Chapter 20

I call Greg a half dozen times during the taxi ride to his shitty apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, and he never answers. Once I’m at his building, the same applies to the buzzer I need him to hit to allow me up to his floor, but I’m resourceful and simply follow someone else in the door. I trek up the ten narrow floors, for a good morning workout, and reach his door, hitting the buzzer a few times before I start pounding.

Five minutes later, the door opens and some alternate version of Greg stands there. Yes, he’s still linebacker huge, both tall and wide. Yes, he’s still the good-looking, thirtysomething guy that I have absolutely no sexual chemistry with at all, which only makes me love him more. And yes, he’s wearing Greg’s standard white T-shirt, but this one has a stain on it, and his favorite faded jeans have also been replaced with plaid pajama bottoms. Not to mention this guy standing in front of me has unruly hair and all kinds of scruff on his face, when ~my Greg~ is always clean-shaven and well groomed. “Where did you put Greg?”

“What the hell are you doing here, Lilah?”

“Nice to see you, too, sweets. Are you sick?”

“Sick? I’m sick all right.” He turns and walks away, leaving the door open behind him.

“O . . . kay,” I say, entering his apartment that is one big, usually clean, room that now has pizza boxes on the kitchen table, as well as random trash, while he has now plopped on his back in the center of his unmade bed.

Shoving my hands in my coat pockets, I move to the end of the mattress by his big-ass bare feet that I’m guessing stink right now. “I repeat,” I say. “Are you sick? Do you need soup?”

“And you’re gonna make me soup, Lilah? Ms. Get Your Own Fucking Takeout?”

I crinkle my nose. “I’m offended. I got you takeout often when we were partners. I just don’t like stupid people who can’t order right. So if you’re sick—”

“Sick and fucking tired.”

I eye the whiskey bottle by the bed. Usually he sips wine like a girl trying to lose two pounds she can never lose. “What the hell is going on?”

“IA is what’s going on. They’re up my ass and taking my career through the dark hell of my colon.”

“Gross and why the hell would IA be up your anything? I mean, you? Mr. Rogers himself.”

“No one knows who Mr. Rogers is anymore, Lilah, unless they are sixty.”

“Opie then.”

“Him either.”

“Stop,” I say. “What the hell is going on? You’re one of the good guys.”

He sits up and scrubs a hand through his unruly dark-brown hair. “Yeah. Well, apparently not good enough.”

I sit next to him. “Talk to me. What happened?”

“I finished up a drug bust. A big one. I was proud as hell over that case. I bled for that takedown. Next thing I know, there’re accusations of someone dying, of me taking bribes. It makes no sense.”

“And your partner?”

“Nelson was my partner.”

My blood runs cold. “Nelson? Since when is Nelson your partner?”

“We were matched up two weeks ago when my old one died.”

“Died? How did he die?”

“Undercover on the same job I was working.”

“Tell me you aren’t being blamed for that.”

He gives a grim nod. “I am.”

I stand up and walk away, hand on my forehead. This happened two weeks ago. It can’t be connected to the murders or me. No one knew I was coming here then. I didn’t know. Unless... were they, whoever the hell they are, trying to get me here? Did they kill someone here to draw me in? That’s insanity. I’m thinking crazy now.

“I guess I could become a PI, right?” Greg says. “If I don’t end up in jail for murder.”

I face him. “Stop it. Neither scenario is going to happen. I’m going to fix this.”

“No,” he says, standing up. “You are not getting involved, Lilah.”

“My boss—”

“No. No. Fuck no. Do you understand?”

“Why is me helping you a problem?”

“The feds bailing me out? I’ll look like a snitch.”

“And you’re snitching on who?”

“I don’t know, but my career might not be all that is over in that scenario. Snitches die. Promise me you won’t do this.”

“Greg—”

“Lilah. No. Promise me.”

“Fine.” I slide my hands behind my back and cross my fingers. “I promise.”

“Oh hell. You did that behind-your-back crossed-fingers thing that keeps you from feeling guilty about a lie. You’re going to do this, aren’t you?”

“No.”

He charges at me and grabs my hand, but not before I uncross my fingers and give him the bird. “No crossed fingers.”

“You’re ~going~ to do this, aren’t you?” he repeats.

“I’ll make sure it’s off the record. I’ll protect you.”

He scrubs his jaw, whiskers rasping. “Damn it. I should have left the door shut.”

“But you have to shave in exchange for the favor.” I sniff. “And shower. You’ll never get a woman like this. Okay? Plus I might need one more favor.”

“Favor. I’m a drunk slob and you want a favor?”

“You’re one of the best detectives on Planet Earth,” I say, “and that’s not an exaggeration.”

“Yeah, yeah. Skip your normal build-me-up routine. What do you need?”

“The Emerson case. Nelson Moser is now handling it because the lead detective was injured on the job.”

“Moser, huh?”

“Yeah. Moser, who I hear is dirty.”

“He is. Believe me. I saw things.”

“Anything you can prove?”

“No. But he’s dirty.”

“He’s part of what I believe is a setup. A poor guy named Woods is being wrapped with a bow for a series of murders, including your Emerson case. I don’t know who might be helping Moser, or who is involved, but I need to know what you can find out about him and the case without anyone finding out.”

“Holy fuck. ~Yes.~ I know who’s involved. Try IA.”

“What?”

“Think about it, Lilah. An innocent man being set up. It’s one of my hot spots. I’d never let that happen. And with me on the chopping block, if anything comes out of this, I’ll take the fall for it. I’ll already have the dirty reputation.”

“Oh. Fuck. Yes. This makes sense.” A really nasty thought hits me, and I almost don’t want to ask the question to get the answer, but I make myself. I man up. “What was the drug bust you did? Who were the targets?” I hold my breath, praying the answer isn’t the Mendez Cartel.

“A top tier in the Romano family,” he says. “A damn good notch on the detective bedpost I should be celebrating.”

Romano. The name offers both relief and an icy chill, considering this is the family who’s been at odds with the Mendez Cartel for generations on end and an enemy to Kane. If they were behind the murders, if they killed on his territory, it could mean war, and this could get really damn bloody before it’s over.

“Lilah?” Greg says. “Hello?”

I blink and realize he’s been speaking and I have no clue what he’s said. “What can you find out for me about the Emerson case without getting caught?” I ask.

“I have a source that can help.”

“How long do you need?”

“Could be an hour. Could be a day.”

“You still have my number?”

He presses his hand to his chest. “Embedded in my heart.”

“Okay then. I’d give you a hug, but you stink. Go take a bath.” I head for the door.

“Lilah.”

I turn to face him. “Yes?”

“You never told me what happened between you and Moser.”

“I wish I could give you some heroic story about how I stopped him from hurting some innocent person. But the truth is, he tried to kiss me and I kneed him rather dramatically in the groin.”

“What does ‘rather dramatically’ mean?”

“He was on the ground, rolling around, panting, and doing some funny thing with his hips.”

He gives me a deadpan look. “I’d laugh, but Moser’s six feet tall with a short-man complex. Be careful out there.”

I give him a nod and leave, starting down the stairs.