Page 15 of Convincing Alex (Stanislaskis #4)

After spending most of the morning kicking his heels in court, waiting to testify in an assault case, Alex returned to the

station to find his partner hip-deep in paperwork. “The boss wants to see you,” Judd said through a mouthful of chocolate

bar.

“Right.” Alex shrugged out of his jacket and dragged off his court-appearance tie. With his free hand, he picked up his pile

of messages.

“I think he meant now,” Judd said helpfully.

“I got it.” As he passed Judd’s desk, Alex peeked over his shoulder at the report in the typewriter. “Two p’s in apprehend, Einstein.”

Judd backspaced and scowled. “You sure?”

“Trust me.” He swung through the squad room and knocked on Captain Trilwalter’s glass door.

“Come.”

Trilwalter glanced up. If Alex often thought he was swamped in paperwork, it was nothing compared to what surrounded his captain.

Trilwalter’s desk was heaped with it. The overflowing files, stacks of reports and correspondence gave Trilwalter a bookish,

accountantlike look. This was enhanced by the half glasses perched on his long, narrow nose, the slightly balding head and

the ruthlessly knotted knit tie.

But Alex knew better. Trilwalter was a cop down to the bone, and he might still be on the street but for the bullet that had

damaged his left lung.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Stanislaski.” Trilwalter crooked his finger, then pointed it, gesturing to Alex to come in and shut the door. He leaned back

in his chair, folded his hands over his flat belly and scowled.

“What the hell is all this about soap operas?”

“Sir?”

“Soap operas,” Trilwalter repeated. “I just had a call from the mayor.”

Testing his ground, Alex nodded slowly. “The mayor called you about soap operas?”

“You look confused, Detective.” A rare, and not entirely humor-filled, smile curved Trilwalter’s mouth. “That makes two of

us. The name McNee mean anything to you? Bess McNee?”

Alex closed his eyes a moment. “Oh, boy.”

“Rings a bell, does it?”

“Yes, sir.” Alex gave himself a brief moment to contemplate murder. “Miss McNee and I have a personal relationship. Sort of.”

“I’m not interested in your personal relationship, sort of or otherwise. Unless they come across my desk.”

“When I arrested her—”

“Arrested her?” Trilwalter held up one hand while he took off his glasses. Slowly, methodically, he massaged the bridge of

his nose. “I don’t think I have to know about that. No, I’m sure I don’t.”

Despite himself, Alex began to see the humor in it. “If I could say so, Captain, Bess tends to bring that kind of reaction

out in a man.”

“She’s a writer?”

“Yes, sir. For ‘Secret Sins.’”

Trilwalter lifted tired eyes. “‘Secret Sins.’ Apparently the mayor is quite a fan. Not only a fan, Detective, but an old chum

of your Bess McNee’s. Old chum was just how he put it.”

Finding discretion in silence, Alex said nothing as Trilwalter rose. The captain walked to the watercooler wedged between

two file cabinets in the corner of his office. He poured out a paper cupful and drank it down.

“His honor, the mayor, requests that Miss McNee be permitted to observe a day in your life, Detective.”

Alex made a comment normally reserved for locker rooms and pool halls. Trilwalter nodded sagely.

“My sentiments exactly. However, one of the less appealing aspects of working this particular desk is playing politics. You

lose, Detective.”

“Captain, we’re closing in on that robbery on Lexington. I’ve got a new lead on the hooker murders and a message on my desk

from a snitch who could know something about that stiff we found down on East Twenty-third. How am I supposed to work with

some ditzy woman hanging over my shoulder?”

“This is the ditzy woman you have a personal relationship with?”

Alex opened his mouth, then closed it again. How to explain Bess? “Sort of,” he said at length. “Look, Captain, I already

agreed to talk to McNee about police work, in general, now and again. I never agreed to specifics. I sure as hell don’t want

her riding shotgun while I work.”

“A day in your life, Stanislaski.” With that same grim smile, Trilwalter crushed his cup and tossed it. “Monday next, to be

exact.”

“Captain—”

“Deal with it,” Trilwalter said. “And see that she stays out of trouble.”

Dismissed, Alex stalked back to his desk. He was still muttering to himself when Judd wandered over with two cups of coffee.

“Problem?”

“Women,” Alex said.

“Tell me about it.” Because he’d been waiting all morning for the chance, Judd sat on the edge of Alex’s desk. “Speaking of

women, did you know that Bess was engaged to L.D. Strater?”

Alex’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Used to be,” Judd explained. “One of the teachers at Holly’s school’s a real gossip-gatherer. Reads all the tabloids and

stuff. She was telling Holly how Strater and Bess were a thing a few months ago.”

“Is that so?” Alex remembered how they’d danced together at her party. Kissed. His mouth flattened into a grim line as he

lifted the cup.

“A real whirlwind sort of thing—according to my sources. Before that, she was engaged to Charles Stutman.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“You know, the writer. He’s got that hot play on Broadway now. Dust to Dust. Holly really wants to see it. I thought maybe Bess could wangle some tickets.”

The sound Alex made was neither agreement nor denial. It was more of a growl.

“Then there was George Collaway—you know, the son of that big publisher? That was about three years ago, but he married someone

else.”

“The lady gets around,” Alex said softly.

“Yeah, and in top circles. And, hey, Holly was really blown away when she found out that Bess was Roger K. McNee’s daughter.

You know, the camera guy.”

“Camera guy?” Alex repeated, feeling a hole spreading in the pit of his stomach. “As in McNee-Holden?”

“Yeah. First camera I ever bought was a Holden 500. Use their film all the time, too. Hell, so does the department. Well.”

He straightened. “If you get a chance, maybe you could ask Bess about those tickets. It sure would mean a lot to Holly.”

McNee-Holden. Alex ran the names over in his head while the noise of the squad room buzzed around him. For God’s sake, he

had one of their cameras himself. He’d bought their little red packs of film hundreds of times over the years. The department

used their developing paper. He was pretty sure NASA did too.

Wasn’t Bess just full of secrets!

So she was rich. Filthy rich. He picked up his messages again, telling himself it wasn’t such a big deal. Wouldn’t have been,

he corrected silently, if she’d told him about it herself.

Engaged, he thought with a frown. Three times engaged. Shrugging, he picked up the phone. None of his business, he reminded

himself as he punched in numbers. If she’d been married three times, it would be none of his business. He was taking her dancing,

not on a honeymoon.

But it was a long time before he was able to shuffle her into a back corner of his mind and get on with his job.

Sexy, the man had said, Bess remembered, turning in front of her cheval glass. It looked as though she were going to oblige

him.

Snug teal silk hugged every curve and ended abruptly at midthigh. Over the strapless, unadorned bodice, she wore a short,

body jacket of fuchsia. Long, wand-shaped crystals dangled at her ears. After stepping into her heels, she gave her hair a

last fluff.

She felt like dancing.

When her buzzer sounded, she grinned at her reflection. Leave it to a cop to be right on time. Grabbing her purse—a small

one that bulged with what she considered the essentials—she hurried to the intercom.

“I’ll come down. Hold on.”

She found him on the sidewalk, looking perfect in gray slacks and a navy shirt. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his

bomber jacket.

“Hi.” She kissed him lightly, then tucked an arm through his. “Where are we going?”

It gave him a jolt, the way their eyes and mouths lined up. As they would if they were in bed. “Downtown,” he said shortly,

and steered her left toward the corner to catch a cab.

He couldn’t have pleased her more with his choice of the noisy, crowded club. The moment she stepped inside, Bess’s blood

started to hum. The music was loud, the dancing in full swing. They squeezed up to the bar to wait for a table.

“Vodka, rocks,” Alex ordered, raising his voice over the din.

“Two,” Bess decided, and smiled at him. “I think I was here before, a few months ago.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Not his business, Alex reminded himself. Her background, the men in her life. None of it.

The hell it wasn’t.

“It doesn’t look like the kind of place Strater would bring you.”

“L.D.?” Her eyes laughed. “No, not his style.” She angled herself around. “I love to watch people dance, don’t you? It’s one

of the few legal forms of exhibitionism in this country.” When he handed her her drink, she murmured a thank-you. “Take that

guy there.” She gestured with the glass at a man who was strutting on the floor, thumbs in his belt loops, hips wiggling.

“That’s definitely one of the standard urban white male mating dances.”

“Did you do a lot of dancing with Stutman?” Alex heard himself ask.

“Charlie?” She sampled the vodka, pursed her lips. “Not really. He was more into sitting in some smoky club listening to esoteric

music that he could obsess to.” Still scanning the crowd, she caught the eye of a man in black leather. He cocked a brow and

started toward her. One hard look from Alex, and he veered away.

Bess chuckled into her glass. “That put him in his place.” Rattling her ice, she grinned up at him. “Were you born with that

talent, or did you have to develop it?”

Alex plucked the glass out of her hand and set it aside. “Let’s dance.”

Always willing to dance, Bess let him pull her onto the floor. But instead of bopping to the beat, he wrapped his arms around

her. While legs flashed and arms waved around them, and the music rocked, they glided.