CONFIDENTIAL MEMO

Badge No. 1197: Carrie McCall

Rank: Sergeant

Skill/Expertise: Superior investigative skills, uncanny cop instincts, innate ability to charm and disarm

Reason Chosen for Assignment: A looker with a black mark on her otherwise sterling record, McCall’s the perfect choice to play “lover” to partner Linc Reilly’s “lawbreaker” in an undercover sting designed to get her real close to the suspected rogue cop.

Badge No. 0730: Lincoln Reilly

Rank: Sergeant

Skill/Expertise: Seasoned undercover operative, disciplined and dangerous

Reason Chosen for Assignment: The best of the best, but a cop believed to have lost his way—but not his need for the love of a woman….

Dear Reader,

What better way to start off a new year than with six terrific new Silhouette Intimate Moments novels? We’ve got miniseries galore, starting with Karen Templeton’s Staking His Claim, part of THE MEN OF MAYES COUNTY. These three brothers are destined to find love, and in this story, hero Cal Logan is also destined to be a father—but first he has to convince heroine Dawn Gardner that in his arms is where she wants to stay.

For a taste of royal romance, check out Valerie Parv’s Operation: Monarch, part of THE CARRAMER TRUST, crossing over from Silhouette Romance. Policemen more your style? Then check out Maggie Price’s Hidden Agenda, the latest in her LINE OF DUTY miniseries, set in the Oklahoma City Police Department. Prefer military stories? Don’t even try to resist Irresistible Forces, Candace Irvin’s newest SISTERS IN ARMS novel. We’ve got a couple of great stand-alone books for you, too. Lauren Nichols returns with a single mom and her protective hero, in Run to Me. Finally, Australian sensation Melissa James asks Can You Forget? Trust me, this undercover marriage of convenience will stick in your memory long after you’ve turned the final page.

Enjoy them all—and come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around, only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor

Hidden Agenda
Maggie Price

MILLS & BOON

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MAGGIE PRICE

turned to crime at the age of twenty-two. That’s when she went to work at the Oklahoma City Police Department. As a civilian crime analyst, she evaluated suspects’ methods of operation during the commission of robberies and sex crimes and developed profiles on those suspects. During her tenure at OCPD, Maggie stood in lineups, snagged special assignments to homicide task forces, established procedures for evidence submittal, even posed as the wife of an undercover officer in the investigation of a fortune-teller.

While at OCPD, Maggie stored up enough tales of intrigue, murder and mayhem to keep her at the keyboard for years. The first of those tales won the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award for Romantic Suspense.

Maggie invites her readers to contact her at 5208 W. Reno, Suite 350, Oklahoma City, OK 73127-6317. Or on the Web at http://members.aol.com/magprice.

To tough guys with soft hearts

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 1

“Good morning. Can you tell me where I can find Lieutenant Quintana?”

The smoky voice pulled Lincoln Reilly’s attention from the Selective Enforcement Unit’s coffeemaker, a half-opened packet of sugar gripped between his thumb and fingers. It wasn’t often his mind snapped off. But it did as he took in the petite woman with a mass of copper-red hair and cool blue eyes in a face created to grab a man’s attention.

As was whatever smoldering perfume she wore.

Although he’d been out of the loop a couple of years where women’s fashions were concerned, something told him the sea-foam-green sweater and slacks that hugged her curves were up-to-the-minute in style.

The gold Oklahoma City P.D. sergeant’s badge and holstered Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic clipped to her waistband had him jerking his mind back to business.

He made sure none of the effort showed as he met her gaze, thinking she damn well didn’t look like a run-of-the-mill female cop. “Quintana’s office is there,” Linc said, angling his head. “The one with the glass panel looking out onto the squad room.”

“Thanks. So what’s it like working in the SEU?”

“It’s a job.” Linc dumped the contents of the sugar packet—then another—into his coffee. It was Monday morning; he had endured a hellish weekend with people who brought back memories that ripped at his soul. With his thoughts so dark, he was in no mood for chitchat. Further, the Selective Enforcement Unit—SEU—operated in its own sphere. The squad worked autonomously, involved in undercover operations that most police employees never knew about. The redhead’s badge had gained her access to the third floor of the nondescript building that housed OCPD’s undercover units. That’s all it would get her, unless she had a legitimate need to know about personnel or operations.

“I’ll ask Quintana,” she murmured, then tipped her head at Linc’s coffee mug. “You know, that could be your problem.”

He turned to face her, noting the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. “What problem?”

“Surliness. All that refined sugar you dumped in your coffee contains a mountain of additives. You should try stevia.”

He knitted his brows. “What the hell is stevia?”

“A natural sweetener made from a plant extract.” When she shook back her hair, that wild, reddish mane slithered around her shoulders, her breasts. “I take my coffee black, in case you were planning to ask.”

“Knowing that, my day is complete.” The unwelcome stirring of his system had him feeling just perverse enough to take a sip from his mug instead of offering to get her a cup.

Apparently unoffended, she extended her right hand. “I’m Carrie McCall. Transferring from Patrol to the SEU.”

His gaze flicked to her hand while he caught another whiff of her scent that was as hot and steamy as the contents of his mug. Dammit, he had to get the hell away from her. He didn’t want a reminder of how a certain woman’s looks, voice, scent had the power to pull him in.

“Linc Reilly. Excuse me while I run out and pick up some stevia.” Turning his back on her, he headed across the squad room. By the time he reached his desk, she had sauntered—that was the only way to describe the slow, loose swing of her hips—halfway to Quintana’s office.

Linc settled into his chair, noting all conversation in the squad room had ceased. He glanced around. It didn’t surprise him to see every pair of male eyes tracking McCall’s progress.

“Who’s the babe?”

Linc shifted his attention to the cop at the desk across the aisle. In an unofficial vote of all the PD’s undercover units, Tom Nelson had won the title of worst dressed. Today’s stained sweatshirt and threadbare jeans looked disreputable, as did his dark, rumpled hair and unkempt beard. Propped back in his chair, his scuffed loafers on the desk, he held a report in one hand and a donut in the other. He had his eyes glued on the door to Quintana’s office through which McCall had just disappeared.

“Her name’s Sergeant McCall,” Linc answered. “Transferring in from Patrol.”

“Hallelujah.” Nelson pounded a fist against his heart. “About time this office got some worthwhile scenery.”

Linc raised a brow. “We’ve got two women in this unit. If Annie or Evelyn hear you, they’ll grind you into dog meat.” Linc frowned at Annie Becker’s desk. His partner always beat him to work, but he’d seen no sign of her this morning.

“Our gals are attractive,” Nelson conceded. “Just nothing like the McCall sisters.”

“Sisters?”

“You know Grace Fox? Ryan Fox’s widow?”

Linc sipped his coffee, and scowled when he found himself thinking about the additives he was consuming. “I’ve met Grace.”

“She’s the oldest. I heard the youngest sister is a few months out of the academy, but I haven’t run into her yet. If she’s as seriously gorgeous as the other two, mamma mia.”

Linc shook his head. Nelson’s looks were as memorable as a telephone pole, but that didn’t stop him from viewing himself as the department’s answer to Casanova. “Keep talking like that, you’ll get slapped with a sexual harassment suit.”

“Nah.” Nelson’s toothy grin lent charm to his bearded, gaunt face. “All I did was pay the McCall sisters a compliment.”

“Some women wouldn’t view it that way,” Linc said as he unlocked his desk and pulled out a file folder.

“Reilly’s right, Nelson.” The derisive voice coming from just behind Linc stiffened his spine. “And we all know he’s an expert in looking out for a woman’s best interests.”

Jaw locked, Linc swiveled his chair around. The detective who stood inches away was a little over six feet tall, with black hair, olive skin and deep-set eyes guarded by heavy brows.

After his lousy weekend, a run-in with Don Gaines was not going to lighten his mood, Linc thought. “Don’t talk around the subject, Don. You got something to add, say it to my face.”

Gaines sipped his coffee. “I’ve made my feelings clear.”

“Crystal.” Linc didn’t add that he agreed with the man who had once been as close as a brother. He, Lincoln Reilly, had put work above his wife and in the process got her killed. “Since rehashing old ground won’t change things, I suggest you switch subjects or move on.”

Nelson’s scuffed loafers hit the floor, his wary gaze darting between both men. “I was just mouthing off about women. Talking garbage. I didn’t mean to get this thing started again.”

“This thing is ongoing,” Gaines commented, then glanced toward their boss’s office. “As for Carrie McCall, you’d better watch what you say, Nelson. She might look like a piece of fluff, but she’s got the rep of being a good street cop who can kick butt whenever it’s necessary.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Nelson muttered as Gaines turned and headed toward his desk. “Sorry, Linc.” Nelson raked a hand across his beard. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Nothing to say,” Linc swivelled his chair around. “Not your fault, Tom.” It’s mine.

As if reading Linc’s thoughts, Nelson leaned forward. “Not yours, either, buddy.”

“Yeah.” Linc’s voice remained steady while anger and guilt boiled inside him. He didn’t need a reminder of what he had carried like a ten-ton stone on his conscience every day, every night, every cursed second for the past two years. He had as good as killed Kim. Because he had not put her first, she had died horribly. If he had been a better husband, she would be alive. If he had been a better cop, he would have dug up something on the slime in the ski mask who’d kidnapped, raped and murdered her. As it was, Linc knew only what the grainy surveillance tape at the crime scene had picked up.

But he did, finally, have something, he reminded himself. After two years of searching for the white male with a snake tattoo on his forearm, the bastard had been spotted. Once. That one sighting had been enough to give Linc a place to start. He would find the slime. Find him, and make him pay.

Linc eased out a breath. The pain he’d endured since Kim’s death had taught him that tormenting himself over what couldn’t be changed was futile. So, while he waited for his partner, he opened the file and scanned the notes he and Annie had compiled on a string of murders that had begun a year and a half ago.

Unlike Kim’s, these homicides held no personal undertones. His and Annie’s interest had merely spiked when they realized six do-wrongs handled by various detectives assigned to the SEU had wound up murdered. Linc himself had dealt with four of the victims. All had been career criminals who preyed on innocent citizens and had sidestepped punishment in the criminal justice system. All had died the way Linc would have expected: ambushed and head-shot in apparent incidents of street violence. Still, his cop’s instincts had him wondering if there was something more about the killings than what appeared on the surface. He simply didn’t know.

“Reilly!”

Linc looked up, saw Quintana leaning out of his office door.

“Yeah, Lieu?”

“Need to see you. And bring an extra cup of coffee.” Quintana glanced across his shoulder, then looked back at Linc. “Black. Make sure there’s no sugar in it.”

Eyes narrowed, Linc checked the glass panel on Quintana’s office. The coppery-red flash he caught through the open miniblinds told him Carrie McCall was now seated in a visitors chair.

Setting his jaw, Linc slid the file into the drawer and locked it. Damn if the woman hadn’t gotten that cup of coffee out of him after all.

Even without looking toward the office door, Carrie McCall knew the instant Linc Reilly stepped inside. She’d felt the same sizzling awareness when she’d spotted him at the coffeemaker. She had spent a week studying his file. Learning about the man. Yet none of that had prepared her for the electric current that had zipped through every nerve in her body when she came face-to-face with her prey.

Forcing the cadence of her breathing to remain even, she told herself her reaction was to be expected. After all, she was under strict orders to get close to Reilly. Take him down for murder, if the evidence was there. He was her first undercover assignment—one that was risky at best. Dangerous at worst.

Carrie kept her attention centered on Lieutenant John Quintana, sitting at the tidy desk in front of her. SEU’s commander was a toughly built, compact man in his mid-fifties who gazed at her with serious, dark-brown eyes. The stark bareness of the office walls and nondescript tan miniblinds at the window were in direct contrast to Quintana’s starched white shirt, red tie, blue blazer and gray slacks. He looked comfortable and competent. By all accounts, Quintana was an experienced, solid supervisor who commanded the respect of his troops.

Carrie understood that—it had always been vitally important she earn the respect of her fellow officers. But if Quintana knew the real reason she’d been placed in his unit, his esteem would not be among the things she earned.

Although her shoulders were as stiff as wire, she kept her expression relaxed as she smiled at Quintana. “I’m looking forward to working in your unit, Lieutenant. After more than five years in patrol, I’m ready for a different type of police work.”

“You’ll get that here.” Quintana glanced up, then gestured at chair beside hers. “Reilly, have a seat. Linc Reilly, this is Carrie McCall.”

Turning her head, Carrie watched the man stride toward her. Six foot four, powerfully built, yet rangy and lean. His hair was pitch-black, edging toward renegade length. He had a sharp-cheeked face with a street-smart look about it and the exotic golden eyes of a tiger that no woman drawing breath would overlook. Including her. That lean, rangy body was clad in snug, worn jeans, and a red fisherman-style sweater, its sleeves shoved up to reveal muscular forearms.

The man made an impressive package. A dangerous one, too, if he was the cop who’d coolly executed six people.

“Your coffee,” Linc said. “Black. No additives.”

“Thanks.” Because of his earlier refusal to shake her hand, she set the cup on the lieutenant’s desk and offered hers again. “Pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Reilly.”

He kept his eyes on her face as his fingers engulfed hers. “Likewise, Sergeant McCall.”

She might as well have touched a lightning bolt, Carrie thought, as an electric shock flashed through her system. It took every bit of her willpower not to jerk from his hold.

Telling herself she would deal later with her overall brainless reaction to the man she was here to investigate, she forced a cool smile. “That errand you mentioned you needed to run must not have taken you long.”

His fingers tightened, as did his smile. “Not long enough.”

Since he made no move to loosen his grip, she had to tug her hand from his.

Quintana frowned. “You two know each other?”

“Met at the coffeemaker,” Linc replied, and turned. “Did you need me for something other than beverage delivery, Lieu?”

Quintana stabbed a finger toward the chair angled beside Carrie’s. “Have a seat.” He waited until Linc complied, then asked, “What’s the status of the crackdown on The Hideaway?”

Carrie sensed Linc’s hesitation. She didn’t have to wonder why—when she received her assignment, she had done her research. Selective Enforcement was an undercover unit that worked closely with Intelligence and primarily targeted career criminals. Their work was sensitive and could adversely impact numerous investigations—even get people killed—if information leaked. By necessity, SEU operated as a highly compartmentalized unit. The cops assigned there were even closemouthed with each other. Officers who were friends might not know the specifics of what each other was working on. And certain questions that fell outside the need-to-know area automatically generated suspicion. Good detectives were habitual, generic snoops, but this unit called for cops who were very localized snoops. Which meant Carrie was going to have to be careful in how she ferreted out the evidence she’d been sent there to obtain.

Seconds ticked by before Linc said, “Annie and I will make our first visit to The Hideaway tomorrow night. I’ll write you a status report on everything that’s been done so far.”

Quintana shook his head. “Give me an oral report. Now.”

Linc slid Carrie a look, then remet his boss’s gaze. “Like we planned, guys from Intelligence have been watching The Hideaway’s parking lot. They’ve photographed employees and customers, compiled a list of tag numbers off their vehicles. When I get the list, I’ll have dispatch run twenty-eight checks off those tags. Once they give me the name of each vehicle’s registered owner, I’ll have background checks on each name run through the CCH and NCIC,” Linc continued, referring to the department’s Computerized Criminal History and the National Crime Information Center computers. “That’ll give Annie and me an idea of the people we’ll be dealing with at The Hideaway. From that, we’ll firm up our final plan on how to play the assignment.”

Quintana nodded. “How many visits you figure it’ll take to pile up enough citations to raid the place?”

“Five or six, depends on what we find once we’re inside. We need enough violations to shut the place down permanently. Hopefully, Annie and I will have everything we need so the raid can go down before Thanksgiving. I can’t promise that, though.”

“Sounds good, Reilly. Except one thing.”

“What?”

“Annie’s no longer working with you on this. McCall is.”

Linc shifted his weight. “Look, Lieu, we know from my informant there’s lots of illegal activity at The Hideaway. Some we’re only guessing about at this point. My partner and I have to observe the violations, identify who’s doing what, then write up nightly reports. Anything inaccurate listed in the arrest warrants, any screw-ups during the bust could mean the entire case gets tossed. We also have to be careful how we interact with The Hideaway’s customers and employees—most who probably don’t know the definition of ‘upstanding citizen.’ Annie’s good, she’s got experience at all aspects of this kind of operation.”

“I agree with you, Reilly.” A frown drew Quintana’s dark brows together. “Thing is, Annie’s snagged an assignment to the new Homeland Security task force. Captain Vincent called me at home this weekend to let me know.”

Linc ran a hand through his hair. “How long will she be gone?”

“As long as the task force wants her. You’re teamed with McCall, starting with The Hideaway operation. Bring her up to speed so she’ll be ready by tomorrow night.”

“You’re the boss.” Linc’s expression might have remained impassive, but his tone rang in Carrie’s ears like cold steel.

Quintana nodded, then locked his gaze with hers. “McCall, I had a talk with Captain Vincent. He’s studied your file, says he has confidence in your abilities. Which means he doesn’t put much stock in what that patrol cop’s wife accused you of.”

Heat surged into Carrie’s cheeks while her internal defenses snapped up like a drawbridge. Although the department leaked like a sieve, she had hoped her former lieutenant—who knew she’d been an innocent victim of circumstance—had managed to keep the damn incident under wraps. Apparently not. Great.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Linc angled his head toward her. Carrie didn’t have to look at him to feel his intense scrutiny. Which made her cheeks burn even hotter.

“I assure you, Lieutenant, that woman’s accusation was unfounded. I did nothing inappropriate.”

For Carrie, the knowledge that the wife of one of her fellow patrol officers had stormed the chief’s office to make her unfounded accusations was a continuing cause of mortification. And because her pride was still raw, she added, “I take my work seriously, Lieutenant. The last thing I would do is engage in on-duty lip-lock sessions in the back seat of some patrol car.”

Despite telling herself not to, she glanced at Linc. He stared back at her. Noncommittal. Cop face. Unyielding.

Quintana tapped a pencil against his desk in a sharp staccato rhythm. “McCall, the bottom line here is that the mayor’s office has gotten calls from a citizen wanting this crackdown on The Hideaway. That makes it high profile. Lots of media and political attention at the end. Anything gets screwed up, some—maybe all—of the people we collar walk. That happens, there’ll be hell to pay. It won’t go over well if inappropriate action on some cop’s part screws up this operation.”

Carrie’s nerves tensed. Working an attention-getting case while it was imperative she maintain a low profile was the last thing she needed. But she had orders to get close to Reilly, and The Hideaway was his case. She had no choice.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Lieutenant.” Years ago she’d gotten involved with another cop. When that relationship ended in disaster, she’d made it a rule to avoid romantic entanglements with all cops. As far as Carrie was concerned, that rule was set in stone.

“Good.” Quintana plucked a key off his desk then stood. He moved around the desk, handed Carrie the key as she rose. “We had a man retire last month so you get his desk. He cleared out his paperwork, but I’m not sure what supplies he left. You need anything, get with my secretary. Evelyn’s got paperwork you need to fill out.”

“I’ll see her first thing.” Carrie accepted the key, then picked up the foam cup of coffee she had yet to sample.

“Reilly, point out the empty desk to McCall.”

“Sure.” If he had a problem being harnessed with a new partner, it didn’t show in his face as he stepped back to let her pass out of the office ahead of him.

The squad room was a long rectangle, with a row of grime-streaked windows high up on one wall that let in the gloomy November sunlight. Metal desks stuck out from the walls like boat slips; those placed in the center of the room butted up against each other, front to front. All desks had identical telephones, computers and ancient rolling chairs.

Carrie noted the room’s backwash of noise changed to a murmur when she stepped into view. She sensed eyes watching her while she followed Linc through the maze of putty-colored desks. Any cop new to a unit was a subject of curiosity. In normal circumstances, she would have had to prove herself before she could expect anything other than surface acceptance. That wouldn’t happen here. She’d be yanked from the SEU the instant she ferreted out the evidence that Internal Affairs needed to file charges against Linc Reilly.

If the evidence even existed.

Linc paused at a metal desk as run-down looking as all the others. The nearby wall held a cork bulletin board loaded with yellowed fliers, notes, cartoons and bureaucratic memos.

“This is it,” he said, then flicked his gaze to the cup in her hand. “Guess you didn’t want coffee after all.”

“You’re right, I didn’t.” She sat the foam cup aside and met his gaze. His golden-brown eyes looked a little harder than the floor beneath her feet.

“Look, Reilly, I’m sure you’ve got major concerns over taking on a new partner while you’re involved in a high-profile investigation.”

A muscle in his cheek jerked, but his eyes stayed level. “That sums it up.”

“Your concerns are understandable,” she persisted. “I don’t have delusions of grandeur. I’m not supercop, out to prove how good I am at taking down bad guys. The bottom line is, I’ve never worked undercover. I want to learn as much as you’re willing to teach me. All I ask is that you give me a chance.”

“Fair enough,” he said, his expression impassive.

“Hey, Reilly, you got a call on line three.”

The voice that had Linc glancing across his shoulder belonged to a dark-haired detective with a scraggly beard who sat at a paper-piled desk on the far side of the squad room.

“Put it on hold,” Linc said, then looked back at Carrie.

“After I take this call, I’ll introduce you around the squad. Then I’ll head to Intelligence to get those photos and tag numbers from The Hideaway. I’ll drop the list of car tags off at dispatch. The run should be ready by early afternoon. We can get together then and I’ll bring you up to speed on what we’ve got so far.”

“Thanks, Reilly.”

“Don’t thank me, McCall.” He smiled now, a quick, powerful strike. “You screw up, I’ll be right there in your face.”

“I don’t plan to screw up.”

“Then we shouldn’t have a problem.”

The usual hubbub of ringing telephones, raised voices, rattling coffee cups and clicking computer keys restarted when Carrie settled at her desk. She kept Linc in her sights as he headed across the squad room. His sure, determined walk sent the message he was a man who possessed total confidence in himself and his abilities. Since she was still puzzling over her own reaction to him, she could attest to the power of his physical presence.

Taking a deep breath, she shifted her thoughts to another aspect of the man. Other officers had told her that in a pinch, he was fearless, the type of partner they wanted next to them when there was trouble. It was rumored Reilly could be as ruthless as the dopers, robbers, gang members and killers who had it in for the cops.

Nothing wrong with that, Carrie conceded. Sometimes a cop survived solely because he was as hazardous as the scum with whom he dealt. Problems surfaced when that ferocity pushed a cop to dole out his own form of justice. Became a self-appointed death squad. An avenger.

Had the vicious murder of his wife transformed Reilly into one of those cops? Had the pain and trauma—and no doubt, the guilt—he had suffered transformed him into a rogue who had become judge, jury and executioner?

Before leaving the SEU, Carrie would know the answers to those questions.

Chapter 2

Linc had decided to bring Carrie McCall up to speed in the drab, windowless interview room that jutted off the main squad room. With various printouts, photographs, rap sheets, mug shots and the detailed plan he’d drawn up for the operation at The Hideaway, they had a mountain of paperwork to go over. The scarred table in the room’s center was big enough to spread out everything. What he hadn’t factored into the equation was that the interview room was small enough to take on an intimate edge when he enclosed himself there with a woman who wore a kick-a-man-in-the-gut perfume.

What the hell had he been thinking? he silently berated himself while watching her leaf through surveillance photos. Her gaze was intense, her demeanor serious as she examined the pictures of people and vehicles that had shown up in The Hideaway’s parking lot over the past nights. Just because she was all business didn’t change the fact she looked like a million dollars, with her perfect face and that mass of coppery hair that slid with each subtle movement past her shoulders to her breasts.

A cool, composed, sexy million dollars.

He averted his gaze to one of the bare walls, painted an institutional green. It annoyed him that just by sitting across a table from him she could deflect his attention from the case that should have his total concentration.

“From the outside, The Hideaway looks like a good-size place,” she commented while shuffling the photos.

He felt an additional twist of irritation when it took his thoughts a second to click off her and on to business. In the two years since Kim’s death, he had barely noticed any woman, much less had one seemingly take over his mind.

In a flash of intuition, he knew that no matter how his new partner handled this assignment, even if she made no mistakes, she was going to give him a great deal of trouble.

The sort of trouble he didn’t want or need.

“The Hideaway was once a farmhouse that’s been enlarged,” he said finally. “There’s a main bar room for drinking and dancing. Another for playing pool, with a handful of smaller rooms jutting off it. I’ve got a layout of the interior which we’ll go over.”

“I never heard about this place while working patrol.” She glanced up from the photos, her blue eyes intense. “I rode one of the far northwest districts and The Hideaway is way southeast, so that’s probably why. How long has it been in operation?”

“Long enough for people who live in the area to complain about the drunk and speeding drivers, loud music and everything else that goes along with a place like that.”

“Why not put a couple of traffic units out there to pull over the customers after they drive off? Cite the bar owner for noise violations? Things like that.”

“We did. Then one day a thirteen-year-old boy took a detour by The Hideaway and found skin magazines in the Dumpster.”

“Thirteen years old?” Carrie angled her chin. “Don’t tell me that young man complained about the content of the magazines.”

“Actually, he believed he’d struck gold, until his mother found them under his mattress. She confronted the kid and he ’fessed up to where he’d found the stuff. She called the mayor’s office, threatening fire and brimstone if the city allowed—and I quote—that ‘den of sin’ to continue operating. The mayor’s up for re-election and the woman promised to get her church’s congregation to campaign against him if he didn’t take action. The mayor called the chief and ordered him to do whatever it takes to shut down The Hideaway.”

“Do we have any idea what all is going on there?”

“Gambling, illegal liquor distribution, live sex acts.”

“Sounds like quite the party place.”

“An understatement. About the same time the irate woman called the mayor, one of my snitches gave me a tip about the activity going on there. I sent a report to Quintana.” Linc kept his expression neutral. He had no intention of telling his new partner about the covert role he’d played in engineering this assignment. He had finally caught the scent of his wife’s killer, and it led to The Hideaway. “When the order to shut down the bar came from the chief, Quintana assigned the case to me since I already knew about the place.”

“So, how do you have this operation set up?”

“Quintana and I agreed that if a couple of guys went in to scope out The Hideaway, they’d get viewed as either holdup men or cops. Either way, all criminal activity would stop while the unknowns were there. That happened, we’d have nothing to make arrests on.”

“And the mayor gets real unhappy.”

“Exactly. On the other hand, a man and woman go in and cozy up to each other, they’re viewed as married, or maybe just messing around. Takes the heat off.”

“Makes sense,” she said, looking back at the photos. “From the dress of people, I’d guess the place gets a mix of clientele. Some cowboy wannabes, construction worker types. Blue-collar guys. And pickup trucks are the vehicle of choice for the majority.”

“Right on all points.” Linc gestured toward the stack of criminal history sheets the Records Bureau had compiled from his list. “Over thirty percent of the people who own those pickups have felony convictions. A couple of robberies. Assaults. Burglaries. Indecent exposure. Like you said, a real mix.”

Carrie nodded. “So, the dress of the day for us is jeans and boots.”

Linc took in her stylish sea-foam-green sweater, the trendy gold chain looped at her neck, the matching earrings. If she even owned a pair of jeans, they probably had some designer logo stitched on the butt. “The right kind of jeans and boots, McCall. The basic rule of appearance in any undercover operation is look like what you’re supposed to be, not what some movie or TV show tells you undercover cops look like.”

Crossing her forearms on the table, she leaned in. “You tell me what you want me to be, Reilly. That’s what you’ll get.”

What he wanted her to be was gone. To take her hot, steamy scent and that husky, just-had-sex voice and get the hell away from him. He knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“You can’t walk in there looking like some fashion plate,” he said, aware that his voice had taken on an edge. “What you need to be specifically is something you and I have to talk about. Since we don’t know each other and have no idea of each other’s interests, the way for us to play this is as a couple who’s been out on a few dates. That way it’ll ring true if we know only surface details about each other. We’ll say we’re both new in town, met a few days ago in a checkout line at Wal-Mart.”

“Do we have jobs yet?”

“I don’t. When I was in college, I spent summers working as a roofer, so I know the lingo. My story is that I’m looking for a roofing job. It’s November, so those are scarce. No one’s going to question why I haven’t found work.”

“What about me?”

“What about you, McCall? Your family has cops out the wazoo.” Since that morning, he’d found out her grandfather and father were retired OCPD. She not only had two sisters on the force, but three brothers. It turned out that Linc had gone through recruit school with Bran McCall. “Do you have any job experience other than wearing a badge?”

“My mother owns a landscape nursery. Growing up, I worked there weekends and summers. I can talk plants, flowers and sod with an expert and not get tripped up.”

Linc gave her a thin smile. “That how you know about… What the hell is that stuff you told me to put in my coffee?”

“Stevia.” Shaking her hair back, she sent him a smug smile. “A perennial shrub of the aster family. Asteraceae, to be exact. It tastes sweet, but has no calories.”

“You’ll impress all the beer guzzlers at The Hideaway with that kind of information.”

She slid him a look from beneath her lashes. “I don’t expect my goal is to dazzle anyone with my mental capabilities.”

Not when she could walk into a room and have every man around instantly fantasizing about getting her underneath him.

“You’re right,” Linc conceded. “Still, knowing as much as you do about the nursery business is a good cover in case you run into some expert on petunias.”

“Do I have a job here?”

“Do most garden centers hire during this time of year?”

“No. They operate with a skeleton crew.”

“Then you haven’t snagged a job, either. That tightens our cover. We’re unemployed, but still have money to party every night. We drive nice cars, which we’ll borrow from the department’s asset forfeiture inventory. All that gives the impression we’re not above doing something against the law to get our funds. And to spend them on illegal activities.”

“Like maybe you paying to engage in a ‘live’ sex act with one of The Hideaway’s working girls?”

“Like that.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is another advantage to my going in with a female partner. I’ll sure as hell let any of the working girls proposition me. Name their price. That’ll get them busted during the raid. Since I’ve got you with me, I’ll decline all offers. Don’t want to mess up my deal with you by having a roll with some other woman.”

“Where have you been all my life, Reilly?” she asked dryly. “My heart’s all aflutter, knowing my boyfriend is so devoted.”

“Lover, McCall. I’m going in as your lover, and you mine. That means we do a lot of hand holding. Touching. Dancing. You think you can do a convincing acting job?”

“Like I told you, I’ll be exactly what you want me to be.” She pursed her glossed lips. “Our deep commitment to each other clearly means I have to turn down any men who come on to me.”

“That’s the idea.” Testing her, Linc leaned in. “With your looks, you’ll get offers that involve a hell of a lot more than a lip-lock session in the back seat of a patrol car.”

Irritation flicked in her eyes. “No lip-lock session took place. That rookie’s idiot wife got jealous and couldn’t handle him riding with a female partner. It’s my bad luck she took her fictional story to the chief. Who then gave my lieutenant orders to separate me from the idiot’s husband. The next day, I was transferred out.”

That McCall didn’t hesitate to defend herself pleased Linc. In undercover work, an easygoing personality that was sometimes punctuated by a strong showing of a refusal to let oneself get run over could be very effective.

“Let’s get back to that flood of offers you’ll receive,” he began. “When a guy comes on to you, lays a hand on you, tell him I’ve got a hair-trigger temper. Make sure he knows if anybody touches my woman, I believe in big-time payback.”

“So, do you have a hair-trigger temper? Believe in big-time payback if someone messes with your woman?”

For some reason, Linc sensed the question was just as loaded as the Glock holstered at his waist. “Doesn’t matter. As long as people at The Hideaway believe I do.”

“Well, lover boy,” Carrie cooed in a husky voice that slid over his senses. “I’ll try not to rile you up. I wouldn’t want to find out about your temper firsthand.”

“That’s wise, sweet thing.” Linc was fast becoming aware that Carrie McCall could stir him up just by being in the same room. “While we’re on the subject of getting riled, is there a man who’ll have a problem with your spending the next handful of nights with me?”

“No.”

“How about some hulking cop who’ll thump me with a sap just for dancing with you?”

“You don’t have to worry, Reilly. I have this ironclad rule about not getting involved with other cops.”

“Guess that rookie’s wife didn’t know about your rule.”

“Guess not. Your questions work both ways. Is there someone who’ll have a problem when you cozy up to me at The Hideaway?”

Linc looked down at the reports spread on the table while emotion scraped at him. At one point he’d had a life outside the job. A woman he couldn’t wait to go home to. He would forever carry her blood on his hands.

“There’s no one.” He looked up in time to see compassion flash in Carrie’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I know what happened to your wife.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought there might be someone…recent.”

“No.” He never again wanted a real life. He had his job, a safe place in which he hid his grief in the ruts of routine.

“Okay.” Easing out a breath, Carrie looked back at the stack of photos in front of her. “So, our undercover personas are new to Oklahoma City. How’d we wind up at The Hideaway?”

His new partner asked good questions, Linc thought. When you worked undercover, you needed a believable reason to be wherever you showed up. You could die if you didn’t have one.

“There’s a dive motel about a mile south of there,” he said. “The Drop Inn. After I snagged this assignment, I rented a room on a weekly basis. I told the clerk I was new in town and asked where I could get some booze, food and action. He told me about The Hideaway.”

“Are you staying there during the operation?”

“Off and on, in case someone decides to check on me. When I don’t stay there, it’ll look like I went home with you. It will help our cover if you’re seen at the Drop Inn with me. We can go into the office and I’ll ask the clerk some question. We’ll want him—and anyone else watching—to see you go into my room. We’ll stay a while, leave the bed looking like we really are lovers.”

“When do we start?”

“Tomorrow night. Does that give you time to get whatever clothes you’ll need?”

“You think I work at my Mom’s nursery in designer jeans? Think again, Reilly. I dig in the dirt, haul bags of manure and peat moss. I’ve got plenty of appropriate clothes.” Leaning back, she steepled her fingers. “Of course, if our undercover personas are engaging in illegal activities, we’d have money for nicer clothes. I’ll have to think about my wardrobe. Maybe wear quality stuff I could have bought in a consignment shop.”

When he remained silent, she asked, “Am I off base on the clothes deal?”

“No, you made a good point.” He angled his chin. “I’m trying to picture you wielding a shovel. Hoisting bags of manure. The image won’t gel.”

“Proves you don’t know anything about me.”

“That’s a fact.” He didn’t want to, either. Unfortunately, this assignment required him to get to know her.

Just then the door swung open. Linc’s shoulders tensed instinctively when Don Gaines stepped in.

The detective’s dark, deep-set eyes flicked from Carrie to Linc, then back to Carrie. “You’d be Carrie McCall.” Stepping to the table, he offered his hand. “I’m Don Gaines. I was out of the squad room when you got introduced around.”

Carrie offered a smile and her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Gaines looked back at Linc, handed him a message slip. “I took a call from a detective in Tulsa. He wants to talk to you about a homicide they had over the weekend.”

Linc bit back a curse when he read the victim’s name. Arlee Dell had a mountain of priors by the time his name came up as a suspect in a series of home invasions Linc investigated. He’d pulled Dell in a couple of months ago, but could never prove his connection with the crimes, so he’d walked. Linc suspected Dell pulled another invasion two weeks ago where an elderly couple had been tied up, tortured and strangled.

Linc met Gaines’s gaze. “Thanks, I’ll give the cop a call.”

“He said Dell was shot,” Gaines added. “Twice in the heart, once in the head.”

Linc tightened his jaw. The man who had once been his closest friend was a good, thorough cop. Had Gaines also picked up on the fact that over the past year and a half a number of scum handled by SEU cops had wound up shot in the head? If so, Gaines would know Dell was victim number seven.

A knot settled in Linc’s gut as his mind worked. In college, Gaines had been crazy about Kim; though she’d chosen Linc over him, his feelings for her had never cooled. Gaines blamed Linc for Kim’s death. He would like nothing better than to see Linc pay for what had happened to her. Was that why Gaines had gone out of his way to deliver the phone message? Linc wondered. Because he wanted Linc to know he’d connected the killings that had commenced one month after Kim’s body had been found tossed in a ditch?

While his mind continued its systematic, methodical analysis, Linc felt a cold realization settle inside him. Suspicion. As a cop, he lived with it, always casting as wide a net as possible, encompassing every possibility, distasteful or not. Which was why he now found himself wondering if the deep loathing Gaines felt for him had, over time, taken on an intensity so dark that Linc had failed to see it. Was Gaines so obsessed with making Linc pay for Kim’s death that Gaines had decided to make him a mark for the murders?

After all, Kim’s killer had never been found. The bastard had escaped justice, just as the now-dead seven other maggots had. It was possible a grieving husband might begin a killing spree to avenge his wife. If that husband were a cop, he would know how to get away with those murders. The last of which occurred during the past weekend. Somewhere in Tulsa. Linc had spent the weekend with Kim’s family in Claremore, a twenty-minute drive from Tulsa.

Linc’s sense of unease gathered strength when he remembered sitting at his desk last Friday, telling Tom Nelson his weekend plans. Gaines could have overheard the conversation. He knew where Kim’s parents lived.

Linc lifted his eyes from the message slip. He could read nothing in Gaines’s face. Linc couldn’t afford to trust, to discount, to filter possibilities through a screen of denial the way most people did. He’d learned a long time ago that the simple truth of the world was that people, even otherwise decent people, regularly did rotten things to others. Now, Linc needed to figure out a way to find out if Gaines had allowed himself to step over the line. If he’d become one of the people they had both spent their lives pursuing. If his bitterness over losing Kim to the man who he blamed for her torturous murder burned so hot he would commit seven homicides with the intention of pinning them on his former friend.

Gaines nodded to Carrie. “Hope to work with you soon.”

“Same here.”

Gaines flicked Linc a look before walking out.

“That homicide sounds serious,” Carrie commented.

Linc’s shoulders felt like high-tension wire, and a stone had lodged in his chest. “Isn’t every homicide?”

“Real serious. If the head shot came after the victim was already dead, doesn’t that sound like the work of a pro?”

McCall might be his new partner, but she was an outsider. Linc had no intention of discussing this with her. What he did plan to do was find out what the hell was going on. And who was behind it. And if he was some bastard’s intended patsy.

A sick, seething anger swirled in his gut.

“Work of a pro,” he repeated, a slash of the anger sounding in his voice. “You gain that expertise watching Mafia movies?”

Her eyes went as cold as winter. “I’m not some green rookie, so spare me the attitude. I’ve snagged calls to enough homicide crime scenes to know how to spot the work of a pro.”

“Maybe you should have transferred to Homicide.”

“No.” Now her eyes were as deep and dark and potent as her voice. “I’m right where I should be.”

“I need to return this call, then go by Quintana’s office.”

“Fine.”

Rising, Linc scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but he now felt its dark, menacing presence aimed directly at him. His new partner, however, wasn’t to blame for whatever problems he had, he reminded himself.

“Sorry about the attitude, McCall. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No problem.” She shrugged. “I’ve got a tough hide.”

He skimmed his gaze down her face, her throat, elegant and thin. Her hide didn’t look so tough to him, he thought as he headed out the door. It looked like cool, creamy silk.

Two hours later Carrie had a headache that was almost off the chart. She knew it was partly due to the stacks of printouts, mug shots and reports piled on the table in front of her. Her brain had simply overloaded on the names and images of people who frequented The Hideaway. Then there was the stress that came from spending time in close proximity to the man presently seated across the table.

She cast him a quick glance. Linc sat in silence, studying a report, his jaw set, the look in those intriguing golden eyes disturbingly detached.

After returning, he had not alluded to what the Tulsa detective told him about the homicide. Nor mentioned why he’d swung by Quintana’s office after that. Carrie hadn’t asked. Couldn’t ask. The last thing she dared do was show too much interest in what might be another killing of a do-wrong whom an SEU cop had handled. Linc specifically.

Just then he laid the report aside and met her gaze. She sought out the man behind those dark eyes, eager to determine his level of involvement in the murders, but saw nothing revealed.

“We’ve put in a full day,” he said. “Let’s meet here tomorrow afternoon and review things. After that, we make our first visit to The Hideaway.”

“Sounds good.” Before she could rise, he placed a hand over her wrist.

“Sorry about that spurt of attitude earlier.”

Carrie stared at his strong, firm hand while ordering herself to ignore her jittery stomach. “You already apologized.”

“So I did. See you tomorrow.”

The November sky hung like a curtain of gray velvet as Carrie made her way to the parking lot where the biting wind swirled paper and leaves into small cyclones. Her teeth chattering from the cold, she steered her sporty little lipstick-red MG out of the lot, drove five blocks, then stopped at a pay phone.

At home she downed extra-strength aspirin, showered, ate dinner, then climbed back into the MG and headed to Penn Square Mall. The digital clock on the dash glowed an eerie green eight when she pulled behind a black van that sat idling in the lot’s shadowy perimeter.

She shoved open the door and stepped out into wind so cold it felt like a razor slashing against her face. The van’s passenger door swung open just as she reached it.

“Slide in here, Sergeant, before you catch your death.”

Shadow obscured the face of the woman sitting in the driver’s seat. From their previous meetings, Carrie knew Captain Patricia Scott habitually wore her salt-and-pepper hair twisted into a severe topknot. She had a strong, intelligent face with a network of lines pulling at the flesh around her eyes. Scott had been a cop for twenty-five years, the last three spent as commander over the OCPD’s Internal Affairs Division.

“So, McCall, how’d your first day in the SEU go?”

Carrie lifted a shoulder, the gesture masked beneath her thick sweater and heavy coat. “I’m there under false pretenses, investigating another cop…”

“No one said it would be easy.”

Carrie stared out the windshield at the sea of cars parked beneath the mall’s security lights. Working Internal Affairs was not an assignment she would have picked. It had been thrust on her when the rookie’s wife made her accusations about Carrie and her husband to the chief. At the same time, IA had needed a female cop to go undercover. The rat squad had been a convenient place for Carrie to get transferred.

“We went over this, McCall,” Scott continued. “If a cop turns vigilante and starts killing people, we have to stop him.”

Nodding, Carrie remet the captain’s gaze. “Did you have time to find out about the Tulsa homicide after I called?”

Scott plucked a file from between the bucket seats. “All I had to do was mention the specifics of the shooting—two shots to the heart, one to the head, and they knew what homicide I was calling about. Arlee Dell is the victim’s name.”

“Does his murder match the others?”

“Yes. Dell has a rap sheet thick enough to use as a booster seat for a kid. Priors for seven felony convictions, including rape, attempted rape, assault and stalking.”

“Nice guy. What’s his connection to Linc Reilly?”

“He hauled Dell in for questioning about home invasions, but didn’t have enough evidence to hold him. A similar invasion occurred two weeks ago where an elderly couple was tortured and strangled. Dell is—was—Reilly’s prime suspect.”

“Sounds like Dell’s life’s work was harming people.”

Scott gazed at Carrie through the inky shadows. “Dell is the seventh person to die over the past year and a half who’s been handled by an SEU detective. This isn’t a coincidence. The shootings are too efficient. Never any witnesses. No collateral damage. Never any cops close by—at one incident, patrol units were decoyed away from the area by a bogus call to 911. Clearly, the shooter preplans his getaways. All that’s left at each scene is a dead scumbag, shot at least once in the head.”

“Scumbags who would continue to pull maybe forty or fifty bad crimes a year,” Carrie added, mentally reviewing the rap sheets in the file IA had given her. “I can’t work up remorse over the Avenger’s choice of victims.”

When Scott tilted her head, a shadow fell across her face like a veil. “The Avenger?”

Carrie nodded. “That’s what I’ve pegged him. Or them. It could be two cops capping the bad guys. A team.”

“Either way, your Avenger handle is a good one,” Scott stated. “McCall, no one expects you to feel remorse over evil people dying. I don’t. It’s how they’re dying that’s the problem. IA’s job is to make sure cops don’t step over the line. If we don’t keep a lid on things, you can bet some citizen board will get formed to do it for us. Most cops prefer IA watching over them than civilians who have no idea what it’s like dealing with human garbage. It’s when a cop breaks the law while dealing with the garbage that we step in. We have to.”

Carrie massaged her right temple. Talking about her covert assignment had stirred her headache back to life. “You’re right. I just don’t like lying about what I’m doing.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to for long. And you’re right—we might have a team of cops doing these hits. But when you run the dead guys against the cops who handled them, Reilly’s name keeps coming up. Too many times for it to be a coincidence. So, right now he’s our focus. What’s your take so far on him?”

He’s dark, moody and sexy as hell. That her physical impression of the man was the first thing to pop into her head had Carrie struggling against a nagging unease. Then there was her over-the-top response to his touch that had alarm bells shrilling in her head.

“Reilly’s thorough,” she began. “He has the undercover op we start tomorrow night totally mapped out. He insisted we go over the concept today at least five times. We’ll do that again tomorrow. I doubt the man leaves anything to chance.”

“Neither does the Avenger,” Scott murmured. “How did he react when Gaines delivered the message about the Tulsa murder?”

Carrie paused, considered things. The instant Gaines walked in, she had felt the weight of tension in the room. She sensed Linc stiffen; Gaines had stood as rigid as a flagpole. Some sort of conflict existed between the men, she was sure. Since she had no idea what had caused it, she decided to keep the observation to herself for the time being.

“Reilly didn’t outwardly react when Gaines told him about the murder,” Carrie responded. “I tried to get him talking about it after Gaines left. He wouldn’t. If Reilly’s the Avenger, he won’t be tripped up. And the last thing he’ll ever do is confess. The only way to nail him is to catch him in the act.”

“That’s why you’re assigned to work with him. Get close to him.”

“I’ll only get so close,” Carrie blurted.

Scott studied her while silence stretched. “If you’re informing me you won’t sleep with Sergeant Reilly, I never intended for you to,” she finally said.

“Just wanted to make that clear.” Carrie pressed her lips together. She knew sleeping with Reilly wasn’t in her job description. So where the hell had her comment come from?

“Glad that’s settled.” Scott opened the armrest between the seats, pulled out a small metal box and handed it to Carrie.

In the weak beam from a far-off light, Carrie saw the brand name of a well-known throat lozenge printed across its top. “You think I have a sore throat?”

Scott smiled. “That’s what someone will think if they spot that in your purse. There’s clay inside to make impressions of keys. You get Reilly’s house key, press both sides of it into the clay.”

Carrie stared at the box. “Once I get the impression, how do I get the key made?”

“Bring the box to me. I know a vice officer who has a connection who will make the key overnight. Discreetly.”

“Are you sure my going into Reilly’s house is legal?”

“This makes it legal,” Scott said, handing her an envelope. “It’s a covert entry warrant for your search. It authorizes you to hunt for certain evidence. If you find anything linking Reilly to the murders, photograph it, then leave. Write a report detailing what you saw and where it’s located.”

“What about notice? Doesn’t Reilly have to be notified that a search has occurred?”

“For this type of warrant, the courts have a procedure for delaying notification up to seven days after the search.”

Carrie closed her eyes. “I don’t like the idea of going into another cop’s house. What if Reilly isn’t the Avenger?”

“What if he is? At some point an innocent person is going to get hurt. We’ve got to find the Avenger, McCall. If it isn’t Reilly, fine, but we have to know.”

Carrie’s cop brain told her what she was doing was right. Still, in her heart she felt a tug of guilt, a ripple of unease.

“Reilly’s house is alarmed,” Scott continued. “We could send in a guy to disable it and do the search, but there’s a chance Reilly has some fail-safe measure to alert him if someone screws with the system. Plus, he lives in an older housing addition so neighbors are home during the day. Some guy messing around outside the house will get noticed.”

“I can’t exactly ask Reilly his alarm code.”

“True.” Scott reached into the pocket of her coat. “If you wind up at his place and he has to enter the alarm code, use this.”

Carrie studied the small recorder Scott handed her. “How do I get his code with a tape recorder?”

“That’s a high-power recorder. Keep it in your pocket and activate it when Reilly enters his alarm code. The recorder will pick up the tones. One of the department’s tech guru’s will translate the beeps into the code.”

“Slick,” Carrie murmured.

“Once you have the key and the code, you drop by Reilly’s house when you know he’s tied up somewhere else. If you find anything that connects him to these homicides, we take him down. End of story.”

“Just like that.”

A few moments later Carrie slid back into her MG. She started the engine, let it idle while the taillights of Scott’s black van disappeared into the night.

Instead of driving away, Carrie shifted her thoughts back to that afternoon. She wished she hadn’t seen the flash of grief in Linc’s eyes when she mentioned his wife. The man who had kidnapped her, then raped her over a span of days before killing her was still free. A man who was as evil as seven others who no longer presented a threat to innocent citizens.

Carrie figured half the people in the city would cheer the Avenger if they knew he had prevented hundreds of violent crimes. Saved the lives of uncountable decent people. Hell, a part of her cheered him!

She clenched her gloved fingers around the steering wheel. No, she thought. She carried a badge, she wasn’t allowed to think like that. Murder was murder.

She’d been ordered to take down a killer. That’s what she intended to do. If Linc Reilly was that killer, so be it.

Chapter 3

The following evening, Linc watched his new partner slide into the passenger seat of the hunter-green SUV he’d checked out from OCPD’s asset forfeiture inventory. Firing up the engine, he noted with relief she’d forgone her come-and-get-me perfume for their first visit to The Hideaway. All he could smell on the crisp November air was the aroma of soap and skin.

A half hour later, he decided the warm, natural scent of woman that slid around him—into him—was far more enticing than anything bottled. Damn near erotic, he amended as he whipped the SUV into The Hideaway’s parking lot, gravel crunching beneath its wheels.

“What is it about macho guys and pickup trucks?” Carrie asked while scanning the vehicles crowding the lot. “Clue me in, Reilly. Do guys believe that driving a pickup enhances testosterone production?”

Linc took a measured breath, which failed dismally at easing the tightness in his gut. “The macho drug dealer who owned this SUV must not have thought so.” He killed the powerful engine, then gazed out the windshield through the frozen twilight. In the yellowish glow of the sodium-vapor lights that illuminated the lot, he counted about ten pickup trucks to every car. “Neither do I,” he added. “My personal vehicle is a Cadillac Allanté.”

“Cops don’t count,” she said, flicking down her visor and popping open the cover of the vanity mirror. She fluffed her dense, wild hair, the mirror’s bright light enhancing the gold and fiery-red accents. Studying her, Linc noted she’d used a heavy hand tonight when applying her makeup. Instead of giving her a cheap look, however, the smoky eyeshadow, dark liner and emergency-exit-red lipstick enhanced the smoldering, alluring mystique she must have been born with.

He scowled, annoyed he felt a glimmer of curiosity over her last comment. “Why doesn’t the kind of vehicle a cop drives count?”

“They’re armed. On the macho scale, a cop packing a gun is equal to some redneck civilian driving a pickup truck.”

“McCall, that has got to be the biggest pile of…”

Linc let his voice trail off when a going-to-rust blue Chevy rumbled into the slot on the SUV’s passenger side. Seconds later a burly man with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail climbed out of the Chevy. Shoulders hunkered beneath his denim jacket against the cold, he lumbered toward the bar’s entrance.

“Recognize him from the mug shots you studied?” he asked.

“Howard Klinger. a.k.a. Howie Kling.” Carrie snapped off the mirror. “He has priors for larceny. Was once nabbed on a residential burglary charge, which got reduced to possession of stolen property.”

“Good memory, McCall.”

“Comes from all those years riding patrol. You have to keep track of the baddies and what they’re up to.”

“Yeah.” Linc also possessed a cop’s honed memory. One that enabled him to picture in detail the portion of a snake tattoo captured two years ago on a grainy surveillance tape. He was haunted by the possibility that the tattoo had been one of the last things his wife had seen. Most nights he jerked awake in a cold sweat, half expecting to see the dark, slippery tail of the snake slithering beneath the closet door. Recently, a snitch had seen a pool player at The Hideaway with a similar tattoo. If Linc didn’t spot Kim’s killer on this visit, the assignment he’d engineered for himself gave him the luxury of spending as many nights at the bar as necessary until the bastard showed.

“Where’d you go, Reilly?”

He slicked his gaze across the SUV’s front seat. Carrie sat unmoving, studying him with the open scrutiny of a cop.

“Just running over the details of this assignment one last time,” he stated. “Ready to get started?”

“Ready.” Leaning, she nudged her purse under the seat. “So I don’t have to keep track of it all night,” she explained.

“Where’s your gun?”

“Inside my left boot.”

He looked down, saw she had on black leather boots with low, spiky heels. “No cowboy boots for you, McCall?”

“I put a lot of thought into image, and decided to go with my own unique look. Since our undercover personas have money to burn and no jobs, I opted for a mix. Jeans and silk. Toss in a little faux fur.” She shook back her hair. “What’s the verdict, Reilly? Like the combination?”

His gaze moved down her short, mink-look fur jacket to the black jeans that molded her trim butt and slim legs. “The look works for me,” he answered calmly, even as his blood stirred. “What are you packing in your boot?”

“A .25 baby Browning. How about you?”

He shifted his left leg, felt the reassuring hardness of the automatic secured in the leather insert he’d had sewn inside the top of his left boot. “Brought my .380 Sig. Let’s go.”

What had been on Reilly’s mind? Carrie mused as she slid out of the SUV into the dark, cold air. She doubted it had been their assignment as he’d claimed. She could think of nothing about a covert bar investigation that would set his mouth in such a grim line and transform those yellow-gold eyes into hard, cold chunks of amber.

Her thoughts scattered the instant Linc settled an arm around her waist and nudged her against his side. When her shoulders did an instinctive jerk, he glanced down.

“We’re hot for each other, remember?” he asked while bass rhythm coming from the bar thumped on the night air.

“Right.”

His arm tightened on her waist. “You need to get used to this.”

“No problem.” Despite the layers of clothing they both wore, she was aware of the strength in his arm, of the hardness of his thigh against her hip. The faint, spicy fragrance of his aftershave made her insides clench. She gave silent thanks he didn’t know about the little flips going on in her stomach.

Flips that had no business being there, she told herself. It wasn’t like he was someone she could consider jumping into a relationship with. The man had maybe murdered seven people. Even if he turned out to be as innocent as a virgin, he was a co-worker. Her partner. She’d learned the hard way the pitfalls of getting romantically involved with another cop.

She swallowed around a knot of tension as she and Linc crunched their way across gravel through the sea of vehicles. To get her mind off her flipping stomach, she focused on the structure coming into view.

Linc had mentioned The Hideaway’s management had set up shop in a vacant farmhouse. The place hadn’t totally lost the look, Carrie judged when they advanced up the steep steps leading to an old-fashioned wraparound porch. She checked both ends, half expecting to see a wooden swing hanging from ceiling hooks.

“Want to bet about a zillion drunks have toppled down those narrow steps?” Linc asked.

“I’ll pass.” The weathered boards beneath her feet vibrated with music. “You’d rake in all the chips on that one.”

“I know.” Grinning, he raised a shoulder beneath his scarred bomber jacket. “I only wager on sure things.”

A red glow from the neon beer signs hanging in the front windows angled across his face, highlighting day-old stubble. In the crimson light he looked sexy, rugged and a little ruthless.

The flips in Carrie’s stomach transformed into somersaults. Why did the cop she’d been ordered to investigate have to be the type of man who lured her like a moth to a blowtorch?

When Linc pulled the door open, a wall of sound and a cloud of smoke hit them. “After you,” he said over the noise.

Inside, a bouncer with huge biceps looked them up and down. A red bandana topped his shoulder-length blond hair; he wore black pants and a sweatshirt with the sleeves razored off. Carrie pictured him lying on a weight bench, straining beneath a barbell loaded with iron plates the size of tractor tires.

“No cover charge for chicks,” the bouncer said over the racket of pool games, loud talk and a country tune crooning from the jukebox. He nodded toward Linc. “Men pay twenty bucks.”

“Sure thing.” Linc tugged the department-supplied flash roll from the front pocket of his snug Levi’s.

Stepping away, Carrie slid off the faux-mink jacket she’d picked up that morning in a trendy consignment shop. Through the smoke-laden air she noted the glint in the bouncer’s eyes when Linc peeled a twenty off the thick layer of bills.

“You charge all male customers to get in?” Linc asked.

“Not the regulars.”

“How many visits do I have to make before I’m a regular?”

The bouncer’s mouth curved, more sneer than smile. “I’ll let you know.”

“First rip-off of the night,” Linc murmured when he joined Carrie.

“Get the feeling the Incredible Hulk runs the complaint department?” she asked. “Grouse about something, and see how fast he pounds you into dust.”

“I’ll try to avoid that.” Wrapping his hand around hers, Linc threaded a path for them through a maze of occupied tables.

His touch reactivated the somersaults in her stomach. Get real, McCall, she told herself, and shifted her attention to her surroundings.

As Linc’s sketch had shown, the long, polished bar spanned one entire wall, booths another. Tables filled the rest of the main room, surrounding a spacious dance floor, presently packed with couples waltzing to the country tune oozing from the jukebox. Through an archway Carrie glimpsed several pool tables, each with a rectangular light fixture suspended above it. Beyond the pool tables was a wall dotted with closed doors. Linc’s snitch had said those were the small rooms where The Hideaway’s working girls entertained clients.

Just as they reached the far end of the crowded bar, two men slid off their stools and tossed bills beside their empty glasses. Carrie draped her jacket across the back of one stool while Linc did the same to the one beside it. The location afforded them a view of both rooms. She noted Linc doing a slow survey of the men gathered around each pool table.

“What’llitbe?” The bartender wearing a T-shirt with a beer company logo barely glanced at them while he filled a pitcher from a beer tap. A jagged scar ran through his lower lip halfway to the tip of his stubbled jaw.

Looking back, Linc settled his hand on Carrie’s thigh. “Want your usual?”

She could swear she felt the heat of each of his fingers seep through her jeans. “Not when the evening’s still young.” Even to her own ears her voice sounded low and throaty. “I’ll start with something tame.”

Linc tucked a finger under her chin and gave her a slow smile that had her throat clicking shut. “Babe, so far I haven’t found one tame thing about you.”

While Carrie struggled to breathe, he ordered a diet soda and a beer. It’s an act, she reminded herself.

When the bartender placed their orders in front of them, Linc peeled a twenty off the roll of bills and tossed it onto the bar. “Keep the change,” he said.

“Thanks.” Interested now, the man slicked them another look. “New in town?”

“I just moved here last week,” Linc said, and dipped his head toward Carrie. “Same goes for her. I’m staying at the Drop Inn. The night clerk said I’d find good food here.”

“Hamburgers are great. The five-alarm chili will set you on fire.”

“And some action.”

The bartender grabbed a whiskey bottle from in front of the dingy mirror that ran the length of the bar. “What sort?”

Smiling, Carrie leaned in. “What’s your name, handsome?” She already knew the answer. The jagged scar on his lower lip had still been raw in the mug shot she’d studied.

“Zack.” He filled one glass with whiskey, then another.

Aitken. She mentally added his last name while reviewing the misdemeanor gambling arrests on his record. “Well, Zack, I’m Carrie. My friend, Linc, and I are looking for all sorts of action.” She gave him a wink. “What do you recommend?”

Zack glanced toward the opposite end of the bar where customers were feeding coins into several tabletop video games. “We’ve got video poker. Pool. And lots of friendly folks.”

Linc sipped his beer. “If I want to play video games, I’ll go to an arcade.”

Zack gave them another once-over. Carrie knew she and Linc wouldn’t get an invitation to participate in illegal activities until they’d been checked out. She’d wager the Drop Inn’s night clerk would soon receive a call about Linc.

“You folks keep dropping by,” the bartender said. “You might find more interesting stuff to do down the line.”

“Fair enough,” Linc said, then turned to Carrie. “Want to play pool?”

“You go ahead.” Their plan was to split up part of the time during each visit and try to spot as much illegal activity as possible. “I’ll try the video poker Zack suggested,” she added. By law, Oklahoma did not allow games of chance that paid off in cash winnings. Gaming machines were legal only if the players racked up points that netted additional free games. Raising a shoulder, she glanced at the dance floor. “If I get bored with poker, I bet I can find some cowboy to give me a whirl.”

Easing in, Linc curled a hand around the side of her throat while his eyes locked with hers. “When you find that cowboy, babe, make damn sure he understands you’re mine.”

Her mouth went dry while arousal twined through her belly. The spicy scent of his aftershave was like a drug pumping into her system, spiking her pulse. For a mindless instant she wondered what it would be like to have his hands slicking over her bare flesh, to feel those perfect, white teeth scraping down her throat.

Her throat in which her pulse currently thrummed against his palm. The knowledge he could feel her response to him snapped sanity back into place. What was she doing? What in heaven’s name was she doing? She was a cop, on the job. He was her job.

With an alarm blaring in her head, her instinct was to jerk away from his touch, his scent. Since doing so might blow their cover, she eased back until his hand slid from her throat.

Linc said nothing, only watched her with his fascinating gold-brown eyes that had desire thickening around her like a spider’s web.

Carrie forced both a smile and an evenness into her voice. “I just had a thought.”

“What?”

“I’ll want to freshen up after I dance.” She held out her hand. “Why don’t you give me the key to the SUV so I can get my purse?”

“I’ll get it for you.”

“Sugar, I don’t want to have to keep track of it now,” she countered, keeping her hand out. “I’ll just slip outside when I’m ready.”

He pulled his jacket off the back of the stool, dug in the pocket for the key. “If you’re sure,” he said, dropping it into her palm.

“I’m sure.” She wrapped her fingers around the key. The ring held only the key to the vehicle, but she had seen Linc toss the key ring he usually carried into the glove box. That ring surely held his house key. Once he was immersed in his pool game, she would slip outside and make a clay impression.

He rose off the stool. “See you, babe.”

“Count on it, sugar.”

“Wanna ’nother game?” the heavyset biker with a Fu Manchu mustache asked while handing Linc a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

“Some other night,” Linc said over the sound of billiard balls smacking together. He had spent the past hour playing pool while covertly checking men’s hairy forearms. He’d seen an uncountable number of tattoos, but none that resembled the coiled tail of a snake. His two-year search for Kim’s killer had led him to The Hideaway, but he’d known it would have been too much to ask to spot the bastard his first night there.

After replacing his cue in the holder bracketed to the wall, he snagged the beer he’d been nursing and strode toward the archway. He was vaguely surprised at the impatience burning through him. He’d always possessed the patience of a hunter, capable of hunkering down and waiting as long as it took to get what he wanted. That was one reason undercover work had been such a natural fit. What had changed? he wondered. Why did he feel a gnawing urgency to get the hell away from this place and not look back?

He paused when he stepped into the main room. The air was gray with cigarette smoke and seemed to shimmer with the music. Narrowing his eyes, he did a slow reconnaissance of the packed dance floor. Seconds later he caught a flash of fiery hair in the pulsating mass of bodies.

Earlier, he’d felt the softness of that auburn mane when he pressed his palm against Carrie’s throat. He’d been tempted to grab a handful of thick, silky fire, tug her chin back…

Then do what? he asked himself. See what it took to get her pulse beating harder than it already had been? He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. The spike in her heartbeat didn’t necessarily mean she felt an attraction to him. This was her first undercover assignment, her nerves had to be working overtime. His weren’t, though. Attraction was exactly what he’d felt with his hand on her throat, his mouth inches from hers while he breathed in the scent of soap and woman.

Dammit! He didn’t welcome the attraction, had no intention of acting on it. He needed to concentrate on finding Kim’s killer. Period. Problem was, he couldn’t get his mind off the possibility his one-time best friend—or maybe someone else—had decided to make him the fall guy for seven murders!

Sipping his beer, Linc scrolled his thoughts back to that afternoon. After calling the Tulsa homicide cop, he had gone to see his boss. He’d laid out everything for Lieutenant Quintana—from the pattern that all seven dead men had SEU files to the fact that he had spent the weekend in close proximity to the Tulsa murder. Grim-faced, Quintana seemed convinced Linc had nothing to do with the killings, and indicated he would start the matter up the chain of command. His boss’s reaction somewhat eased Linc’s mind. Still, he had to keep up his guard in case he’d been targeted for a frame. With so much on his plate, he did not need the added complication of dealing with a new partner. Especially one who made his system churn.

A young cowboy swirled Carrie into view just as the song ended. The noise level dropped so fast it was almost like turning deaf. Linc saw the man whisper something in her ear; Carrie tipped her head back and laughed.

Linc set his beer aside and moved their way, not at all surprised she’d found a dance partner. Reaching her, he slid his arm around her waist, then turned his attention to the cowboy. He was in his early twenties, of medium height, broad shoulders, narrow hips, dressed in jeans and a denim work shirt, its sleeves shoved up on well-developed forearms.

“Time for me to claim my lady,” Linc said, and caught the flash of disappointment in the man’s eyes.

The cowboy shifted his gaze back to Carrie. “It was my pleasure, red.”

“And mine.” She offered her hand. “You take care, West.”

“Will do.” He gave her a smile with a dose of low-voltage charm. “Hope to see you around here again.”

“Count on it.”

Linc watched the cowboy melt into the crowd, then looked at Carrie. She had pulled her hair up with one hand and was fanning her bare neck with the other. The color was high in her cheeks, her hair damp at the temples.

She looked like she’d just engaged in a bout of hot sex and might be willing to jump back into bed for more.

The image had him grinding his teeth. “Looks like that cowboy is a real admirer of yours, red.”

“His name is West Williams,” she said, her voice a low whisper. “I don’t remember seeing information on him in our files. Do you?”

“No. Think he has a record?”

“My instincts tell me he’s a good guy, but I’ll run him.” She settled a hand on his arm. “We should dance. Over by the jukebox. There’s something going on with one of the booths. I can’t figure out what it is.”

“All right.”

The jukebox sparked back to life with a husky-voiced country singer torching a love song. Linc slipped his arms around Carrie, thinking he would have preferred a rowdy tune that required little touching. Trying to ignore the way her body meshed with his, he guided her over the wooden floor with smooth, intricate steps.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said against his ear.

“I figured you were waiting for me to step on your toes.”

She angled her head back to look up at him. Her mouth was red and wet and curved in genuine puzzlement. “What brought that on?”

Without thinking, he tangled his fingers with the tips of her hair. It was a shame, a damn shame, he thought, that she felt so incredibly good in his arms. “Could be the way your nails are digging into my shoulder.”

“Oh.” Her hand flexed open. “Sorry.”

“It’s just a flesh wound.” They reached the side of the dance floor closest to the long row of booths, most of them occupied. Linc bent his head so that his cheek brushed hers, his mouth close to her ear. Heat pulsed off her flesh and he wondered if her skin tasted as creamy as it smelled. “What am I looking for?” he asked.

“Check out the booth in the corner,” she said, swaying with him. “The one with the reserved sign on it.”

The slow song melted away into another with a quicker tempo. Linc splayed his fingers against her back and continued moving in the same steady rhythm while he watched the booth. Minutes later he said, “I’ve seen two men and one woman slide into the booth at separate times. Each sits there for a short time, then leaves.”

Carrie nodded, the light from the jukebox touching her cheek with gold. “While I’ve been dancing, I’ve counted a dozen people do the same thing,” she whispered. “A waitress never comes by to see if they want to order anything.” She shrugged. “Any guess about what’s going on?”

“Not yet.” When the song ended, he drew away, but kept her hand in his. “How about we try out the booth?”

“You’re reading my mind.”

She slid in first, he followed. “It’s too dark to see much,” she said seconds later. Against his side, Linc felt her body shift while she patted her hand against the wall. “All I feel is some sort of padded piece of wood,” she said.

“What size is it?”

“About the dimensions of a chair arm.”

“Does it move?”

“Can’t get it to budge.” Carrie met his gaze. “Those people wouldn’t have sat here and then left without a reason. They had to have picked up something. Or left something. Maybe both. There’s no other explanation.”

“Drugs and cash, maybe.” Linc swept his gaze upward, spotted a camera, its lens aimed at them. “We’re on film,” he said. “Let’s go outside and look at the other side of that wall. Maybe we can spot some sort of sliding panel.”

“Good idea.”

Linc smiled when a rail-thin waitress wearing tight jeans and a white T-shirt scurried toward the booth. “Two beers—”

She cut him off with a shake of her head. “I’ll be happy to serve you at another table.” She patted the small sign at the table’s edge. “This one’s reserved.”

“Sorry,” Linc said, rising. “Didn’t notice.”

“No harm done.” She ran a damp rag over the tabletop. “You folks find another spot and I’ll bring those beers.”

Carrie slid out of the booth. “Listen, sugar, all that dancing just caught up with me. How about passing on those beers and taking me home?”

“Sure, babe.” He slipped the waitress a few dollars, telling her they’d be back the next night.

Minutes later they were outside, following the beam of Linc’s small penlight while they crept toward the rear of The Hideaway.

He didn’t care that the air was as cold as a morgue fridge. In retrospect, it was far preferable to the heat that had surged through him while Carrie swayed in his arms. If he hadn’t felt a gnawing curiosity about what the deal was with the back booth, he would have made up some excuse to halt their dancing a lot sooner.

As it was, he planned to take a long, cold shower when he got to his room at the Drop Inn.

“See anything?” His words were almost soundless as he swept the penlight’s beam over the rear corner of the building.

“Nothing.” Carrie’s breath made tiny puffs of steam on the cold air. Narrowing her eyes, she stepped in for a closer look.

Holding the beam steady, Linc glanced sideways. Bare bulbs dangling from ancient fixtures affixed to the roof’s eaves illuminated the rear of the old house. The bulbs tossed shadows in every direction along the graveled access that ran the length of the structure. A few feet from where he and Carrie stood was a back door and wooden porch with several steps leading down from it. A Dumpster sat angled to one side of the porch. Beyond the Dumpster, another bare bulb illuminated a weathered, storm-cellar-type door that butted against the building’s foundation. Door to the basement, Linc surmised. The shiny hinge and padlock securing the door glinted beneath the light.

Linc shifted his gaze back to Carrie. As if searching for the trigger of a secret panel, she used her gloved fingers to prod the building’s rough-planked exterior. “None of the waitresses even looked at any of the people I spotted in that booth while I was dancing,” she whispered. “Then you and I plop down, and a waitress is on us like white on rice. Something’s definitely going on with that booth.”

“Yeah, I—”

Hearing a faint creak, Linc froze. In his peripheral vision he saw the back door swing open.

He shot Carrie a look to make sure she’d heard. Standing motionless, she watched the door with eyes as sharp as broken glass.

Adrenaline charging his system, Linc clicked off the penlight. A half second later, the bouncer stepped into view. His muscled arms looked rock hard as he stood in the pool of light illuminating the small porch. With one thick-fingered hand wrapped around the porch rail, he turned his head, his gaze conducting a slow sweep of the area.

Although pockets of shadows engulfed the corner of the building, Linc saw nothing that would provide cover. If he and Carrie tried to sneak away, their footsteps would sound like crunching echoes on the gravel lot.

He knew only seconds remained before the bouncer turned his gaze in their direction. Knew, too, only one explanation for his and Carrie being there would keep their cover intact.

Linc locked a hand on her wrist and jerked her against him.

“Play this out,” he ordered in a low, urgent murmur then crushed his mouth down on hers.

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