“Good evening. Here’s your broiled snapper. Can I get you anything else?”
He looked up. She froze for a moment, recognizing the customer in the chair. Detective Dilessio. Since leaving police headquarters, he had changed into swim trunks and a T-shirt. The T-shirt was dry; his dark hair was wet. He’d been in the water, apparently, or maybe he’d just showered and dressed down, the same as she had. He hadn’t left work altogether, though, or so it seemed. What had apparently demanded such grave attention from him was a manila file filled with papers.
He recognized her, as well, his eyes running from the top of her red head to the sandals she had slipped into.
“Anything else?” he murmured. “Hmm. The snapper is safely on the table. Dare I ask for coffee? Not to wear, to drink.”
She flushed slightly. “I can do my best to safely set a cup in front of you,” she assured him. He was still watching her. He didn’t appear angry, only slightly amused. She hesitated. “You’re Jake Dilessio, right? Detective Dilessio? Miami-Dade?”
“Yep. Why, were you going to apologize now that you know who I am?”
She felt a sizzle of temper rise, then tamped it down, determined to hold her own. “Because of who you are? Really, Detective, I’m taught on a daily basis that my function will be to protect and serve, not intimidate the public and expect special treatment. Actually, I was merely going to introduce myself. But if you were interested in apologizing for barging into me on my own doorstep, I’m certainly happy to listen.”
“Ah, that’s right. You’re in the academy, I understand,” he said.
“Yes. Are you suggesting I shouldn’t be?”
“Not in the least. And if that comment meant, was I going to try to get you kicked out for scalding me, the answer is no. For one thing, if you’re good, your future is far beyond any power of mine to control. I have to say, though, as you mentioned, our motto is protect and serve. Not to bully. I hope you are a bit…calmer with the law-abiding citizens of our county.”
“I try. But they haven’t set me loose on the streets yet, you know.”
“Ah, well, then, there’s time—and hope.”
“I guess I should be grateful that you didn’t decide to bring me in for attacking an officer of the law.”
“Well, you’re Nick’s niece, right?”
“I wouldn’t want favors from anyone because I’m Nick’s niece.”
“In truth, you wouldn’t get any.”
“Ah! So that means I was in the right.”
“I don’t recall saying that.”
“But I was,” she insisted, then wondered what the hell she was doing, standing out here arguing with him. She didn’t seem to be able to leave without having the last word. And she didn’t seem to be able to draw herself away, to stop studying the man, either. He was definitely interesting. No pretty-boy good looks to him, but something beyond that. Very strong bone structure. Weathered, in good shape. He had an arresting appearance, and she could well imagine that if he looked at suspects with that darkly intense stare of his, he could make them tell the truth simply because they might believe he was seeing right through them.
The way he was staring at her now.
She suddenly felt awkward.
He smiled slowly. The action changed his face. He wasn’t just arresting; he was as attractive as all hell.
“Is there more?” he inquired.
“We…we could wind up on The People’s Court. Take the matter to Judge Judy or something like that,” she said lightly.
“Either that, or you could just bring me my coffee.”
“Yes, I guess I could.”
So much for his smile.
Ass! she thought.
Too bad she was going to have to just deliver the coffee. She would have loved to dump a full pot over his head.
CHAPTER 7
Jake continued reading through the list of those who had been associated with Peter Bordon. He knew the list. It was all old business. Didn’t matter. He was missing something, he was certain, and when he discovered what…
Names suddenly blurred before his eyes.
Disillusioned people, most of them young, looking for something meaningful in life, thinking they had found it. All had moved on.
One of the young men was in a Catholic seminary in Tennessee.
Many had moved out of state.
He rubbed his temples, thinking back to the visits he had made to Bordon all those years ago. A young woman had answered the door. Cary Smith. They’d already checked her out. She’d moved to Seattle, married a guy who worked for a fish plant, and now had two children. At the time, he was certain, she had believed she was serving a prophet, a man who intended to make the world a better place by distributing food to those in desperate need.
Then there was John Mast, Bordon’s right-hand man. He’d gone down for fraud, as well. He would have been high on the list of suspects.
But he was dead.