RILEY
An hour later, I'm walking into the Tampa Police Department. My insides are still shaking like leaves dropping from the trees in my native New England, because news about the discovery of Doyle's body has shaken me to my core.
I hope I didn't reveal how rattled I was to my editor. I tried to maintain a poker face when he asked me to contact Gabriel, merely nodded. We discussed Doyle for a while longer, then I managed to escape by saying I wanted to check in on my police sources, who might know something about Doyle's demise.
This is not a lie. My sources surely know something. The question is, will it involve Gabriel? Do I want to know the answer to that question?
No. I don't. But I need to find out, if only to save my sanity.
Did he have the time to kill Doyle over the weekend? He was with me for Friday night and most of Saturday, except for his meeting. Which wasn't longer than a couple of hours. Enough time to off a man, though. Not enough time to drive a body to the Everglades, which is about three hours south.
But Gabriel Greco wouldn't personally dispose of a body. Hell, he might not even kill anyone himself, although I wouldn't put it past him. I can't imagine a man as powerful and connected as Gabriel would kill with his bare hands.
I pull open the door to the police station and shiver. Gabriel's hands. The ones that touched me, the ones that caressed me, the ones that brought me to unimaginable heights of pleasure. Were they the same hands that killed a city councilman?
I need answers.
Because I have another critical question: did Gabriel know Doyle was dead on Saturday night? Did he bring me to that party, harboring that knowledge? Did he order me into his bed while aware that the man I was investigating had shuffled off this mortal coil?
A thousand questions are running through my brain. My editor told me that Doyle's body had been found early Saturday evening. If Gabriel knew, he hadn't let on.
Of course, we were too busy fucking. What was he going to do, pause from licking my pussy to tell me the news?
I walk up the escalator, not bothering to stand and ride like I usually do. Instead of stopping to chat with the front desk clerk, I take a hard left toward the office of Joe Lewis, the police department's public information officer. Joe's one of my better sources in the department.
I'm hoping he'll have information on Doyle, since he knew I'd been poking around on the disappearance.
As always, Joe's door is open. In addition to fielding questions from the media, he also takes requests from the public and handles other community-oriented affairs. Like kids' tours and badge requests, real small potatoes stuff. I enter without saying hi and flop into a tired leather chair that faces his messy desk.
Joe looks up, his sixty-something eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good morning, Ms. Murphy. Please. Have a seat."
"What do you know about Doyle?" I demand.
"Nothing like hard hitting questions early on a Monday. Jeez, Riley, it's not even noon and you're coming in here with guns blazing."
"I'm not bullshitting, Joe. I want information. I need to write a story." What I need is the certainty that the guy I screwed the other night isn't the main suspect...
Joe chuckles. "I think everyone does in the city, now that this news has leaked out. But it's not our case. Not our jurisdiction."
I let out a sigh. This isn't what I want to hear. "Surely your guys are on it, though, right? Your homicide department? He was reported missing here in Tampa."
Joe scratches his neck and smirks. "That's all true, and yeah, homicide is involved. But we're not the lead so I don't know the full details."
"But you know some details?"
"Jesus, you're a pest." Joe gets up, walks around his desk and shuts the door. "You didn't hear this from me."
I lean forward in my chair. Now we're getting somewhere.
"There's a distinct possibility that it's a disgruntled father." Joe leans against the desk and crosses his arms.
My brows knit into a frown. "Father? What do you mean by that?"
"Remember what we discussed last week? Your tip that Doyle was into child porn?"
Disgust bubbles in my stomach, and I nod.
"Apparently, Doyle had some photos of a rather young teenage girl in his possession. She was thirteen, and her father found some texts from him. The father is an enterprising type, and discovered our city councilor's email address. He did a little detective work on his own and lured Doyle to a secluded spot, then played judge, jury, and executioner."
My mouth forms an O. This is like something ripped from the script of a crime drama I'd watch on TV. "Damn," I whisper. "That's quite a story, I'd love to know if it's true so I can get it in the paper."
Joe shakes his head. "Unfortunately, we're not the lead agency, so we can't release a thing. You're going to have to talk to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. I'll try to get you something by the end of the day. Obviously, it has great public interest for our citizens of Tampa. We want everyone to know they're not at risk. That a serial killer isn't after innocent citizens."
"It doesn't sound like there was anything innocent about Doyle." Fucker got what was coming to him, if you ask me.
Joe chuckles. "Not in the least. Although, it will be interesting to see what happens to his businesses. Will Doyle's widow continue his legacy, or will she sell everything?"
He returns to his seat behind the desk and points to a small fridge on a shelf behind him. "Want a soda?"
Joe's got a thing for diet soda. I shake my head. "Sticking to coffee today, thanks."
He opens the fridge door and pulls out a can, cracking it open. "Now it's time for you to answer a question of mine, young lady."
I grin. Joe sometimes pulls the dad card on me, and I let him, because he's a decent guy.
"What's this I hear about you and Gabriel Greco? Heard you were out on the town with him Saturday."
I roll my eyes. Jesus, does everyone in the city know we were at the fundraiser? I clear my throat. "There's nothing about me and Gabriel Greco. I went to a party with him. Was thinking of writing a profile of him."
"Oh, that's a good one. Like Greco would allow you to write an article on him." Joe takes a long guzzle and a drop of soda clings to the weathered skin of his chin. "I'm cautioning you to be careful. As your friend."
"That's interesting, considering Gabriel is all cozy with your boss, the police chief."
"All the more reason to be careful," Joe says in a sour tone.
"I promise to be careful, Dad," I tease. Of course, it's too late for that. I stand up, smiling. "Give me a holler if you can release anything officially. I'm going to pester the state attorney."
"Excellent idea. See you around, kid."
I leave the police station slightly less anxious than when I walked in.
Fewer signs are pointing to Gabriel as the killer. If what Joe said was true, it sounded like Doyle's perversions had finally caught up with him. Knowing what I know about Florida, there won't be a juror in the state that would convict the father of murder.
Just another tragic weird Florida story.
Outside the police station, I take my phone out of my purse and begin typing a note to Mike the editor. I don't want to tell him everything because he'll want to put up an unsourced brief in a breaking news alert for the web right away.
I think I have a lead, I type. Headed to the prosecutor's office to ask some questions.
I'm walking and typing, absorbed in my text, wondering if I should explain more, when my shoulder slams into something hard. I look up and gasp.
"Gabriel?"
His lips part, as if he's about to say something, as if he's just as surprised as I am. Once again, I'm captivated by his obsidian-hued eyes, flashing dark and consuming me with an intense gaze. Even in the harsh sunlight of the day, he's gorgeous. The tension between us hums, and I have to do everything in my power to ignore it.
"Are you following me?" I blurt.
A small, slightly wicked smile emerges, the same one that he had on his face right as he was about to lick my clit on Saturday night. A wave of awareness flows through me from the memory, and I shiver despite the warm, humid air.
"No," he says after a beat. "My lawyer and I were just coming from a real estate closing."
He gestures to a nearby tall building, and glances at a man in a suit standing about five feet away. The guy is jowly and middle aged, but his dark suit is crisp and obviously expensive.
"Mike, I'll catch up with you at your office in a few minutes," Gabriel calls to him. The man nods and walks off.
All of a sudden, I feel ridiculous for accusing him of stalking me. Of course he's doing business things. He's a businessman. Sort of.
I spot my car—the car he gave me—out the corner of my eye. My hand goes to my purse, fingering the keys. Should I hand them to Gabriel? Walk back to the newsroom? Tell Gabriel I want my old junk car back? There's no precedence for this kind of thing in my life, and I feel pinned by the intensity of his sexy stare.
I hold the keys in the air. "The car."
Gabriel quirks an eyebrow, and I realize how gorgeous he is in that cobalt blue suit, with a black tie and white shirt. "I tried to pick out something you'd like."
"I don't need it. Didn't want it. I'd prefer to have mine back."
He stifles a smile, almost as if he expected me to say these things. "I'm afraid it's too late for that. My mechanic friend said your car was too far gone, wasn't worth fixing. Plus, it was unsafe. Please accept this new one as a gift."
"A gift? It's worth more than I make in two years. And you know I'm not supposed to take gifts as a reporter."
"I don't think you're supposed to spend the night with sources, either," he shoots back.
Touché. I inhale a thin breath. "Why are you doing this?"
As Gabriel gently takes my arm, I feel as if my knees might give way. His touch runs through me like an electric shock, and it's all that I can do to remain upright. This man has the power to make me want to do the most scandalous things, right here in the middle of the city. We walk across the street, to a park, and I wonder if my sources inside the police department can see me.
He leads me to a bench and points. I sit, then he follows. Already, I miss his touch. Dammit, why didn't I put my sunglasses on? It's difficult to avoid staring at him.
"I feel like we ended on a bad note," he says.
I lick my lips, recalling how adorably sexy he looked when he brought me coffee in bed. That was just yesterday morning, exactly a day ago. God, this is awkward.
"I do too," I say softly, wondering if I should apologize. Maybe I'm the asshole here.
"I think we should talk. Really talk."
I roll my eyes. "Do we have anything to discuss? We had one night together, and you got what you wanted."
He tilts his head. "What do you think I wanted?"
It's difficult for me to even say the words, but the concept's been swirling around my brain since I left him. "You wanted to screw me so I wouldn't be able to write about you."
He blinks, then shakes his head. "That's not what I wanted, at all. It's true that I don't give a fuck about the article. But all I wanted was you."
I stop breathing for a few seconds. Did he really just say that?
"Well, you had me. And now that's done."
"Is it, though?"
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. I see a police officer I've interviewed come out of the station. This isn't the conversation I want to have in broad daylight, while I'm working, while I'm sweating. While I'm trying to write about a murder.
"Did you know that Doyle was dead Saturday night?"
He shifts in his seat, and for the first time since I met him, seems slightly uncomfortable. "Have dinner with me tonight."
"Will you tell me the truth about Doyle?"
"Yes."
"Fine. But I'll pick you up."
His smile is back, and it's as if the sun is shining brighter. "In your new car."
"Eight p.m. I'll choose the restaurant." I don't know why it's important for me to call the shots, but it is. I'm sure he's used to making all the plans with women, always.
But if he's shocked or annoyed, he doesn't show it. "I look forward to it. Now, I really have to go, because I have another property closing soon."
He leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
The kiss is like a drop of molten lava, running down my face and into my chest, headed straight for my heart.