He stared, and his jaw opened. “Not ... not the Cemetery Girl, the one in the news?”
She held his gaze. “Drummond used to come here to watch Butler practice. It’s how she met Jacks, I understand.”
“What has this got to do with me?”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Maddocks approaching. “Where can I find Jacks?” she said.
His features shuttered instantly. “If you’ll excuse me—I’m not permitted to fraternize with members or club guests. Nor talk about them, as per my contract.” He snagged his kit bag and rackets off a bench and strode off. She watched him go. Nice legs. Very nice legs. And ass.
Maddocks came to her side and followed her gaze. She glanced up at him, and those indigo-blue eyes held hers. A strange, palpable energy rolled off him in waves.
“And ifhehad walked into that nightclub?” he said.
“Don’t,” she said quietly, “ever raise that again.” She strode rapidly for the exit, her pulse suddenly racing. An odd mix of defensive anger and something akin to shame churned through her. She hated that he knew about that side of her, that he judged her, that he’d brought it up again within a work context. More so, she hated that she actually cared what he thought, and what that might mean.
It wasn’t until she was outside and waiting in the rain at his vehicle in the dark that he came out. She was drenched by the time he reached and unlocked the car. She didn’t say a word as she got in. He let her sit there, engine running, heater blasting, while he took his little mongrel on a walk down the curb. When he returned, he took his sweet time giving the animal water from a bowl he’d fished out of the back of the Impala.
“And what didyouget from Miss Sweden?” she demanded as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Crickets. And you from Tennis Boy?”
She tightened her jaw, looked out the window as he pulled into the street. “John Jacks is a member of the club, as we suspected. Serge Radikoff coaches him. Once he found out I was a cop, he clammed up. We’ll get more when we interview Rick Butler.”
Instead of taking the road that would lead them back to the station, Maddocks turned left, and at the same time he groped behind him for something on the rear seat, his eyes fixed on the wet road ahead.
“Where are we going?” she said.
“Can you reach that for me?”
“Reach what?”
“The blanket behind my seat. Drape it over Jack-O. Temps are dropping, and he doesn’t handle cold with his shaved fur. And since the second op on his leg, I think his immune system is down.”
She frowned at him, then reached into the back for the blanket. As she covered the dog, it growled and snapped at her. Angie jerked her hand back. “Stupid little mutt. He tried to bite me.”
A smile curved Maddocks’s lips.
“What? You think that’s funny?”
“Maybe he senses you don’t like him.”
“I don’t. What’s there to like?”
He cast her a sideways glance.
“No, tell me, really, why do you like this animal?” she said.
“Truth?”
“Yeah, truth.”
“Because he makes me feel good. He makes me feel like I made a difference in his life.” He shrugged, turned another corner, stopped at the lights, looked at her. “Which is more than you get from this job sometimes.”
Her own earlier conversation with her father filtered into her mind.
I put bad guys away. And I’m good at it, Dad. Damn good. I make a difference.
Do you?
