Kansas City Countdown. Julie Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ threatened a building full of cops on a happy occasion and then disappeared into thin air made every officer in the department an investigator until the perp who’d targeted Keir’s family could be identified and caught.

      No, tonight’s extra-special foray into moody sarcasm all had to do with a leggy, ash-blond defense attorney who’d made mincemeat out of the attempted murder-for-hire investigation he and Hud had turned over to the DA’s office on Monday. It had taken Kenna Parker only five days of motions and court appearances to punch holes in their airtight case. The hoity-toity plastic surgeon who’d talked to Keir in an undercover op about hiring him to kill his estranged wife before she could divorce him and cost him a fortune in alimony had gotten off with little more than a slap on the wrist.

      Yes, the guy was now under an ethics investigation by the state medical board—a sidebar that could cost him his license or, at the very least, put a dent in his lucrative medical practice. But that wasn’t the same as a judge acknowledging that Detective Keir Watson had done his job right. Kenna “the Terminator” Parker hadn’t even really cleared Dr. Andrew Colbern of conspiracy to commit murder—she’d just raised enough doubts about Keir’s competence and a few seconds of static on the recording he’d made of the conversation that Colbern was walking.

      “Did you see how she booked it out of the courtroom right after the judge announced his ruling?” Hud punctuated his condemning tone with a long swallow of his beer. “That’s just rubbing her victory in our faces.”

      Keir eyed the foamy amber liquid in his mug. “She probably went off to pop open a magnum of champagne at our expense.”

      Hud turned the brown bottle in his hand, then grinned. “Well, then let’s just hope she’s drinkin’ it alone, my friend.”

      “You got that right.” Keir clinked his mug against Hud’s bottle, but he couldn’t match his partner’s good humor.

      They’d failed to prove Colbern’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, according to the Terminator. Interesting what kind of justice a lot of money and a killer law firm could buy.

      Well, reputation meant everything to him, too. Keir Watson didn’t botch cases. When he investigated a crime, he got answers. No matter how long it took, he got the job done.

      “I swear that woman is going to make me a better cop,” Keir vowed, remembering the smug smile on her copper-tinted lips as she’d packed up her briefcase and passed him on her way out of the courtroom. “Next time she shows up in court, she won’t be able to raise the issue of entrapment and question technicalities or make her client look more like the victim than the woman he tried to have killed. The next time I’m testifying against one of her clients, I’ll make her look like the idiot.”

      Hud raised his bottle again. “Then, to the downfall of the Terminator.”

      “Amen.” Keir swallowed a healthy portion of the beer and whiskey, savoring the heat seeping down his gullet. Half a drink later, Keir still couldn’t erase the tension in him and felt himself turning inward, replaying each step of the case he’d put together, and each trick Kenna Parker had used to pull it apart.

      He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, only half listening to Hud regale him with a story about his first encounter with an attorney as a teenager, protesting a ticket in his small-town traffic court. Something about the lawyer being the judge’s second cousin’s daughter’s boyfriend, and the judge declaring a conflict of interest and dismissing the speeding ticket because the guy was family, and there wasn’t anyone else in town who wasn’t related who could represent him. Hardly a problem someone with Kenna Parker’s legal eagle pedigree would ever have to face.

      Sitting here tonight, fuming over the case that had gotten tossed, Keir knew he wasn’t very good company. Hud, on the other hand, could blow off the tension once he was away from the job in ways that Keir wasn’t able to. Maybe he’d better cut his partner loose to play a game of pool or share a drink with one of the local ladies who had a thing for cops. Keir downed the last of his beer and Bushmill’s and pushed the mug away, intent on heading home where he could stew in silence—or more likely, pull out his case file against Andrew Colbern and reread the transcript of his undercover conversation to figure out exactly where he’d misspoken so he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

      He clapped Hud on the shoulder of his plaid flannel shirt and stood. “Hey, buddy, I’m heading home.”

      Hud threw up his hands and frowned. “You’re kiddin’ me, right? The night is young and this place is crawlin’ with opportunities.” His brown eyes swept the bar, indicating the disproportionate number of female to male customers. “I need you to be my wingman.”

      Chuckling at his partner’s humorous determination, Keir tossed a couple of bills onto the bar to pay for their drinks. “Sorry. Guess I’m lousy company tonight.”

      “Tell me about it. I’m givin’ you my best stuff and all I’ve gotten out of you is a smirk.”

      Keir conceded the truth with a nod. “It’s not your job to make things right when a case goes wrong.”

      “The hell it isn’t.” Hud polished off the last of his beer and swiped his knuckles over his mouth to erase the foamy mustache. “You’ll still be in a mood when you come back to work on Monday, and I’m the guy who has to look at you all day.” He pushed aside the money Keir had put on the bar and set a twenty-dollar bill in its place. “I dare you to stay and have a little fun. I know there’s a lady here tonight who can put a full-blown smile on your face and make you forget all about the Terminator. In fact, I’ll bet you that last round of drinks that I can score some action and be smiling before you.”

      “Really?” Hud knew his weakness for refusing to back down from a dare. Keir’s older brothers had given him plenty of practice at holding his own growing up. Still, he was about to tell his partner that he’d take that bet on some other night when he wasn’t quite so tired or distracted, when the Shamrock’s owner, Robbie Nichols, set a beer and shot on the bar in front of him. Keir frowned. “I didn’t order this.”

      The bushy-bearded Irishman nodded toward someone behind Keir’s back and winked. “She did. Good luck to you, Detective.”

      Keir turned to see a sweet little strawberry blonde smiling at him as she wove her way through the maze of tables to reach him. Maybe he should take a lesson from his laid-back partner and blow off a little steam. Suddenly, spending Friday night at home with work wasn’t as appealing as it had sounded a minute ago. “Are you responsible for this?” he asked the man staring, openmouthed, beside him.

      “I wish.” Hud had turned, too, and was shaking his head. “Even on your worst night, the ladies love you. Why don’t I have that kind of luck?”

      “Because you’re half hillbilly. And—” Keir buttoned his collar and adjusted his tie as the young woman approached “—a man in a well-tailored suit is like catnip to the ladies.” Keir picked up the drink. “I promise you, my friend—if you’re going to bet me, you’re going to lose.”

      Robbie returned, popping the cap off a chilled bottle of beer and setting it in front of Hud. “Not to worry, Detective Kramer. The ladies got you one, too.”

      “Ladies? As in plural?” Quickly tucking his shirt into his jeans, Hud stood beside Keir, focusing in on the burgundy-haired woman with glasses trailing after her friend. “Game on, catnip boy.”

      The strawberry blonde reached them before Keir could respond to Hud’s challenge. “Hi. I’m Tammy. СКАЧАТЬ