Page 11 of Shield
“Thought you were quitting,” he said, sitting back in his squeaky chair, then folding his hands over his expanding belly. His days of chasing criminals through the wild streets of Los Angeles were firmly behind him. As was evidenced by how large his behind was getting, too.
“So did I. Did you want something in particular or did you call me in here to admire my good looks? I will say that Isobel will not like you making passes at me.”
“My wife makes more passes at you than I ever could.”
I chuckled. That was true. Isobel Franks was a scandalous woman with a heart of pure gold. She had taken me under her wing the first time I’d met her, and she found out I was queer. She’d smashed my face into her substantial bosom at the captain’s yearly Fourth of July cookout for the men under him and told the rest of the idiots I worked with that if they wanted to come at me, they would have to go through her.
Not that I needed her protection. I was used to taking care of myself, but that kind of motherly attention was nice. I didn’t get it often.
“I got a call from a hockey player on the Storm.” He shuffled some papers, found his reading glasses, then fastened them to his large ears. “Oliver Cowan. Dispatch sent the call to me, as you weren’t in yet and weren’t replying to calls.”
Oh right, yeah, I’d turned my phone off when I had planned to get shitfaced then laid, in that order, last night. I’d not checked my text log when I had rolled out. Seemed more prudent to see what kind of new chicken videos were all the rage on TikTok after checking on the movie stars being arrested.
“My battery was dead. Did he say what he wanted?” I sat a little straighter. Oliver had been on my mind all day, and most of the night, until I’d gotten drunk enough to force him from my thoughts.
“Not precisely, only that he wanted to speak with you at your earliest convenience. Is he related to that clinic robbery yesterday? I don’t have your paperwork.” The flat look he shot me over the top of his glasses spoke fucking volumes. Guess I knew what I was doing this morning. Fucking reports. Maybe I could get Mack to do mine if I gave him a hash brown…
“Sorry, I got into something last night,” I mumbled, then quickly filled my supervisor in on what I had so far about the clinic robbery/mugging. “Seems the offender was there to deliver a message to the clinic owner. Sounds like typical strong-arm stuff that Baladin is known to employ.” I read over my notes on my phone. “The assailant exited the clinic at a fast pace, shouting to the patients in the waiting room about Baladin coming down hard on assholes.” I glanced up at Cap, who was processing. “Why he was tossing his boss’s name around, I don’t know. I’ bet he was tweaking and running his mouth to sound even tougher. Mack and I are going to the hospital today to talk to this Joe Baxter as soon as we get cleared by the doctors. They wouldn’t let us in to see him after the incident, so we’ll swing over there today.”
“Afteryou hand in your reports.”
“Sure, yeah, after that. I’ll call Cowan as soon as I return to my desk.”
“Okay, make sure you do. And do not leave this building without turning in your paperwork tome. I mean it, Winwood.”
“Yep, on it now. Here I go.”
I rose, tapped my brow with my thermos, and returned to my desk. Mack was typing away when I sat down. My bag seemed untouched. I opened it, dug in, and pulled out a hash brown. Mack’s gaze rose from his laptop to the tater goodness in my hand. His pupils widened in pure lust.
“Damn it, they gave me an extra hash brown.” They didn’t. I had ordered four to go with my three egg and muffin sandwiches, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “I’ll toss this your way, and never tell your wife that you ate takeout if you do my field reports from yesterday.”
He called me a dozen dirty names, insulted my clan even though I was not Scottish, and then took the hash brown from between my fingers like an eagle swooping on a beached salmon. Fare thee well deep-fried potato vivaciousness.
“I hate you,” Mack said around a mouthful of spud. His lips were slick with grease. He looked incredibly happy.
“You love me, and you know it,” I countered as I dialed the number Oliver had given me with his contact information yesterday. He picked up on the first ring. “Hello, Mr. Cowan; it’s Detective Winwood returning your call.”
“Thank you for calling back. Is there a way to talk to you privately? I’m at the barn right now.”
I heard the din of many male voices on the other end.
“Sure, I’d be happy to come to your farm.”
“No, not a farm. Barn. Sorry. Hockey-speak for a rink.”
“Ah, right? I knew that.”
“Morning skate will be over in about an hour. Can we meet for coffee somewhere?”
“Is this about the clinic case? Did you remember something important?”
“I think…well, I think it might tie in, but I’m not sure.”
To be honest, I’d have driven to any farm the man might have been at. Fucking Robby Rando last night was supposed to cure the itch I felt when this man’s voice entered my ear. Since I was half hard already, the sex last night must have been dismal. I didn’t recall any of it, but obviously, it hadn’t worked. I did a quick search of food places near the arena.
“That will work fine. Why don’t we meet at noon at that steakhouse a block down from the arena?”
There was a moment’s hesitation before he replied. “Yeah, sure, that’ll work. Noon then. I’ll reserve a table outside.”
