Cruz shrugged. “Maybe he will. But the one thing he isn’t doing is telling anyone where he got the gun.”
“I’d still like to talk to him,” she answered. At Cruz’s silence, she raised an eyebrow. “Well, wouldn’t you?”
He was silent so long that she almost repeated her question. Finally he responded. “Okay. I’ll set it up.”
He turned to the phone on his desk and began dialing. Madeline studied him silently as he spoke into the receiver. She wondered at his unwillingness to follow through on her suggestion. Was he afraid the perp might identify him as being involved in the supply? Or was it simpler than that? Perhaps he just didn’t believe it would lead anywhere.
When he hung up the phone and looked at her, his face was expressionless. “It’s all set. Let’s go.” Madeline followed him out of the squad room, wondering if she’d imagined his reluctance.
She slid into the front seat of the navy Crown Vic, and Cruz got behind the wheel. He turned on the ignition and glanced at her. “We’ll trade off driving, if that’s all right with you. Tomorrow will be your turn.”
His offer took her by surprise, but since she really preferred to do her own driving, she readily agreed. “All right.”
He expertly turned the car into the traffic. “How long have you been with the department?”
So he was a talker. That shouldn’t have surprised her. He had a free and easy manner guaranteed to put the most anxious person at ease. However, Madeline would have preferred to skip the small talk. She was normally very reserved; even as a child she’d difficulty making friends. But the best way to find out things about Cruz Martinez, things that would aid in the investigation she was assigned to do on him, was to divulge some information about herself. Then he would have to reciprocate.
“Over ten years.”
That would make her about thirty, Cruz estimated. Four years younger than himself.
“How about you, Detective?”
He took his eyes off the traffic long enough to shoot her a half smile. “Detective’ sounds kind of formal. Won’t we get each other mixed up? Call me Cruz.” When she didn’t respond, he added coaxingly, “And I’ll call you Madeline. Or do you prefer Maddy?”
She turned her heard slowly to throw him a lethal look. “Don’t… you… dare.”
“Madeline it is, then.” He made sure his amusement didn’t show. With her hair pulled back, and dressed in those neatly tailored clothes, she did look like a Madeline. But in something softer, more alluring, with her hair loosened to spill down her neck, then he thought she would resemble a Maddy. But now wasn’t the time for such imaginings, and he pushed the mental picture away.
“I’ve been on the force fourteen years,” he answered her belatedly. “My grandfather was a cop. So were two of my uncles. I grew up thinking it was the greatest thing in the world to be.” He shrugged. “Once on the force, I got hooked by the glamour of the job.” His humor drew a smile from her. Sometimes tedious, other times gritty and horrifying, police work bore little resemblance to the way it was often depicted by Hollywood.
“How about you?” he inquired.
“What?”
“Why did you become a cop?”
Madeline thought for a few moments, wondering if she could answer the question truthfully, without sounding like an idealistic fool. Only her father had ever asked her that question before, and he hadn’t been interested in a truthful answer. He’d always regarded her choice of career as an attempt to spite him. No matter how often she’d tried to explain it to him, he’d never really heard her, so after a while she’d stopped trying. “I wanted to make a difference,” she responded finally, looking out the window at her side.
“And have you?”
She turned back to stare at him.
“Made a difference?” he clarified.
In the dark of night, after a particularly brutal case, that was a question that always hammered away inside her mind with an insidious pounding. Had she? “I don’t know,” she answered. “Sometimes I wonder.” Her hand went to the car radio. “Mind if I change the station?”
He quirked a brow. “You’re not a fan of country western music?”
“It all sounds the same. Lo-o-ove hurts,” she mimicked with a twang.
That surprised a gust of laughter from him. “Well, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not supposed to,” she muttered, flipping channels until she finally settled on one playing soft rock.
She probably didn’t realize how much she’d just revealed with that last comment, Cruz mused silently. And she most certainly hadn’t meant her tone to sound so wistful just then. He was becoming intrigued. There was a great deal more to her than met the eye, certainly more than the aura she attempted to exude, that of the cool, capable detective. Not that the image was false, but he was sure she was a damned sight more. Still, he recognized her retreat for what it was, so he obliged her by going silent.
After several minutes Madeline glanced at him warily. He seemed to have dropped the conversational ball and was now whistling tunelessly to the music on the radio. He must have found trying to converse with her tough going, and she sighed inwardly. As much as she hated to, she needed to get on a friendly footing with the man. He seemed so open; it might prove easy to find out much of the preliminary information about his life directly from him. And the things he didn’t want to share… well, it was her job to find those things out on her own.
Her gaze dropped to the steering wheel where his hands rested, one doing most of the driving and the fingers of the other tapping to the beat coming from the radio. His plain, light blue shirt accented his bronzed good looks, although she doubted a color existed that wouldn’t suit him. The long sleeves were rolled up partway to reveal strong wrists, the forearms above them lightly dusted with black hair. She noticed for the first time the thick silver bracelet he wore on his right wrist. It was an intricately woven chain, about three-quarters of an inch wide. Strangely enough, it didn’t detract from his masculine looks, nor did the cross he was wearing in his ear. She didn’t know much about jewelry but if the bracelet was expensive maybe it could be considered evidence that he was living above his means. Then, just as quickly, she wondered if it was a gift from a lover, and was strangely discomfited by the thought.
Her gaze slid downward. Today he was wearing a different pair of cowboy boots, and she made a mental note to find out what such a pair cost. As much as she disliked delving into his personal life, Brewer would be expecting at least a preliminary report on Martinez by next week, and she’d better have something for the captain by that time.
He was dressed only slightly more formally than he had been yesterday; at least the jeans he was wearing today looked fairly new. She had trouble tearing her gaze away from his hard thighs faithfully outlined by the denim.
“Like them?”
Madeline’s eyes bounced to Cruz’s at the question. “Pardon me?”
“The boots.” He pointed. “You were staring. I asked if you liked the boots.”
Her breathing became normal again. Of course, the boots. “They look expensive,” she said casually.
He shrugged and gave her a wink. “My one vice.”
She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. She had no doubt that the man beside her could give lessons on vice. And with that face and physique, he probably had plenty of eager pupils.
At the South District headquarters they were kept waiting almost an hour before they were motioned to by Stover’s arresting officer, Ronald Lee. They followed him to a small interrogation room. Waiting there was a man wearing the county jail uniform. Seated next to him at a table was a man in a double-breasted suit.
“This is Detective Casey and Detective Martinez.” The officer indicated each as he spoke. Motioning to the man in prison garb, he continued, “Randy Stover and his lawyer, Sam Powell, from the Public Defender’s Office.” Madeline and Cruz sat across from the men and the officer remained standing.
Madeline surveyed the alleged criminal before her. Narrow faced, with a receding hairline and thin body, his eyes were shifting between her and Cruz. “Already told him,” he jerked his head at the officer. “I got nothing to say.”
“Neither of you detectives were involved in the arrest.” Powell spoke up. “What do you want with my client?”
“We have permission to interview him about a case we’re working on.” Cruz took a picture out of his shirt pocket and tossed it on the table in front of Stover. “I’m told they’ve got an AK-47 just like that one with your fingerprints all over it.”
