Copyright 1998, 2004 by Karen Leabo. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real events, characters, locations, or dialogue is strictly coincidental.
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A version of this book was first published as Bantam Loveswept #908 in October, 1998.
PROLOGUE
Turning thirty was tough, Wendy Thayer mused glumly as she waited forever at a light on Lemmon Avenue.
First, there was the new laugh line her mirror showed that morning. It had displayed incredibly bad timing by showing up today.
Second, there was James and his birthday gift of a gold electro-plated bracelet. Not that she was big on expensive gifts. But when she'd opened the box during their rushed lunch date, it had been clear--so clear--what had gone through his mind in picking out her combination birthday/I'm-dumping-you gift.
What's the least amount of money I can spend and still save face?
The answer was, twelve-ninety-five, on sale at Lux Warehouse Jewelry. She'd seen the ad yesterday when she was clipping coupons for her clients.
The light turned green and Wendy shifted into first. She felt remarkably unperturbed by getting dumped. Boyfriends were just too much trouble. The door dent in her brand-new Born to Shop company van was more upsetting.
At least she could look forward to her next client.
Barnie Neff was the sweetest little old man, a shut-in with severe arthritis and emphysema. Three months ago he'd called her after seeing her ad on cable TV. He'd needed someone to pick out some library books for him.
He'd quickly become a regular customer, despite his humble lifestyle. She had recently expanded her personal-shopping business to include errands, and Mr. Neff often gave her unusual tasks, like delivering a box of old books to a dealer for appraisal, or taking his ancient radio to a repair shop. Once he'd had her deliver some old blankets to a homeless shelter. Today it was more mundane--laundry, cold medicine, and a new pair of house slippers.
Mr. Neff's rickety, four-square frame house stood about as straight as a drunken sailor, and it hadn't seen paint in so long Wendy couldn't determine the original color. But inside it was always cozy and comfortable. Wendy pulled up to the curb, collected Mr. Neff's laundry from the back of her van and headed for the front porch.
"Come on in, sweetie," Mr. Neff called to her before she'd even rung the bell. "It's open."
She pushed open the door. The scent of banana bread hung invitingly in the air. This must be one of his good days, Wendy concluded. When he was feeling up to it, he liked to bake bread.
Mr. Neff hobbled out of the kitchen to greet her, dragging along his oxygen tank. He wore a frilly apron tied around his fragile waist and a smudge of flour on his nose.
"Hiya, sweetie!" he said. "Look at that laundry. You do too much, you know. I'll bet you don't take laundry home for your other clients."
"You're special," Wendy said, putting down the laundry basket and leaning over to give Mr. Neff a peck on the cheek. "The slippers are blue--that was the only color in your size. But they were on sale."
"Sure, sure, anything's fine." He examined the slippers sitting on top of the laundry and nodded, satisfied.
"And the cold medicine is the non-drowsy kind. I had a fifty-cent coupon."
"Cold medicine." He made a production of coughing. "You're in the nick of time with that stuff."
"You must not be feeling too bad if you're in the kitchen."
"Oh, well, it comes and goes. What's the damage?" He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
"Twenty-three fifty," handing him a piece of paper bearing a complete accounting of her work and the charges.
He stilled and studied the accounting a moment. "For the slippers and the cold medicine, maybe, but that laundry was hard work. Come on, now, charge me a fair price."
"Twenty-three fifty," she insisted. "I threw the laundry in with mine. It was hardly any trouble at all, and I did charge you for it."
He laboriously counted out exact change and handed it to you. "You're a bargain, sweetie. Don't know how I ever did without you. Now, before you rush off, I have a special errand for you. Have a seat on the divan, I'll be right back."
Wendy cleared some magazines off the threadbare brown sofa and sat down, then looked at her watch. She hoped whatever errand Mr. Neff had in mind wouldn't take long.
He reappeared shortly bearing a stack of velvet boxes. "Wait 'til you get a load of these." Then he opened the first box, and Wendy could feel her eyes bulging. Nestled on a satin lining was the most beautiful sapphire necklace she'd ever seen. The three gems that comprised the teardrop design were at least one carat each, a deep midnight blue cut in the old style and set in an Art Deco platinum setting.
"Oh, it's lovely."
"It was my mother's. All of these things were hers. But ... no sense in leaving them in a drawer to collect dust." He opened another box to reveal a diamond and pearl bracelet; another carried two dinner rings, one a ruby surrounded by baguette diamonds, one a square-cut emerald flanked by two oval cut diamonds. Mr. Neff continued to open boxes and set them on the coffee table for her inspection.
"Try them on if you like."
"Oh, no, I'm afraid I'd be tempted to slip one into my purse. They're beautiful." She ran one finger over the finely detailed links of a silver chain.
"I've found a buyer. John Winstead at the Gold and Diamond Trade Mart on Maple. You deliver 'em, he'll give 'em a quick eyeball--"
"You're selling these beautiful heirlooms?"
"Look, sweetie, I got no daughters or sisters, and I ain't gonna wear 'em myself." He laughed a little at his own joke. "I'm okay financially, but I can use the money."
"Why doesn't this Mr. Winstead come here?"
"Frankly, I didn't want him to see where I live. Might drive down the price."
"Oh. Well, this is beyond my normal services ..."
"You're bonded and insured, aren't you? Anyway, I'll make it worth your while."
He opened one final box. In it was the loveliest pair of diamond stud earrings Wendy had ever seen. "You keep these for yourself."
"Oh, no, I couldn't accept such an extravagant--"
Mr. Neff started laughing. "You don't think they're real, do you? I'm not that crazy. They're strictly costume. But Mother wore them a lot. I'd be pleased to know they're being enjoyed by someone like you, someone nice." He paused, then got a little misty. "Mother would have liked you. Have I told you you look a lot like my younger sister, God rest her soul?"
Only about a dozen times. "All right, I'll accept the earrings. And thank you." She gave him a hug, wishing all of Born to Shop's clients were so sweet.
The old man waited until the sound of Wendy Thayer's van faded into the stillness of the early spring afternoon. Then he whipped off the stupid apron and pulled the oxygen tubes out of his nose. "Coast is clear," he called in a voice suddenly stronger.
Two burly men appeared from upstairs, each of them loaded down with empty packing boxes. With practiced efficiency, they began packing up the knick-knacks. The old man could feel it in his bones--it was time to clear out, for good this time. Another couple of weeks, and he'd be on his way to Tahiti.
He picked up the phone.
"Three-two-oh," a bland male voice answered.
"The hook's set," the old man said. "The fish will be at the rendezvous at the agreed-upon time. Wait until you receive confirmation that the funds have been deposited before taking further action."
"Understood."
With an unfamiliar twinge of conscience, the old man added, "Oh, and don't let the fish suffer, okay? Make it clean."
"I always work clean."
He hung up, again without any small talk, and sighed. Wendy was the best pack mule he'd ever used. Who could suspect that face, those big green eyes? But she was also a nice girl. She did look like his sister. He would miss her.
CHAPTER ONE
Turning thirty-five was hell, Michael Taggert thought as he stretched and tried to work the kinks out of his back. His body told him he wasn't a kid anymore. Stake-outs, even short ones like this, made his muscles ache. If he missed his morning run, he noticed. Even coffee, which he used to drink by the gallon, made him jittery now.
"Feeling your age, old man?"
"Don't rub it in, Joe. Or I'll start making bald jokes."
Michael's partner, Joe Gaglione, laughed and rubbed his shiny head. "Wait'll you get to be my age. Baldness is the least of my worries. Hell, I'd gladly look like Kojak if I could ditch the low-fat diet. Then there's the dental work--I'm lookin' at dentures in ten years if I'm not careful. Don't even get me started on my prostate--"
"Joe, please. My birthday is depressing enough without you reminding me of what's to come."
Joe laughed again. "Aw, you're still a kid. In twenty years, when you're my age, you'll look back at this day and wonder what you were bitching about." He gulped down the last of his coffee.
Joe was right, Michael acknowledged. He was still young enough that the FBI wanted him--had actually recruited him. If they accepted his application, he wouldn't be spending the rest of his life as a lowly sergeant in the Theft Division of the Dallas Police Department.
He'd hoped to make an arrest on the Art Deco Museum case by his birthday. Cases came and went, but this one had been stuck in his craw for longer than most. His lack of progress on the six-month-old jewel and art heist had become a bone of contention between himself and his captain. Solving the case would look good on his resume.
Today, though, he was about to turn a corner. According to his snitch, who worked at the Gold and Diamond Trade Mart, something big was going down today, some kind of substantial off-the-books delivery.
"Anything happening in there?" Joe asked.
Michael peered through his binoculars into the main showroom of the Trade Mart. "Our bad boy is working the counter closest to the door." The "bad boy" was the fence ID'd by Michael's snitch.
"And our snitch?"
"Right at his elbow." The snitch had promised to call Michael the moment he spotted anything suspicious. Everything was in place. This was their best lead yet on a case notoriously slim in leads.
"You get an invite to Patterson's retirement party?" Joe asked in a bored voice.
"Yeah. I heard everyone who ever worked for him got one. You going?"
"Hell, yeah. I've never seen the mayor's mansion. You?"
Michael shook his head and shrugged, shooting new waves of pain through his back. He needed a good massage therapist.
A white van with green lettering pulled into a parking spot near the Trade Mart's front door.
"Born to Shop?" Michael read off the side of the van.
"Yeah, haven't you heard of them? Rich people who don't have time hire these ladies to do their shopping and run errands. They got ads all over cable TV."
"I don't watch TV, and if I ever saw an ad for something like that, I'd forget it as soon as possible. Sheesh." He paused, thinking about the concept a moment. "My ex-wife could have started a company like that."
"Oh, yeah. Faye. Born to shop, all right."
"Problem was, she wasn't born to pay for it all." The thought of all those credit card bills made Michael's skin crawl. He'd escaped from Faye just in time to avoid bankruptcy and had spent the better part of the last ten years paying off her debts.
The van's door opened and a young woman climbed out. The first thing Michael noticed about her was how the March wind caught the hem of her short skirt and lifted it just far enough that he caught a glimpse of pale pink panties.
"She matches the description those homeless guys gave us," Joe said.
Michael brought his hormones into line and paid attention to what really mattered. The woman was petite, about five-foot-two, maybe a hundred and ten pounds, with auburn hair piled on top of her head. Oval face. Full, pouty lips. Legs up to her armpits, shown to perfection by a short blue dress. She wore clogs on her feet.
He'd bet her eyes were green. "Yeah, she matches all right."
"I'm calling in her plates."
While Joe consulted Records for the van's registered owner, Michael watched the woman, fascinated. Wow. Could she possibly be the brazen hussy who'd been selling hot merchandise all over town, always one step ahead of the cops? The description sure didn't do her justice.
"Damn."
"Something happening?" Joe asked, squinting through the tinted glass of their surveillance van.
"No, she's just gorgeous ... uh-oh."
"Uh-oh, what?"
"She just pulled a big shopping bag from the van. Looks like she's delivering something."
Joe hung up the cellular and read from the notes he'd just taken. "Van's registered to a corporate entity, 'Born to Shop.'"
"Might have guessed she'd shield herself behind a corporate veil."
The woman walked into the Trade Mart at a fast, efficient clip, then immediately struck up a conversation with the fence. The cellular rang. Michael picked it up.
"The girl who just came in," the snitch whispered. "She's got Deco jewelry--boxes of it. I gotta go." He hung up.
Michael turned to Joe. "Work on the search warrant, okay? Let's haul in the fence. I'm following Miss Born to Shop."
"Wait, I thought I was gonna follow the suspect."
Michael winked. "That was before I got a good look at her."
In twenty seconds flat he was in his car, parked nearby. The woman came out within a couple of minutes and got into her van. She didn't look hurried or hassled. In fact, she paused before pulling out of her parking space to read something, then made a note before donning her sunglasses.
Cool cookie, Michael thought. He couldn't wait to find out what her story was.
Wendy pulled into a spot close to the bank's front door, then walked right up to a teller. Amazing, considering it was five minutes to three. Any later and she'd have been holding on to this ridiculous wad of cash overnight.
Mr. Neff hadn't said anything about cash, she thought, exasperated.
The teller smiled sweetly. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I'd like to deposit this money into this account." She handed the teller a fat envelope along with the deposit slip Mr. Neff had prepared.
The teller counted the cash, then started punching buttons on her machine.
"Wait."
Wendy jumped at the terse command coming from behind her. She whirled around, thinking someone was trying to butt in line, ready to give the rude interloper a piece of her mind. When she saw the man, however, all her words died in her throat. He was big, he was gorgeous, and he looked mad enough to chew her up and spit her out for fertilizer.
It was the mad part that reduced her to silence. That and the law enforcement shield he had in his hand, identifying him as Detective Sergeant Michael Taggert.
"Excuse me, sir?" the teller asked, looking bewildered.
The stranger grabbed Wendy's arm with one powerful hand and slapped handcuffs over her wrist.
"This woman is under arrest for transport of stolen goods. I'll need that cash she was about to deposit as evidence."
Now the teller looked truly alarmed. "I'll get the manager."
Wendy finally found her voice. "Are you out of your mind?" she asked the detective. "What is it you think I've stolen, you moron? You've obviously got the wrong person. Now uncuff me right now."
The cop had the nerve to smile at her. "You won't get free for a long, long time if I have anything to say about it."
"You're making a big mistake," she said, speaking through her gritted teeth and smiling. Perhaps all the people staring at them would think this was a prank. "I'm a member of the Chamber of Commerce. I know the mayor--personally. I'm a taxpayer. My tax dollars pay--"
He repeated the last part with her. "--pay my salary, I know. Believe me, lady, I've heard it all." He pulled a card from his pocket. "You have the right to remain silent--"
"Like hell. Who exactly do you think I am?"
"--if you choose to give up that right, anything you say--"
"I know the spiel. I watch TV, too. What have I done?"
"--can and will be used against you ..." He went on, oblivious to her ranting. She soon found both her hands cuffed behind her. She was escorted in this humiliating fashion to the branch manager's office.
No help there. The officious manager handed the cop her deposit slip and the cash--Mr. Neff's cash--and hustled them out a back door in an effort to avoid bad publicity.
"I'll never bank here again!" she called out over her shoulder as Michael Taggert dragged her away.
"No great threat, since you'll be in jail," the detective said as he stuffed her into the back seat of a bland four-door sedan.
Okay, deep breaths, Wendy told herself. Think about this for a minute. She was the victim of mistaken identity. As soon as this Neanderthal took her to the station or downtown or wherever, the cops would immediately realize the error of their ways and let her go with big fat apologies.
She would have grounds for a huge lawsuit, she mused. But instead of asking for money, she would demand that Sergeant Michael Taggert crawl on his oh-so-handsome hands and knees and beg forgiveness.
This pleasant little fantasy lasted her only as long as it took to clear the bank parking lot. The cop's car was making the most god-awful sounds.
"Does this car have a muffler?" she asked as they chugged along in the thickening traffic. Late afternoon was a bad time to be heading downtown. "It sounds terrible."
"I'm sure it has a muffler."
"Meineke's having a sale. Oh, you're not taking the Tollway, are you? Harry Hines is faster."
He ignored her advice and headed for the Tollway. "I got to hand it to you, you do cute real well."
"I'm not trying--" She stopped. What was the point? She was trying to be helpful. That's what she was programmed to do. That was what she loved to do. Some people just didn't appreciate it.
A new thought occurred to her. "Is it my van?" she asked. Everything about the sale last week had seemed legitimate at the time, but she'd gotten a deal on her new company vehicle that seemed almost too good to be true.
Taggert put on the brakes and, instead of entering the Tollway, turned onto a side street. He switched off the engine. He waited. If the silence was supposed to make Wendy want to spill her guts, it was working.
"I've got all the paperwork at the office," she said, desperation creeping into her voice. "Don't you want to see it?"
"Lady," he finally said, "you are in a heap of trouble. Frankly, you look too smart for the dumb act to be convincing. So why don't you knock it off and tell me who you're working for?"
She sat up straighter and met his all-too-direct gaze in the rearview mirror. "I'm self-employed."
"Then you're a damn good thief."
She sighed. They were talking in circles.
"Listen, miss, I can't make you any promises or cut you any deals. Only the D.A. can do that. But I can assure you of one thing. This process'll go a lot easier for you if you cooperate from the beginning. So let's start over. Where'd you get the bankroll?"
"The bankroll ... well, why didn't you ask that in the first place?" Now they were getting somewhere! "That's Mr. Neff's money. Oh. Okay, I see." Her brain clicked as everything fell into place. This had nothing to do with her van. "The jewelry. You're telling me the jewelry Mr. Neff gave me to sell is hot?"
"Duh."
"If you would just say what you mean instead of trying to be clever and intimidate me, we could have cleared this up a long time ago! Barnie Neff is a client of mine. He's a shut-in, and I run errands for him. He gave me his mother's jewelry to deliver to the guy at the Gold and Diamond Trade Mart. No way is it stolen."
The cop whipped out a notebook and started scribbling. "Neff? N-E-F-F?" He stopped writing and extended his arm, then stretched his neck to one side and the other, as if he had a backache.
"Yes," she answered, watching the play of muscles along his shoulders and upper arm. Her body tensed with unwelcome awareness of the fact that her adversary was male--very male.
"You run errands for him?"
"I just told you that. It's what I do for a living."
"And you, like, go to his house?" Taggert asked hopefully.
"Yes. He lives at 2824 Monty Avenue. But surely you don't think Mr. Neff is some kind of criminal."
"Let me put it this way. That nice man in the store who bought the jewelry from you? He's a well-known fence with a record long as your legs."
"Arm, don't you mean?"
"Yeah, long as your arm. That's what I said."
She decided not to argue with him, but she made a mental note: Detective Michael Taggert had noticed her legs. The knowledge gave her a guilty thrill and a small sense of ... what, power? He wasn't as cold to her as he pretended.
He hunched his shoulders and bent his head forward again. She could almost feel his discomfort herself. "I know a good massage therapist," she offered.
He turned around to give her a look she couldn't quite read. Had she said something wrong? Then he shrugged, winced at the pain, and turned away from her. He grabbed a cellular phone from somewhere and dialed with a series of quick jabs.
"Michael Taggert here, Theft division? Yeah, I need you to check out an address for me." He repeated the address she'd given him.
"Mr. Neff is a harmless little old man," Wendy tried again. "He's on oxygen. He never leaves the house."
"You better hope he's not harmless. 'Cause he's your ticket out of jail."
Michael tried not to feel sorry for Wendy Thayer as he watched her go through the booking process. So, she'd grown up without a father. So, she didn't have anything more alarming on her record than a couple of parking tickets. She was also a struggling business owner who'd suddenly started making money.
He'd tried to question her further about her dealings with this mysterious Mr. Neff, but she'd asked for a lawyer, so he'd had to quit. She'd made her phone call and claimed the lawyer was on his way.
To her credit she didn't cry or whine like a lot of women did when they were fingerprinted and had mug shots taken. She held her chin up, and at every opportunity she stared daggers at him.
But every so often her lower lip trembled, sending shots of awareness right to his core. She was beautiful. Whatever she'd done, he responded to her at the cellular level.
After an eternity, she was brought to an interrogation room and left to stew while they waited for her attorney. Michael watched her through the two-way mirror. She paced, she bit one fingernail down to the quick, she sighed.
How could someone with everything she had going for her turn to crime? She hadn't grown up in the projects. She wasn't a drug addict or a single mother with babies to feed and no job. He supposed she was drawn to the thrill.
When her lawyer showed up, Michael wasn't surprised to see that it was Nathaniel Mondell, a high-priced defense attorney favored by white-collar criminals and tax-fraud artists all over the Metroplex. The fact that Wendy had those kinds of connections was just another indication of her guilt, as far as Michael was concerned.
Too bad. A part of him wished she was just some sucker who'd been duped into taking the risk for the real thief. But she seemed too smart for that. Besides, there were the earrings they'd found in her purse.
After giving her a few minutes alone with the lawyer, Michael entered the interrogation room. He shook hands with Mondell, whose pleasant round face and pale, blinking eyes behind thick glasses hid a sharp legal mind.
Michael set up the recorder. They covered the basics--name, address, age.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Your birthday's today?"
"Yeah, and this isn't how I'd planned on celebrating," she replied tartly.
"Hmm. I'll be damned."
"What?"
"Uh, nothing." The last thing he wanted was to bond with his suspect because they shared a birthday. This was a first, though. He shook his head and got right down to it. He was known for his lightning-quick, killer interrogations.
"We checked out the address you gave us on Monty. The house was completely empty, abandoned. Still want to stick with your story?"
After flashing a look of bewilderment, Wendy glanced over at Mondell and shrugged. "I must've given you the wrong house number. I was upset--"
"Try again."
"Look, Mr. Neff was there this afternoon. He was baking banana bread."
"Uh-huh."
"He had a brown sofa and a rug with pink flowers and a, a telephone. Electricity. Yes, that's it." She turned to Mondell. "You can check the utility records, can't you?"
Mondell smiled indulgently. "We'll check all of this out, don't worry."
"Okay, suppose I take your word for it," Michael said. "This Neff guy was there, but he moved out in a hurry. How do you explain these?" He plunked a small velvet box onto the table.
"I, um, uh-oh."
"Wendy," the lawyer cautioned.
"Those are some earrings Mr. Neff gave to me, as payment. He said they were rhinestones or something ..."
Michael could tell by the look of dread on Wendy's face that she knew what was coming.
"They're real?" she squeaked.
"Worth about four grand," Michael said casually. "Pretty good pay for running a few errands."
He was just about to silently congratulate himself for scoring a point when the door opened. No knock, no apology. Michael whirled around. "What the hell ..."
His voice trailed off. Standing just inside the doorway was a man whose square face he knew well. From newspapers. From TV. But never at the police station.
"Hello, Nate," the newcomer said to Wendy's lawyer. "Glad you could get here so quickly." Then he turned to Michael. "Are you the man responsible for Wendy Thayer's arrest?"
Michael stood up and faced the man. "Yes, Mr. Mayor. Sir."
"There's been a mistake." Clifford Munn, Dallas's mayor, was an imposing figure of a man with clean, chiseled features, gently graying hair and a real expensive power suit. He also could thunder when he wanted to.
"She delivered stolen museum pieces to a fence," Michael tried to explain. "I saw that with my own eyes."
"It's a mistake," Munn said again, a bit calmer now. "I know this woman. She shops for my wife. We're having a party in one week. A big party."
Ah, yes. The retirement party for Captain Patterson, a forty-five year veteran of the department.
"If Wendy's in jail," the mayor continued, "she can't shop for the party, can she?"
"Well, no, sir." Michael resisted the urge to tug at his collar, which suddenly felt tight.
"If Wendy can't do the shopping, my wife will have a nervous breakdown. What's your name?"
"Sergeant Michael Taggert." Michael didn't add the "sir" this time. He did not deserve to be dressed down like a green Police Academy grad just because the mayor was having a party.
Munn narrowed his eyes. "You've applied to the Bureau."
"Yes, sir." Oh, great. How did hizzonor know that? Wait a minute. Michael remembered the campaign promises, now. Clifford Munn. Tough on Crime. Former FBI special agent, retired on disability after being injured in the line of duty. Damn, damn, damn.
"I keep my hand in things," he said, answering Michael's unanswered question. "Listen, Mr. FBI Wannabe. Wendy Thayer isn't a criminal. You straighten this out in time for my party, or I'll personally see to it your application keeps an appointment with a paper shredder." He turned and slammed the door on his way out, giving Michael no chance to react, no chance to defend himself.
He looked over at Wendy. She was actually smiling. The shark attorney was trying not to laugh. And suddenly the whole tone of the interrogation changed. Michael no longer held all the cards.
"I told you I knew the mayor," she said. "So what do you say you quit harassing me and let me help you find Mr. Neff?"
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