Valentine's Day Is Killing Me Read online

  “Scott!” She was nearly apoplectic with rage. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting you out of there,” he muttered. They were on the sidewalk now, and he was looking around for a cop. “If he is dirty, I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

  “But…we could get you off the suspect list.”

  “Yeah, but if he’s rotten enough to stab somebody with a fork, he’s rotten enough to tie up loose ends. Like some weird woman yelling at him about how she thinks he did the deed.”

  “But—”

  “Forget it, Julie Kay. It’s too risky. We’ll figure something else out.”

  She hardly knew what to say. Her anger had melted and been replaced by…what? Gratitude? Sexual longing? Admiration? Annoyance? He was risking his own freedom to keep her safe, and that was just…well, so romantic. And dumb. But mostly romantic. No, mostly dumb.

  “They must be done with the interviews,” he observed.

  “What?”

  “Look around. There’s, like, nobody on the street.”

  “Ugh. That means they’ve decided you did it. I bet that rotten, lying managerial son of a bitch was sooo helpful, too.”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t see any blood on him.”

  “Dark suit, though.”

  “Yeah, but still…” He trailed off doubtfully.

  “Well, let’s definitely not go to the police station now.”

  “But—”

  Her phone beeped, and she remembered she’d shut the ringer off when they got to the restaurant. She flipped it open and hit the Missed Calls button.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “What?”

  She showed him. Bright blue letters flashed across the small white screen: Hobbes, Catherine A., Detective, Minneapolis Homicide, 612-592-3921.

  “Shit.”

  “Think she wants me to come back?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Well,” he pointed out, “there’s not much we can do about that. You can’t just not take me back.”

  “The hell.”

  “What?” She was already at the car, and he jogged after her. “What are you doing? Where are we going?”

  “Back to my place until this dies down.”

  “But you have to take me back. Or at least return her phone call.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Julie Kay, be reasonable.”

  “Never!”

  “Come on, you can’t not produce me.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Julie Kay!” he said sternly.

  “Get your ass in this car,” she told him.

  “But you’re planning on kidnapping me,” he said, although he did, she was glad to see, climb into the passenger side.

  “Yeah, but it’s for your own good.”

  “The latest bad idea,” he said, hiding his face in his hands, “in an evening full of them.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Chapter Twelve

  She came out of the bathroom in time to hear him say, yet again, “You can’t keep me.”

  “Ha!”

  “Julie Kay, come on. Call her back. Find out what she wants.”

  “No. We’re not talking to her, nobody talks to her. Not yet. Do you want some coffee or something?”

  “No. I want you to see reason. This irrational, nutty side of you, while sexy, is unnerving as hell.”

  “I am seeing reason.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this one.”

  “You have to stay away from the cops until we clear your name. Or they figure out that you couldn’t have done it.”

  “But, honey, you’re not sharing information with them. They’re not telepaths, you know.”

  “Your lawyer will call them tomorrow. If he ever checks his fucking voice mail. Meanwhile, you’re laying low.”

  “But you promised to bring me back.”

  “Well, I changed my mind!”

  He rubbed his eyebrows and squinted at her. She got out a gallon of milk, poured herself a tumbler, and downed it in three gulps. “I don’t know,” he said at last, “whether to strangle you or kiss you.”

  “Well, while you’re making up your mind, let me see if I can dig up a spare toothbrush.”

  “Julie Kay—take me back.”

  “No.”

  “Fine. I’ll go myself.”

  “You don’t have a car,” she said smugly. “It’s twenty miles to the police station.”

  “I’ll call a cab.”

  “With what? I don’t have a land line here—I use my cell phone for everything.”

  He swore under his breath. She knew he didn’t have his on him—the cops had taken it. It was Exhibit B.

  “Julie Kay…”

  “Look, just accept the inevitable, will you?”

  “Give me your phone, please.”

  “No.”

  “Julie Kay!”

  “No!”

  “Goddammit, give me your fucking phone!”

  She shook her head. He yowled like a scalded cat and jumped on her, so quickly she couldn’t get out of the way in time. They both hit the kitchen tile and she felt the breath leave her lungs.

  “Sorry,” he panted, groping in her pockets, “but this is for your own good. I don’t want you to be booked as an accessory.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” she gasped, kicking.

  “Dammit, where is the fucking thing? I know it’s not in your purse—you’ve been clipping it to your belt all night.”

  “You leave my belt alone,” she warned. He was so close, his dark hair was brushing her face. She groped for his ribs and gave him a vicious pinch. He groaned, but kept feeling her belt.

  “There’s plenty more where that came from,” she said, squirming like a grub on a hot plate.

  “Sit still. And don’t pinch me again—I’m already going to have a bruise the size of a grapefruit, dammit, what did you do with the—” His eyes widened and the fight went out of him; his forehead rested on her shoulder. “The bathroom. You went to the bathroom first.”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, God. What did you do to it?”

  “It’s possible,” she admitted, “that I flushed it.”

  “Christ.”

  “Repeatedly.”

  “You wrecked our only phone?”

  “It was for your own good.”

  “Strangle you,” he decided. “That’s what I’ll do. It was a toss-up before, but now I’ve made up my mind.” He put his hands around her throat, gently, and pulled her up for a long kiss.

  “That’ll learn me,” she gasped after a long moment. “Yep, I guess you showed me a thing or two.”

  “Oh, shut up,” he murmured, and kissed her again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  If she hadn’t been so out of her mind with lust, she would have been appalled at the stickiness of her linoleum. Well, that was a worry for another day. Right now she was concentrating on shedding her clothes and helping him shed his.

  She was covering every part of him she could reach with wild kisses, and he was kissing her back and running his big hands over her body.

  She reached down and felt him, long and ready for her, and cupped his testicles in her hands, marveling at their furry warmth. He groaned into her mouth and she straddled him, a knee coming down on either side of him. Her knees stuck, and she grimaced.

  “Protection?” he managed, his hands covering her breasts, testing their weight, stroking them, even squeezing lightly.

  “Birth control pills,” she told him.

  “Tremendous geek who never has sex,” he replied.

  “So, it’s safe to say you’re not riddled with disease.” She giggled. She rose over him and he gobbled at her breasts as they swung near his face. She seized him with one hand and guided him into her, and he clutched her ass and slowly rose to meet her.

  “Oh, Christ,” he groaned, “you’re so wet, how can you be so wet?”

  “Hours of wanting to bone you,” she replied, tru
thfully enough. “Oooooh, that’s nice. Don’t stop doing that.”

  “Never,” he gasped.

  From her position she could look at him all she liked, and loved what she saw. He had broken into a light sweat, and his crystal blue eyes were narrowed into slits. His hips flexed to meet hers and it was superb, it was heavenly, it was—

  “Oh, boy,” he managed. “I hope you’re close.”

  “I’m not,” she told him. “But you can make it up to me later.”

  “It’s a date,” he replied, and then shuddered beneath her, and she went down for a soft kiss, and rested her head on his chest for a long time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “It’s not a date,” she told him later, after they had showered and he had pulled on an old, baggy sweatshirt of hers to wear with his boxers. The sweatshirt that dwarfed her and came to her knees was just this side of too small for him. “I told you. You’re too young for me.”

  “Oh, who cares? Do you really think something like that matters? Do you think this sort of thing happens every day?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I like being single. I don’t seek out dates.”

  “Well, you’re going to now. With me.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “You can’t honestly say after tonight you’re never going to see me again.”

  “My, my, don’t we think a lot of our dick.”

  “I was referring,” he said with great dignity, “to all the excitement earlier, but you’ve got a one-track mind, I must say.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I should get kidnapped every week,” he commented, sitting down on the couch and pulling her down with him. She had changed into the sexiest night-wear she had, her green flannel gown. It made her look like an extra on Little House on the Prairie, but what the hell, Scott didn’t seem to mind.

  She snorted. “Sure.”

  “No, really. This has been the weirdest, scariest, coolest, sexiest, most amazing night of my life.”

  “Yeah, but you’re still young.”

  “Oh, quit with that.”

  “But you are,” she said, laughing. “You’re a baby, an infant.”

  “A law-abiding infant. I can’t believe you’re going to get yourself in trouble in a misguided attempt to keep me out of jail.”

  “What can I say? V-Day makes me do weird things. Look at it this way: if I hadn’t gone out with you, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “Worth it,” he said, rubbing her shoulders.

  “You dumb-ass.”

  “Flattery will get you laid again.”

  “You—” Her doorbell interrupted what was going to be a spectacular insult, and they both froze and looked at the clock. It was four o’clock in the morning.

  “My sister,” she decided, getting up. “She couldn’t bear to wait for the gory details.”

  “Mmmm.” He got off the couch as well. “You’ve got a peephole, right?”

  “What, you think the killer tracked us down?” she joked. She went to the side door and pulled the shade. “See? No problem. It’s—oh, shit!”

  “It’s worse than the killer,” he observed, then thumbed the lock and pulled the door open. “Hi, Detective Hobbes.”

  Hobbes opened her mouth.

  “Don’t arrest him!” Julie Kay shrieked.

  “She’s all right,” Scott said, grabbing her elbow and pulling her out of the way so Hobbes could come in. “Just stress, you know.”

  “Nice underwear,” Hobbes commented. “Listen, I tried calling you, but—”

  “Julie Kay accidentally dropped her phone in the toilet,” Scott said helpfully. “Five or six times.”

  “Anyway—”

  “He didn’t do it! He’s innocent! You don’t have to take him, you just have to get ahold of his lawyer! Just call his lawyer!”

  Hobbes rubbed her head. “Do you have to scream? It’s been a long fucking night, pardon my French. You going to offer me a seat or just keep me standing here?”

  “Sorry, sorry. Here, take the couch.”

  “We don’t have to let her in,” Julie Kay said frantically. “Where’s your warrant? Where’s your writ? Where’s your—your—”

  “Where’s my Advil,” Hobbes muttered, rummaging around in her bag. “Ah!”

  “You want some milk with that? That’s all we’ve got. Well, there’s some orange juice that looks questionable, but—”

  “Milk’s fine.”

  “Scott, for crying out loud! Why don’t you just go lie down in the back of her car and put the cuffs on yourself?”

  “That’s okay,” Hobbes said cheerfully. “I had my date earlier.”

  Scott brought her a glass of milk and she gulped it down with three Advils. “Okay,” she said, setting down the empty glass. “Like I was saying. I tried to call you earlier but couldn’t get through, so I thought I’d stop by in person—I’m sorry for the late hour, but I didn’t think you’d want to wait to hear—”

  “He’s too tall to be the killer!” Julie Kay blurted.

  “Julie Kay, will you let the woman get a complete sentence out?”

  “Scott, shut up and let me handle this. Detective, check his shirt! Check the dead guy’s wound! They won’t match. He’s innocent!”

  “Yes,” Hobbes said, rubbing her temples. “We know. That’s why I’m here. We got the guy. Once we figured out the stains didn’t match up, we went out with our handy-dandy, police-issue tape measures and figured out how tall the killer was, then questioned him at the restaurant. He confessed. We got him. Stop screaming.”

  “You got him?” she yelled, completely taken by surprise.

  Hobbes rolled her eyes. “Yes, that’s what we do: catch bad guys.”

  “Did my lawyer get ahold of you?” Scott asked excitedly.

  “No, Mr. Wythe, we figured it out all by our lonesome. It’s not like the movies, you know. An amateur sleuth doesn’t figure everything out and eventually enlighten the cops, who then gratefully see that justice is done and put the bad guy in jail. We enlighten you.”

  “There’s no need to be snotty about it,” she muttered.

  “There’s all kinds of need,” Hobbes retorted. She stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Anyway, since you were never charged, you don’t have to come back for an arraignment or anything. Just wanted you to know you can skip your one o’clock appointment.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, uh, thanks, Detective.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Hobbes stepped to the door. “Or, if you do, mention it quietly.”

  “Wait!”

  Hobbes groaned.

  “Sorry,” Julie Kay continued, softly. “But who did it?”

  “Oh. Gerald McDougal the Third. He—”

  “—was the manager, right? Oh, I knew it! He was totally trying to cover it up. And he’s completely wrecked your crime scene,” Julie Kay added in a self-righteous tone.

  “No. The manager is Gerald McDougal the Second. The killer—”

  “Was his son?” Scott asked, an amazed expression on his face.

  “Yes—second in line to take over the restaurant.”

  “Why’d he kill Charley?”

  “Charley was a regular at Tables; they’ve known each other for a year. Tables is a real family operation—the coat-check girl is McDougal the Third’s wife. Apparently Charley was having an affair with her.”

  “Oh, ouch,” Scott said respectfully. “That’s harsh.”

  “To put it mildly,” Julie Kay added.

  “Harsher: she picked tonight, of all nights, to confess. McDougal the Third took it badly.”

  “That sucks.”

  “And,” Julie Kay added, “that would explain why he—McDougal the Second—was trying to cover everything up. Protecting the family name, or whatever.”

  “We arrested his son earlier, so I’m not sure what you’re talking about when you said he’s wrecked the—”

  “He had cleaners and vacuums in there. Took down all your crime-scene
tape. Like that.”

  “Oh.” Hobbes looked unsurprised. “Well, I’ll go back down there and book him for that, then. But I’ve seen it before. The mindset of the cover-up. He couldn’t stop his kid from being arrested, or his daughter-in-law from screwing around, but he could protect the restaurant’s reputation. Try, anyway. It never works. I don’t know why they bother.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Scott commented.

  “Love makes you do stupid things.” Hobbes tipped them a two-finger salute. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  She left.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You didn’t get that hysterical when the I.T. guys were ganging up on you,” Scott commented, hours later after they were snuggled into her bed. “This bed blows, by the way.”

  “I live alone and I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t need anything bigger than a twin,” she pointed out.

  “Remind me to get you a double bed for Easter.”

  “Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”

  “No. You lurrrrrrrrrrrrv me! My God, I thought you were going to pop Hobbes right in the eye. I was torn between anxiety and sexual arousal.”

  “Pig. I just didn’t want to see an innocent man go to jail,” she grumbled.

  “Suuuuuure. Total altruism on your part. Sweetie, you’re a jingle writer, not a homicide detective, but you got yourself ass-deep in my problem, and how come? Because you lurrrrrrrrrrv me.”

  “Stop saying that,” she said, “or I’ll pull off your testicles. I just thought it would be nice if, just once, V-Day wasn’t the worst day of the year. Although, it sure as shit didn’t start off too well…”

  “Ah, but the ending.” He stroked her thigh. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Working.”

  “Call in sick. Let’s stay home and make love and buy something to drink besides milk.”

  “And miss a single day of my wonderful job? Just to stay home and have sex with you?”

  “Well…yeah.” He sounded uncomfortable…almost tentative? Like he wasn’t sure she would want to?

  “I’m teasing, dumb-ass. Of course I will. I’d much rather bone you than write get-well jingles.”