Tempest Court. Jan Walters

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      Donnellson leaned near his ear. “Yeah, but it’s not what you think. We were up talking all night.”

      Brett grimaced. Shit! Donnellson didn’t stay with any woman for more than a month. If Layla became heartbroken, he was going to hear about it for a long time.

      “You’re not thinking of seeing her again, are you?”

      Donnellson straightened, glaring back at Brett. “What if I do?”

      “Let’s drop it, okay?” Brett turned, ignoring the flash of irritation that swept through him. He could see it now: Donnellson would have a heady affair with Layla, break it off, and then Lisa would be pissed at him for bringing the two of them together.

      The sergeant in roll call took a deep breath, glancing over the heads of each officer in the room. He cleared his throat. “If O’Shea and Donnellson are done talking, we can all get started.” He paused, glaring at the men before continuing. “As you know, we’ve been short-staffed. I’ve reassigned a few of you to patrol. Donnellson and O’Shea, you two get the opportunity to work patrol this week.”

      Brett was about to open his mouth to object when the sergeant shook his head.

      “Anders made the decision himself, so if you want to bitch, talk to him. Okay, that’s it.”

      Brett glanced at Donnellson, who shrugged. Hopefully the uniform in his locker would still fit. He’d been lifting weights for the past two years. As a result, some of his shirts were too tight in the shoulders and across the chest. Luck was with him—the uniform fit. He quickly changed and headed to the parking lot.

      He opened the door to the black-and-white and sniffed. The car smelled like body odor and fast food. He lowered the windows, letting the car air out.

      Since getting transferred to the Detective Bureau two years ago, he barely knew the newer officers. Brett felt like the “old guy,” even though he was only in his early thirties. He chuckled, discovering his eastside assignment. It was déjà vu. When he first came on the department, the eastside was his territory.

      He pulled out of the lot and headed east. Morning rush-hour traffic had slowed to a crawl. Within minutes, a call came in. A two-car pileup blocked a major thoroughfare to downtown. Flipping on the red lights and siren, he arrived at the scene of the accident. The two drivers stood in the middle of the road, waving their hands and screaming at each other. As he approached the men, he noticed another officer was already on the scene.

      The younger officer with clipped blond hair stepped between the two men, causing one man to stumble backward. The driver righted himself and stormed over to the officer.

      “What the fuck, man! You can’t push me.”

      Brett quickened his pace as things were escalating quickly. He overheard the officer curse.

      “Back away before I throw your ass in jail.” The younger officer tilted his head, glaring at the driver.

      This guy needed a good lesson in PR.

      “Good morning, everyone,” Brett bellowed. “What’s going on?”

      The younger officer frowned at Brett. “I’ve got everything under control here.”

      Brett smiled. “I see that.” He turned toward the two drivers and held out his hand. “License and registration, please.”

      The steam seemed to drain out of both men as they fumbled in their pockets, looking for their licenses. Brett glanced over their heads at the officer.

      “Why don’t you get statements from the witnesses standing over on the curb? I’ll take care of this. Oh, by the way, I’m O’Shea.”

      The officer furrowed his brows. “Officer Schmidt. Carl Schmidt. I can take care of—”

      “I realize that,” Brett interrupted, “but we need to get the street opened up. We don’t need a street brawl at seven in the morning.”

      As Schmidt turned away, Brett swore he heard him mumble under his breath. He choked back laughter. After ordering the drivers back to their cars, Brett wrote the accident report, ensuring that the drivers had the required information for their insurance claims. Less than an hour later, the accident scene was cleared and traffic resumed.

      Brett watched Schmidt direct the backed-up traffic. The officer’s jerky motions and red face seemed to be an indication of the man’s mood—his pissed-off mood. Once the traffic slowed to a normal pace, Brett walked up to Schmidt.

      “Hey, I hope there are no hard feelings. I was trying to calm those guys down.”

      Schmidt’s lip curled. “Yeah, well, I had everything under control before you got here.”

      Brett took a deep breath. He knew he should smile and walk away. Hell, that just wasn’t his style. “From my perspective, those drivers were seconds away from slugging each other or you.”

      Schmidt puffed out his chest and took a step toward Brett. “As I said, I had things under control. Let me do my job. Got it?”

      Brett shook his head and raised his hand in front of Schmidt’s face. “Hey, shithead, I was doing you a favor.” Schmidt needed an attitude adjustment. Brett turned on his heels and got in the squad car.

      Brett spent the rest of the morning getting familiar with the area. After two years, new housing developments had popped up, and businesses had changed or moved. Brett made sure to stop at several businesses and introduce himself.

      Brett groaned, spotting the rug receipt on the seat next to him. He’d laid it there so he wouldn’t forget to call Morocco. He waited as the phone rang. After the sixth ring, someone answered.

      “Hello. I’m calling about a rug I purchased a few weeks ago. Can I speak to Hassan, please?”

      “What is your name?” the heavily accented voice demanded.

      “Brett O’Shea. I live in Iowa in the States.”

      Brett listened as the person on the phone spoke to someone in French. Geez! What’s the problem?

      A new person took the phone. “Sir, it is Omar. You remember me?”

      A grin lit Brett’s face. “Omar. How are you?”

      “I am fine, sir. Did you receive the rug?”

      “Yes, we received it a couple of days ago. When I opened the package, there was an old little vase thing in the package. I want to return it to you.”

      Omar laughed. “Oh no, Mr. O’Shea, the jar is our gift to you. You keep it.”

      “Is Hassan there? I want to talk to him.” Brett’s grin faded.

      Omar’s tone changed from pleasant to all business. “Hassan is not available. Trust me, it is a gift. We want you to keep it.”

      “But why?” Brett argued. “We didn’t pay full price for the rug. I’m sure Hassan didn’t mean to send us a СКАЧАТЬ