SEIZED Part 1: New Adult Romantic Suspense (Seize Me Romance Fiction Series) (2 page)

“Well, you know my uncle?” she says. I nod, remembering the creeper from the funeral who looked like a slimy version of April’s mom. “Ever since the accident, things have been weird with him.”

Now I’m listening.

“What sort of weird?” I ask, wondering why she doesn’t just spit it out.

“He just keeps showing up at the house acting like the man, trying to give me money and buy me food and stuff.”

I only just hold back my scoff. Anyone else would be stoked to have a generous uncle, but of course April is totally stuck in her head about it.

Sensing the dismissal in my eyes, she doesn’t say anything further, and nothing about the message on her phone, so I decide not to pry. I love her but I don’t want to be part of this drama.

“Here, hold this will you?” April gives me her purse as she reaches down to adjust the shoe strap on her heel. I can see it’s been rubbing. It’s red as hell, and I wince in empathy. Standing up again, she mutters, “It’s not like I don’t need the money, but Mom never even used to talk to Uncle Jessup.”

April’s -, near-fake laugh doesn’t buoy me one bit. She sees the serious look on my face and lapses into silence again. The sounds of the street fill our ears for a second.

Then she adds, “It’s kind of why I didn’t want to come here tonight.”

Nodding my head, I realize this is a dead-end conversation and decide to change the subject. I’m convinced she’s hiding something, but who am I to stop her from having a private life. All that should matter is her happiness.

April sways a bit on her heels, and although I want to ask more questions, now is not the time. We’re supposed to be having fun tonight, and I don’t want to bring us down any further. We may be two girls from Iowa, but we know how to party, and we’ve given it a good run tonight. Now it’s clearly time to go back to the hotel.

Leaving April’s side for a moment, I step out to hail a cab. The street is nearly empty, but I can still hear that annoying hotdog guy harping on with his street meat mantra a couple of blocks back. I wave at a passing taxi, and then another one, but they’re both busy. My feet start to ache and I know it’s well past time for something to eat. Another cluster of cabs pass me by and I’m starting to feel the return of reality.

I look back to complain about the pain my new heels are causing, but April is staring in shock at the road behind me. Car doors slam in unison and someone shoves roughly past me. I swear, no one knows how to be polite these days. Then I see that four big guys in masks have stormed the pavement. My stomach drops when one takes hold of April’s arm. He’s got a gun and he’s holding it to the back of her neck. All of a sudden bad manners have become the least of my worries.

Blake

A
nother late shift on 43
^rd
Street, and it’s not so bad. I’ve got my coffee. The station is quiet, and shit here could be a lot worse. This gig has improved tenfold since I made Detective. No more Saturday nights pounding the pavement. No more drunken losers messing with me for the sake of it. It’s funny how everyone hates cops until the day they need them.

At five years on the force, I’m no longer a newcomer and I like it. I’ve been through more than half the punk cops ahead of me, but age matters around here. It’s all about hierarchy and toeing the line. I’m making my way up slowly regardless. Schmoozing and office politics are not my greatest talents. The brass pisses me off too much to spend any amount of meaningful time with them.

The truth is, this job is not what I dreamed of, but it’s what I’ve got and that’s good enough. There’s no point to life if you’re miserable all the time. I’d be no damn good to anyone as a crying mess in the corner. I can’t stand those fools. Bitching and moaning about every little thing. It’s better to be grateful.

Soon, I’ll take a break and hit the weight room. 43
^rd
was refurbished a while back. Some government fund to tidy up Times Square, but it’d be a good station even without the flashy technology. I’m more at home here than anywhere else. There’s great food nearby and enough machines and weights downstairs to float the boat of any macho cop we get through the doors.

At least that makes it easy to stay lean. There’s no way I’m gonna turn into one of those donut-eating fat boys. No way. Something about those assholes bugs the crap out of me. They give the NYPD a bad name. People see them and think we’re all stuck in the past with big, fat guts and curly moustaches. The department is a different beast these days but some things will always stay the same.

Lieutenant Jacobs walks past. “Hey, Blake.”

She doesn’t smile. It’s all muscle and business underneath that uniform.

“Evening, Lieutenant.”

I’m not in the doghouse but she looks sideways at me. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I weren’t so new. But she must be trying to get a handle on the late nights.

“Still on the Lee Case?” Her tone is inquisitive.

“Yep.” I don’t offer anything further but she leans over the desk to see my files. The photographs of the three boys’ bodies are brutal. Eight-by-ten glossies of pure misery, and they’re not the only ones the Lee ring is suspected of.

She meets my eyes. “Detective, are you doing all right at 43rd?” I know what she’s trying to say, and fair enough, I guess she has good reason. When I came on board, my psyche files were supplied in full. I’m a cop with a past, and therefore she needs to keep an eye on me regardless of what she thinks.

“I’m good, Lieutenant.” I meet her eyes to silently communicate that nothing is wrong. She gives me a nod and moves on.

I can’t help but respect a woman who knows how to boss a group of rogue cops around. I’m glad she’s got a strict policy on station romance, too. The last thing I need is another distraction from police pussy. I’ve already got enough on my plate. My sister’s kid is a handful, and the only commitments on my mind are to care for him, and nail the next case.

Looking back down at the file, I’m reminded that I’m not the first cop to try and take down Jessup Lee. The guy has a rap sheet that goes back decades, but no one’s even gotten close. Organized crime in New York City is booming, and I can easily imagine the barriers this Lee bunch has put up to stop my predecessors. The tentacles of the mob continue to subtly infiltrate the New York City Police force at every level. That’s the main reason the Trafficking Task Force is remote. We need officers in every jurisdiction to keep an eye on the play. I spend most of my days alone, and I get sick of that sometimes, but the people are there if I want to talk to them. And I don’t, so no real complaints.

It’s only been three months, but I’ve wanted to join TTF from the moment I made rookie. This shit it real, and the game is long. Some guys devote a career to taking down the key players in a prostitution ring. I need to respect the work they’ve done before me. I need to read everything again, but first of all, I need another cup of coffee.

Heading over the pot, I’m glad it’s getting late. I’ve had enough for tonight and I just want to work out, hit the showers, and head home. The officer on the booking desk is processing the usual motley crew of hookers and drunks. There are a few token assholes making noise, but I just ignore that shit.

There’s something about Saturday nights that makes people want to cut loose and end up in a police station. It’s like they forget they’re just gonna wake up in the cells. As if the idea of consequences disappears when you’ve got some booze on hand. If only hindsight came first, I’m sure a bunch of these freaks would straighten their shit out.

Spotting me through the door, one crummy looking bum starts to stare. This guy must be wasted; he’s so blatant. I don’t engage, and start prepping the coffee pot, but he’s got an appetite for trouble. I can hear him mouthing off in the waiting room. Stupid prick, what does he think he’s gonna do? I must have two feet on him. At six-foot-seven, I’m one of the tallest guys at 43rd. I don’t take that shit for granted, though. I keep it tight. No risks out there, and none of those pretty boy spa and sauna regimes. I keep my nails short, my hair clipped and my weight low. I may be only twenty-five, but I’m a brawler and I’ve got a rep for taking no shit.

The called me Knuckles in the academy, because sometimes, my temper gets the best of me. I’m not proud of it, but I was born that way. When you’re raised like I was, you need to know how to fight. I box most days, and that helps. Keeps a lid on things. Helps me relax. Makes sure I never show up at home with a temper. My nephew, George, doesn’t need that shit in his life. I know that for real. Had enough experience with my old man to do anything different. The kid’s got no dad, so I gotta look out for him.

It’s funny—me and the kid—we even look the same, blue eyes, blond hair and stuck with Dad’s jawline. He’s tall already, and I can see he’s gonna be a lady killer one day. My sister Brenda won’t know what the hell to do with him in a few years, so I need to be a good uncle now. Show him the right way to make the world work for him. Show him how to use his brains instead of his fists.

The pot is dripping nicely now, and I start looking for a cup. The wastebasket is overflowing with plastic and spoons everywhere. Our cleaners won’t be here until five in the morning, so I tidy up a bit as a token gesture. After wiping down the break table, I find some milk in the fridge. Order needs to be maintained in a busy station like this.

That asshole bum is still mouthing off. I can hear the officer on the desk warning him. He’s a rookie, though. Not much clout yet, and the loser on the bench doesn’t pause for a second. I wander over to booking, and check out his paperwork. He’s in for theft. It’s a misdemeanor compared to the shit I see every day, but I don’t like the sound of his mouth and my look tells him so. Slumped and handcuffed in his seat, he sees I mean business and finally starts to quiet down.

The guy on desk duty looks at me. “Thanks, Detective Anderson.”

It’s nothing. I’ve always had some pull with the thugs. Maybe they can see some similarities. Whatever it is, I don’t care. I give the desk sergeant my coffee, as if that was the point of my visit the whole time. I don’t want that asshole to think I give a shit, and the rookie needs building up if he’s gonna get anywhere on this job.

Heading back to my desk, I start reading again. The case I’m on involves three young boys. These kids were taken from a middle school in Brooklyn, drugged and forced to service the local spiders. Twelve years old. Jesus, it makes me sick. When I took over this caseload I spoke to each of the mothers. They were angry that I called. The case has been open for four years. No doubt they’ve seen a line of cops full of big words who were unable to deliver. If they were alive they’d be off to the prom this year, but they’re not. All three were found dead.

The first, Danny Lombardi, had scarring on his rectum suggesting the abuse came in multiple daily doses. He was found in a dumpster with a bull gag still tied to his lipstick smudged face. The kid was carrying every STD known to man, but his final wounds were a slit neck, a torn asshole and a cigarette burn to the forehead. They were marking him as all used up. The second kid, Billy Frankton, had cut himself so bad they had to dump him. The medical examiner’s report says he used a broken light bulb to puncture his wrists, then dragged it up, making enough vertical cuts in one arm to bleed out without the help of a pimp. The third’s a mystery. Raymond Fisher was burnt so badly they needed his dental records to make the ID. He was found in a sack, ditched from the bridge like a piece of nasty ass trash. By then, his worth would have dropped enough to make him used goods. The younger and less experienced they are, the better.

The task force hasn’t been able to land a decent arrest in Jessup Lee’s ring in years. We’re a squad of fifty scattered in stations throughout the city. We come together for weekly briefings, and this year we’re gonna be expanding. I prefer working alone, but the need for more help is urgent. I’m swamped with my caseload and it’s not like trafficking will stop anytime soon. A good pimp will make two hundred thou a year from one girl. There’s always a demand and no reason to shut down such a lucrative game by choice.

New York is one of the worst trafficking jurisdictions in the country. I hear that girls as young as thirteen are being sent to work. It makes me sick, and the scent of Jessup Lee floats insidiously at every turn. He’s careful though. The bastard never gets caught on site, and never has girls of his own. Maintains the ‘family man’ persona and even has a few legit businesses for cover. No one knows how to link him to the racket; we just know his family’s been at the heart of it for years.

I pull up a recent picture. It was taken at some charity gig. I gotta give it to him. This guy has balls, wining and dining in Des Moines society. He makes out like he’s a pillar of the community. Donating to charity and schmoozing with local government. He’s just hiding down there, making himself scarce. The reality is that his network extends right across New York, and well beyond state lines. Jessup’s got minions everywhere. Doing his dirty work and running the operation. Christ, it makes me angry. This guy’s just scum of the earth; all shiny and fresh on the outside, and rotten all the way to his core.

I wonder if his wife and family even know the extent of his business. I guarantee they’ll say nothing even if they do know. That’s the way it happens with these guys. The wives are aware of what they’re getting into. They also know not to ask. Most of them marry young, have kids, and then they’re trapped. So, even if they did want to leave, they couldn’t. The family makes it hell. Looking at a picture of Jessup and Donna, I can’t see any trace of resentment. They seem happy, but who knows what’s under the surface. I think back to those nights when my own father would get home late, stinking of booze. My mother would be screeching at him, trying to find out where he’d been.

I’ll bet Donna doesn’t even bother to stay awake when he’s out late. Three wise monkeys, and all that. As far as the case, she’s a dead-end. Wives never rat on husbands so I might as well focus on his associates instead. If anything’s gonna bring him down it’s greed. No one’s immune. All I have to do is catch one of his guys doing something, and then get them to talk. I look closely at Jessup’s face in the shot. The well-cut brown hair frames his wide, high forehead and there’s nothing that screams pimp at all. Even his shirt and tie are classy. He has a mole on the side of his nose. I wonder if he cuts it shaving. I wonder what he says to his kids at the breakfast table.