considered babbling an explanation, but after all we’d been through together, I knew Matt didn’t really need one.
“I just knew you were up to something,” he muttered.
ELEVEN
SERGEANT Emmanuel Franco swaggered into the holding room, an unopened can of Red Bull in one fist, a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos in the other. When he spied me and Matt, his smug grin vanished and he kicked the cement-block wall with his size-twelve motorcycle boot.
“I thought you had two righteous suspects here!” he bellowed at the arresting officers.
“We caught them both in the building courtyard,” the big black cop replied defensively. “The scene of last night’s murder. Man-and-woman team is what it looks like to me. Neither was armed, but we found devices on the woman that could be used in a burglary.”
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, but I’d really like those opera glasses back, if you don’t mind . . .”
The three men stared at me.
I shrugged. “Sentimental value.”
“They also resisted arrest,” added the big cop’s partner.
“Excuse me again,” I called. “Point of clarification? I didn’t resist.”
Franco spat a curse. “Great job,” he told the officers. “You didn’t nail me two suspects. All you brought in was the local coffee lady and her grab-ass boyfriend!”
“Ex-husband,” I corrected.
“Just get the hell out of here!” Franco barked at the uniforms. “And close the door behind you!”
Muttering between them, the two officers departed.
Beside me, Matt was bristling. I knew this situation needed to be defused fast. Not only did Franco look pissed, my ex appeared ready to blow deadlier than Vesuvius.
To his credit, Matt had kept his lips zipped while the cops marched us through the precinct and into this holding room. He’d kept his mouth shut as they forced us to sit down on this long, scuffed wooden bench. He even held his tongue while they chained his handcuffs to a metal bar running behind it.
When they did the same to me, however, Matt cursed out both men in uniform—which was okay by me, because being trussed up like a Sunday roast chicken gave me all the comfort level of a peasant woman being accused of witchery during the Spanish Inquisition.
Around then is when Franco strutted in, his boot hitting the wall. Now the sergeant was glaring at me full out, his face flushing as red as the stripes in the American-flag do-rag covering his shaved head. (How many of those did he have, anyway?)
“I understand you waived your right to an attorney,” he said, dropping his Doritos and Red Bull on a chair in the corner. “You want to talk to me, Coffee Lady? Are you waiving your right to remain smart, too?”
“I have nothing to hide,” I stated, “and neither does Matt.”
Franco stepped closer. “Okay then. Talk.”
“Sure, Sergeant. How are you?” I saw no reason not to be civil. “You wouldn’t want to reconsider that coffee and jelly doughnut offer you made me last evening, would you? Explaining everything would be a lot more comfortable in my coffeehouse, don’t you think?” I rattled my cuffed wrists to make my point.
“You think this is funny?”
“I assure you, Sergeant, there’s nothing about my friend’s murder that I find the least bit amusing. But this arrest? That’s downright hilarious. So would you mind unmana cling me now?” Once again, I cha-chinged my S&M wrist-bands. “This is positively medieval. Plus I’m really hot under all these layers.”
“So . . .” Franco folded his arms and leered. “You want to strip for me now, honey? Is that it? Tops or bottoms first? I vote tops.”
“You son of a—”
That did it. Matt blew. Straining against his cuffs, he angled his body on the bench enough to violently kick out at the detective’s private parts. Franco jumped back—in plenty of time—as if he were expecting it.
“Calm down, Pit Bull,” he warned, “or I’ll have you put down.”
The threat was harsh, but Franco’s expression appeared borderline amused by the little dance. Matt replied by cursing him out—in several languages.
Franco moved down the bench and kicked the wood, hard. I felt the jolt all the way up my already aching spine.
“I said calm down! Unless you actually want leg shackles and additional charges.”
Matt’s jaw worked, but he settled back and zipped it.
Then Franco stepped closer—a fairly plucky move, considering his privates were once again within my ex’s target range. “Look, Rover, I know you’re tough, okay?” he said, his voice actually carrying a modicum of respect. “That doorman used to be a bar bouncer and he’s no pushover. But