In His Protective Custody Page 2

  “I’m off duty,” Zane called back to the desk sergeant.

  “Not for another seven minutes,” the desk sergeant countered, pointing to the large clock that hung on the wall behind him. “C’mon back, Calloway. I don’t want to have to put you on report for failing to obey a higher-ranking authority.”

  Zane didn’t bother suppressing a sigh as he turned around. The white-haired sergeant had earned the right to pull rank. For the most part, Stubbs was a decent, fair man. But Zane was tired and he just wanted to go home and get something to eat.

  Or maybe to drink to wash away the taste of the day. He’d had a kid die on him today, a fifteen-year-old who had everything to live for and no reason to die except that he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time when an inebriated driver had lost control of his vehicle. Zane was in no mood to be accommodating.

  “Have a heart, Sarge. I pulled a double shift because Martinez’s wife had her baby three days early. Technically, I was off duty hours ago.”

  The sergeant looked at him over the rim of his reading glasses. It was that “no-nonsense” look he gave the rookies. It hadn’t intimidated Zane then, and it didn’t now.

  “I don’t deal in ‘technically,’ Calloway. I deal in phone calls. In good citizens who call in because they need us.”

  Returning to the desk, Zane rolled his eyes. “Spare me the violins, please.”

  Stubbs chuckled under his breath. Zane had never known anyone who actually chuckled before, but the sergeant did.

  “Don’t know what you’re missing, Calloway.” Stubbs tore off the page on which he’d written both the complaint and the name and address of the person calling in making the compliant and held it out to him. “Here. This is on your way home. A domestic violence case. Neighbor called it in. A Dr. Pul-lass-key,” he added, drawing out the name to get it right.

  Zane took the piece of paper with the information on it and frowned as he scanned it. Alleged domestic violence cases rubbed him the wrong way, but not for the reason most people would have expected.

  “Another neighbor with her ear pressed against the door, trying to hear what’s going on,” he commented under his breath.

  The sergeant heard him. Wide, squat shoulders rose and fell beneath the navy blue shirt in a careless, dismissive gesture. “We get a call, we’re obligated to check it out, no matter who it’s from.”

  Zane tucked the piece of paper into his pocket. He glanced at the desk sergeant’s craggy face. His work on the streets and four divorces had made Jacob Stubbs look older than his years.

  “Easy for you to say,” Zane told him, “sitting behind that desk.”

  Stubbs looked down his Roman nose at him. “That’s ’cause I’m the desk sergeant and you’re just a lowly officer.”

  “Not after I pass my exam,” Zane reminded him. It had been Stubbs who’d given him the heads up—and the books—about the exams, saying he was too damn smart to spend his days patrolling a beat. After a while, Zane had decided he had nothing to lose by studying. If he didn’t feel ready, no one was holding a gun to his head to take the exam.

  Never hurt to keep his options open.

  “Yeah, the exam,” Stubbs echoed with a laugh, knowing nothing goaded the young policeman on more than being dismissed. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Until then—” He let his voice trail off as he motioned Zane out the front entrance, his meaning clear.

  “Right.” Turning on his heel, Zane headed for the door one more time. “Waste of time, you know. Probably just another false alarm.”

  “Then it won’t take long,” the sergeant called after him.

  Taking out the paper again once he was outside the precinct, Zane glanced at the address. The sergeant was right. It was on his way home and wasn’t all that far away, about a mile from Patience Memorial, as he recalled.

  Of course, a mile in Manhattan wasn’t equal to a mile anywhere else, except maybe in Los Angeles, where the traffic was equally as maddening at any given time, night or day.

  Zane headed for the parking structure where he’d left his car.

  He’d probably make better time walking, even at this time of night, he reasoned darkly. But he had no intentions of doubling back to the precinct to get his car once he took down the neighbor’s report and talked to the couple who were supposedly fighting. No, once he checked this out, he was going to “check out” himself for at least the next eight hours and recharge some very badly depleted batteries.

  He’d left his vehicle on the third level. Once he located it, he got in and drove down the serpentine path to the street level. He was impatient to have this behind him.

  The traffic gods were kind to him this evening. Vehicles flowed at an even pace and he got to the address the sergeant had handed him in less than half an hour. He parked his car directly before the entrance, much to the apparent displeasure of the doorman, who attempted to point him in the direction of the building’s underground parking.

  “Won’t be here long enough to need underground parking,” Zane informed him in his no-nonsense, baritone voice. Deep and resonant, it didn’t leave any room for argument from anyone except the most foolish and reckless. Neither of which A.J. Green, the doorman, was. He stepped back as Zane entered the building. “Elevator’s on your right, Officer,” A.J. called after him.

  “I kind of figured that out,” Zane commented as he pushed the up button with his thumb.

  A minute and a half later he was knocking on the door of apartment 5E. The hall, he noted as he’d walked up to the door, was as silent as a tomb. There was no sound of an argument, heated or otherwise.

  Just as he’d expected.

  “Who is it?” a soft voice on the other side of the door wanted to know.

  “Officer Calloway,” he announced. “NYPD.” He stepped back two steps so that the woman could verify the information for herself if she looked through the door’s peephole. “We received a call from someone reporting some kind of domestic disturbance going on in this building.” Try as he might, he couldn’t quite manage to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Was that you?”

  Alyx opened the door, expecting to see, given the man’s tone, a slightly down at the mouth, scowling police officer. Most likely somewhat paunchy. Definitely not friendly.

  What she saw, instead, could have best been described as the answer to every woman under the age of a hundred’s fantasy dream man. At the very least, the man for whom the phrase “tall, dark and gorgeous” had been coined.

  Because he was.

  He was also scowling fit to kill.

  Chapter 2

  S omething about the officer’s tone put Alyx on the defensive. She studied his face attentively as she answered his question. “I made the call, yes.”

  He gestured impatiently around the well-lit hallway with its alabaster walls. “So where is this alleged disturbance?” he asked.

  “It was—” she emphasized the word because there was nothing but silence in the hallway now “—coming from the apartment next door. 5F,” she added in case his sense of direction took him to the apartment on the other side of hers.

  He turned his head toward 5F and remained quiet for a moment, straining to listen. Nothing but silence met his ear.

  “Sure it wasn’t just the television you heard?” he suggested. “Some of the programs on the cable channels can get pretty loud and violent.” Obviously, he thought this was the source of the commotion. But Alyx knew what she’d heard and she intended to stand by it, even if Mr. Drop-Dead-Gorgeous-Policeman was smirking at her.

  “It was the man next door,” she told him firmly, then added for good measure, “and he was shouting at his wife.”

  All right, maybe she had heard raised voices, Zane allowed. But that didn’t automatically mean that there had to be violence or abuse involved. “Some guys get a little hot under the collar and they don’t realize how loud they sound when they shout.”

  Why was this policeman so adamant about her being wrong about wh
at she’d heard? Was he a friend of Harry’s and trying to protect the man?

  “There was also banging,” Alyx insisted.

  “Maybe he slammed a few drawers or cabinet doors to knock off some steam.”

  “His wife had bruises.”

  The statement caught him up short. “You saw bruises?” Zane demanded.

  Moment of truth, Alyx thought. She could either lie and hopefully get him to go next door to confront the bully, or she could tell the skeptical-looking officer the truth and pray he’d still do the decent thing and question the man next door.

  Opening her mouth, Alyx was about to go with the first choice, but then she stopped. If this policeman caught her in a lie, he’d dismiss her 911 call and everything else she said or would say as merely being a case of an overactive imagination.

  So she went with the truth. “Yes. She tried to cover them up with makeup, but black and blue is a hard combination to camouflage if you’re looking at a person close up.”

  “If the domestic violence was in progress when you made the call at—” Zane paused to look at the paper he’d been given to confirm the time “—twelve-fifteen, when would the alleged battered wife have had the time to try to cover the bruises up with makeup?” he asked suspiciously.

  She’d hoped not to have to admit to this part. “I saw the last set of bruises. Or what I assume were the last set.”

  Just as he’d thought. His deep-blue eyes pinned her, leaving no wiggle space whatsoever. “And exactly when was this?”

  Her reluctance increased—but she really had no choice. She doled out the information between gritted teeth. “Two weeks ago. In the elevator. He was with her. And she looked very afraid,” she stressed. The officer appeared utterly unconvinced. Frustrated, Alyx added, “He came on to me. His wife was standing right there.” Didn’t he see what a reprehensible reptile Harry was?

  “This got under your skin,” he theorized. “So are you trying to get back at him now by accusing him of being guilty of domestic abuse?”

  How the hell had he gotten that out of what she’d just said?

  Her eyes flashed. “I am not trying to get back at anyone,” she informed him indignantly, struggling to hold on to her frayed temper. “I am trying to prevent someone from getting hurt—or worse. I’m a doctor,” she informed him. “I know the signs that go with abuse. I also have excellent hearing. He was threatening her—and slapping her around, from the sound of it.” She drew herself up, wishing she was taller than her five-foot-four stature. “Now if you don’t want to go next door and talk to him, send over someone who will.”

  The woman was feisty, he’d give her that, Zane thought. Whether or not that was a good quality in this particular case he hadn’t made up his mind yet.

  “I will talk to him,” Zane replied, his voice distant.

  It was essentially a matter of crossing his “t’s” and dotting his “i’s.” Otherwise, he would have told her to do whatever she felt she had to do and just walked away.

  It wasn’t indifference on his part that was the deciding factor in the way he viewed this case. Neither was it that he condoned battery of any kind, whether it was against a wife or a husband. But he had seen the extent of damage a false accusation could create, the kind of havoc it could bring about.

  He’d lived through it.

  In an effort to get sole custody of her children when she divorced his father, Annie Calloway had filed charges of domestic abuse against her husband. False charges of domestic abuse. His father, a man he’d idolized from the first moment he drew breath, had been devastated that the woman he loved would have accused him of such a terrible thing.

  At first, Jack Calloway fought the charges tooth and nail, but the court sympathized with her and ruled in his mother’s favor. Eventually, despondent and drinking heavily, his father wound up losing everything, including his job on the police force. His friends tried to shield him, but Jack was a lost cause. Unable to face what he had become and, more importantly, unable to cope with the emptiness of life without his family, Zane’s father killed himself using his service revolver.

  His mother was the first to be informed of what had happened. Realizing that she had been instrumental in his death, Annie was never the same. Neither were Zane and his younger brothers. All three of them had a love-hate relationship with their mother that went unchanged until the day she died—a little more than a year ago.

  Because of that, because of what his mother had caused to happen and then never attempted to rescind, Zane had trouble trusting women—all women—and was particularly distrustful of reports of domestic abuse. It was far too easy to wield an accusation as a weapon and gain favor with a sympathetic presiding judge.

  As he turned to knock on the next door, Zane became aware that the petite blonde had left the shelter of her apartment and was not just out in the hall, but standing right next to him. So close that he could actually smell her perfume. It slipped in and out of his consciousness like a seductive whisper.

  That was all he needed, a distracting sidekick. “Afraid you’re going to miss some of the show?” he asked her.

  She should have brought a sweater with her to prevent getting frostbite. The officer’s tone was that cold. What was his problem?

  “I accused him, I should be able to face him,” she answered, attempting to approximate the same tone that Calloway had used.

  She didn’t quite achieve it. Friendliness was more her byword. Cold hostility didn’t begin to enter the bargain. She thought of Harry beating his wife, secure in the feeling that no one would challenge him and the coldness came, belatedly.

  “Why don’t you just wait in your apartment?” Zane suggested crisply. “If there’s anything to tell, I’ll fill you in when it’s over.”

  When it was over, he’d leave, she thought, fairly confident that she’d pegged the officer’s mode of operation. He was the type to only keep the promises he deemed worthy of being kept.

  She made no effort to budge. “Doing it my way saves you an extra step,” she answered with a bright, broad, forced smile on her lips.

  Just then, the door to 5F opened in response to Zane’s knock. A slightly rumpled Harry McBride stood in the doorway wearing only pajama bottoms. He looked from the officer to her, an affable, slightly puzzled expression on his face. She’d never seen anyone appear so bemused and seemingly innocent before.

  The man’d had practice, Alyx realized. Which made him diabolical.

  “Hello.” Harry nodded at Alyx, then looked back to the policeman. “Is there something I can help you with, Officer—?”

  “Calloway,” Zane told him, filling in the blank. “There’s been a report of a domestic disturbance taking place in your apartment.”

  Harry seemed properly chagrined. “My fault,” he admitted freely. “I’ve got a tendency to get a little carried away when I get excited about something I’m talking about. I don’t realize how loud I can get sometimes.” He deliberately looked at her and said with a sheepish, apologetic smile, “If I disturbed you, I am really sorry. I’ll try not to let it happen again,” he promised solemnly.

  Alyx didn’t believe him. Not for a moment. Didn’t believe a word of Harry’s charmingly recited explanation or his promise to her. He was just going through the motions to get rid of the policeman. She’d bet her life on it.

  “Would you mind if we spoke to your wife?” Zane requested.

  Harry hesitated, seemingly concerned. “Abby’s had rather a hard day and she just now managed to drop off to sleep, but if you feel that it’s necessary to talk to her, I can wake her up for you.” With that, Harry turned on his heel, ready to go off to the bedroom and wake up his wife to accommodate the police.

  Zane stopped the man before he went to his bedroom.

  “No, that’s all right. Let your wife sleep. Just remember to try to rein in your ‘enthusiasm’ next time,” he cautioned the man. His business over, he saw no reason to put the other man out any further. “Have a good night
, Mr. McBride. What’s left of it,” he added with a side glance toward Alyx.

  With that, he turned away from the apartment.

  “Good night,” Harry echoed behind him, shutting the door.

  “And that’s it?” Alyx demanded, hissing the words at Calloway as the police officer began to walk away.

  He stopped and deliberately pinned her with a less than charitable eye. “Unless you can think of something else.”

  It was clear by his tone that he didn’t expect to be on the receiving end of any further input from her. His job here was done. He had a cold beer waiting for him in the refrigerator and he wanted to get to it.

  “Unless I can think of something else?” Alyx echoed, staring at him in disbelief. “Yes, I can think of something else. How about talking to his wife? How about looking at his wife? One bruise one time means that she’s being clumsy. More bruises means that she’s someone’s idea of a punching bag. Women like that need to be helped, to be guided. Because after a while, they start to think that they deserve it.”

  “Letting your imagination run away with you a little, aren’t you?” Zane asked.

  Still out in the hallway, he cocked his head to listen. “Well, it looks to me like the battling factions have decided to call it a night.”

  “They weren’t battling factions,” Alyx corrected tersely. “Battling factions would indicate that there were two sides. From the sound of it, Harry was the only one getting in his licks. All his wife was doing was whimpering pathetically like some wounded, frightened animal.”

  Another woman “crying wolf.” She was wasting his time and he was tired. “Uh huh. Well, I don’t hear anything now. Look at it this way, maybe you scared him into acting responsibly.”

  By the sarcasm in his voice, she knew the policeman didn’t believe that—and neither did she. Harry McBride was a bully who would continue being a bully as long as he felt that no one would challenge him and he could get away with it.

  About to leave, Zane hesitated for a moment. It was always good to cover your tail. His father had taught him that while he was still on the force, still part of his life. There were times when he couldn’t help wondering how much more he would have been able to learn from his father had his father not cut his life so short.