawk's have criminal records. William Sloan and Frances Cummings."
Jonah's eyes went cold, but didn't flicker. "Will ran numbers, and did his time. He's been out and clean for five years. Frannie worked the stroll, and it's her business why. Now she tends bar instead of Johns. Don't you believe in rehabilitation, Detective Fletcher?"
"I believe your club is being used as a pool to hook fish, and I intend to check all the lines. Logic indicates someone on the inside's baiting the hook."
"I know the people who work for me." He shot Boyd a furious look. "Damn it, Fletch."
"Jonah, hear us out."
"I don't want my people hassled because they tripped over the law at some point in their lives."
"No one's going to hassle your people. Or you," Ally added. Though you did plenty of tripping of your own, she thought "If we'd wanted to interview them, we would have. We don't need your permission or your cooperation to question potential suspects."
"You move them from my people to suspects very smoothly."
"If you believe they're innocent, why worry?"
"Okay, simmer down." Boyd stayed behind the desk, rubbed the back of his neck. "You're in an awkward and difficult position, Jonah. We appreciate that," he said pointedly with a subtle lift of his eyebrows for his daughter. "The goal is to root out whoever's in charge of this organization and put an end to it. They're using you."
"I don't want Will and Frannie yanked down into interrogation."
"That's not our intention." So he had a hot button, Ally mused. Friendship? Loyalty? Or maybe he had a thing going with the ex-hooker. It would be part of the job to find out. "We don't want to alert anyone on the inside to the investigation. We need to find out who's targeting the marks, and how. We want you to put a cop on the inside."
"I'm on me inside," he reminded her.
"Then you should be able to make room for another waitress. I can start tonight."
Jonah let out a short laugh, turned to Boyd. "You want your daughter working tables in my club?"
Ally got to her feet, slowly. "The commissioner wants one of his detectives undercover at your club. And this is my case."
Jonah rose as well. "Let's clear this up. I don't give a damn whose case it is. Your father asked me to cooperate, so I will. Is this what you want me to do?" he asked Boyd.
"It is, for now."
"Fine. She can start tonight. Five o'clock, my office at Blackhawk's. We'll go over what you need to know."
"I owe you for this, Jonah."
"You'll never owe me for anything." He walked to the door, stopped, shot a glance over his shoulder. "Oh, Detective? Waitresses at Blackhawk's wear black. Black shirt or sweater, black skirt. Short black skirt," he added, then let himself out.
Ally pursed her lips, and for the first time since she'd come into the room relaxed enough to slip her hands casually into her pockets. "I don't think I like your friend, Dad."
"He'll grow on you."
"What, like mold? No," she corrected. "He's too cool for that. I might end up with a little skin of ice, though. You're sure of him?"
"As sure as I am of you."
And that, she thought, said it all. "Whoever's set up these B and E's has brains, connections and guts. I'd say your pal there has all three." She lifted her shoulders. "Still, if I can't trust your judgment, whose can I trust?"
Boyd grinned. "Your mother always liked him."
"Well then, I'm half in love already." That wiped the grin off his face, she noted with amusement "I'm still going to have a couple of men under as customers."
"That's your call."
"It's been five days since the last hit. They're working too well not to want to move again soon."
She strode toward the coffeepot, changed her mind and strode away again. "They might not use his club next time, it's not a given. We can't cover every damn club in the city."
"So, you focus your energy on Blackhawk.
That's smart, and it's logical. One step at a time, Allison."
"I know. I learned that from the best. I guess the first step is to go dig up a short black skirt."
Boyd winced as she walked to the door. "Not too short."
Ally had the eight-to-four shift at the precinct, and even if she left on the dot and sprinted the four blocks from the station to her apartment, she couldn't get home before 4:10.
She knew. She'd timed it.
And leaving at exactly four was as rare as finding diamonds in the mud. But damned if she wanted to be late for her next meeting with Blackhawk.
It was a matter of pride and principle.
She slammed into her apartment at 4:11—thanks to the delay of a last-minute briefing by her lieutenant—and peeled off her jacket as she raced to the bedroom.
Blackhawk's was a good twenty minutes away at a brisk jog—and half again that much if she attempted to drive in rush hour traffic.
It was only her second undercover assignment behind her detective's shield. She had no intention of screwing it up.
She released her shoulder harness and tossed it onto the bed. Her apartment was simple and uncluttered, mostly because she wasn't there long enough for it to be otherwise. The house where she'd grown up was still home, the station house was second on that list of priorities, and the apartment where she slept, occasionally ate and even more rarely loitered, was a far down third.
She'd always wanted to be a cop. She hadn't made a big deal of it. It simply was her dream.
She yanked open her closet door and pushed through a selection of clothes—designer dresses, tailored jackets and basketball jerseys—in search of a suitable black skirt.
If she could manage a quick change, she might actually have time to slap together a sandwich or stuff a handful of cookies into her mouth before she raced out again.
She pulled out a skirt, winced at the length when she held it up, then tossed that on the bed as well to dig through her dresser for a pair of black hose.
If she was going to wear a skirt that barely covered her butt, she would damn well cover the rest with solid, opaque black.
Tonight could be the night, she thought as she stripped off her trousers. She had to stay calm about it, cool, controlled.
She would use Jonah Blackhawk, but she would not be distracted by him.
She knew a great deal about him through her father, and she'd made it her business to find out more. As a kid he'd had light fingers, quick feet and a nimble brain. She could almost admire a boy with barely twelve years under his belt who'd managed to organize a sports' betting syndicate. Almost.
And she supposed she could come close to admiring someone who'd turned those beginnings around—at least on the surface—and made himself into a successful businessman.
The fact was she'd been in his sports' bar and had enjoyed the atmosphere, the service and the truly superior margaritas Fast Break provided.
The place had a terrific selection of pinball machines, she recalled. Unless someone had broken her record in the last six months, her initials were still in the number one slot on Double Play.
She really should make time to get back there and defend her championship status.
But that was beside the point, she reminded herself. Right now the point was Jonah Blackhawk.
Maybe his feathers were ruffled because she'd made it clear that two of his employees were on her short list of suspects. Well, that was too bad. Her father wanted her to trust the man, so she'd do her best to trust him.
As far as she could throw him.
By 4:20, she was dressed in black—turtleneck, skirt, hose. She shoved through the shoes on the floor of her closet and found a suitable pair of low heels.
With a nod to vanity, she dragged the clip out of her hair, brushed it, clipped it back again. Then she closed her eyes and tried to think like a waitress in an upscale club.
Lipstick, perfume, earrings. An attractive waitress made more tips, and tips had to be a goal. She took the time for them, then studied the results in the mirror.
Sexy, she supposed, certainly feminine and in a satisfactory way, practical. And there was no place to hide her weapon.
Damn it. She hissed out a breath, and settled on stuffing her nine millimeter in an oversize shoulder bag. She tossed on a black leather jacket as a concession to the brisk spring evening, then bolted for the door.
There was enough time to drive to the club if she got straight down to the garage and hit all the lights on green.
She pulled open the door. Swore.
"Dennis, what are you doing?"
Dennis Overton held up a bottle of California Chardonnay and offered a big, cheerful smile. "Just in the neighborhood. Thought we could have a drink."
"I'm on my way out."
"Fine." He shifted the bottle, tried to take her hand. "I'll go with you."
"Dennis." She didn't want to hurt him. Not again. He'd been so devastated when she'd broken things off two months before. And all his phone calls, pop-ins, run-intos since then had ended badly. "We've been through all this."
"Come on, Ally. Just a couple of hours. I miss you."
He had that sad, basset hound look in his eyes, that pleading smile on his lips. It had worked once, she reminded herself. More than once. But she remembered how those same eyes could blaze with wild and misplaced jealousy, snap with barely controlled fury.
She'd cared for him once, enough to forgive him his accusations, to try to work through his mood swings, enough to feel guilty over ending it
She cared enough now to strap her temper at this last invasion of her time and her space. "I'm sorry, Dennis. I'm in a hurry."
Still smiling, he blocked her way. "Give me five minutes. One drink for old time's sake, Ally?"
"I don't have five minutes."
The smile vanished, and that old, dark gleam leaped into his eyes. "You never had time for me when I needed it. It was always what you wanted and when you wanted it."
"That's right. You're well rid of me."
"You're going to see someone else, aren't you? Brushing me off so you can run off to be with another man."
"What if I am." Enough, she thought, was way past enough. "It's no business of yours where I go, what I do, whom I see. That's what you can't seem to get straight. But you're going to have to work harder at it, Dennis, because I'm sick of this. Stop coming here."
He grabbed her arm before she could walk by. "I want to talk to you."
She didn't jerk free, only stared down at his hand, then shifted her gaze, icy as February, to his eyes. "Don't push it. Now step back."
"What're you going to do? Shoot me? Arrest me? Call your daddy, the saint of the police, to lock me up?"
"I'm going to ask you, one more time, to step back. Step way back, Dennis, and do it now."
His mood swung again, fast and smooth as a revolving door. "I'm sorry. Ally, I'm sorry." His eyes went damp and his mouth trembled. "I'm upset, mat's all. Just give me another chance. I just need another chance. I'll make it work this time."
She pried his fingers off her arm. "It never worked. Go home, Dennis. I've got nothing for you."
She walked away without looking back, bleeding inside because she had to. Bleeding inside because she could.
Ally hit the doors of Blackhawk at 5:05. One strike against her, she thought and took an extra minute to smooth down her hair, catch her breath. She'd decided against the drive after all and had run the ten blocks. Not such a distance, she thought, but the heels she wore were a far cry from track shoes.
She stepped inside, took stock.
The bar was a long, gleaming black slab that curved into a snug semicircle and offered plenty of room for a troop of chrome stools with thick, black leather cushions. Mirrored panels of black and silver ran down the rear wall, tossed back reflections and shapes.
Comfort, she decided, as well as style. It said, sit down, relax and plunk down your money.
There were plenty of people to do so. Apparently happy hour was underway, and every stool was occupied. Those who sat at the bar, or kicked back at the chrome tables, drank and nibbled to the tune of recorded music kept low enough to encourage conversation.
Most of the patrons were the suit-and-tie crowd with briefcases dumped at their feet. The business brigade, she concluded, who'd managed to slip out of the office a little early, or were using the club as a meeting arena to discuss deals or close them.
Two waitresses worked the tables. Both wore black, but she noted with a hiss through her teeth that they wore slacks rather than skirts,
A man was working the bar—young, handsome and openly flirting with the trio of women on stools at the far end. She wondered when Frances Cummings came on shift. She'd need to get work schedules from Blackhawk.
"You look a little lost."
Ally shifted her gaze and studied the man who approached her with an easy smile. Brown hair, brown eyes, trim beard. Five-ten, maybe one-fifty. His dark suit was well cut, his gray tie neatly knotted.
William Sloan looked a great deal more presentable tonight than he had for his last mug shot.
"I hope not." Deciding a little agitation fit the role, Ally shifted her shoulder bag and offered a nervous smile. "I'm Allison. I'm supposed to see Mr. Blackhawk at five. I guess I'm late."
"Couple of minutes. Don't worry about it. Will Sloan." He offered a hand, gave hers a quick, brotherly squeeze. "The man told me to keep an eye out for you. I'll take you up."
...
sinderella