Which meant either he was crazy nuts about me, or he only came around when he was looking for some action.
I batted the thought aside. Right now, I had bigger things to worry about.
Like those felons.
“The TV cameras were right there when they piled out of that van. They were filming. That nasty little Greer Henson says the look on my face was so priceless, she’s going to use that as the opening scene when the first episode airs next week.” I groaned. “The only consolation I have is that nobody is going to watch that stupid show, and that means nobody’s going to see me with a bunch of criminals out on parole.”
“Number one, I’m going to watch.” Quinn had stripped off his navy suit coat as soon as we were in the door. He’d discarded the shoulder holster that held his gun, too, and now, he unhooked his gold detective’s badge from his belt and tossed that on the table, too. His pressed-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life white shirt glimmered from the darkness of the dining room. So did his smile. He refilled my glass, brought it to me, and went back for his and the bottle.
“Number two, none of those people are out on parole. They’re on probation. Parole is when you’re in prison and you get released. That’s different from probation. You can be put on probation when you commit a crime, you plead guilty, but the judge doesn’t send you to jail. As a condition of your probation, you have to do certain things. Like see your probation officer whenever you’re scheduled. Or stay off drugs. If you don’t fulfill the conditions of your probation, you can get sent right to jail. Your people-for God knows what reason-have been ordered to help with that cemetery restoration of yours.”
“It’s not my cemetery restoration.” Since he’d left my glass on the coffee table, my hands were free. I crossed my arms over my chest.
Quinn dropped back on the seat beside me, one leg crooked and his arm thrown casually across the back of the couch. The last thing on his mind was my problem. Yeah, yeah, there was that whole spark-in-his-eyes thing. That was my first clue. But I also knew what he was thinking about because after he took a sip of wine, he skimmed his mouth over the sensitive skin just below my ear.
I shivered appropriately, but let’s face it, it was going to take a whole lot more than that to make me forget everything that happened at Monroe Street that day. “I can’t believe Ella pulled this on me,” I grumbled.
Quinn didn’t look happy about the brush off, but he gave in almost gracefully. Then again, he could afford to. He knew he’d get his way-sooner or later. He always did.
He sat back to sip and savor his wine. “It’s pretty smart, really. Think of the publicity.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking about. Me, on TV, with…” I could barely make myself speak the words, and besides, I didn’t know what to call my team, anyway. Were they inmates? Jailbirds? Convicts? In the time since I’d become a private investigator, I’d dealt with my share of criminals, but never with ones who were actually incarcerated, or who should have been.
Jail, remember, was something I didn’t want to think about.
To keep my mind from going down that path, I reached for the file folder I’d plunked on the coffee table when I got back from the cemetery that day. I paged through the papers in it.
“Look at this guy,” I tipped the folder toward Quinn not nearly long enough for him to see the photo of the youngest member of my team. Delmar Lui was a skinny Asian eighteen-year-old with bad skin and a shock of hair that was darker even than Quinn’s. Unlike Quinn’s neat, clean cut, Delmar’s hair stuck up in spikes. So did the silver piercings protruding from his lip, his nose, and his left eyebrow. Back at the cemetery, when he opened his mouth long enough to say, “Hey,” I saw there was a silver stud in his tongue, too.
“This kid’s a graffiti artist. Who in their right mind would send a graffiti artist into an already-vandalized cemetery to help with the restoration? And why did he get arrested, anyway? Don’t you cops have better things to do than chase around after kids?”
Quinn read over my shoulder and pointed. “He wasn’t arrested because of the graffiti. He broke into a school; that’s where he defaced the property. He was charged with breaking and entering.”
“Whatever!” I cast Delmar’s paperwork aside and looked at the next picture. This one showed a pudgy, middle-aged guy who was as pale as one of those fish that live way at the bottom of the ocean where there’s never any light. His eyes pointed in different directions.
“Aggravated robbery.” I shuddered at the very thought.
“He doesn’t look like he could pull it off.” Quinn took the paper out of my hands. “Jake Swazacki, known to his friends as Crazy Jake. That sounds promising.”
I was not in the mood for sarcasm, and just so Quinn would know it, I snatched the paperwork back from him and read the narrative of Crazy Jake’s crime. “He walked into a convenience store and told the clerk to turn over all the money in the cash register because he had a bottle of bleach with him, and he wasn’t afraid to use it.” I wasn’t sure if this piece of information was intended to make me laugh or cry. “At least if they’re going to send me criminals, they could send me smart ones.”
“How about this guy?” Quinn poked a finger at the next picture. The man in it was thirtyish, bald, and had a tattoo of a pit bull smack in the center of his forehead. His eyes were a shade of blue that reminded me of neon.
Quinn took a closer look. “Reggie Brinks. I think I arrested him once.”
“Great. Looks like this time, he pled guilty to a drug charge.”
“Good old Reggie. He never changes.”
“And this guy?” I am not one to be easily intimidated, but just looking at the photograph of Absalom Sykes sent shivers down my spine. And not the good kind of Quinn-induced shivers, either. Absalom was a six-four, two- hundred-and-sixty-pound African American bruiser. When he got out of the van at the cemetery that morning, I remembered thinking I’d seen hams smaller than his fists. He had burning eyes and a tilt to his chin that said
“He steals cars for a living,” I told Quinn, reading from the file. “That ought to make him good company.”
“Better than this chick.” While I was preoccupied with quaking at the thought of spending my summer with a guy as scary as Absalom, Quinn had whisked the last photo from the bottom of the pile. He made a face. “Even I wouldn’t mess with this woman.”
I knew just what he meant. The second Sammi Santiago strutted out of that Corrections Department van, I knew we were not going to get along. And it wasn’t just because she was dressed like a tramp, either, though I will admit, her first impression was not a good one. Sammi’s denim skirt was so short, I was surprised the cameras kept rolling when she walked into the office/ tent. Something told me the good folks over at the PBS station would be working overtime that week to make sure every shot they showed of Sammi was from the waist up. Then again, even that might not keep the censors happy, seeing as how Sammi was poured into a brown strapless top made out of some kind of extra-clingy material.
The way I remember it, she was also wearing an ankle bracelet.
And I do not mean the jewelry kind.
Sammi was a foot shorter than me and as thin as a whip. She had funny-colored eyes, sort of tawny, like a cat’s, and she wore her fuzzy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and tied with what looked like a piece of barbed wire. Her shoes?
I quivered at the very thought.
Last I saw her, Sammi was wearing a pair of shiny patent leather Bapes in vivid shades of red and blue. There was a picture of Spider-Man on the back of them. The sneakers looked especially attractive with her fishnet kneesocks.
Oh yeah, Sammi had a style all her own, and attitude galore. I remember that, too, because the moment she saw the TV camera, she dropped a couple f-bombs that nearly made the members of Team One pass out en masse.
“Domestic violence. She beats up on her boyfriend regularly,” Quinn read from the line where Sammi’s crime was listed. “That explains the electronic monitoring device. A lot of batterers are put on house arrest.”
“Then what’s she doing at the cemetery?”
“She’s allowed to work. See, here.” Quinn pointed. “She’s also got to go to anger-management classes. Some nice probation officer somewhere hooked her up with you to give her experience working as part of a team.”
“Lucky me.” I slipped Sammi’s paperwork into the file folder with the others and side-handed the whole thing onto the coffee table. “It’s going to be a long summer. The last thing I need is a bunch of prisoners on my
