Hidden Agenda. Maggie Price

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      Had the vicious murder of his wife transformed Reilly into one of those cops? Had the pain and trauma—and no doubt, the guilt—he had suffered transformed him into a rogue who had become judge, jury and executioner?

      Before leaving the SEU, Carrie would know the answers to those questions.

      Chapter 2

      Linc had decided to bring Carrie McCall up to speed in the drab, windowless interview room that jutted off the main squad room. With various printouts, photographs, rap sheets, mug shots and the detailed plan he’d drawn up for the operation at The Hideaway, they had a mountain of paperwork to go over. The scarred table in the room’s center was big enough to spread out everything. What he hadn’t factored into the equation was that the interview room was small enough to take on an intimate edge when he enclosed himself there with a woman who wore a kick-a-man-in-the-gut perfume.

      What the hell had he been thinking? he silently berated himself while watching her leaf through surveillance photos. Her gaze was intense, her demeanor serious as she examined the pictures of people and vehicles that had shown up in The Hideaway’s parking lot over the past nights. Just because she was all business didn’t change the fact she looked like a million dollars, with her perfect face and that mass of coppery hair that slid with each subtle movement past her shoulders to her breasts.

      A cool, composed, sexy million dollars.

      He averted his gaze to one of the bare walls, painted an institutional green. It annoyed him that just by sitting across a table from him she could deflect his attention from the case that should have his total concentration.

      “From the outside, The Hideaway looks like a good-size place,” she commented while shuffling the photos.

      He felt an additional twist of irritation when it took his thoughts a second to click off her and on to business. In the two years since Kim’s death, he had barely noticed any woman, much less had one seemingly take over his mind.

      In a flash of intuition, he knew that no matter how his new partner handled this assignment, even if she made no mistakes, she was going to give him a great deal of trouble.

      The sort of trouble he didn’t want or need.

      “The Hideaway was once a farmhouse that’s been enlarged,” he said finally. “There’s a main bar room for drinking and dancing. Another for playing pool, with a handful of smaller rooms jutting off it. I’ve got a layout of the interior which we’ll go over.”

      “I never heard about this place while working patrol.” She glanced up from the photos, her blue eyes intense. “I rode one of the far northwest districts and The Hideaway is way southeast, so that’s probably why. How long has it been in operation?”

      “Long enough for people who live in the area to complain about the drunk and speeding drivers, loud music and everything else that goes along with a place like that.”

      “Why not put a couple of traffic units out there to pull over the customers after they drive off? Cite the bar owner for noise violations? Things like that.”

      “We did. Then one day a thirteen-year-old boy took a detour by The Hideaway and found skin magazines in the Dumpster.”

      “Thirteen years old?” Carrie angled her chin. “Don’t tell me that young man complained about the content of the magazines.”

      “Actually, he believed he’d struck gold, until his mother found them under his mattress. She confronted the kid and he ’fessed up to where he’d found the stuff. She called the mayor’s office, threatening fire and brimstone if the city allowed—and I quote—that ‘den of sin’ to continue operating. The mayor’s up for re-election and the woman promised to get her church’s congregation to campaign against him if he didn’t take action. The mayor called the chief and ordered him to do whatever it takes to shut down The Hideaway.”

      “Do we have any idea what all is going on there?”

      “Gambling, illegal liquor distribution, live sex acts.”

      “Sounds like quite the party place.”

      “An understatement. About the same time the irate woman called the mayor, one of my snitches gave me a tip about the activity going on there. I sent a report to Quintana.” Linc kept his expression neutral. He had no intention of telling his new partner about the covert role he’d played in engineering this assignment. He had finally caught the scent of his wife’s killer, and it led to The Hideaway. “When the order to shut down the bar came from the chief, Quintana assigned the case to me since I already knew about the place.”

      “So, how do you have this operation set up?”

      “Quintana and I agreed that if a couple of guys went in to scope out The Hideaway, they’d get viewed as either holdup men or cops. Either way, all criminal activity would stop while the unknowns were there. That happened, we’d have nothing to make arrests on.”

      “And the mayor gets real unhappy.”

      “Exactly. On the other hand, a man and woman go in and cozy up to each other, they’re viewed as married, or maybe just messing around. Takes the heat off.”

      “Makes sense,” she said, looking back at the photos. “From the dress of people, I’d guess the place gets a mix of clientele. Some cowboy wannabes, construction worker types. Blue-collar guys. And pickup trucks are the vehicle of choice for the majority.”

      “Right on all points.” Linc gestured toward the stack of criminal history sheets the Records Bureau had compiled from his list. “Over thirty percent of the people who own those pickups have felony convictions. A couple of robberies. Assaults. Burglaries. Indecent exposure. Like you said, a real mix.”

      Carrie nodded. “So, the dress of the day for us is jeans and boots.”

      Linc took in her stylish sea-foam-green sweater, the trendy gold chain looped at her neck, the matching earrings. If she even owned a pair of jeans, they probably had some designer logo stitched on the butt. “The right kind of jeans and boots, McCall. The basic rule of appearance in any undercover operation is look like what you’re supposed to be, not what some movie or TV show tells you undercover cops look like.”

      Crossing her forearms on the table, she leaned in. “You tell me what you want me to be, Reilly. That’s what you’ll get.”

      What he wanted her to be was gone. To take her hot, steamy scent and that husky, just-had-sex voice and get the hell away from him. He knew that wasn’t going to happen.

      “You can’t walk in there looking like some fashion plate,” he said, aware that his voice had taken on an edge. “What you need to be specifically is something you and I have to talk about. Since we don’t know each other and have no idea of each other’s interests, the way for us to play this is as a couple who’s been out on a few dates. That way it’ll ring true if we know only surface details about each other. We’ll say we’re both new in town, met a few days ago in a checkout line at Wal-Mart.”

      “Do we have jobs yet?”

      “I don’t. When I was in college, I spent summers working as a roofer, so I know the lingo. My story is that I’m looking for a roofing job. It’s November, so those are scarce. No one’s going to question СКАЧАТЬ