“My mother was Dutch,” Henrik drawled without taking his eyes off Derek. “And I never agreed to this little trust exercise.”
“When you chose the squad over jail time, that’s exactly what you did.” The captain let that statement settle in the quiet room. “We’re already dealing with a lack of trust, but curiosity will pull even more focus.” Derek leaned back against the battered metal desk. “Henrik Vance worked under me in homicide before I was promoted. He was a good cop who made some grave mistakes and—”
“—and this is my punishment,” Henrik finished, spreading his arms wide. “I don’t like it any more than you do. But I’ll do my job and do it well. That’s all you need to worry about.”
Erin walked over to Henrik with the doughnut box and held it out. “Touch the bear claw and I’ll set you on fire. It belongs to my man.” She smiled, looking more like a Girl Scout than a convicted arsonist. “Welcome to the family.”
Chapter Three
Polly swirled the blue liquid in her martini glass while discreetly checking her blond wig in the nightclub’s mirrored wall. Disguises weren’t her thing, to say the least, but now that one of Reitman’s associates had peeped her—and been choked out on her watch—she wasn’t taking any chances.
Austin could have helped her with the disguise. The thought flitted through her head before she could stop it, making her grimace into the martini. He’d gotten way too close that afternoon. So close, she could still feel the imprint of his sturdy frame, his hard thighs. Powerful thighs. Thighs that had likely shoved open the legs of so many duped women, he’d lost count. She didn’t want to recall the way they’d flexed and rubbed against her, but her third martini was eroding the mental block she’d erected.
Erected…yeah he’d done that, too. In spectacular fashion.
Polly drained the contents of her glass and set it down on the high-top table, resolving to focus on why she’d come to Tossed, a nightclub on Chicago’s Near North Side where Reitman had used his credit card several times on his last trip into town. The tabs were always criminally low, as she suspected he talked his way into free drinks like the savvy grifter he was. Hell, the research she’d done over the years suggested he could sell someone the Willis Tower.
Reitman had started as a friend to her fathers, but after he’d made off with their “investment” money, they’d confided in her the subtle ways Reitman had earned their trust. He’d bought them lunch on occasion, giving them a false sense of his financial security. He’d given them nicknames. Called them to discuss personal problems that didn’t exist, to gain their sympathy. At a time when her fathers’ relationship had only begun to be accepted in their suburban community, their raising of an adopted daughter still relatively taboo, Reitman’s friendship had been a confidence booster. Given them a sense of hope. It was a long con that had lasted almost a full year. But in the end, her fathers were ashamed to admit, they didn’t even know where their “friend” lived, how he took his coffee, or if Charles Reitman was his real name. All they had left to show for the year of opening themselves up to a stranger was an empty bank account and crushed dreams.
These bitter memories—consoling the men who’d given her a home—were what she needed to remember next time Austin tried to run game on her. She’d think of sharing a Subway sandwich among the three of them while sleeping in cheap motels. The broken disillusionment on their faces when they couldn’t get Reitman to return their calls. The shame when they couldn’t afford to send her on field trips with her class. Yeah. Austin was cut from the same cloth, and nothing could repair those rough edges. Edges that were deceptively smooth and inviting.
Lies. All lies.
Polly ran a hand over her wig and turned from the mirror, intending to perform another casual sweep of the bar. Then she saw him.
Charles Reitman.