Pregnant Protector. Anne Duquette Marie

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СКАЧАТЬ who knows how to donate. Look at his check.”

      Nick’s face burned as Lansky retrieved his check and waved it in the offender’s face.

      Damn that Lansky. Damn dress uniforms and funerals. And damn Julio’s killer to hell.

      CAPTAIN EMIL GIRARD WAS waiting as Nick stepped into his office. Seated at his desk, his boss looked thin and faded, almost to the point of frailty. But the correct impression of an elderly man soon to retire vanished when you noticed his eyes—alert and intelligent. Girard’s body might be past its peak, but his mind still functioned in high gear.

      “Sorry about Valdez. We tried to track you down,” Girard said quietly, gesturing toward a chair. “You don’t have a house phone, do you?”

      Nick shook his head and sat. He thought having an economical cell phone voice-mail system was enough. Sunbelt house phones were expensive, and like many practical residents, he did without one, using his cell exclusively for his personal calls; he had a police cell for work. Unfortunately, California’s cell towers couldn’t always handle heavy traffic or Mexican waters.

      “How are you holding up?” Girard asked.

      Nick’s response was clipped. “A hell of a lot better than his family. I didn’t even get to talk to them! I want to work this case, Captain. I’ve got a high percentage of solves, and—”

      “I’m familiar with your record, Detective,” Girard interrupted softly. “Just as I’m sure you’re familiar with policy. It’s against procedure for you to investigate your partner’s death.”

      Nick was prepared. “Then I’ll quit and investigate this case myself. I am this case. Julio died, when it should’ve been me. And with or without my badge, I’ll do whatever it takes to bring the man in, procedure be damned. Take your pick—it’s your call.”

      Girard looked away. Nick rose and reached for his police-issue 9 mm. “Fine. You have my resignation—effective immediately.”

      “Sit down, Detective. You can stay.”

      “I can?” Nick couldn’t believe it. “No refusal, lecture or a trip to the police psychologist before forced desk duty or a leave of absence?”

      “Later. Your co-workers warned me you’d pull a stunt like this. We need your help now. That is what you want, isn’t it?” Girard asked.

      “Yes. What’s the catch?”

      “You need a partner to watch your back.”

      “I already have…” For the first time, the full impact of his loss sunk in. He didn’t have a partner. He had a partner. Julio was dead.

      Nick’s hazel eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

      “Until we know more, you get one. She’s a cop, it’s her job and you have to sleep sometime.” Girard handed Nick a file from across the desktop. “Consider yourself joined at the hip until this case is solved.”

      Nick read the name on the file. “Lara Nelson? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

      “She’s never worked San Diego Downtown. She works Pacific Beach and La Jolla.”

      If he hadn’t been so grief-stricken, Nick would have felt envious. The seaside section of San Diego called Pacific Beach sprawled north from Mission Bay and Sea World. P.B., as locals called it, teemed with bronzed surfers, college students, bars, nightclubs and comedy clubs. P.B. ran smack into La Jolla’s multimillion-dollar cliffside homes of the rich and famous—San Diego’s version of Los Angeles’ Malibu Beach. And it definitely lacked the crime other parts of San Diego had.

      Grief didn’t quite suppress his curiosity. “How’d she manage that beat?”

      “She’s just come off compassionate leave. We’re easing her back in.”

      Nick avoided the too-sensitive subject of compassionate leave.

      “Besides, the Nelsons breed and train canines for us. We want them to keep providing those dogs. Nelson Kennels are the best, Cantello. The best.”

      “She’s not a detective?”

      “No, K-9.”

      “That’s no help!”

      “Doesn’t matter. She and her dog also do private bodyguard work. She’ll keep you in one piece. And she’ll understand your feelings. She just buried her fiancé—I understand he flew choppers for the hospital up near Yosemite.” The captain paused. “Anyway, she passed her psych evaluations. I want her to keep an eye on you. Emotional men with guns shouldn’t be working the streets alone—or at all, for that matter. If Lara Nelson tells me you’ve slipped up, you go on desk duty.”

      Nick swallowed hard at the thought of his new partner. He couldn’t work up resentment against anyone who felt the pain of loss he now experienced.

      “Or,” Girard continued, “straight to the seventh floor.”

      Nick didn’t want a trip to the police psychology unit. Profilers and counselors worked on the seventh floor. The only therapist he’d ever seen had been years ago during mandatory testing interviews for all rookies in the academy. A private person, he hadn’t enjoyed the experience, though he’d been classified as normal. His innate honesty would compel him to admit that he wasn’t feeling normal now.

      At present, he barely kept a lid on his emotions. And that inner whisper, the one saying he should have kept his own car in the rain, received the original phone call, come in and gone straight to “the scene,” had to be kept quiet. Because of a pleasure trip, others had supported his friend’s wife and two young sons. He hadn’t even seen them after the death and before they’d left for Mexico! What kind of cop wasn’t there for his partner’s family? He had to call them as soon as possible.

      Nick realized Girard was still talking. “…inter-agency cooperation. We’ve got the feds looking into this one. And Lara Nelson’s objectivity could be a plus. Lansky agrees.”

      Nick’s eyebrows rose. “Lieutenant Lansky?”

      “Yes. He and I both knew Lara’s mother—she was a cop—when she worked K-9,” Girard explained. “The Nelsons aren’t outsiders. I trust them. So does he.”

      “But the lieutenant’s—” Nick broke off. He’d been about to say: As close to retirement as you.

      A pause. “We won’t let Julio’s death go unsolved. Your job is to provide information. Nelson’s is to keep you alive.”

      “Get someone from Homicide. She’ll hold me back.”

      “Not as much as if you tried to do this as a civilian.”

      Nick backed off, knowing he’d pushed his luck as far as he could. He reached for the file and reopened it, scanning the photo. Lara Nelson, white, late twenties. She looked somewhat nondescript, as did most subjects in the small official photos. Her record showed brains and nerve. The blue eyes beneath blond bangs in the photograph spoke of determination, not foolishness. But then, determination hadn’t kept his partner alive. Nick took a deep breath.

      “When СКАЧАТЬ