Pieces of Ivy Read Free Page A

inky film of finger smudges on her wire-rimmed glasses, which pressed into valleys of soft fat against the side of her bulbous head. A bright pink band pulled back her wiry brown perm tight against her skull. He turned away, revolted, as her mouth exposed a wide mash of masticated food with every grind of her jiggling jaw. Ever the charming place.
    He brought his attention back to Agent Starr, trying not to notice how striking the twenty-seven-year-old prima donna was—especially in person. He had never been this close to her. “We meeting him here or at the station?”
    “The station. At noon.”
    Nodding vapidly he stirred the fourth cream into his coffee. Neither spoke. The awkward tension grew in the obvious silence. Their first words had been minimal, and already it was evident that neither was impressed.
    † † †
    Vicki had every reason to resent his assignment to her case, but what the hell was his problem? Her rapid rise to success was well documented and widely celebrated. She glanced at him sideways when he sighed, looking impatiently at his watch. She hated the jerk already.
    His appearance didn’t disappoint her initial assessment. As unkempt and insipid as she had expected, his dark hair, scarcely attended to—if at all—this morning, was starting to salt. He absently scuffed at the three-day growth on his chin, which was more ivory than ebony. The expensive clothes he wore beneath his open spring coat were equally neglected.
    Why him, of all people? From the cut of him, he looked as if he could be a rugged sort of handsome if he bothered to give a shit. Resentment grew. What the hell were you thinking, Doug?
    The disheveled man across from her stretched his arms out wildly, releasing a deep, yielding yawn. Foul coffee-breath washed over her side of the booth.
    Attempting civility, she broke the painful silence. “Rough commute?” She caught his brief glace at her cleavage before he turned his attention to the street outside.
    “I live on the north side. Takes about an hour to make it to the south end and then another half hour here.”
    Probably not used to being up before noon. She would have thought that, after a year’s suspension, he’d be chomping at the bit to get back to work—do something that mattered again. She would be.
    Her endeavor to curb the quiet failed. Time ticked slowly as they lingered in silence. Vicki’s flesh grew hot, incensed by his unprofessionalism. At least he could initiate small talk—ask her about previous cases, get to know his partner.
    The uncomfortable silence bothered her more than she wanted it to. Worse, it didn’t bother him in the slightest.
    What? She hated the way he watched her across the quiet. She was accustomed to being observed by men, but there was usually an attraction behind it—this was contempt. Was it for her? For the job? His reaction was putting her off balance; something that never happened.
    “Excuse me a minute,” she said finally. “I need some air.”
    “Sure.” He waved her off with indifference.
    She stepped outside and dialed her boss.
    “Kempt speaking.”
    “Doug, what the hell are you doing to me?”
    “Vicki, I told you—”
    “Why would you pair me up with Hank Dashel?”
    “I told you. Sugdan and Marcaos are sticking with the Sullivan matter, and you’re not working this New Brighton case alone. You came to me, remember? You wanted the case. He’s on it. So you get him.” There was a pause and then the distant clicks of a keyboard. “There’s nothing on file that you’ve worked together before. Do you know him?”
    “I know of him.”
    There was an acknowledging sigh on the other end. “So, what’s the problem?”
    “The problem is he’s a mess. He looks as if he’s been on a twelve-month bender, rather than a twelve-month suspension.”
    “Vicki, he’s had a tough go, but he’s good—you can learn a lot from him.”
    A slap from a man whom she endlessly strove to impress. “I can learn a lot