Chapter 6
The next morning, juggling her purse, keys, and a to-go coffee, Erica was unlocking the door to her gallery when her phone buzzed in her hand. Seeing Lieutenant Cooper’s name on the screen, she nearly dropped everything, fumbling to bring the phone to her ear.
“Good morning.”
“You sound out of breath,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
She stilled at his husky, morning voice. “I, uh… No. It’s fine.” She nudged the door open with her hip and walked inside, trying to get herself together. “Have you had a break in the case?”
“Not yet.”
Erica’s shoulders sagged. That wasn’t good. The more time that passed, the worse it was for Cheyenne.
“I wanted to check on you,” Coop said. “Yesterday cost you. I saw it.”
It had, but she didn’t want to dwell on that ugliness first thing in the morning. “It’s all part of the job description of being a crackpot,” she joked, trying to keep it light.
He didn’t take it that way and answered with no hesitation. “Crackpots don’t walk into a strange house and go straight to a quarter million in cash a forensic team missed,” he said, no humor in it.
That was unexpected. Being seen for what it cost her, unheard of. He was really whittling away at her defenses, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.
She made it to the counter without dropping anything and slid onto a stool, setting her coffee down. Now, she could focus. “High praise from a Texas Ranger who’s probably seen every flavor of half-baked and crazy.”
His tone changed. “I hated asking you to do that.”
Her words from the day before meant more coming from him. “I know,” she said quietly. “It’s okay.”
“For what it’s worth,” he added, “you did good work yesterday.”
She smiled, despite herself. “Careful, Lieutenant. Keep that up, and you’ll have to put me on your payroll.”
A low rumble of amusement came through the line. “I wouldn’t want to insult you with the low going rate of a public servant.”
“Impossible,” she replied. “I’m an artist. Not starving, but there have been months when I ate more ramen noodles than I care to recall.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
“A little.”
“Any dreams?”
“Nothing I could make sense of.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Neither. Just frustrating,” she admitted.
“Otherwise, you’re okay?”
“A little heavy-headed, which is normal for me after everything.”
He exhaled, the sound almost relieved.
For a moment, he didn’t fill the quiet.
“I’m covered up with this case, but I want to see you again. To see for myself you’re all right,” he added quickly, as if he’d said more than he meant to.
“You know where I live, Lieutenant.”
“That I do. And it’s Coop, remember?”
“Do you have a first name? Or were you born Coop Cooper?”
“It’s Vincent. Vince to my family.”
“I like that,” she said softly. “Thanks for checking on me, Vince.”
A voice, low and warm, carried through the line. “Get used to it, Erica.”
No one said goodbye. The call simply ended, the kind where neither wanted to be the first to disconnect.
Her assistant returned from the storage room a moment later and gave her a strange look. No wonder. Despite the horror of the past few days, she was staring at her phone, smiling.
***
It was dark when Coop turned into Erica’s driveway.
He killed the engine and sat there, hands loose on the wheel, wondering why he’d driven across town on a Friday night.
This could have waited. The items in the envelope on the passenger seat weren’t urgent.
But something about her had burrowed under his skin and refused to leave.
He grabbed the envelope and walked up the front path.
Coop knocked and waited. Nothing.
He knocked again, glancing at the glow of light through her front window and her car in the driveway. Still nothing.
He considered waiting until Monday during regular business hours, what he should have done in the first place. Her normal hours, at least. For him, they didn’t exist.
When he turned to leave, he heard a faint, rhythmic creak of wood. He cocked his head, listening. It seemed to come from the backyard.
He followed the sound around the side of the house.
And there she was, sitting sideways on the swing, one bare foot brushing the boards to keep it moving. A cat was curled against her hip, purring like it owned the place.
He couldn’t remember ever seeing a house with a swing on both the front and back porches. With what she dealt with, he didn’t blame her for needing the quiet.
She wore another gauzy skirt that fluttered gently as she moved. The porch light caught the gold and copper in her hair that fell loose around her shoulders, left bare by the fitted top. A glass of wine dangled from her hand.
She looked beautiful and relaxed, and he had no business interrupting her or wanting her. He moved forward anyway.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, she looked up, unfazed that he’d intruded upon her peaceful moment. The simple curve of her smile hit him harder than it should have.
“Long week?” he asked, nodding toward the wine as he climbed.
She exhaled. “Try exhausting.”
His gaze shifted to the gray ball of fur that had begun to stir. “Is that Cheyenne’s cat?”
“It is,” she said, scratching between its ears. “His name is Whiskers. He’s made this his second home since his went dark.” Erica lifted her glass slightly. “Care to join me?”
He shook his head. “Better not. I’m driving. But I wouldn’t mind joining you for a swing.”
Whiskers lifted his head and let out a loud, offended meow, as if saying, no one invited you. Then he hopped down, tail high.
She laughed as he trotted off into the yard. “I had no idea he was so territorial.”
Sliding over, she made room for him on the bench seat, an unspoken invitation.
Coop knew he shouldn’t, but sat beside her, careful to leave space between them. The swing creaked under their combined weight. For a few seconds, neither spoke.
He became aware of her warmth only inches away, the subtle scent of lavender and vanilla surrounding him, and the whisper-soft brush of her dress against his leg. Maybe too aware.
She took a sip of wine then gestured toward the envelope with the glass. “You didn’t come over to enjoy my company.”
“I like to think that’s part of it,” he clarified because it was.
Her smile deepened. “Flatterer. You’re also stalling. Lay it on me, Lieutenant. I can take it.”
Hoping that was true, he withdrew a photo and handed it to her. “I spent most of the day following dead-end leads. This one panned out.”
She angled the grainy security still toward the moonlight. Wilson stood at a bank counter, accessing a safe-deposit box.
“This looks like my neighbor at the bank.” She looked up. “You caught him. What about Cheyenne?”
“It didn’t pan out that well. The photo is from security cameras, taken about a week ago.”
“Ah… too bad.” She glanced at the image again. “Why is this important?” she asked, appearing to brace for the answer.
“He accessed a safe-deposit box and removed several items. To pay his debt or to flee after Kedrov started to squeeze him.”
“Getting into bed with the mob,” she murmured. “It amazes me the lengths some people will go to for money. Why’d he do it?”
“His motive is still unclear,” Coop said. “But when he started feeling the heat, he borrowed the money to cover his tracks and got in way over his head. We got a warrant, although we were sure he’d already removed anything of monetary value. This is all that was left.”
He upended the contents of the envelope into his hand: a gold-plated graduation watch engraved with Proud of you, Mom and Dad, a twenty-year-old class ring, and a tarnished silver locket with a photo of Wilson as a child with his parents.
All sentimental. All meaningless to anyone but the owner, and, hopefully, a woman with a unique gift.
Coop didn’t have to ask. One by one, Erica picked up each item. She quickly discarded the watch and the ring. The locket she opened and held in her palm. She closed it a moment later.
“They must have been in there a while.”
“Does that matter?” he asked, though he already suspected the answer.
“Unlike people, objects don’t hold emotional residue forever. These feel cold. Like they’ve been sitting untouched for years.”
“He didn’t go there for these.”
“I wouldn’t think so. He needed cash fast.”
“You felt nothing?”
“Only pity.”
“Not for Wilson,” he said, surprised.
She glanced his way. “His wife is dead, and his only daughter is missing.”
Coop leaned back slightly, watching her. She had a big heart to go along with her unusual ability. “Don’t pity him too much,” he advised. “He had a quarter million of the Mafia’s money in his house. He’s not innocent in this.”
She looked down at the locket once more then snapped it closed and returned it to him. Their fingers brushed.
A spark jumped between them. Coop recoiled a fraction. Static, probably. But in this humidity?
More rattled by it than he wanted to admit, he cleared his throat. “Still nothing from me?” he asked, trying for casual and afraid he was failing.
“I wouldn’t say that. Just… nothing useful to the case.”
Coop watched as color moved into her cheeks. She was resisting the attraction, too, and, like him, worried she’d said too much. She quickly refocused.
“You said you didn’t expect me to find anything, but you brought me to the house anyway.”
“Call it a hunch. A good one, as it turns out.”
She arched a brow. “Why do I feel most of your hunches are good ones?”
“After twenty years, sometimes you know.”
“You sound like me.” Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Judy said you have the best gut on the force. Are you sure you’re not gifted?”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Not last I checked.”
She tilted her head. “It might explain it if you were.”
“What’s that?”
“Why I can’t read you,” she said, sounding mystified, like he was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.
“That bothers you,” he said, not a question.
“No. But it’s odd. Extremely so.”
Coop wasn’t sure what to make of that. He’d spent his entire adult life learning how to read people. The idea that someone might turn that skill on him hadn’t crossed his mind.
The swing creaked again as she nudged it forward with her foot. “Maybe you’re just stubborn.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been accused of that.”
Her laughter was low and warm, and easy to listen to.
Coop looked out into the dark yard, forcing himself to remember something important.
Erica was a witness in a homicide investigation, despite her secondhand information that would never hold up in court.
Sitting on her porch swing, listening to her laugh, breathing in her perfume, and wanting more than her skirt touching his skin probably wasn’t the smartest decision he’d made this week.
Still. He didn’t move.
Not until a dog barked somewhere down the street and a pair of glowing eyes appeared from the bushes. Whiskers watched, tail twitching, waiting for him to take the hint.
Coop huffed a quiet breath. Even the cat knew it was time for him to go.
When he stood, her gaze lifted to his, soft but guarded, as if she sensed the shift in him. Before he could speak, she did. “I’ll call if I get anything else. Good night.”
He gave a small, reluctant dip of his chin, needing to go but hating to leave.
“Sweet dreams, Erica.” He meant it for her sake.
She inhaled softly, a little shaky, enough for him to notice.
He shoved the thought aside with all the other things about her he shouldn’t be noticing. Two steps—that was all it would take to close the distance between them. But he made himself walk away. The job came first. Especially when a teenage girl was missing.
The steps creaked under his boots. Whiskers trotted ahead of him like an escort, as if making sure he actually left.
He didn’t look back. But he felt her watching him until he reached his truck.