mouth, and followed her out of the cell, eyes
still narrowed, gaze moving slowly up and down her body. As she opened her
mouth to again question this somewhat miraculous turn of events, he cut her
off.
“Good-bye, Miss Jones.”
*
* *
He had a major bone to pick with the chief of police regarding the murders
of two prostitutes, but obviously that was going to have to wait considering
Travis Killroy’s shoulder had been laid open with Holly Jones’s .38. The chief’s
recent forays into kinky with the local hookers was a hush-hush point of
controversy on the force, but like many other covered-up scandals, it wasn’t
high on the list of the department’s priorities at the moment. The last thing
they wanted was for such information to become public knowledge, so obviously
they would want Holly Jones cut loose as soon as possible. J.D. would sure as
hell like to be a fly on the wall as the chief tried to explain to his wife how
he was injured. In the line of duty just wasn’t going to cut it. Had the chief
of police been injured in a shoot-out with a suspect, it would be blasted over
the local papers and he would be up for a medal. Alas, there were no medals for
wounded in the line of blow jobs.
As J.D. hit the elevator button for the morgue floor
in the basement, he continued to run Holly Jones through the files in his
brain. The woman was a looker, no doubt about it. And she was lying through her
teeth. He had always had the uncanny ability to sniff out deceit as adeptly as
a bloodhound on a scent. She hadn’t squirmed, exactly, when she’d denied she
was a hooker, but damned close. And while the department had found no priors on
her, not so much as a traffic ticket, she was clearly hiding something.
And he had definitely seen her before. A man simply
didn’t forget her kind—not that sort of exotic beauty. Had his mind not been so
fogged from lack of sleep and cluttered with the recent murders and the
implications thereof, he might have given more thought to her. Might have even
asked her out for a drink, just so he could assuage the niggling in his head
that he had, at some time, done more than simply crossed paths with her.
But she looked too damn good in her jeans, and a simple
cocktail might have led to dinner, and he had always avoided getting involved
with his clients. He had enough personal problems of his own without getting
emotionally tangled up with people whose lives were in a mire. His gut instinct
told him that Holly Jones—babe or not— could be trouble in more ways than one.
Besides, his stomach was hurting like hell.
“Hey, Damascus!”
He looked around as the elevator door opened. Holly
Jones ran down the corridor toward him.
“Wait up,” she shouted, her pretty face set in grim determination.
He didn’t like the looks of it and suspected what was coming.
He stepped into the elevator and punched the Close
Door button.
Too late. She leapt into the elevator just as the door
was sliding closed.
She glared at him, breathing hard. “You’ll never
believe what they told me.”
He punched the basement button. “Try me.”
“They aren’t going to pursue charges on that creep. I
mean, he had a knife—”
“He didn’t attack you, Miss Jones.”
“This is unbelievable. There should be an
investigation at least—”
“If the department investigated every freak out there,
there would be no time to investigate the significant crimes—”
“Murdering hookers is not significant? Is that what
you’re saying, Damascus?” Her blue eyes flashed.
The elevator stopped and the door opened. She followed
him into the hall, her stride lengthening as he walked faster.
“So who’s to say that he wouldn’t have attempted to
kill me?”
“You don’t arrest people on supposition, Miss Jones.”
He stopped so suddenly she nearly plowed into him. Her face red, she stood toe
to toe with him, visibly shaking with anger, her body language confrontational.
Withdrawing a
still narrowed, gaze moving slowly up and down her body. As she opened her
mouth to again question this somewhat miraculous turn of events, he cut her
off.
“Good-bye, Miss Jones.”
*
* *
He had a major bone to pick with the chief of police regarding the murders
of two prostitutes, but obviously that was going to have to wait considering
Travis Killroy’s shoulder had been laid open with Holly Jones’s .38. The chief’s
recent forays into kinky with the local hookers was a hush-hush point of
controversy on the force, but like many other covered-up scandals, it wasn’t
high on the list of the department’s priorities at the moment. The last thing
they wanted was for such information to become public knowledge, so obviously
they would want Holly Jones cut loose as soon as possible. J.D. would sure as
hell like to be a fly on the wall as the chief tried to explain to his wife how
he was injured. In the line of duty just wasn’t going to cut it. Had the chief
of police been injured in a shoot-out with a suspect, it would be blasted over
the local papers and he would be up for a medal. Alas, there were no medals for
wounded in the line of blow jobs.
As J.D. hit the elevator button for the morgue floor
in the basement, he continued to run Holly Jones through the files in his
brain. The woman was a looker, no doubt about it. And she was lying through her
teeth. He had always had the uncanny ability to sniff out deceit as adeptly as
a bloodhound on a scent. She hadn’t squirmed, exactly, when she’d denied she
was a hooker, but damned close. And while the department had found no priors on
her, not so much as a traffic ticket, she was clearly hiding something.
And he had definitely seen her before. A man simply
didn’t forget her kind—not that sort of exotic beauty. Had his mind not been so
fogged from lack of sleep and cluttered with the recent murders and the
implications thereof, he might have given more thought to her. Might have even
asked her out for a drink, just so he could assuage the niggling in his head
that he had, at some time, done more than simply crossed paths with her.
But she looked too damn good in her jeans, and a simple
cocktail might have led to dinner, and he had always avoided getting involved
with his clients. He had enough personal problems of his own without getting
emotionally tangled up with people whose lives were in a mire. His gut instinct
told him that Holly Jones—babe or not— could be trouble in more ways than one.
Besides, his stomach was hurting like hell.
“Hey, Damascus!”
He looked around as the elevator door opened. Holly
Jones ran down the corridor toward him.
“Wait up,” she shouted, her pretty face set in grim determination.
He didn’t like the looks of it and suspected what was coming.
He stepped into the elevator and punched the Close
Door button.
Too late. She leapt into the elevator just as the door
was sliding closed.
She glared at him, breathing hard. “You’ll never
believe what they told me.”
He punched the basement button. “Try me.”
“They aren’t going to pursue charges on that creep. I
mean, he had a knife—”
“He didn’t attack you, Miss Jones.”
“This is unbelievable. There should be an
investigation at least—”
“If the department investigated every freak out there,
there would be no time to investigate the significant crimes—”
“Murdering hookers is not significant? Is that what
you’re saying, Damascus?” Her blue eyes flashed.
The elevator stopped and the door opened. She followed
him into the hall, her stride lengthening as he walked faster.
“So who’s to say that he wouldn’t have attempted to
kill me?”
“You don’t arrest people on supposition, Miss Jones.”
He stopped so suddenly she nearly plowed into him. Her face red, she stood toe
to toe with him, visibly shaking with anger, her body language confrontational.
Withdrawing a
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