a sprinkling of white flowers in her hair, she got a number of stares and two whistles before she yanked open the door and strode inside.
“I need to see Detective Antonio, please,” she said to the bored-looking clerk, snapping gum as she lorded over the small, dingy waiting room from behind a high, faded-wood counter.
The clerk tapped on her computer, then announced, “Antonio’s off duty.”
He certainly promised to take the day off, Calla thought peevishly. And if a luxurious and wildly romantic wedding didn’t get him to finally make a move on her, she wasn’t sure anything would do the trick.
And yet, here she was, making an idiot of herself chasing after him.
“What about Lieutenant Meyer?” she asked the clerk.
This got a reaction. Staring down at Calla, the clerk raised her eyebrows—which were dyed purple. “You got an appointment?”
“No, but he’s a good friend.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the piece of cake she’d put in a plastic baggie to bring to Devin. “A mutual friend of ours got married tonight, so I brought him some cake.”
Along with her proof of friendship, she gave the clerk a broad smile.
In return, she received a narrow-eyed glare.
Having lived in New York for six years, Calla knew she should be used to this kind of suspicious response by now. But she was from Texas, for heaven’s sake. Beauty queen smiles and big blond hair were both a birthright and an entrée into any event, anytime. She had no idea how to deal with Purple Eyebrow People.
“What color is that?” the clerk asked suddenly.
Calla shifted her gaze to the cake. “My friend Shelby insisted on making her own wedding cake and really wanted the roses to be aqua, but I think they came out icy-green. Still it’s—”
“On your head,” the clerk clarified.
“Oh. It’s a mix of golden-blond with champagne highlights. I had a great girl who did it back in Texas, but it was a challenge to find somebody here who didn’t charge three hundred dollars.” She leaned closer, so she wouldn’t be overheard. A woman’s stylist was a private matter, after all. “Eventually, I found this great color specialist named Kirk. He’s at Tangles on Bleecker in the West Village. Tell him Calla sent you, and he’ll give you a ten-percent discount.”
“Cool.”
An instant later, the door to Calla’s right buzzed as the clerk released the lock leading to the station’s inner sanctum.
Connections. This town was all about connections.
With a bit more confidence—something she sorely needed to counteract the prissy flowers in her hair—she walked down the hall toward the squad room where Devin’s desk was located. The couple of times she’d been there, she’d noticed his lieutenant’s office in the corner. Devin had always spoken pretty highly of his boss, which meant he’d grunted and shrugged when she’d asked what it was like to work for Meyer.
Knocking tentatively on the closed door, she jolted when a deep, authoritative voice called out, “Come in!”
The office was fairly small, containing a wooden desk, a guest chair and a bookcase packed haphazardly with magazines and stacks of papers. A man of about fifty with dark brown hair graying at the temples sat behind the desk. He started to give her an impatient stare, but his expression turned into a charming smile as his gaze raked her body. He rose. “Can I help you?”
At least somebody was happy to see her. “I’m looking for Detective Antonio.”
The smile disappeared. “He’s not here.”
“So they told me out front. I was hoping you’d know where he was. He promised he’d come to my friend’s wedding, but he didn’t show up. He’s not at home, and he won’t answer his phone. I’m worried.”
“Antonio can take care of himself.”
“I’m sure he can. Mind if I sit?” She dropped into the guest chair before he could refuse. “How about some cake?” she asked, holding out the piece she’d shown the reception clerk.
With a sigh, he sat behind his desk and took the cake. “You’re his girlfriend?” he asked.
Well, I’ve been trying … “No, just a friend.”
Meyer said nothing for several moments. “You have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“I always thought Antonio was a sharp guy.” He shrugged. “Truth is, he’s been suspended.”
Calla felt the blood drain from her face. “Since when?”
“A couple hours ago.”
Explaining why he’d bailed on the wedding. But he could have called her. Maybe she and her gang—as he liked to call her and her friends Shelby and Victoria—could help. “For what?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t say. It’s an internal matter.”
“How much trouble is he in?”
“A lot.”
“He could lose his job?”
“Definitely.”
Though Devin was closemouthed about his feelings, his life, his past, well, pretty much everything, she knew he valued being a cop above everything else. “But he’s a great cop.”
“I think so.”
“Then why—” She stopped as the lieutenant shook his head. He wouldn’t budge. “Any idea where I can find him?”
“Try Paddy’s.”
“Already did.”
“O’Leary’s Pub, then. Two blocks east.”
“Thanks,” she said, rising.
He flashed a bright smile. “Anytime.”
Even though she wore four-inch heels, Calla walked to the pub.
Hadn’t she strutted across dozens of pageant stages? Hadn’t she paid her way through college with said pageant scholarship winnings and graduated at the top of her journalism class? Hadn’t she made a life for herself in the media capital of the world?
So why was her stomach clenched at the thought of seeing Devin? At the confrontation to come?
Gee, Calla, can’t imagine why you’d be nervous.
Maybe because she knew he’d been suspended before. A fact he’d told her, almost offhand, though he’d refused to give details.
Being naturally as well as professionally nosy, she’d researched his revelation six months ago. She’d discovered little about the cause for his punishment. Personal reasons relating to an open case was the official line, and Devin, being such an effusive guy—ha, ha—had, naturally, not filled in the blanks. With little to go on, and out of character for her, she’d been intimidated to probe him further about his clearly painful past.
Apparently that day had now come.
She was looking forward to challenging that Irish-and-Italian temper. Ha ha.
She nearly walked by O’Leary’s before noticing the ancient-looking oak door. B’ fhearr liom uisce beatha was burned into a plank of wood above the arched entrance. Something Gaelic, she’d imagine.
And possibly threatening, she added as she opened the door and saw the tiny, barely lit interior of the place and its patrons. If possible, it was a step down, as well as infinitely darker, than Devin’s usual hangout.
Why couldn’t the man have a beer at Applebee’s once in a while?
Movement in the bar ground