The Do-Over (The Rooftop Crew #5) - Piper Rayne Page 0,8
I say.
“But then I’d be detective and you’d still be a beat cop.” She grins at me.
I chuckle. “No doubt.”
Patrice doesn’t have as many years of experience as I do, but she’d make a great detective someday and I wouldn’t mind continuing our partnership. She’s the only one I don’t mind giving me hell.
“So tell me, are you thinking of her?”
And she also thinks my love life is up for discussion at all times. She’s like a nagging mother, except that she’s three years younger than me.
“Nah, I told you, I’m over her.”
She turns again, this time returning the way we came but going slower, both of us looking for anything unusual. “Yeah, those bags under your eyes are evidence of that.”
The worst part about having a woman partner is she sees and hears everything. If I have a two-second phone conversation, she can figure out who it was and what they wanted.
“I’m processing, but I don’t want her back if that’s what you want to know.”
“Hey, your business is your business.”
“Uh-huh. Sure,” I say.
As she slows, I squint at a spot under the overpass. “Slow up.”
Patrice eases off the gas and we inch along. “What is it?”
I peek forward, rolling down my window.
“This is mine!” Dell, a homeless woman every cop knows because she panhandles on corners all the time, yells. “Get out of my spot.”
“I don’t see your name on it,” someone else says.
The only reason I can make out Dell is her signature neon yellow hat. The other person I don’t know. Then a suitcase tumbles down the cement incline, opening up and spilling someone’s belongings.
“Hold up,” I say, and Patrice presses on the brakes and flicks the lights. “We don’t need lights.”
“You’re not Spiderman, Knox. You’re not protecting Cliffton Heights in a mask. There are protocols.”
Patrice is right, but as I suspected would happen, the homeless population scatters, except for the veterans like Dell. And whoever she’s yelling at.
I shine my flashlight up there. “Dell, come on down.”
She blows out a breath. “She’s in my spot. This is my spot on Wednesdays and Fridays.”
“There’s no name on the spot,” a woman’s voice says.
Dell shakes her head and moves a foot to the right, allowing me to see the woman she’s talking to. My stomach sinks when I see her face. A million questions flicker to mind.
“You.” I leave the flashlight on her. “Come down here.”
Her shoulders fall and she grabs another bag before walking down the incline, picking up her discarded items on the way. She doesn’t come to me right away, but instead she goes to her suitcase and packs it back up. “I didn’t do anything.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“What does it look like? I was trying to sleep, or at least have shelter from the wind, when Dolly Parton came in, demanding that I move.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t smile. I shift my flashlight up at Dell who is now lying down. “Dell, you’re not clear of this. Come on down.”
She flips me off. I glance at Patrice in the car—who might as well have a bowl of popcorn in her lap, she’s so fascinated by what’s happening. Maybe she should get out of the car. I aim my flashlight back at Leilani’s friend.
She puts up her hand. “Can you please turn that thing off? Did you miss the streetlight?”
She points, and sure enough, now that she’s down here, I don’t need it as much. I click off the flashlight and put it back in my holster.
“I’m going to ask you again, why are you here?”
“And I’m going to answer again with why the hell do you think?”
Damn, she’s got attitude. The problem with attitude on a hot woman is that it turns me the fuck on. Always has. I’ve always dated the girls who don’t teeter on that line but are so far over it, they don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. I’ve broken up more than my fair share of fights between chicks. In fact, my first ever girlfriend got more detentions than any other girl in the school. Understandably, I’m trying my hardest not to be attracted to this woman.
“You just bailed out Leilani, so I know you aren’t broke.”
She crawls around the cement, snagging her clothing, until she’s right at my feet. Unbeknownst to me, a piece of skimpy lingerie lies on top of my boots. It’s pink with lace and looks like I could tear it apart with my pinkies.