Designed for Murder (Killer Style 4)

“Let me talk to them,” Carlos said as he used his thumb to brush blood off the corner of his mouth.

Her temper flared. “What, you think I’m too delicate to give a statement?”

“No.” He jerked his chin toward the plainclothes detective headed their way. “I just happen to know the really pissed-off-looking guy hauling ass toward us, and if he’s going to take someone’s head off, I’d rather it be mine.”

Square, tall, and with muscles so thick you could barely tell he had a neck, Harbor City police detective Reggie Watts probably ate metal Corn Flakes for breakfast and snapped felons in half to pick out the crumbs from between his teeth. Watts stormed across the alley, his glare visible even in the dim light. Since that was the same expression the detective wore while scarfing down hot dogs at a Maltese Security barbecue, bluffing at Tuesday night poker, and ordering a beer at the Salty Dog, Carlos didn’t even blink.

Reggie stopped just short of Carlos’s toes. “You know how much I love showing up at a crime scene and finding one of you Maltese guys here?” he asked.

Well versed in Reggie-ese, Carlos translated that to: Is everything okay?

Carlos flipped him off. “Bite me.”

Translation: All well.

“You’re not my type,” Reggie replied.

Translation? Good.

Mika cut him a questioning look, the skittish nervousness hanging like a tarnished halo around her head. The image was ridiculous. There was nothing angelic about Mika. She was a pain in his ass, but until this case was over, she was his pain in the ass, and he didn’t want her to worry. He moved a step closer to her—not touching but near enough that she couldn’t miss his message: He was here.

She relaxed a fraction as she watched the formerly deserted alley entrance now blocked by a black-and-white unit—its cherries blinking even if the siren was off—and Reggie’s unmarked black sedan.

A uniformed cop joined them, a clipboard in hand and the peach fuzz of his first beard covering his chin. “Ma’am, can you step over here? I need to get your initial statement.”

Mika glanced over at him, not exactly a question in her eyes, but not the normal 189 percent confidence, either. Normally he’d go with her, but he needed to figure out what had brought Reggie to what was probably called in as an ordinary mugging. The detective only worked major cases. Having him show up set off every single one of Carlos’s oh-shit alarm bells.

“Go ahead.” Carlos nodded at Mika. “I’ll wait for you.”

“Actually, sir,” the young uniformed cop said, “I’ll need to talk to you next.”

Reggie flashed his badge at Officer Puberty. “I got this one.”

The officer nodded. “Yes sir.”

He and Mika headed a few feet away and sat down on the employee smoking bench outside of Grounded Coffee’s back door. She toyed with a long strand of brown hair that had come loose from her thick braid during the attack, then tucked it behind her ear. Carlos couldn’t hear what she was telling the officer, but his fingers flew over the police-issued laptop propped on his knees as he took down every word.

It was a lot of immediate attention for a mugging. Something was up.

“What brings you down to a mugging?” Carlos asked.

“Bad luck.” Reggie scanned the brick backs of the buildings lining the alley, no doubt taking inventory of all the Lookie Lous peeking out of windows or brazenly watching the proceedings from the vantage point of their fire escapes. “I’m doing a rotation in robbery and was picking up Chinese on the corner when I heard the call come over the radio.”

Carlos managed not to laugh out loud. “Bullshit.”

Reggie glanced around, making sure none of the civilians was close enough to overhear. “There’s been a sudden drop in cocaine supply and prices have skyrocketed for what’s left out on the street, which has been cut with enough rat poison and other shit to make people nuts—literally. We’re getting a dozen calls a night that would normally be addicts committing no-harm muggings, but instead the purse snatcher ends up bashing Granny’s brains in for ten bucks and a subway card.”

“Diamond Tommy Houston?” Just saying the name made his stomach churn.

Harbor City’s most infamous crime boss was a favorite target at Maltese. After framing Cam’s girlfriend, Drea, for killing her high-society makeup client, Tommy had moved to the top of their Most Wanted list. Alex Lee spent nearly all of his free time looking for a way to nail the man who had more corrupt judges, cops, and politicians on his payroll than any other scumbag in Harbor City. Of course, Alex had his own reasons for wanting to see Tommy in state-issued orange. The bastard had killed Alex’s mom, a prosecuting attorney, in broad daylight, and the police hadn’t even brought him in for questioning.

“Good old Tommy boy.” The detective snorted. “More than likely he’s involved s

omewhere along the line. He’s got a finger in about a billion rotten pies in this city, but good luck actually tying him to any of it.”

The news sat like poisoned fruit in Carlos’s stomach. “That explains your sudden rotation out of major crimes and into robbery.”

“I always knew you were the smart one over at Maltese.” Reggie shrugged. “So what’s the situation here?”