Heated Moments

Chapter 2

Police Chief Dylan Cooper hadn’t seen faces this unimpressed with what he had to say since dealing with his ex-wife.

“I hauled ten bad guys to jail last night,” someone yelled from the back of the room. “Didn’t even have to call for backup.”

“Is that all?” A snort accompanied the shouted question. “I made over fifty arrests this week, including Big Moe, from the top of the most-wanted list.”

Murmurs of approval echoed off the walls at the capture of the elusive Big Moe. They fueled the fervent bragging, each person who chimed in boasting bigger arrest statistics than the last.

“What about you, Chief? How many bad guys you take off the streets this week?”

Dylan had hauled the Henderson brothers to the county jail after they’d started a brawl at the sports bar to avoid making good on a wager. His efforts had earned him a sucker punch to the jaw from one of the lumberjack-sized brothers, while he’d been busy subduing the other two.

However, those arrests had been two weeks ago.

The metallic gleam of the badge pinned to his uniform caught Dylan’s eye as he glanced at the worn carpet. He raised his head slightly to meet the dozens of expectant faces awaiting his reply.

“None,” he said finally.

A chorus of gasps erupted, quickly followed by muffled giggles.

“However,” Dylan interjected over the din, “I run a small-town police department, not a video game controller.” He eyed the classroom of fourth and fifth grade Cooper’s Place Elementary School students gathered for his day-in-the-life career talk. “So those arrests you all made playing Cop Crackdown don’t count.”

“Not even nabbing Big Moe?” the boy in the back of the room asked.

Dylan took a moment to think it over. A few of his cop buddies back at his old precinct in Chicago played the popular video game, but none had managed to beat the last level and capture the slippery Big Moe.

Dylan stroked the shadow of beard clinging to his chin. “Well, maybe...”

“Dylan Cooper.” The sound of his name, spoken in an admonishing tone he rarely heard, grabbed his attention. He turned from the students seated crossed-legged on the floor to their teacher standing in a corner of the classroom with her arms folded over her chest.

“Yes, Mrs. Bartlett.” Dylan’s deep voice automatically adopted the singsong quality it had decades ago when she’d been his fifth-grade teacher.

She peered at him over the frames of cat-eye glasses that had slid past the bridge of her nose. Her lips were pursed into a frown, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. Time had transformed the teacher’s once dark hair to salt and pepper. However, her expression was the same she’d worn the day a garter snake he’d encountered on the way to school had escaped his backpack and slithered onto her desk.

“These students are in my classroom on this sunny July day because they spent the school year trying to apprehend Big Moe instead of doing their homework.” She paused and gave the open window a pointed glance. As if on cue, the happy shrieks of children at the small town’s playground floated in on the mild breeze.

Dylan exhaled, shoving aside a twinge of empathy for the kids’ plight. It didn’t matter that he’d once missed a summer of Little League baseball sitting in this same classroom, with the same teacher. He was the adult now as well as an authority figure.

“No,” he said finally. “Nabbing Big Moe doesn’t count as a real arrest.”

Mrs. Bartlett rewarded the statement with an approving smile. But if the grumbles filling Dylan’s ears were any indication, his stock had dropped even further with his audience.

“Isn’t it your job to arrest people?” a kid seated in front asked. “That’s what the police do.”

“Not always,” Dylan replied. “My main duty is to keep everyone safe. In a town the size of ours that could mean anything from teaching you bicycle safety to helping Devon’s grandmother across Main Street.” He inclined his head toward one of the boys and then looked over at a set of identical twins. “Or even helping Natalie and Nicole look for their lost puppy.”

Dylan acknowledged the waving hand of a boy he recognized as an old high school classmate’s son. “Got a question, Ryan?”

“Where’s your gun?” the boy asked.

“At home,” Dylan replied. “I’m not on duty today. Besides, weapons don’t belong in a classroom. I didn’t bring one here today, and you should never, ever bring a gun or anything else that could be potentially dangerous to school either, right?”

Heads in the audience bobbed in agreement, and then he saw one kid raise his hand.

Dylan looked down at him. “What is it, Brandon?”

“Is a Swiss Army knife okay? I got one for my birthday. It’s so cool, I wanted to show all my friends.” The kid held out his hand. A shiny red utility knife rested in his small upturned palm.

“That is a very cool present. However, it’s not appropriate to bring it to school.” Dylan remembered having one just like it when he was the kid’s age. However, times had changed. “I don’t want you to get into trouble, so how about you give it to me for now. I’ll give it to your dad later, and he’ll return it to you.”

Dylan pocketed the small knife and stole a glance at the clock on the back wall. Although this was one of his rare days off, he had a meeting this afternoon at city hall about the upcoming mayoral election.

“Well, kids, from my early-morning drive around town to check out everything to my night rounds and beyond, that’s a typical day in the life of a small-town police chief,” he concluded.

“Sounds boring to me, Chief. Just like this hick town,” the boy who’d caught Big Moe yelled. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to move away and live someplace fun.”

Another boy chimed in. “Me, too. When I grow up, I’m going to be a real cop like the ones on my mom’s favorite show, Law & Order, not hanging around here helping old ladies cross the street.”

Dylan took in stride the comments and ridiculing snickers that followed. After all, he’d felt the exact same way when he was their age. He’d also done exactly what they intended to do. The moment he graduated high school, he’d fled the town named for his ancestors, with big plans and his high school sweetheart on his arm.

He’d never planned to return to Cooper’s Place, but he was back in his hometown doing a job that most days held all the excitement of watching grass grow. Slowly. One blade at a time.

Still, dull was good, he reminded himself.

His stint as a beat cop and then two years as a homicide detective on Chicago’s south side had given him an appreciation for living in a place where the children he heard outside could play without fears of gunshots ringing out. Sure, he went on routine calls concerning shoplifters, noise disturbances, family and neighbor disputes, and the occasional burglary. However, there were no calls in the middle of the night to investigate homicides. No street gangs or armed robberies.

The biggest thing a person was likely to become a victim of here was local gossip.

Cooper’s Place, Ohio, was still a town where the residents were all on a first-name basis and could go to bed at night without double-checking to see if the doors were locked. Peace and quiet reigned here, and Dylan would do everything in his power to keep it that way.

After answering a few more questions, he eyed the exit sign above the classroom door. “It’s been a pleasure speaking with you today,” he said.

His former teacher gave the students a reading assignment and followed him into the corridor. “I’d like to have a word with you, Chief Cooper,” she said, closing the classroom door behind her.

Dylan groaned inwardly at the use of his title, hoping she wasn’t about to give him an update on her ongoing dispute with her next-door neighbor. He’d issued them both citations last month when they’d insisted on pursuing charges against one another over minor transgressions that should have been settled without police involvement.

“How can I help?” he asked.

“It’s that uncle of yours.” She frowned. “My case was heard in Mayor’s Court last week...”

He held up a hand to stop her. Cooper’s Place was one of the small Ohio municipalities that had established Mayor’s Court to hear small cases that would be decided by arbitration. Since the mayor held a law degree, he was qualified to oversee the proceedings. Unfortunately, residents unhappy with the decisions made there often voiced their displeasure to Dylan.

“I’m law enforcement, Mrs. Bartlett. I have no control over Mayor’s Court or the mayor’s rulings. If you don’t agree with his decision you can always appeal to the county court.”

“But he’s your family,” she said.

“Regardless, any problems you have with the way he does his job should be taken up with him or at the ballot box during the upcoming election.”

“Humph,” she muttered. “How can I vote against him if he always runs unopposed?”

Moments later, Dylan stood outside the elementary school building and pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket. He briefly debated whether to check in with Dispatch.

The two-man department’s second officer was on duty today, and although Dylan couldn’t have asked for a more dedicated employee, Todd Wilson still had less than a year of experience under his belt.

Also, the rookie could be a bit of a zealot in making sure the town’s citizens adhered to the exact letter of the law, handing out citations to jaywalkers and litterbugs. Wilson sometimes carried a ruler to measure how far drivers had parked from the curb, and then slapped a ticket on their windshields if a quarter of an inch put them in violation.

The young man’s fanatical devotion to the job combined with his clumsy nature often made him the butt of jokes, and the good folks of Cooper’s Place teased the guy mercilessly. Some even compared him to the bumbling deputy from a classic black-and-white television show.

Holding the phone to his ear, Dylan listened as it rang twice before the dispatcher answered.

“Quiet as usual, Chief,” Marjorie Jackson said robotically, as if she’d been expecting his call. After all, he always checked in on the two days off he allowed himself each month. Dylan guessed he’d torn her away from one of the celebrity magazines she read constantly.

“And Wilson?” Dylan inquired.

“He drove the cruiser out to Old Mill Road to monitor for speeders.”

Dylan briefly considered driving out there to tell the officer to stick closer to town, since the area around Old Mill Road had both spotty radio coverage and cell phone dead spots, but he decided against it. The dispatcher had already confirmed nothing was going on.

Traffic was practically nonexistent on Old Mill Road now that the new bypass had opened. Surrounded by cornfields, there was little chance of the young cop finding a speeder or getting into a situation he couldn’t handle.

Exhaling, Dylan stared up at the sky and squinted against the beaming sun. He caught sight of a small dark cloud in the distance as he donned his wire-rimmed aviator shades, and despite the otherwise placid skies, he couldn’t shake the feeling a storm was about to blow into town.

Chapter 3

Lola squirmed behind the wheel of her red Mustang.

After hours on the road, driving to New York City no longer seemed like the brilliant idea it had back in Nashville. Her shoulders ached and her butt had gone numb fifty miles ago.

She should have stopped to stretch at the last rest stop, on the Kentucky-Ohio border, Lola thought, massaging the kink in her neck. Instead she’d blown right past it, still buzzing with excitement over the offer her talent agency had presented to her earlier this morning.

America Live!

Lola stopped rubbing her neck long enough to give her driving arm a hard pinch.

Nope. It wasn’t a dream.

In a few days, she’d actually be filling in as a temporary cohost on America Live! And the producers had indicated the one-day gig would also serve as her audition for a permanent spot on the top-rated morning show.

A smile formed on her lips as she imagined her family, especially her big brother, looking over the rims of their coffee mugs at their television screens Monday morning and seeing her. They’d be shocked, all right.

The same woman they’d cast aside would be looking back at them. Lola grinned harder. Too bad she wouldn’t be able see the looks on their faces.

“Notoriety appears to have worked to your advantage this time,” Jill had told her during the brief call. “This is your shot, Lola. I don’t have to tell you how important it is for you to bring your A game. Look your best and wow that audience,” she’d instructed, before ending the call with a warning. “Don’t screw this up!”

Not a chance, Lola thought.

Erring on the side of caution, she’d opted to drive solo to New York rather than fly. She didn’t want to inadvertently bump someone on a plane and end up falsely accused of beating the crap out of the person. Also, tabloid television shows tended to stake out airports to corner their prey. Now that she was on everybody’s radar, she needed to lie low.

Still, one thing she hadn’t been able to avoid was summer road construction. Her car’s GPS system had instructed her to exit the interstate to follow detours on state and county roads. She stifled a yawn with her fist. Every mile seemed to take her deeper into the rural countryside. At least flanked by miles of Ohio farmland broken up with an occasional one-stoplight town, there was no way for her to find trouble or for trouble to find her.

The sound of her ringtone filled the Mustang’s interior, and Lola snatched the cell phone off the passenger seat. She peeked at the number flashing across the screen and blew out a sigh.

Although it was Friday, she’d managed, while driving through Kentucky, to secure last-minute appointments in the city for an oxygen facial, brow wax and tint, and of course, a fresh manicure. Now she had to somehow persuade NYC’s top stylist to work his cut-and-color magic on her lackluster mane over the weekend, so every head would turn to look at her when she entered the America Live! studio Monday morning.

“Pablo,” Lola crooned into the phone. “I need a huge favor.”

She’d briefly considered using the top-notch beauty team at her sister’s flagship Espresso Sanctuary Spa before leaving Nashville, but she was too pissed at Tia to ask her for anything.

Besides, Pablo and Lola went way back, before he was known by just one name and had opened the exclusive salon with it emblazoned on the front door. She glanced at her split ends in the rearview mirror as she explained what she needed done to her hair.

“You should have called six months ago, babes, because that’s how far in advance I’m booked,” Pablo said, a European accent lacing his words. “I’m only returning your call personally as a courtesy, because we’re friends. However, I’m afraid what my receptionist told you earlier stands.”

The stylist was her friend. That was why she decided to confide in him about her overall career situation and the humiliating way she’d been dumped as the face of Espresso. “So you can see how crucial it is that you do my hair and not relegate me to your assistant.” Lola’s voice cracked as she tried to persuade him to make an exception. “I’ve got a lot riding on this opportunity, Pablo. I need to look my best, which means I need you. Please.”

Long moments of silence ensued. Lola pressed her lips together and stared through the windshield at the endless ribbon of winding road, hoping he’d change his mind.

“Impossible,” Pablo said, finally. “Not only do I not work on weekends, but I’ve been invited to an A-list celebrity party in the Hamptons. I’ll be hanging there all weekend.”

Lola wasn’t giving up. “Nothing is impossible. Like when I insisted on you as my stylist for a magazine shoot, back when you were fresh out of cosmetology school and sweeping hair off Espresso Sanctuary’s floor.”

“I know you helped me out, Lola, but...”

“Not to mention floating you a loan to help you open your first salon in Nashville, when your loan applications were rejected by the both the bank and the small-business administration,” she said. “Remember?”

She heard a sigh at the other end of the phone as she turned the steering wheel sharply to avoid hitting a squirrel that had darted out onto the road.

“Come on, Lola. We’re talking the Hamptons here.”

Lola frowned. She hadn’t wanted to take it there, but he’d left her with no other option. “Be that way, Sherman.” She emphasized his real name.

“You wouldn’t.” Pablo quickly lost his faux accent.

“What? Start a rumor that international stylist to the stars Pablo, who’s led folks to believe he hails from Barcelona, is really Sherman Meeks from Shelbyville, Tennessee?”

“Don’t you dare!” Pablo shrieked.

“Of course I wouldn’t do that to you,” she said in a syrupy-sweet tone as fake as “Pablo’s” persona. “Besides, I’m sure your A-list friends and high-profile clients already know the real you.”

“All right, you win,” the stylist said in a huff. He rattled off a time on Sunday. “But you’d best be punctual, earlier if possible.”

Lola glanced at the GPS, which estimated her time of arrival. She thanked her friend and assured him she’d be there.

“Good,” Pablo said. “Otherwise, you’ll be out of luck.”

Lola tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat just as the GPS beeped. Here we go again, she thought.

“Accident ahead,” the robotic voice warned. “Detouring to an alternative route.”

Following its directions, Lola exited the state road. She steered the car along winding smaller roads that all seemed to lead deeper into nowhere.

“Turn left onto Old Mill Road.”

She made the turn, and then noticed the gadget had recalculated her arrival time, adding another half hour to her journey. She also noticed a sign warning drivers to be on the lookout for cows in the road. The next sign took the speed limit down to forty-five miles an hour.

“At this rate, it’ll take me a month to get there,” Lola muttered.

Peering through the windshield, she didn’t see any cows. In fact, she hadn’t even encountered any other cars. Just a stretch of two-lane road cutting through acres of cornfields.

She nibbled on her bottom lip and shifted her gaze to the speedometer and then to the GPS’s ever increasing arrival time. A life-changing career opportunity awaited her, and what was she doing? Slowpoking down back roads that looked like a corn maze, Lola thought.

The big toe of her driving foot twitched.

Giving in to the overwhelming impulse to floor it, she pressed the accelerator pedal. The muscle car lunged forward as the powerful engine roared its approval.

“This is more like it,” Lola muttered, steering the car along the deserted road.

She didn’t own a Mustang to drive it like the chauffeur in Driving Miss Daisy. The GPS took the faster speed into account and shaved ten minutes off her arrival time.

Lola switched on the sound system and the acerbic lyrics of Nicki Minaj poured through the car’s speakers, filling the interior. With the afternoon sun on her face, Lola drummed out the fast, thumping beat with her fingertips against the steering wheel.

She saw the speedometer needle inch toward the seventy-five-miles-an-hour mark and then beyond. She was clocking eighty-five miles an hour when her killjoy of an inner voice reared its head, admonishing her to slow down.

The GPS shaved another twenty minutes off her estimated arrival to Manhattan. Lola scanned the windshield and then checked the side and rearview mirrors. No cows. No cars. Nothing but cornfields and open road. There was absolutely no reason for her not to make up some of the time that detours and delays had cost her.

She cranked up the radio and sang off tune in an off-key attempt to rap along with Nicki about being a badass.

A flash of blue lights caught her eye.

“No, no, no, no,” Lola chanted, hoping it was just her imagination.

The wail of a siren drowned out the music. She spotted a police car in the side mirror, and her stomach did a free fall to the floorboards. She definitely wasn’t imagining it. Maybe he wasn’t after her, Lola thought, taking her foot off the accelerator. She saw a tractor in the distance plodding across a field.

Yeah, right, her inner voice scoffed.