Hero Undercover: 25 Breathtaking Bad Boys Page 17

  "I am not a wily woman, and I'm not trying to get the better of you," she protested. "How can you think such a thing?"

  "Ruby Rose, though I doubt that's your real name, you've been warned. Either tell me what the hell is going on, or leave, but the performance ends now. If you continue this charade, I'll—"

  "But you wouldn't! Y-you couldn't!"

  "Spank you?"

  His hand suddenly landed on her backside with a hard, stinging smack.

  "Aaargh, how dare you?"

  "Now that's out of the way," he calmly replied. "Are you going to tell me the real story, or am I leaving and locking up for the weekend? There's a bar stool around the corner that has my name on it and I'm thirsty."

  "That hurt!"

  "Of course it hurt, and if you end up over my knee, it'll hurt a whole lot more. Make up your mind, but you know what will happen if you try to spin me any more of that phony story and dumb blonde routine."

  Patrick almost felt sorry for her. Almost, but feeling sorry for her was no-man's land. Was she scared? Was she there to pull a scam? Was the body of her dead husband really lying on the floor in their home? Until he had some answers, he couldn't allow himself to feel anything more than he did, which was already too much.

  "How about I join you for that drink at the bar?" she said, her voice suddenly changing from shrill and defensive to soft and sweet.

  Her suggestion was unexpected, but he found it appealing. Socializing with clients, or even potential clients, wasn't something he often did, but a couple of drinks might be just what she needed to ease her nerves and help her drop her guard, and whether he wanted to be or not, he was intrigued.

  "I'd be more comfortable in a place like that," she continued. "At least, there will be people around and I won't have to worry about ending up—uh—you know."

  "What? Over my knee getting your bottom spanked? I wouldn't count on that," he quipped. "My hand doesn't embarrass easily, so don't think you can play fast and loose with the truth just because you're in a public place."

  Taking a deep breath, she turned away and picked up the paper bag.

  "You're so…" she mumbled, as though talking to herself.

  "So what?"

  "Tough," she replied, crinkling her nose. "You're not what I expected at all."

  "I don't like my time being wasted, and I need to know what I'm getting into before I agree to anything. Do you still want to join me?"

  "Yes."

  Chapter 3

  Knowing the tavern would soon be busy, Patrick led Ruby to a table in a quiet corner then left her to buy their drinks. Jimmy, the bartender and owner, had noticed the beautiful blonde on Patrick's arm and glanced across at her as he handed Patrick the two glasses of bourbon.

  "Hey, Patty, who's the broad? She's a looker."

  "Good question."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means she's a mystery woman, and so is the reason she walked into my office."

  "You'll get your answers," Jim said confidently. "You know what they say."

  "What's that, Jim?"

  "The wine goes in; the truth comes out."

  "Yeah, but she's drinking what I am. Bourbon."

  "It'll still work," Jim said with a chuckle. "Just keep plying her."

  "Sure hope so."

  Ruby had removed her coat, and as Patrick walked back to their table, he could see her bounteous breasts beneath her fluffy, tight-fitting sweater. Taking a breath and trying not to stare, he set down the glasses, and rather than sit opposite her, he settled into the chair catty-corner to hers.

  "Do you want me to question you, or would you rather just start talking?"

  "I'm not sure where to begin," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe a question would be helpful."

  She seemed willing to talk, and he allowed himself some hope. Maybe he would finally get to the bottom of the blood-soaked scarlet stiletto sitting in the paper bag.

  "Let's start with the basics. Is your husband lying dead in your house?"

  "Of course!"

  "And you called Rhoda for my number?"

  "Sort of."

  "What does that mean? You either did or you didn't."

  "I've had your number for a while."

  "Then why did you call Rhoda?"

  "Because I was panicking and I couldn't remember where I'd put it. I'd hidden it away, in case I needed it, but after walking in and finding, uh, what I found, I couldn't remember where it was."

  "I see," he muttered, thinking she really must have been flustered when she'd arrived at his office to lie about such a small thing. "You said your husband had enemies. Anyone specific you can think of who's capable of doing such a thing?"

  "I hava an idea."

  "I'll ask you more about that in a minute. Why didn't you call the police?"

  "I was really scared. I'm the obvious suspect. I'm the one who has the most to gain, at least as far as I know."

  He paused. He'd been attracted to her looks, but the ditzy girl with the inviting mouth and slightly high voice had been replaced by a soft-spoken confident woman, and he was finding her even more appealing.

  "Is Ruby Rose your real name?"

  "As a matter of fact, it is," she replied, fixing him with a steady gaze. "But Rose is not my last name. My name is Ruby Rose, but my last name is Rogan, that's my married name. My maiden name is Carstairs."

  "Why did you put on the giddy girl act?"

  She picked up her glass, took a drink, then sent her eyes across the room. Patrons were beginning to stroll in, but Patrick knew it wasn't their presence that had distracted her. She simply didn't want to answer the question.

  "Ruby, if you want me involved, you have to spill the beans."

  "You'll judge me harshly," she murmured, still staring at the people milling around the bar.

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Because you're a man."

  "Whoa! Because I'm a man? Talk about judging someone harshly!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Don't you realize that's what you've just done?"

  "Oh, uh, yeah, I guess I might have," she said, her brow crinkling into a frown as she shifted her gaze back to him.

  "I need to know. I promise to keep an open mind."

  "If you insist," she said with a dramatic sigh. "Men want to help me when I come across that way."

  "That doesn't speak well of us."

  "No, but it happens to be true."

  "I'd much rather deal with the woman I'm talking to now," he said with a warm smile.

  "I'm relieved to hear it," she said softly. Then, leaning a little closer, she added, "I was hoping you'd say something like that."

  Abandoning the sudden compulsion to lock her hair in his fingers and devour her mouth, he picked up his glass and took a hefty swallow.

  "What happened with your husband?" he asked, focusing back on his information gathering. "Your marriage, I mean. Your personal life with him."

  "It's not easy to talk about," she said, sighing again. "None of it."

  "Neither is sitting here pulling teeth."

  "I don't mean to be difficult. The truth is I'm not sorry my husband is dead. He was a bastard. I couldn't stand him."

  "How long were you married?"

  "Almost five years. He said he married me so he could have a wife with the initials R.R.R."

  "He said that?"

  "Often. A triple threat, he called it. He also referred to me as Rolls Royce Ruby. An easy ride and great to be seen with."

  Patrick grimaced. He was beginning to get a much clearer picture of the murdered man. Bastard was right.

  "Was there ever any romance?"

  "This is another you'll judge me harshly moment, but I hope you won't. I was in the chorus of Antony and Cleopatra at the Mansfield Theater. He came backstage one night and took a fancy to me. He started taking me to dinner at all the best places and giving me expensive presents. When he popped the question, I said yes, but I was saying yes to a life withou
t worry. At the time, I was living in a place smaller than your office. It was horrible."

  "He was older than you, I assume."

  "Almost twenty years, and God forgive me when I say this, but when I came home and found him dead…"

  "You were relieved?"

  "For about three seconds, then I saw my red shoe."

  "I don't understand."

  "Al, that's my husband, sorry, was my husband, hated those shoes. He said they made me look like a tramp."

  "Go on."

  "My shoe, it wasn't next to him. The h-heel of it," she stammered, her face crinkling in distress. "I can't stand to even think about it. The heel—it was in one of his eyes."

  She had breathed the words, and as she grabbed her glass and brought it to her lips, Patrick saw her hand was trembling.

  "I'm sorry," he said softly, leaning closer and tentatively placing his arm around her shoulder. "That must have been horrific."

  "Then it got worse."

  "How could it get worse?"

  "I realized I had to get it out," she whispered, then carefully placing her glass back on the table, she dropped her head into her hands.

  Just the thought of it made him squeamish, and he realized she must have been truly petrified of being falsely accused if she'd been able to remove her shoe from her husband's eye socket.

  "Sorry. It was…there are no words," she said woefully as she raised her head. "Everything was a disgusting mess, but I still had gloves on, thank goodness. I reached down, wrapped my fingers around the toe, closed my eyes, and then tried to decide whether to yank it out or slowly pull."

  "Are you sure you want to talk about this part of it? It's not something I need to know."

  "Actually, it's helping, unless you'd rather I didn't."

  "No, it's fine. Go on."

  "I did it gradually, mostly because I was scared. I didn't know if blood would spray everywhere. There was this weird gurgling pop, then it was out. I didn't look back. It was too gruesome."

  "Did many people know about your husband's dislike of those shoes?"

  "Everyone! He'd get drunk and start cursing about them, but he refused to let me throw them away. He said I had to keep them so I wouldn't forget how he'd saved me."

  "Charming."

  "The police would have come to a natural conclusion."

  "Not necessarily. Is there anything else about the two of you I should know?"

  "He liked to show me off."

  "How?"

  "Lots of ways, but I'd rather not talk about that."

  "No problem."

  "There is one other thing, not about Al, but…"

  "Go on."

  "My other scarlet stiletto. It's missing."

  Chapter 4

  Patrick's head began to swim. Ruby's short declaration was deeply disturbing. Did it mean another murder was in the offing? Taking the last gulp of his bourbon, he set down his glass. It was time to act.

  "Finish your drink and put on your coat. We have to leave."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To the police station. You're going to tell them everything you just told me. If the body's been found, they'll be looking for you, and believe me, it'll be a whole lot better if you go in voluntarily. You don't want them picking you up."

  "And if it hasn't?"

  "So much the better. When they ask you why you came to me rather than call them, just tell them the truth, and Ruby, no ditzy broad act!"

  "They'll arrest me," she declared, panic in her voice. "They will, I know they will."

  "Do you want me to help you?"

  "Isn't that obvious?"

  "Then you've got to trust me, and starting right now, you'll do as you're told. If you don't—"

  "What? You'll spank me?"

  "Yep. Now grab your coat and let's go."

  "You will not!"

  "Should I bend you over the table right here? Will that convince you?"

  "I can see you're going to be impossible," she retorted, rising to her feet and lifting her coat from the back of her chair. "I'll do what you say. Seems I have no choice."

  "You got it! Come on, Betty Grable, let's go."

  "I'll take that as a compliment," she quipped as he bustled her through the bar.

  "Take it any way you like; just do as you're told."

  As they stepped outside, they were greeted by heavy drizzle promising to turn into rain, and leaving her under the canopy, he stepped into the street and hailed a cab. She'd told him a wild story, and he didn't know why he believed her, but he did. He also had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. A feeling that she was in imminent danger. They hurriedly climbed into the taxi, and after instructing the driver to take them to the 19th Precinct on 67th Street, he took her gloved hand in his. It reminded him of her comment, I still had gloves on, thank goodness.

  "Ruby, what did you do with the other gloves?"

  "I threw them out the taxi window on my way to your office. I always have an extra pair in my purse." Pausing, she added, "Are you sure we're doing the right thing?"

  "I was a cop," he said, hoping he sounded reassuring. "I know what I'm doing. You'll be walking into the station with me at your side. Try not to worry. I'll be with you every moment."

  "Thank you, Patrick, and I know you were a cop. Rhoda told me. It was one of the reasons I knew I'd come to you if I ran into trouble, though I never thought it would be something like this!"

  He could feel her guard slipping, and she unexpectedly squeezed his hand. His pulse ticked up, and he squeezed hers in return.

  "I knew something was wrong, a few weeks ago," she said softly. "Al was acting even grumpier than usual. I told Rhoda I was worried, and that's when she mentioned you. She's such a talker; I knew about your background in five minutes. Funny though, she never did tell me if you caught Harry cheating."

  "It was all in her head. Damn, sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

  He never revealed a client's information. Something was happening between them, and it was happening fast.

  "I promise I won't say anything," she said softly. "I'm glad you told me. I never saw Harry as a cheater."

  "You said you had an idea about your husband's killer," he said, wanting to change the subject and trying to ignore the renewed stirring in his trousers. "Who do you think it is?"

  "Frank Salerno and Joseph Cavelli. They're creepy."

  "What do you mean by creepy?"

  "They were always leering at me and making suggestions. Anyway, they're in the wholesale liquor industry. Spirits, not wines. Ever hear of Rogan's Restaurants?"

  Patrick let out a whistle. There was Rogan's Steakhouse near Wall Street, Rogan's Rustica, an Italian restaurant in Little Italy, and Rogan's Seafood Grill on the Upper East side.

  "Your husband was that Rogan?"

  "He was, and Salerno and Cavelli were his liquor suppliers. He switched to them, three, maybe four months back. They were at the house about a week ago. I came home from shopping and heard them fighting with Al."

  "You should have told me it was that Rogan you were married to."

  "Why, what difference does it make?"

  "You're high-profile, Ruby. You'll be easily recognized. Did your husband have partners?"

  "No, he ran everything by himself, though each of the restaurants has a manager. I don't know what will happen to the business now."

  "I think I do," he grimaced as the cab pulled up to the station house. "Here we are and, Ruby, tell the truth. It's lying that catches people out. Never lie to the police."

  "That's funny."

  "Funny?"

  "Yeah. Al always said, never tell the police anything, and if you do, make sure it doesn't make sense."

  "And look what happened to him," Patrick remarked. "Don't be afraid. I know these guys. They'll do right by you."

  He paid the cabbie, and they hurried through the rain and into the front door of the station. As he walked her up to the counter, though her hair was mussed from the weather, she turned
every head in the place, and the desk sergeant personally escorted them through to Earl Baxter's office. Earl was a senior detective, and at one time, Patrick's mentor. Earl listened attentively as Ruby nervously told her story, then leaned back in his chair, lit up a cigarette, and nodded his head.

  "Everything you just told me sounds plausible, and it's good you came in, Mrs. Rogan. Truth is I have men out looking for you."

  "You understand why I panicked?"

  "Sure, but if you'd left that red shoe behind, it would have helped you," he said, pointing to the paper sack. "Think about it. If you were the one who murdered your husband, would you leave evidence like that behind?"

  "I see what you mean."

  "Al Rogan was a big guy. I saw where he was murdered, and it's a mess. You show no signs of being in a fight. I find it hard to believe you had a scuffle with him and came out of it unscathed, poker or no poker."

  "It was Salerno and Cavelli," she said earnestly. "I'm sure of it."

  "Mrs. Rogan—"

  "Ruby, please call me Ruby."

  "Ruby, we can't be sure of anything at this point, but I will tell you that we've had a series of liquor truck hijacks and we're pretty sure those two are behind them. We also know they've been muscling their way into the restaurant business. It's possible they tried to bully your husband into bringing them in and he refused, but even so, we have no proof they were there."

  "This isn't good," Patrick muttered, a deep frown crossing his forehead. "Ruby could be in danger."

  "Are you the sole heir of your husband's estate?" Earl asked, understanding exactly what Patrick meant. "Did he have partners? Any relatives who will be taking over the management of Rogan's Restaurants?"

  "The only family I know of is in Ohio, or Idaho, somewhere in the Midwest, but he had no contact with them."

  "I'm going to order protection for you," Earl said vehemently.

  "You think they'll come after me?"

  "If they are behind this, or even if they're not, they'll probably approach you with a deal."

  "What should I do?"

  "Tell them you're not in charge and they need to talk to Al's brother," Patrick suddenly interjected.