Too late. She stoically marches off after her eyes clash with my fiancée’s.

Sliding my sore cock back into my soaked jeans, I jump up from my chair to tell her what happened, but lithe Katrina springs to her feet simultaneously and shoves me back down.

She snaps at me like a rabid beast. “We have business to finish up here.”

I leap back to my feet and this time I shove her out of the way.

She gasps. I curse under my breath. Zoey’s gone. I grab the file on the table.

“I’m heading back in. I’ve got lines to figure out.” And that’s not all I need to figure out. My mind’s confused; my heart’s confused; and my cock’s confused.

“Fine.” Katrina flings the word at me and then dives into the pool.

Zoey

A trip to the precinct is just what I need to banish the image of Brandon and Katrina. Right before I caught Bratrina in that lurid sex act, I got a call from Pops, asking me if I had time to come in for some questioning. The timing was perfect.

I haven’t been here in ages. The last time I was here was when I was in high school. When the kids in my civics class found out that my father worked for the LAPD, they all wanted to see what that was like. After learning this, Pops arranged a field trip to the precinct with my teacher. My classmates loved every minute. Especially the part when they got to look through a one-way mirror and watch Pops question a suspected murderer—a wealthy woman whose millionaire husband had mysteriously been poisoned. Pops was so good at squeezing information out of the suspect. My very own Columbo! All of us gasped when the suspect broke down in tears and finally confessed everything. It was just like a scene out of CSI—of course, the husband was having a secret affair, and the vengeful wife wanted him dead to inherit all his money.

The downtown precinct is bustling with a colorful cast of characters, and phones don’t stop ringing. I walk up to the bulletproof front desk window and tell one of the busy clerks on duty that I’m here to see Detective Billings. Her name, Alma Lopez, is on her badge. I give her my name and tell her I have an appointment. She scans her computer and calls my father to let him know I’m here.

“You’re Zoey Hart, Pete’s daughter?” she asks, filling out a visitor’s badge for me.

I smile at her. “Yes.”

Her eyes brighten. “The one who works for Brandon Taylor?”

“Yeah.” There’s little enthusiasm in my voice.

Alma grows animated. “Oh my God! You’re so lucky! I’m so jealous! What’s it like to work for him?”

Taking the badge from her, I paste it on my short-sleeved tee. “Trust me, you’re much better off working here.”

At that moment, Pops bursts through the door, chomping on a fat sandwich. As usual, his shirt is rumpled with the sleeves rolled up, and there’s a mustard stain on it. Jacketless, his holster is crossed over his torso. My adoptive dad may be a loveable schlub, but there’s something so powerful about him carrying a gun. After my mother’s horrific murder, I felt he could protect me. I only wish he’d found her killer. It’s still an unsolved case that haunts us both.

“Pops!” I run up to him and give him a hug.

“Hi, babycakes,” he says with food in his mouth. “Glad you could come by. Come on back.”

Five minutes later, I’m in his office. It’s rare for any LAPD detective to have his own office, but the force felt he deserved one. Pops has been on active duty for almost forty years—the longest serving member of the department. A legend. No one has cracked as many cases as he has or brought so many heinous criminals to justice. He keeps saying he’s going to retire, but both Auntie Jo and I know that’s never going to happen.

The office is small and windowless, lit by unflattering fluorescent lighting. Some of his awards hang on the grungy walls, but they’re mostly covered with a messy array of cases in progress. His simple wooden desk is piled high with thick folders. Next to his computer is a large framed family photo—the four of us, Auntie Jo, Pops, Jeffrey, and me. And there’s also a photo of him and Mama when they were kids. Despite being twins, they look as different as night and day. Mama, frail and pale with a mop of flaming red hair; Pops, big-boned and swarthy with a crown of jet-black locks. He’s told me so many hilarious stories about their New Jersey childhoods. Poor elegant Mama was always trying to turn him into a proper gentleman, but she could never even get him to tuck his shirt in. I wish she were alive to see him now.

After that melancholy thought, I inwardly laugh. Things haven’t changed. Pops is as disheveled as ever. The clutter on the walls and on his desk goes with his personality. Buried on his messy desk is a paper plate with the other half of the pastrami sandwich along with a bottle of root beer. He sinks into his faded pleather desk chair while I take a seat in one of the two worn out upholstered chairs facing him. His office furnishings are rather decrepit, but budget cutbacks have prohibited replacements. And truthfully, knowing Pops, he wouldn’t replace them if he could.

“Late lunch,” he says, taking another chomp of his sandwich. “Want the other half?”

I’m tempted. The juicy Pastrami sandwich looks and smells so good, but I force myself to pass.

“You not feeling good or something? You look like you lost weight.”

My dad, the detective, is very perceptive. “I’m fine. I’m just watching it.” God, I’d love a bite. But I know I won’t be able to stop with just one.

Pops puts down his half-eaten sandwich. “Thanks for coming by. You know I’m investigating the Brandon Taylor hit and run.”

I nod. My stomach twists at the mention of his name. “Jeffrey told me you met with him.”

“Yeah, he couldn’t have been nicer.”

Ha! He must have met the wrong person.

“He even autographed the box of DVDs I brought along for your mother. She’s in seventh heaven.”

Jeez. How embarrassing! I suddenly feel bad I never got her a signed set. She begged me for one so many times. I just never felt comfortable asking. Leave it to my outspoken, fearless father. A total charmer.

Pops takes a long swig of his soda and then sets the bottle down. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t very helpful. The poor bloke’s got post traumatic stress and can’t remember a thing. Lucky he didn’t get killed in that accident.”

“Jeffrey told me you’re treating it as a possible homicide.”

“I have no choice. He’s a major celebrity. Something in my gut tells me someone wanted him dead.”

A shiver creeps up my spine. As many times as I’ve wanted to kill him for driving me crazy, including today, the thought of Brandon Taylor dead rattles me. Pops’s gut feelings are always spot on. A troubling thought crosses my mind. My stomach knots up and my pulse accelerates.

“Pops, am I a suspect?”

Pops laughs his hearty laugh. “Of course not, babycakes. You’re the one who found him. If you hadn’t, he would have bled to death. Plus, if you recall, you were running errands at the purported time of the accident. All the shop owners have confirmed that as well as Brandon’s gardener, who, by the way we questioned, and is not a suspect either.

Though I’ve tried to block it out, I flashback to that fateful day. Driving home from my final stop, the drycleaner, I was halfway up the private road to Brandon’s house when I spotted his lifeless body sprawled on the ground. Blood was pouring from his head. Wearing his running clothes, he was already swimming in a crimson pool. My car came to a screeching halt and so did my heart. In a panic, I leapt out of my car and rushed over to him. At the time, I had no idea what had happened—I thought perhaps he’d taken a terrible tumble—but I knew he needed help. Fast! With trembling fingers, I called 911. I cradled him in my arms as I awaited the paramedics. Tears filled my eyes. Fear filled my mind. Grief filled my heart. I talked to him. Told him to hang in there. Told him it wasn’t his time. And then I spilled my heart out. My tears trickled onto his soft face and I…