Wicked Sin Read online

  “You’re familiar with the process.”

  She shrugs. “Growing up in my family, the threat of police showing up and taking everything away was just a given.”

  That’s pretty fucked up. “How often did that happen?”

  “Never, actually.” Her voice is distant, and it occurs to me that a lawyer would have a field day with me questioning her in this condition.

  But I don’t think that’s going to be an issue, because I don’t think Taylor Reid has done anything wrong here. I’m quite sure forensics won’t find any drugs in her car, and the heads-up from the Secret Service was supposed to be a big, splashy front page oops.

  But they bunted the investigation to me, and what’s another car fire in the life of the LAPD? That’s how we’re going to talk about it publicly. The LAPD doesn’t make a big deal about minor vehicle mishaps.

  But that means whoever is playing a game with Ms. Reid may—will—try again.

  And as I predicted, my vacation plans are toast.

  I don’t like dancing that much anyway.

  “It was an idle threat,” I admit. “Designed to get a reaction out of you. You seem prickly.”

  “I am.”

  “That makes two of us, Ms. Reid. Maybe we can lean on that to understand each other.”

  Taylor snorts. “Sure. Fine. Okay. Understand this: I don’t want to be dragged into whatever my father is doing.” She looks at me. “Has done?”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t.

  She frowns. “But I won’t protect him, either.”

  It’s a good line. It may even be the truth. But someone planting an explosive device in her car says that she’s involved, whether she wants to be or not. The question is, why? Why try to kill a woman who has distanced herself from her family, on the same day that family is indicted for a host of financial crimes?

  The Secret Service may be able to provide more insight into that. There are probably sealed elements of the case that could be shared inter-departmentally now that we’ve got an attempted murder case on our hands. Or depending on how it plays out, a simple case of mischief. Officially.

  “This must have been a mistake,” she says softly. I glance across the car at her. Her face is pinched.

  “Nobody has a motive to kill you?”

  The corners of her mouth tug down. “The worst of what I’ve done is in the past.” She gives me a sideways glance. “And pretty public knowledge.”

  “Your affair with the Vice President.” I say it neutrally, but infidelity is a powerful motive—for all involved parties. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  She doesn’t question how I know about that.

  Everyone knows about that.

  “Years ago.” Her jaw juts forward. “That’s not—I’m not—”

  “People harbor grudges for a long time.”

  She casts her eyes down and nods. “I guess.”

  “Any contact there at all? With him, or his wife?”

  “No.”

  “Any apologies or amends?”

  She hesitates. “No.”

  Was that beat a lie, or a regret? Did she want to make amends, or did she try and it didn’t work? I can’t push too hard here if I want to maintain her fragile willingness to talk to me. And my gut says this isn’t about the affair she had.

  “Anything happen at work? Maybe something out of the ordinary? A disgruntled client?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I haven’t been doing counseling there that long—I used to be a client myself. And so far, everyone has been really great.”

  “Any of your clients have angry exes?”

  Her lips press tight.

  “Ms. Reid, this might be a matter of life or death.”

  “Might be? My car blew up. I’m aware. Thanks. But my clients’ personal lives are confidential and none of your business.”

  I can get a warrant that makes it my business, but I don’t want to push her on that point. At least not yet.

  Which brings us to the third potential reason why someone might target her today—the federal indictments against her father.

  My badge helps to get us into a bed in Emergency pretty quickly. The doctor takes one look at me, then at the scowl on Taylor’s face, and she points to the hall.

  I tip my fingers to my temple in a mock salute and step outside to check my messages while they have a private chat about whether or not the big, bad detective was being mean to her.

  The first message is from the bomb squad. Taylor’s apartment is clean. They’re doing a broader sweep before letting residents back in. I reply and advise them that I’ll bring her around to pack a bag later. There’s no chance I’m letting her stay there alone tonight.

  I also have a brief update from Forensics. They were able to recover parts of the explosive, which is great news. It’ll take weeks to put it back together, but it’s a start. I fire that news off to the captain.

  She replies immediately.

  * * *

  Woods: Do you want me to share that detail with the FBI? Their labs could process the pieces sooner.

  * * *

  I hesitate. Handing over any part of this investigation feels wrong. Is that my ego, or am I doing my due diligence? Integrity wins out, although it’s a close call.

  * * *

  Vasquez: The sooner we get anything off it, the better.

  Woods: On it.

  Vasquez: We’ll need a safe house or hotel budget for Ms. Reid, too. At least for tonight, preferably a couple of days. If the FBI wants to pony up for that…

  Woods: I’ll find a way to make that request too.

  * * *

  When I’m invited back inside, Taylor looks drawn and tired. She gives me a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “Doc didn’t like my blood pressure. Says car bombs are bad for my health. Who could’ve guessed that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have any more questions for me, detective?”

  I shake my head. “Not right now.”

  “You haven’t asked about my parents.” Her eyes are sharp. Focused. She may be tired, but she won’t be tricked here. She’s on guard. “While you were outside, I checked my messages. And the news. Why were you asking about what happened years ago? Don’t you think the attack on me is related to the arrest today?”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not the cop. You tell me, Detective.”

  A male nurse interrupts us, holding a small paper cup of water and a smaller cup with two pills in it. “Here you go, Taylor. And I’ll be back in a few with the prescription once the doctor signs off on it.”

  I don’t miss the twitch of her jaw as she says thank you. Or the way she avoids my gaze as she downs the pills together in a single swallow, waving off the water as unnecessary.

  The nurse takes her blood pressure again and then wordlessly disappears.

  Silence stretches between us.

  Finally, I exhale, loudly, and sit in the chair beside her hospital chair. “I think it’s possible we’re both being played here.”

  Her right eyebrow arches sky-high.

  “I got your name this afternoon in a file. A request from the Secret Service, who for their own reasons, did not want to contact you directly.”

  “Because I would refuse to speak to them.”

  “I got that distinct impression, yes.”

  “Are we putting the Secret Service on the short list of assholes who might bomb my car?”

  “No.”

  “It feels like you’re missing a prime opportunity to nail a big suspect, then.”

  “Do you think the US government wants to kill you?”

  She hesitates long enough for me to think she actually might, but then she sighs and shakes her head. “No. I just really don’t like any of them. And frankly, I don’t think I’m going to like you, either. No offense.”

  “None taken. But regardless of how I got here, and whether or not that was spurious, the fact is, someone targeted you with an explosi
ve. That’s a crime. I investigate crimes, so you’re stuck with me. At least until I’m replaced by some of those people who you loathe.”

  Her eyes go wide. “What?”

  “Your choice, of course. But it’s just a matter of time before the FBI makes noise about taking over this case.”

  “Because they’ll link it to my family’s legal trouble?”

  I shrug. It’s as good a theory as any.

  She closes her eyes. End of conversation.

  I sit there and listen to the beeping from a monitor in the next room. The distant squawk of a dispatch radio, maybe at the nurses’ station, and footsteps in the hall.

  Hospitals are not my favorite place.

  They’re no dance club, that’s for sure.

  I look at my watch. It’s just after four in the afternoon. God damn it, there’s still so much more of today that could go fucking sideways.

  Taylor has the right idea by closing her eyes and grabbing some rest.

  6

  Taylor

  It doesn’t take long for the pills they gave me to work. The tightness in my chest recedes and the dark, flashing images—of my car blowing up, of Detective Vasquez holding me up when I desperately wanted to just sleep, of sitting in the back of the ambulance as people fled my building—get a little less intense.

  I can still see it all over and over again, like a silent film or a grotesque vacation slide show. But there’s some distance, finally, and I can breathe.

  It’s something.

  But that fragile peace doesn’t last long. When I’m discharged with a prescription for sleeping pills clutched in my hand, we go straight to the hospital pharmacy to fill it—and my debit card doesn’t work.

  “Do you have the cash to cover it?” the clerk asks.

  I roll my eyes. “No. Who carries cash anymore?”

  Luke wordlessly pulls two twenties from his wallet and hands them over.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  When we’re sitting in his car, I try again. “I have cash at my apartment. I can repay you.”

  “That’s where we’re going. You need to pack a few things.”

  “I can’t stay there?”

  “Not right now.”

  I frown. “Can I go to a hotel?”

  “Do you have money for that?” He says it without judgment, but fuck, I don’t know if I do.

  Why doesn’t my bank card work?

  I huff out a frustrated breath and close my eyes, sinking into the sweet dullness of the drugs still numbing my pain.

  It takes half an hour to get to my apartment. We don’t talk and that’s just fine by me.

  When we get there, a marked cop car is sitting out front, but otherwise, everything looks normal.

  Nothing feels normal, though. I have had my world crash down around me before. And yet this is different. I didn’t see this coming.

  I’d thought I’d escaped the madness.

  I was wrong.

  I blink. My eyelashes feel wet. No, that won’t do. I’ve cried enough today.

  When we get upstairs, I don’t know where to start. Panic rises again, and I try my best to channel it into a blithe indifference. It comes out as bitchy, I’m pretty sure. “How long are you going to hold me hostage?”

  Vasquez shrugs. “That might be up to the Feds.”

  “You didn’t explain why the LAPD is doing this.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Is that because you don’t know?”

  His eyes flash to my face. I grin. “Got it in one, didn’t I, detective?”

  “Pack your bags, princess. The clock is ticking.”

  “You could call me Ms. Reid.”

  “I could.”

  “Are you hoping I complain to the police superintendent and get you booted off this detail?”

  His jaw twitches.

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, what?”

  I point. “Your jaw twitched. Why?”

  “No reason. Do you need help packing?”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “There’s no such thing as a police superintendent in the LAPD. So I’d enjoy you trying to figure out who you should actually complain to about me when I’m just trying to keep you alive.”

  “So who should I actually complain to, then?”

  Now he laughs out loud, not even trying to hide it. “No offense, Ms. Reid, but that’s not how it works.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s wrong on that score, but whatever. I’m not actually going to try to get him booted off this case. I don’t know what to make of him, exactly, but as far as cops go, he’s not bad.

  He’s got an attitude, anyway. I know how to deal with attitude.

  “Well, cops aren’t really my thing, so…”

  Another twitch. “Rich people aren’t mine. And yet here we are, so…”

  This time I don’t reply to the obvious goad. I just stare at the twitch. At his jaw. Dark skin stretched taut over muscle and sinew. Five o’clock shadow at precisely five o’clock.

  Detective Vasquez is a handsome man.

  I hate that I notice.

  I hate that I’m conditioned to notice, that I can’t help it, that deep down, there’s a part of my twisted soul already working on a way to use that to my advantage.

  Handsome men are easy marks, in a different way than wealthy men, and different again from men who have obvious soft spots.

  Handsome men think they are God’s gift to women, and they couldn’t be more wrong. This blind spot is exploitable.

  It was one of the first lessons my mother ever taught me.

  And I don’t want to think about that, so I drop my bag on my sofa and go to the hall closet where I keep my suitcases.

  He clears his throat and shakes his head no when I reach for the biggest one.

  “What?”

  “An overnight bag will suffice.”

  “Are we going to be only gone overnight?”

  He gives me a pained look. “The small suitcase, then. Something reasonable.”

  I don’t even know what that word means, but okay, sure.

  In my bedroom, I try to ignore him as he watches me pull out jeans, leggings, t-shirts, and a hoodie. Then I go to my dresser, and I don’t need him watching me pack my thongs and bras, so I wiggle my fingers at him. “Shoo.”

  He doesn’t go anywhere.

  I shift gears, going into the bathroom instead to grab my makeup bag and toiletries. When I come back, I pull open my top drawer—universally known as the keeper of lace and things, is it not?—and give him a pointed a look. “Can I have some privacy, please?”

  “I’ve seen lingerie before. I need to make sure you aren’t packing anything electronic. No cell phone. Nothing trackable.”

  I hold up the velvet pouch I’d been looking for—and wouldn’t be going anywhere without. “Do you think someone’s planted a bug in my vibrator?”

  He holds out his hand. “Let me see it.”

  “What? No. Don’t be a pervert.” The accusation tumbled out before I could think of a better way to establish the boundary of no; he can’t touch my sex toy. Oh well. I stand by it.

  “Then you can’t bring it with you.”

  “Nobody bugged it.”

  “Bet you didn’t think anyone would have planted a bomb in your car, either.”

  All the sass drains out of me, and I hand it over. Instead of taking it, his fingers wrap around my fist. His gaze locks on my face.

  “I’m sorry, that was out of line.”

  “You aren’t wrong,” I mutter. “Check it.”

  He squeezes my hand then takes the pouch. He doesn’t have any smart-ass comments about the palm-sized clit sucker, so either he knows about the newest trend in sex toys, or he’s decided discretion is the way to go here. Turning it over in his hand, he inspects the USB charging port and the soft, malleable tip.

  Heat crawls up my neck, and I turn around, giving my atte
ntion to my shoes stacked in a custom shelf beside my dresser. “Do you want to check these over, too?” I ask crisply, holding up a pair of wedge heels.

  It takes him a moment to reply. “Do you own any shoes that are easy to run in?”

  And the smart-ass comments are back. Fine, let’s do this. “Nope,” I toss over my shoulder. “I don’t break a sweat for anyone.”

  “Not even your little friend here?” He reaches around me and dangles the velvet pouch in front of my face. “It looks fine. You can pack it.”

  Snatching it from his hand, I shove it in my suitcase then pull my gym bag out from under my bed. Of course, I own shoes I can run in. This body doesn’t just magically keep itself looking the way it does.

  He doesn’t say anything as I finish packing.

  My last stop is the safe in my closet. My heart pounds as I grab cash. It’s just a reflex, something I’ve seen my parents do many times when they are leaving an off-the-books this or that.

  We never asked any questions. But children see everything, and internalize the weird, probably criminal tics their parents have.

  Okay, maybe most people just learn to yell or be passive-aggressive.

  I learned to stash cash, just in case.

  And lo and behold, now just in case has happened…

  Pulse thumping, I grab my passport.

  Just in case.

  7

  Luke

  Taylor emerges from her closet different than when she went in. On guard.

  In her hand is a roll of money and her passport. She doesn’t try to hide it from me, which is good.

  “This is the last of what I need,” she says quietly.

  I nod. “All right. Let’s go. We need to go to the station next.”

  The wariness spikes. “Why?”

  “Because that’s where I solve crimes.”

  “If this is all an elaborate ruse to get me to confess to some crime, it’s not going to work.”

  I ignore her jab. “My captain is working on getting you a safe house, but until then, you can rack out on the couch in our break room.”