Silent Reckoning

Praise for Debra Webb

“Wow! Those that crave adrenaline overflow must read this book. From page one, the characters explode off the pages with their highly intense action…. Very highly recommended.”

—Myshelf.com on Silent Weapon

“A fast-moving, sensual blend of mystery and suspense, with multiple story lines, an unusual hero and heroine, and an ending that escapes the trap of being too pat. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard on Striking Distance

“Debra Webb delivers page-turning, gripping suspense, and edgy, dark characters to keep readers hanging on.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Her Hidden Truth

“Debra Webb’s fast-paced thriller will make you shiver in passion and fear.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Personal Protector

“A hot hand with action, suspense and last—but not least—a steamy relationship.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard on Safe by His Side

Dear Reader,

First let me thank you for all your amazing letters and e-mails about Merri in Silent Weapon. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed each and every one. This book is in large part due to your tremendous response to her story. I hope you will enjoy Merri’s newest exciting adventure as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Please visit my Web site at www.debrawebb.com and let me hear from you as soon as you’ve finished the book! I can’t wait to see what you think of Merri’s developing relationship with one sexy cop.

Look for my next Bombshell book coming in June 2006. I promise you many more intriguing adventures with my kick-butt ladies. And who knows, maybe you’ll be seeing more of Merri as she makes her mark as Nashville’s sexy, silent weapon!

Regards!

Debra Webb

Silent Reckoning
Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEBRA WEBB

was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it bad enough. She began writing at age nine. Eventually she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried some other occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners, working in a factory, a day-care center, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998, her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345 or visit her Web site at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

This book is dedicated to a very special

young man, my son-in-law, Mark Jeffrey.

Thank you for making my daughter happy.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

I read an article once that championed the legalization of prostitution. After all, the writer insisted, it is the oldest profession known to civilized man. At that juncture in the article I had paused to frown at the use of prostitution and civilized in the same paragraph. No offense to ladies of the night, but there is absolutely nothing civilized about the profession.

Case in point: I, Merrilee Walters, am standing here on a Nashville street corner way east of 2^nd Avenue and Broadway, not exactly the ritziest section of town. You know the section I mean. Friday-night traffic is heavy. The weather is unseasonably warm for late March, so the convertible tops and windows of cars are down, allowing drivers to enjoy the first previews of summer.

The hot pink skirt I’m wearing barely covers my rump. The fishnets are making my legs itch and my feet are absolutely killing me in these damned thigh-high stiletto boots. As if that isn’t bad enough, the matching pink tube top keeps creeping down to give a preview of its own.

I can’t believe I agreed to this. What self-respecting redhead would wear hot pink?

If the outfit isn’t barbaric enough to make you shudder, I have to put up with all the wolf calls and lewd comments shouted at me from the passing cars. I don’t have to actually hear the words. I see the faces leaning out windows. I can fill in the blanks. And, well, lip-reading is my specialty.

Don’t let anyone kid you. Prostitution is pure hell. And I haven’t even gotten to the part with the johns yet.

My mother always told me that bad girls—translation according to the Southern Mothers’ Dictionary: any female who has sex outside marriage—went to hell. Well, I’m here to tell you, she’s right. This is surely hell.

Actually I’m not a hooker. I’m a detective in Metro’s Homicide Division and this is an undercover operation to nail a scumbag who likes to damage prostitutes, to the point that two have died. As if that isn’t bad enough, he’s suspected of having killed a cop—one of Metro’s finest. I can tell you right now, I wouldn’t want to be him when he’s finally caught.

With the creep in hiding, there is only one way to lure him out.

I shifted my weight to the other foot and watched the woman across the street. Tall, smooth dark skin. Very pretty with sleek black hair cascading around her shoulders. Shameka had survived an attack by this low-life. She’d escaped certain death by the skin of her teeth—and plain old street smarts. Once she’d gotten over the initial fear, she’d marched into Metro and demanded to be used as bait to catch him. A gutsy move from a gutsy lady. And exactly the break Metro had been looking for.

She was scared tonight though. I could tell. But she would die before she’d back down. She wanted to get this guy almost as bad as we did—we being the cops.

I haven’t always been a cop. Just over three years ago I was an elementary school teacher. Really, I was. The only four-letter words I used on a regular basis were Spot, Dick or Jane. Well, okay, truth is, that hasn’t changed. As much as I try to fit in, foul language just doesn’t work for me. Now my colleagues, well, they go into a bar and five minutes later sailors come running out. But they watch their mouths around me out of respect. I like that.

And I love being a cop.

Getting back to how I ended up on this street corner…

I grew up in a houseful of boys, all cops or firemen—except my dad, he’s a CPA, weird huh? Anyway, three years ago I lost my hearing. I don’t mean it faded so that I needed a hearing aid. I mean, I came away from a merciless infection with profound loss. I hear nothing at all. Not a single sound. Sometimes I think I do, but my doctors say I don’t really hear, I simply remember what things sound like so I think I’m hearing when I’m actually recalling.

At first I was totally devastated. I locked myself away at my parents’ home and felt sorry for myself. I lost my job, and my fiancé—who wasn’t such a loss as it turned out. My life felt as if it were over.

With my family’s support I went into counseling and intensive training for the hearing-impaired. I learned signing and, more important, how to read lips. I got myself a job in the historical archives of Metro and then I developed an interest in solving cold cases.

Since I knew no one would want to hire a deaf policewoman or detective, I did my crime-solving on my own. Bringing down a murderer who had escaped justice landed me in lots of hot water, but also garnered me lots of attention. The Chief of Detectives at Metro offered me a position with Homicide, and I brought down mob boss Luther Hammond by using my own unique weapon—reading his evil plans off his own lips.

So here I am. One year later.

After a couple of months on the job, I went off to the police academy. Eight months later I was fortunate enough to be accepted at the Tennessee Forensics Academy. I got back on the job a couple of months ago. Metro wanted to assign me to profiling or forensics and, at first, that’s what I thought I wanted. But I was wrong. I couldn’t make the difference I yearned to make behind the scenes.

This is where I wanted to be—out here in the trenches. My life is all I could hope for on a professional level.

On a personal note, my family finally accepted my new career. I have an on-again, off-again romantic interest, but don’t tell anyone—because he’s my boss now.

His name is Steven Barlow. We worked together on my first official case, bringing down a local mob boss. It’s true. Even Nashville had a mob circuit.

Barlow is the Chief of Homicide now so this thing between us has pretty much been slipped to the back burner. But I would be lying if I didn’t confess I still get tingly whenever he’s around. Except when I’m pissed off because of some decision he has made. He likes attempting to keep me away from danger. I understand his motivation on one level, but I hate it on all others because more often than not, it cramps my style.

He’s not happy that I’m working this sting, but he’ll get over it. Truth is, he’s not thrilled about my change of heart where profiling and forensics are concerned. Most of Metro’s brass would feel a lot better with me working crime scenes the way folks on the television program CSI do. But then I’d miss all the real fun.

Barlow and the rest need to get real. This is where I want to be. And it’s homicide…the work revolves around unlawful death. Can’t have unlawful death without a little danger.

Enough of the reflecting. Shameka still looks nervous. But she’s hanging in there. I didn’t feel totally comfortable about being across the street from her but the operation commander insisted it was the best strategy.

Still, my instincts were humming. My gut says I should be over there with her.

No sooner than I had taken two steps to put the thought into action than the watch on my left wrist started to vibrate. I glanced at its face, read the frantic message: What the hell r u doin???

You see, since I can’t hear, the op commander can’t communicate with me through the typical earpiece. Metro had this special watch designed just for me. It isn’t just a watch, though it does show the time. It has a display for text messages similar to that of my cell phone for the hearing-impaired, only smaller.

The watch vibrated again, the same message flashing in warning.

I ignored the question. Just kept swaying my hips, the way I’d seen the other ladies of the night doing, and moving toward my destination.

“Hey, Shameka,” I called out.

What’s up, girl? She smiled, but her lips trembled with the effort, making reading her words a little tougher.

I sidled up next to her and flashed her the widest, most encouraging smile I could summon. “I was lonely way over there all by myself.”

She looked directly at me and said, Thank you.

Her relief was palpable. She’d willingly put herself out on this limb to help capture a murderer, but she’s only human. The fear wouldn’t be denied. Has something to do with that danger Barlow likes me to avoid.

We chatted and laughed for nearly an hour while nothing happened. Understandably the rest of the team was getting antsy. The op commander would likely blame me if this whole effort turned out to be a bust. If I’d stayed on my side of the street…if I hadn’t done this or that…. At least he didn’t send me any more messages. I might not have a potty mouth, but I do have somewhat of a reputation for being obstinate. So shoot me.

Shameka is a civilian. She has feelings and I can’t ignore those, not even to catch a suspected cop-killer.

The traffic had thinned for a bit but now it picked up again as folks left clubs and headed for all-night restaurants. Others were just beginning their nights at the bars and clubs. Within another hour the op would likely be shut down. As much as we all wanted to get this guy, this many resources couldn’t be focused on one case forever.

My nerves jangled with anticipation. I surveyed each vehicle that approached our position while doing my level best to maintain a broad, inviting smile. I kept one hip cocked, showing off every inch of fish-net-clad thigh exposed between the hem of the micro-mini skirt and the top of the black leather boot.

God, the shoes were killing me.

Women who wear shoes like this have to be masochists. It just isn’t normal.

The band on my wrist vibrated. As I started to glance down at it, something in the edge of my peripheral vision snagged my attention.

Black pimped-up Caddy, moving slow.

The car swerved into the lane closest to our position.

My gaze collided with Clarence Johnson’s at the exact instant that his weapon leveled in our direction.

“Get down!” I shouted.

I slammed my full weight into Shameka, forcing her down onto the sidewalk at the same instant that fire flew from the barrel of the sawed-off shotgun the perp wielded.

I snagged the weapon I’d tucked into my right boot and fired six times at the Caddy as it spun away, smoke boiling up from the rear tires.

I didn’t have to hear the sirens or see the lights to know that Metro would be on that Caddy’s tail. Unmarked cars came out of a dozen hiding places.

“You okay?” I surveyed Shameka as I scrambled up onto my hands and knees. The burn of scraped skin registered vaguely but I was more worried about her sluggish movements.

Shameka nodded as she struggled to an upright position. I’d hit her hard, but there hadn’t been any time to do anything else. She moved disjointedly now and worry gnawed at me.

Then I saw the blood.

Darkening her red skirt from somewhere in the vicinity of her waist.

“Oh, God.”

Shameka stared down at herself then at me in surprise. He hit me.

“You’ll be all right,” I promised.

People were suddenly all around us, beat cops as well as detectives. The paramedics on standby for this op pushed me aside to clear a path to the victim.

I maintained eye contact with Shameka until whatever they’d put in her IV for pain dragged her into unconsciousness. And then I just stood there, watching as they loaded her into the ambulance and drove away.

If she died…

No. I would not think that way. That dirtbag couldn’t win. I shifted my attention in the direction where I’d last seen the Caddy. They had to catch Johnson.

Anything else was unacceptable.

The next morning I dropped into the chair behind my desk and attempted to focus on reports. It didn’t matter that it was Saturday. Cops were cops 24/7.

I’d spent most of the night at the hospital.

Shameka was in stable condition. She’d made it through surgery with no problem. The surgeon had assured me she would fully recover. Two cops were stationed outside her room for protection.

Clarence Johnson would learn that she had survived.

The scumbag had gotten away.

I couldn’t believe it.

Metro had found the Caddy. Apparently I’d hit him since there was blood in the front seat. Good. I hoped he died a slow, painful death and I didn’t even feel guilty for thinking it.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I looked up to find Jesse Holderfield hovering over me.

Chief wants to see you. He rolled his eyes. He’s in a mood.

“Thanks, Holderfield.”

Jesse Holderfield reminded me a lot of my dad. Quiet, reserved. Nothing like you’d expect a homicide detective to be. But he was good. He had thirty years under his belt in this division.

I got up and headed toward the Chief of Homicide’s office. His domain was down a long hall, just far enough away from the bull pen to maintain some of its dignity where decor is concerned.

Not that the bull pen was that bad. The place had a decent paint job even if the off-white color lacked creativity. The carpet was commercial-grade and beige. Each detective had his or her own cubicle, also beige. Standard-issue metal desks, each topped with a computer only one generation behind the current technology.

But the chief’s office, now that was a different story. A plusher grade of carpeting. A nice cool blue color on the walls. To match his eyes, I mused.

But then I wasn’t supposed to be noticing his eyes anymore.

And I knew exactly what Holderfield meant when he said the chief was in a mood.

I tapped on the door and stuck my head inside. “You wanted to see me?”

Have a seat, Detective.

Not Merri, like he used to call me, or even Walters. Just plain old Detective. This was the game we played now. The vibes he gave off confused me—at times, it felt like he wanted to pick up where we left off after our first case, with a budding personal relationship. Other times, I was almost convinced he’d never felt anything for me at all.

I stepped into his domain and sat as ordered.

Steven Barlow had risen to the position of Chief of Homicide because he was most assuredly the best man for the job. His reputation as a detective was unparalleled, though I’m working on matching that record, and his dedication was legendary.

He looked great. Still wore his dark hair regulation short and no one, I mean no one, dressed as classy as Barlow. I had to smile. Yep, he looked amazing. Made me feel a little warm and fuzzy inside. I did so love to look at him.

And then his gaze connected with mine.

Amazing morphed directly into angry. He was not a happy camper, his expression reflected the mood Holderfield had mentioned.

We’ve spoken about this before.

The warm, fuzzy feeling evaporated.

Here it comes, the talk.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said, in an attempt to derail his momentum. We’d been through this a dozen times in the past year. “I take too many chances. I shouldn’t have moved out of position. I had my orders and I didn’t follow them. Let’s cut to the chase here, Chief. Am I in trouble?”

God, I hoped not. I didn’t want to get suspended or worse, fired. I hadn’t come this far to throw it all away. I had done what I had to do. Any cop worth his or her salt would have done the same thing.

You understand that disobeying orders is a serious offense.

I understood, but I pretended not to notice. I’d found that feigning ignorance often got me off the hook.

Didn’t appear to be working this time.

I swallowed, tried to read his expression. I shouldn’t have bothered. Seeing more than what he wanted me to was impossible. He was too good at putting on the poker face. Just another skill that made him a good chief.

Made for figuring out this thing between us extra tough, as well.

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

His expression changed ever so slightly with my response. Not quite a flinch but almost. Did it bother him that I didn’t call him Barlow? At least I wasn’t in this alone. We were both still adjusting to the roller-coaster-like changes in our relationship. Sometimes it felt as if I was the only one frustrated and confused…it was nice to know he felt it, too.

Your instincts were on target, he admitted as he shifted his gaze away from me. The operation commander and I have discussed the issue and no formal disciplinary action will be taken considering the way things turned out.

Relief surged through me. Though I didn’t feel the least bit repentant for what I’d done, I recognized the need for a chain of command.

This time, Barlow added.

“Thank you, sir.” I would do better next time, maybe even ask permission to make an unexpected move. I chewed my lower lip. I hoped.

That intense gaze reconnected with mine and a brand-new flicker of fire shot through me. I shivered, hoped like heck he didn’t notice. Those awesome lips parted and for a few seconds I thought he would say something like, I worry about you, Merri, or I couldn’t live without you. He didn’t.

For a couple of months now, he said, we’ve been using you as a fill-in.

Oh, well. I focused my mind on his words. It was true. Since coming back on board at Homicide after attending the academy, I hadn’t been assigned a partner. Instead, I’d worked as a kind of floating detective, filling in wherever needed. It wasn’t that bad. Gave me a chance to get to know all the detectives in my division. But I couldn’t help feeling that I wasn’t official…in a sense. I didn’t complain, just went with the flow.

We’re going to change that today.

’Bout time, I didn’t say. However, I couldn’t help wondering if this abrupt decision had anything to do with my actions last night. Maybe they thought I needed more structure. Someone to keep me in line.

I still didn’t regret what I had done.

A new detective just transferred in from Hendersonville, Barlow explained. He spent three years as a beat cop before taking the detective’s exam. He graduated from the Forensics Academy just two weeks ago.

Finally, someone newer than me. Sure he had the beat experience I didn’t, but at least he didn’t have a dozen years of homicide experience over me like everyone else around here. Metro also liked for all detectives to go through the ten-week course at the forensics academy, so the new guy was ahead of the game on that score, something we had in common.

“That’s great. When can I meet him?”

I watched Barlow’s lips as he responded, but I didn’t miss the glimpse of something like reluctance in his eyes. We’ll get to that.

Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. What was wrong with the new guy? Maybe he was physically challenged like me. You know, lame or mute or something. That would make us even. I could live with that.

Apparently he has some reservations about the assignment.

Fury whipped to a frenzied froth inside me before I could slow it down. So the new guy didn’t want to work with the deaf girl. Another wave of anger washed over me on the heels of the thought. No matter how well-adjusted I appeared or how I told myself what other people thought didn’t matter, my temper always flared whenever I encountered prejudice.

“Just because I’m deaf doesn’t mean I’m not every bit as capable as he is,” I argued. Just let me at the guy, I fumed. I’ll show him.

Barlow looked away briefly but not quickly enough for me to miss the abrupt amusement that flickered across his handsome face. Oh, yeah, I wasn’t supposed to notice that he’s handsome anymore. I tamped down the longing that had started building the moment I walked through his door. No matter that I tried to ignore it, it was always there, waiting to pounce on me whenever we shared the same airspace.

Oh, well, old habits were hard to break. I couldn’t not notice how he looked…how he smelled, for Christ’s sake. A new kind of confusion made me frown. Why would he find my feelings on the matter amusing?

He doesn’t have a problem with your being deaf, Merri.

Merri. I melted a little more inside. No, no, I wasn’t supposed to do that, either. Tough stuff. I couldn’t stop the reaction. Just watching his lips form my name was a big-time turn on.

Then the rest of his words assimilated in my brain. “Then what does he have a problem with?” Jeez, it wasn’t like I was incompetent or lazy. I worked hard. Graduated in the top five percent of my police academy class and the top three percent at the forensics academy. He was lucky to get me as a partner. Darn lucky.

He would prefer a male partner, Barlow said, his gaze reflecting the frankness no doubt in his tone.

Shock rumbled through me as realization penetrated the automatic denial. The new guy didn’t want to work with me because I didn’t have a penis? What century was this guy living in?

“Tell me you’re kidding,” I said, making my voice as flat with disbelief as possible. “That mentality went out with the seventies. Where’s this dude been living?”

I liked the amusement I saw in Barlow’s eyes but I was a little too ticked off to enjoy it as much as I should have.

Originally, Mr. Patterson is from Georgia.

Well that explained everything. Bulldogs weren’t the only things Georgia boys were known for. They could be bullheaded, too. Not that I actually had anything against guys from Georgia, but my ex-fiancé was from Atlanta. Enough said.

“So, why not shuffle one of the other detectives to work with him,” I offered. Heck, I could think of half a dozen of the detectives already in the division who would be happy to partner up with me. So far I got along with everybody except the folks in charge.

That’s not the way I do things, Barlow said, all signs of amusement gone now. Mr. Patterson will learn to fit in or he’ll be gone.

Another thought occurred to me. Barlow was big on the whole team-player motto. Maybe someone else would spend some time in the hot seat besides me. I could handle that.

I shrugged. “Bring him on. I’ll teach him some proper manners.”

Barlow let a smile peek through his stern expression and, well, let’s just say that my heart did one of those tricky maneuvers best called a triple flip.

I’m certain you will. I’m counting on you to teach him the way we do things here.

“No problem. Remember, I grew up with four brothers. Patterson should brace himself.” At this point I looked forward to the challenge.

As I watched, Barlow pressed the intercom button and asked his secretary to send in Mr. Patterson, which, of course, drew my attention to his hands. Long, strong fingers; wide, masculine hands.

Focus, Merri. You’re about to meet your first partner and he’s one of those macho types who thinks women can’t do a man’s job.

I found myself holding my breath as the door opened. I forced myself to relax, refused to be the slightest bit nervous as I shifted just enough to look back at him as he strode into Barlow’s well-appointed office.

Tall, young…really young, maybe twenty-five or -six. Good-looking. But my grandmother had a saying, pretty is as pretty does. If he insisted on being a jerk about working with women, then that attitude would greatly depreciate the value of his handsome face.

Barlow stood. I did, as well, though I thought about keeping my seat just to remind him that ladies didn’t have to stand when a man entered the room. Notice I didn’t use the term gentleman.

Barlow shook Patterson’s hand, then gestured to me. Ray Patterson, this is Merri Walters.

I thrust out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Patterson.” I plastered a smile into place.

He took my hand and shook it firmly. Call me Ray.

Okay. I don’t know exactly how they do things in Georgia, but up here in Tennessee when someone says, “Nice to meet you,” a person generally says something like, “The pleasure is mine” whether they mean it or not. That he didn’t only lowered my impression of him.

Ray turned to Barlow and I did the same, just in time to catch something about seat or seats. Barlow gestured to my chair and then I realized he’d said that we should take our seats.

Before I could settle back into mine I realized Ray had spoken to Barlow. I swung my attention back to him as he said my position clear. Man, I was a little slow on the uptake today. I’m generally much better at keeping up with a two-, even a three-way conversation.

I would prefer a male partner. Ray looked from Barlow to me. I don’t mean to offend you, Miss Walters, but in my experience women are too emotional. That natural fault makes female detectives too unreliable for my comfort.

I told myself to think before I responded, but it was already too late. My mouth was in motion before my brain jumped into gear.

“I understand completely, Ray,” I said with all the feigned patience I could muster. “But we all have our faults. If you won’t hold being a woman against me, I’ll try my best not to hold your stupidity against you.”