Ladies and gents, there is no more use denying it. Samantha Tate, the woman who always prided herself on not getting caught up in all that hearts-and-flowers nonsense, was completely, utterly, entirely infatuated with the man standing in front of her.
Chapter 11
Downtown Dogs, North Rush Street
The mood-swing roller-coaster ride Ozzie had been on all day long took a nosedive off a steep hilltop when he and Samantha walked into his all-time favorite hot dog joint and he saw the looks on the faces of Washington and Carver.
“Wow.” He glanced back and forth between them. “Are those supposed to be smiles?”
“Subtle, right?” Carver asked.
“If by subtle, you mean pissed and painful looking, then yep.” Ozzie nodded. “Totally subtle. So who kicked your cats?”
“First, let’s order,” Washington said. “I’m starving. Spending a morning running around and getting nowhere whets my appetite.”
Samantha turned and gave Ozzie That doesn’t sound promising eyes but said nothing as she got in line to place her order.
Ten minutes later, they were seated on barstools at the counter that ran the length of the front windows—all the better to keep an eye on the street—with loaded Chicago-style hot dogs and fries in red plastic baskets arrayed in front of them.
After they had a chance to dig in to the food, Washington said without preamble, “It’s shit. There’s just no other spin to put on it.”
Samantha was taking a bite of her hot dog but halted, lips open in a round O that made Ozzie wish he’d opted for a looser pair of jeans.
“What’s shit?” she asked.
“There’s no evidence to prove a connection between the Apostles and the Basilisks besides the vague confession of a gangbanger to a local reporter,” Carver answered from his seat at the far end of the group.
“Don’t forget that after that confession, the gangbanger”—Samantha made a face as if the term tasted sour on her tongue—“took a round to the head, and the reporter was followed out of a bar by a knife-wielding member of the biker gang in question.”
“Circumstantial,” Carver said, taking a giant bite of hot dog. “Or coincidental,” he garbled around a mouthful, “to use Judge Maple’s words.”
“Who’s Judge Maple?” Ozzie asked, swirling two fries through ketchup and welcoming the salty zing of flavor when he popped them into his mouth.
All the better to sop up the saliva caused by Samantha’s proximity.
He’d been careful not to get too close to her all day, fearing if he did, he’d touch her. And if he touched her, he’d keep touching her until—
“Maple is the judge we approached about getting a warrant to tap the Basilisks’ phones and confiscate their PCs,” Washington answered. “But like Carver said, the good justice didn’t think we presented a compelling enough case.”
Samantha’s jaw firmed, and one eyelid started to twitch. It was one of her tells. “What about the ballistics from the round you pulled out of Marcel?”
“Nothing.” Carver had already wolfed down his hot dog. His french fries were quickly heading toward a similar fate. “Doesn’t match any other cases. The gun that killed Mr. Monroe hadn’t been used in a previous crime.”
“And Bulldog?” Ozzie asked. “Any luck locating him?”
“Nope.” The detective shook his head. “He’s in the wind. I went to the motorcycle repair shop run by the Basilisks this morning. Had a chat with their president and vice president.”
“What are they like?” Samantha asked curiously. Ozzie did not notice the way her red lips wrapped around her hot dog when she took another bite. No, he did not.
“I’ll say this much.” Carver’s expression was anything but favorable. “Jesus might love them, but I think they’re a couple of assholes. And they claim they haven’t seen Bulldog in days.”
Samantha pointed a fry at the detective. “Bullshit.”
Carver shrugged. “You’ll get no disagreement from me. But I got no way to prove they’re lying.”
“And where were they when Marcel was killed?” Samantha demanded, dark eyes flashing. “Did you ask them that?”
