was very persuasive. Did he have reason to worry? And why did it concern him anyway if she decided to make Muraca the exception?
“Thanks for giving our unit the heads up on Roger Shellpoint, Drew. We plan to keep our eye on him and Fred Tatters.”
Drew turned away from the window and glanced over at Daniel, from the Special Crime Unit, who’d come to stand beside him. “No problem. Even if Fred Tatters’s alibi checks out, I believe that he and Shellpoint are into something shady. I just don’t know what.”
“We’ll be working with the FBI to find out,” Daniel said.
Daniel then glanced beyond Drew to look out the window. “I see Slicky Dick hasn’t wasted any time hitting on your partner.”
Drew turned back to the window. Slicky Dick was code for Nathan Muraca. From the day he’d joined the force three years ago, transferring in from Arizona, he’d told anyone who would listen how he spent his free time—between some woman’s legs. The nickname had been a joke. But Drew didn’t see anything amusing about it, now that he was talking to Toni.
“Not my concern,” he said.
“If you say so, Drew.”
He glanced over at Daniel. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean just what I said. Let’s just say I’ve gotten to know you. Hell, there are even times I can read you like a book. I blame it on our friendship, as well as my tendency to be an observant bloke.”
“And?”
“And I can tell that you got a thing for Detective Oliver.”
Drew frowned. “A thing?”
Daniel shrugged. “That’s what I call it, but you might categorize it as something else.”
Drew didn’t say anything for a minute. “And you figure this how?”
“The day you introduced us, you tried to sound nonchalant, but I detected something strange about the way you acted.”
Drew held his gaze. “Something strange?”
“I saw possessiveness. You were acting territorial.”
Drew shook his head. “You’re wrong.”
“If that’s the case, then why were you standing here, looking out the window, watching Muraca hit on your partner and growling?”
Growling? Had he been growling? “Like I said, you’re wrong,” Andrew said, trying to sound convincing.
“Okay.” Daniel glanced out the window again. “Slicky Dick is trying hard, and you know what that means—he wants her bad. It will be interesting to see how long it will take him to break down her defenses. But if I’m right, Drew, and you’re attracted to her, then I suggest you do something about it.”
Andrew knew he shouldn’t ask but couldn’t help himself. “Something like what?”
“Intervene. All you have to do is let Muraca know you want her for yourself, and he will back off.”
“There’s no reason for me to do that, Daniel. I don’t want her for myself.”
“Whatever.”
Drew glanced back out the window and saw Toni walking away from Muraca. The man was still standing there, deliberately checking out her ass as she walked to her car. It was only when Toni had driven away that Daniel spoke again. For a minute, Drew had forgotten he was still standing there.
“Enjoy your weekend, Drew,” Daniel Zinc said, before walking off.
A WEEK LATER, TONI was studying the sticky notes that littered her desk. Back in Miami, her partner would tease her about using notes instead of a suspect board. But for her, this was the best way to process information.
They still didn’t have a concrete lead on Maria Tindal’s killer, and that bothered her. Fred Tatters’s alibi had held up. Security cameras at the woman’s place had verified the time he’d arrived and left. However, his association with Shellpoint was still under investigation, and had been turned over to the SIU for further handling.
She picked up the note that said flash drive. Why had Maria Tindal taken that particular flash drive from Nettles? For the past two days Toni had studied the contents. All she’d discovered was countless pieces of merchandise, way too expensive for her mind to comprehend. Who would pay two-hundred-thousand dollars for a purse—even if it had been a Birkin, handmade personally by the Japanese designer with several authentic diamonds lining the gold strap? Or a painting going for a million dollars that made her eyes cross every time she saw it, or the t-shirt that had been worn by Michael Jackson the day before his death.
The names of the sellers weren’t known, not even by Nettles. He’d been hired to photograph the material, not worry about its authenticity, the cost, or delivery. All of that was between the seller and buyer. Wizzin claimed the