She laughed. “I promise to give it serious thought. If not me, I’ll give you a list of qualified bodyguards. There are several former cops who are in the security business now.”
“Fair enough. Thank you.” He glanced at her arm. “I called the hospital yesterday, but they weren’t forthcoming with information about your injury.”
“A few stitches, that’s it.” She rose from her seat. The potential job was a far better hook into Hart’s office than the nebulous drinks with her father. “I know you’re busy, I just came by to make sure you and your staff were okay.”
He rose from his chair and smiled. “Thanks to you. In fact, let me take you to dinner tonight.”
Dinner? Why did it sound like he was asking her out on a date? She was unprepared.
“Really, the flowers were enough. You don’t need to do anything for me.”
“I want to. We’ll discuss what the security job would entail. You can’t make a decision without knowing exactly what I need, right?”
“I—” She absolutely should say yes. It hadn’t even been her idea. She didn’t have to use her father, something she wasn’t comfortable with anyway. “I guess dinner would be okay.”
He smiled again. Hart truly was handsome and slick, in that smooth con man type of way. He picked up a pad and pen. “Where can I pick you up?”
“I can meet you at the restaurant. No need to go out of your way.”
He gave her a mock frown. “I will of course pick you up. I have a meeting that should be done by six, six-thirty ... where do you live?” This felt way too much like a date, not a quasi job interview. But she agreed. She took the pen from Hart and wrote down her address.
“It’s Not far from here—the lofts across from the Memorial Auditorium.”
“I’ll be there at seven.”
She left, eager to get out of Hart’s office.
Dinner. With the subject of an FBI investigation. Possible job with said suspect.
Matt Elliott was going to owe her big time.
Chapter Eight
After Alex retrieved her gun from the CHP office, she exited the building and was surprised to see Jim standing under a tree near the side entrance. He was on his phone, but as soon as he saw her he ended the call and made a beeline for her.
“What were you doing with Hart?” he demanded.
“What business is that of yours?” she snapped. What was with him?
“He obviously has a target on his back. You were lucky once. Twice.”
“Lucky. Really.” She shook her head.
Jim softened, just a bit, and stepped forward. “Alex—look, I don’t want to argue with you. About anything. If I could turn back the clock and fix things between us, I would.”
“I know,” she said. But she didn’t believe him. Jim would never trust her. If he thought that she’d been cheating on him when she wasn’t, maybe he’d picked up on her attraction to Matt Elliott—even though she had never so much as touched him before the night she walked out on Jim. But it wasn’t just that. She didn’t have the same feelings for Jim now as she had last year.
“If there’s a chance—”
“There isn’t, Jim, you know that.” If he’d come to her even six months ago, when she was still recuperating from the shooting, when she was depressed and lonely, she might have forgiven him if he’d apologized for everything—and she might have told him the truth. She had wanted to but she held back because she was working for the feds against a fellow cop. The guilt had eaten her raw; being torn between two wrongs. Turning her back on her partner’s corruption or working undercover against him.
There were more troubling stories than she could count of cops who went to their superiors about bad cops. The bad cop might be fired or, in some cases even imprisoned, but the good cop, the one who stopped the corruption, was vilified. They were emotionally abused by their peers. Ostracized. Because you simply didn’t turn into a snitch when you had a badge.
Jim wanted to turn back the clock to before she made the choice, and she couldn’t do that. And he hadn’t stood up for her after she shot Tommy. It didn’t matter that Tommy had shot her in the back, because everything leading up to it she’d done wrong ... in the eyes of her superiors. And they hadn’t even known about the feds.
“I wish ... well, I wish things could be different,” Jim said lamely.
“You wish I could be different.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the shooter was killed last night?”
Jim reddened. “Hart shouldn’t have said anything.”
“What do you think I’m going to do with the information? Run over to the newspaper? You know how much I love the press.”
“We don’t have much of anything.”
“ID?”
“No—his prints aren’t in the system. He was found in a stolen car, no wallet, no identification. He has some tats and were working with the gang unit, but considering his body was found twelve hours ago, I don’t have much. I came here to give Hart an update and show him the photo.”
“But you think he was the shooter.”