Devlin’s hand went for his hip…and the gun that was no longer there.Fuck.
The pounding sounded again. Who the hell was that? Had to be a resident. No way for an outsider to get past Evan. The building’s concierge wasn’t tipped better than a starlight whore at Christmas for nothing. The man had some serious cajones on him. If Evan didn’t want someone in the building, then that someone wasn’t coming into the building. Simple as that.
Again the sound. Devlin considered ignoring it, but the truth was he was craving distraction.
He’d either answer the door now or crawl down to a pub at midnight looking for another woman who could make him forget.
He eased down the hallway silently, avoiding the one parquet tile that squeaked when you stepped on it just so. He settled in next to the door, reconsidered whether he really wanted to do this, then finally
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
called out, “Who’s there?”
“Oh, Agent Brady! Thank goodness. I could hear the television, and then when you didn’t answer the door I thought—Well, let’s just say I was worried.”
Devlin rubbed the bridge of his nose and considered going back to the couch. But then Annabel rapped again. “Agent Brady! Now you open this up right this second. I want to take a look at you.”
The television he could tune out, but not his neighbor, and so he unlocked the door and tugged it open.
And as he leaned against the door frame, he looked down from his two-foot advantage into the cloudy gray eyes of Annabel Carson, resident, apartment 12B.
She took a step back, shaking her head and making the kind oftsk-tsk noises his grandmother used to make. When it came right down to it, that’s probably why he let her in. It wasn’t like he could slam the door on Grandma.
In the hallway, she looked Devlin up and down, this inspection even more intense than the last.
“Agent
Brady, you look terrible.”
He shrugged. This was hardly breaking news. “Then I guess there’s some justice in the world, Annabel, because I feel terrible, too.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
Sitting in the dark, feeling sorry for himself, screwing around, eating only when he had to. To Annabel, he just said, “I’m coping. I’ll be fine.”
“Will you? When? It’s been two weeks since the shooting.”
He flinched at her bluntness. Even his buddies at the field office had danced around it, calling the shooting “the incident.” OPR had been more bold, of course, especially when they’d confiscated his weapon and sent him off into exile. That had raised some eyebrows. Time off Page 26
after a shooting was par for the course. But the suits in the Office of Professional Responsibility only confiscated your weapon and badge if they thought the shooting was dirty. If they thoughthe was dirty. Bastards. Wasn’t it enough that he had to live with killing his partner? If you could call what he was doing living….
As for Annabel, she didn’t seem to expect an answer, and she just barreled on. “You need to get out, young man. You need fresh air. Friends and family.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Mmmm.” Her appraising look peeled over him one more time, and this time he shifted uncomfortably, fearing that maybe old Annabel Carson, with her tea cozy décor and Lawrence Welk sensibilities, might be seeing more in him than he wanted her to. “What were you doing when I knocked?”
“Mrs. Carson…” He left the question unanswered, but managed to infuse his voice with a hint of warning. It was a tone that had silenced numerous unfriendly witnesses.
It wasn’t silencing Annabel. “Don’t you ‘Mrs. Carson’ me, young man. You were sitting in here in the dark watching television, weren’t you?”
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
“There’s a lot of quality programming on cable these days.”
That almost earned him a smile, and Devlin
The pounding sounded again. Who the hell was that? Had to be a resident. No way for an outsider to get past Evan. The building’s concierge wasn’t tipped better than a starlight whore at Christmas for nothing. The man had some serious cajones on him. If Evan didn’t want someone in the building, then that someone wasn’t coming into the building. Simple as that.
Again the sound. Devlin considered ignoring it, but the truth was he was craving distraction.
He’d either answer the door now or crawl down to a pub at midnight looking for another woman who could make him forget.
He eased down the hallway silently, avoiding the one parquet tile that squeaked when you stepped on it just so. He settled in next to the door, reconsidered whether he really wanted to do this, then finally
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
called out, “Who’s there?”
“Oh, Agent Brady! Thank goodness. I could hear the television, and then when you didn’t answer the door I thought—Well, let’s just say I was worried.”
Devlin rubbed the bridge of his nose and considered going back to the couch. But then Annabel rapped again. “Agent Brady! Now you open this up right this second. I want to take a look at you.”
The television he could tune out, but not his neighbor, and so he unlocked the door and tugged it open.
And as he leaned against the door frame, he looked down from his two-foot advantage into the cloudy gray eyes of Annabel Carson, resident, apartment 12B.
She took a step back, shaking her head and making the kind oftsk-tsk noises his grandmother used to make. When it came right down to it, that’s probably why he let her in. It wasn’t like he could slam the door on Grandma.
In the hallway, she looked Devlin up and down, this inspection even more intense than the last.
“Agent
Brady, you look terrible.”
He shrugged. This was hardly breaking news. “Then I guess there’s some justice in the world, Annabel, because I feel terrible, too.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
Sitting in the dark, feeling sorry for himself, screwing around, eating only when he had to. To Annabel, he just said, “I’m coping. I’ll be fine.”
“Will you? When? It’s been two weeks since the shooting.”
He flinched at her bluntness. Even his buddies at the field office had danced around it, calling the shooting “the incident.” OPR had been more bold, of course, especially when they’d confiscated his weapon and sent him off into exile. That had raised some eyebrows. Time off Page 26
after a shooting was par for the course. But the suits in the Office of Professional Responsibility only confiscated your weapon and badge if they thought the shooting was dirty. If they thoughthe was dirty. Bastards. Wasn’t it enough that he had to live with killing his partner? If you could call what he was doing living….
As for Annabel, she didn’t seem to expect an answer, and she just barreled on. “You need to get out, young man. You need fresh air. Friends and family.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Mmmm.” Her appraising look peeled over him one more time, and this time he shifted uncomfortably, fearing that maybe old Annabel Carson, with her tea cozy décor and Lawrence Welk sensibilities, might be seeing more in him than he wanted her to. “What were you doing when I knocked?”
“Mrs. Carson…” He left the question unanswered, but managed to infuse his voice with a hint of warning. It was a tone that had silenced numerous unfriendly witnesses.
It wasn’t silencing Annabel. “Don’t you ‘Mrs. Carson’ me, young man. You were sitting in here in the dark watching television, weren’t you?”
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
“There’s a lot of quality programming on cable these days.”
That almost earned him a smile, and Devlin
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