“Are those sex shots?” Trudeau reached for the proofs. Rick let him take the top few sheets. “Damn. Were you in the room when these were taken?”
“For some.” He shrugged like it was no big deal and put the rest of the pages in the lab envelope.
Mark lifted his gaze. “Hell. At least act interested.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m interested.” Yesterday afternoon was terrible proof.
Mark shot him a look. “What’s up? You look sick.”
“It’s the case, I guess. I just wish we’d get a break.”
Mark seemed to figure something out. “The problem is you feel guilty, West. You’re having too much fun.” Mark slapped him on the back. “Forget it. There isn’t a cop here who works harder and we all know it.” He handed him back the photo proofs.
Rick winced and his gut tightened. Mark thought he was some kind of saint. He had that reputation, irritating his squad mates with his insistence that no stone remain unturned, no regulation not be followed, no report left incomplete. Never a shortcut to good police work.
What the hell had happened to him?
He should be in the lieutenant’s office right now reporting his inappropriate actions. Except that might jeopardize the task force’s work, a lose-lose for everyone.
He looked across the room at his crew, all working hard. Jessie, on the phone, and Rocky, studying a file, had volunteered to pretend to be a couple coming in for photos at Bedroom Eyes if he needed them to.
Craig and Dave, interviewing a suspect by Dave’s desk, had jumped on the tedious chore of running Mona’s client names through records. They’d all pitched in, even when they had other work to handle. They were a team. They trusted him. He couldn’t let them down.
He had stopped things with Samantha, right? No harm done?
“Listen,” Mark said. “You never called me back, but I needed to let you know I ran into Sawyer Friday after you left.”
“You what?”
“She came back for something. I had a flat and we got to talking.”
“You talked to Sawyer and didn’t tell me?”
“I tried, man. It was nothing big. The only thing was that she figured out you didn’t have a girlfriend. She mentioned her and I sort of hesitated.”
“You hesitated?”
“Hell, you didn’t tell me you made up a squeeze. I covered it up—told her you had intimacy issues.”
“Intimacy issues?”
“Hold on. It worked. Also I said you had rules against hooking up at work. She bought that. And she said that understanding you better would help you work better together.”
“Oh, yeah. It did that, all right.” Now he knew how she’d figured it out, why she’d been so bold. Thank you, partner.
“What’s up? You look like you ate something a week old and ugly. Did she hit on you? She did. She hit on you! You dog.”
“Keep it down.” He looked around, but everyone else seemed busy and no one looked up.
“What do you know. You do the deed?”
“No. I stopped it. Would you forget it?” He knew he must look as guilty as hell.
“Hey…it’s cool. No worries. Whatever the case calls for.”
But Rick could tell that Trudeau was completely blown away. And no wonder. He couldn’t believe he’d let things go that far himself. “It was a mistake, okay? It won’t happen again.”
“Sure.” But Trudeau grinned at him as if Rick had just sold his soul to the devil and Trudeau was the welcoming committee at the door to a happy hell. “We all make sacrifices for the greater good.”
“Cool it,” he growled, hating that he’d sunk so low. Even now, he realized Samantha made him want to forget all about the case, screw the rules, and be with her. What was happening to him? If he wasn’t who he thought he was, then what?
“I’m just glad you have more than yarn balls and a sock puppet between your legs.”
“Let’s stick with the case, all right? And try not to have any more heart-to-hearts with any suspects about me.”
“Deal.”
“The bookkeeper comes in a couple days. I’ll see if he’s running double books.”
Mark nodded. “Craig says half a dozen of the massage clients are connected. Costa’s gun? Clean.”
“What about Chuck Yardley…the guy who gets a daily rubdown?” he asked, happy to focus on the details of the case that didn’t concern Samantha.
“Accountant. Not even an outstanding parking ticket. Bean counter with a jones for massage, I guess. Full-release maybe?”
“Doubt it. Mona’s legit.”
“And how do you know?”