The Guardian
Chapter 7

It was barely lunchtime and already, Garza’s mood was for shit. He’d spent the morning getting the case board updated with everything he had on Nicky Bianchi, but other than the information Isabella and the rest of the team had gathered a couple of years ago on Nicky’s questionable financial and commercial investments and his connection with this construction company that had folded like a pile of laundry as soon as his brother had been arrested, Garza had far more question marks on the board than anything else.

Not to mention there were blue and white streamers all over the Intelligence office. And baby booties. And balloons.

Kill him now.

“I take it you’re not getting far on the Bianchi thing.”

Damn, Maxwell was one sneaky fvcker for a guy his size. No wonder Sinclair put him on all kinds of undercover assignments.

“Not yet,” Garza said, letting his shoulders replace a shrug even though they were strung tighter than a tangle of Christmas lights. “All the pieces are there. He replaces a company where he can bribe a key player on the inside, adds in a few other people to make sure it all goes smoothly—in the case of the construction company, it was likely inspectors and a city official or two. They work the books to move dirty money all over the place, turn it into assets or send it on a spin cycle to a bunch of banks, and bingo. The money ends up clean and in his pocket with no one the wiser.”

“Yeah, but it’s a hell of a case to try and make now that these leads are dead and there’s nothing pointing to anything new,” Maxwell said, sliding him a glance from across their desks. “I’m not saying Bianchi isn’t up to bad things, because we all know the deal with the mob. It’s a family business, and they take that shit seriously. For life. But are you sure you don’t just want to let it ride? It wouldn’t hurt to take a breather since there’s barely anything fresh, you know?”

For f**k’s sake. “Not you, too.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Maxwell said, and Christ, he even had the balls to deadpan it.

“Look, I appreciate that over here in Intelligence, you guys are hyper-aware of burnout. It’s a real problem for a lot of cops, and not one that should be glossed over. But Isabella already gave me the sit-down. I’m good.”

For a minute, Maxwell said nothing, and hell if that wasn’t bordering on dangerous. The guy was like one of those icebergs that only showed ten percent of its mass above water, while a giant mountain of tricky shit lay quietly beneath the surface.

Finally, he went with, “You guys.”

“What?”

“You said, ‘you guys’,” Maxwell pointed out, his dark blue stare giving Garza no quarter. “Not ‘us’, as in, with you on the team.”

Garza cursed himself for being sloppy enough to let that one slip, especially in front of Maxwell, of all f*****g people. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“Is it?”

Whether it was the way Maxwell asked, so devoid of accusation, or the frustration of this cold case just making him stupid, Garza couldn’t tell. But he said, “I don’t know, maybe? I mean, everyone here has always had my back on the job, and I’ll always have theirs.” He spun a glance around the office space, where Hollister and Hale were loading baby shower presents onto a table, thankfully out of earshot, and Capelli was using his big brain to walk Isabella through the ninety-seven features on the space-age stroller they’d all chipped in to buy her. Backing them up on the job—with his life, if need be—was never negotiable. Not on day one. Not now. “But, come on. You’ve been in Intelligence from the beginning. Can you really see yourself settling down like Capelli and Shae? Or, God, having a kid, like Isabella and Kellan? It just seems so…I don’t know, permanent.”

Maxwell chuffed out a laugh. “That’s because it is. They’re making it work, though, and they’re both pretty damn happy being permanent. I can get down with that.”

“You can?” Of all people, Maxwell seemed like the least likely candidate for a serious relationship. The dude had owned about fifteen different undercover personas this year alone.

“Sure. I mean, in theory, anyway. I don’t exactly have anyone lined up to help me put it into practice. I got kind of close once, but…”

Oh, that was a story. “Really? Do tell, because this is news to me.”

But Maxwell was a vault. The cagey fvcker. “More like ancient history. The job makes it tough.” He looked at Isabella on the far side of the office and shrugged. “But clearly, not impossible.”

“Close enough to it,” Garza countered. “My own mother doesn’t even understand why I have to cancel on family stuff at the last minute sometimes. Try replaceing a woman who’s good with you having to bolt on Thanksgiving because there was a double homicide in North Point.”

“You could date another cop,” Maxwell offered, and now Garza just flat-out f*****g laughed.

“Would you?”

“Hell, no.” Maxwell’s grin was a stark contrast to his rough exterior. “Not even I have the testicular fortitude for that. Still”—he lifted a shoulder partway before letting it drift back down—“I wouldn’t be opposed to something long-term, though, if the right not-a-cop woman came along.”

Garza shook his head. “Better you than me. I am definitely not a long-term kind of guy.”

“You sure this doesn’t have anything to do with Chloe?”

The question caught Garza on the chin, and his heart smacked fast beneath his T-shirt. “Yes.”

Maxwell waited, and great, this conversation had officially punched every hole in his F**k-Me ticket. “I’m sure. Chloe and I just weren’t compatible. It’s better that we found out before.” He left off the we got married part. Maxwell already knew, and the words always tasted burnt, anyway. “But what happened with her has nothing to do with why I don’t want a relationship now. I’m just happier focusing on the job. Really.”

A beat of silence followed, during which Garza was certain Maxwell was forming an argument, or at the very least, an expression of doubt. But whatever he was going to say disappeared as Xander Matthews made his way through the door to the Intelligence office.

“Hey, you guys,” Xander said in response to the chorus of greetings being called out from the four corners of the open office space. “Garza, you’ve got a visitor. Delia Sutton? She said you’re handling her personal robbery case.”

Garza’s pulse took a thwack at his composure, and awesome, everyone in the room had stopped to listen in. “I was. She’s my little sister’s best friend. Smash and grab on Friday night,” he said for the benefit of the peanut gallery. “But that was an open and close. I handed it off to the patrol officers who did the canvass. Why does she want to see me?”

“I think you might want to ask her that yourself,” Xander said. “She’s, um, pretty insistent.”

He thought back to Delia’s claims about her boss and how desperate she’d been to get her laptop back. It was a lost cause—the thing had probably been wiped clean and sold God only knew where by now, and he opened his mouth to say exactly that. But then he saw her standing just outside the glass doors, caught somewhere between anxious and ridiculously beautiful, and his mouth clapped shut.

She must have come from work, although her high-waisted gray pants and snug red and white striped shirt were just far enough from standard office garb to set her apart, her bright red shoes—a pair of ballet-slipper-looking things, with big bows on the front—making her offbeat style official. Her face was slightly flushed, which made the dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks stand out all the more, and even though her body was in full fidget mode, she looked so comfortable in her own skin that Garza was momentarily jealous.

“Okay, sure,” he heard himself say. It was a bad idea, he knew, especially since his d**k had been doing some independent thinking about her ever since the other night. But Delia was his sister’s best friend, and as gone as her stuff was, she had been assaulted. Plus, stitching up her case once and for all might get him out of some of this baby shower, so, really, it was a win-win.

Following Xander out to the hallway, Garza closed the space between them. “Hi, Delia. How are you—”

“Officer Matthews found my bag!” she blurted, and whoa.

“You couldn’t have led with that?” Garza asked Xander, who held up his hands.

“It was empty. Mostly, anyway. Dade and I found it in the alley behind Sweetie Pies.” He followed up with the details, which were pretty f*****g scarce, thanks. Not that Garza didn’t process them all with care, regardless.

“I’m glad you have your pendant back,” Garza said, because judging by the way Delia was clutching it by the black leather cord, the thing had more than a little sentimental value. “But I’m not sure what else we can do.”

“Are you serious?” Delia asked, her blond lashes fanning up to ring her surprise. “There have to be cameras around there. It’s one of the busiest parts of the city!”

Okay, she wasn’t wrong. Still… “True, but even if we did have footage from a street cam, you wouldn’t be able to ID the guy.”

He paused in order to give her a chance to say otherwise, but the exasperated breath she let out said that she couldn’t. “Fine. What if he’s carrying the bag, though? Then I wouldn’t need to ID him. Right?”

“That would help,” Xander mused, lifting his hands as Garza speared him with a glare. “What? I’m just saying, it would.”

“It might,” Garza corrected. “But without an ID, there’s no way of knowing if whoever put the bag in the dumpster is the same person who assaulted Delia and stole her things.”

“Well, yeah, but the chances are pretty good,” Xander said. “People not involved in a crime don’t normally shove evidence of said crime into public dumpsters. You’ve gotta admit, that’s pretty decent probable cause, at least.”

Garza lifted a brow. He just had to get the one beat cop whose live-in girlfriend happened to be the freaking A.D.A. “Okay, hotshot. Do you think criminals like that are dumb enough not to conceal said evidence while they’re on their way to ditch it?”

“Some are,” Delia argued. “They’re the ones who get caught on Dateline.”

If Garza didn’t hear that word for another hundred years, it would be too goddamn soon. “It’s extremely unlikely that the person who put your bag into that dumpster would’ve been carrying it in plain sight.”

The hope that had been so clear on Delia’s pretty face began to slip. “But what if there’s footage of the alley itself? He’d be caught red-handed.”

“Whoever did this is a pro. He probably scoped out where to ditch the things he didn’t want ahead of time. And yes,” Garza added, before Delia could ask, “guys like that know where to look for security cameras.”

“That is true,” Xander agreed, and Delia put her hands on her h**s.

“But that can’t be it,” she said. “Can’t you at least try?”

Frustration perked in his veins. “Not when it won’t yield any results. I hear what you’re saying, Delia, and I agree that the circumstances suck. I also get that you want your things back, and if I had any reasonable actions to take, I would. But I can’t just force a case to work in my favor. There’s practically a zero percent chance we’d get anywhere with any of this.”

“Practically zero isn’t zero,” she tried again, pressing her bright red lips together in a way that did not one damn thing for Garza’s sanity. “They’re two entirely different entities. One of them means there’s a chance, even if it’s small, and if you’d just—”

Possibly, it was the bitter pill of the Bianchi case finally doing him in, or maybe it was the way Delia was looking at him so pleadingly, wanting him to do a job he simply couldn’t.

He stepped toward her. “There’s nothing I can do, Delia.”

But then, instead of conceding, she did something Garza never, ever expected.

She stepped forward to meet him, until they were toe to toe.

“That’s just inaccurate. There are a number of things you can do, Matteo Garza, and you can start by actually listening to me.” She lifted a slender finger to put a firm poke right against his chest, and Garza couldn’t tell if he was more flat-out shocked or highly turned on. “I may not have proof that there’s something weird going on at my work, but you are a detective. Your mami brags to anyone who will listen about how you can crack any case that comes your way. This is theonly chance I have to replace my laptop and go to my boss with something concrete. I get that it’s a long shot. I also understand that it’s not glamorous or high-profile. But it’s still a case, and it should matter. So listen up, Detective Grouchy Pants! Can’t you just humor me for two fracking seconds and check”—poke—“the damn”—poke—“footage?”

Delia paused to inhale, then slammed the whole thing home with one soft, breathy word.

“Please.”

Driven by something that was not rational thought, Garza wrapped his hand around Delia’s finger. The contact seemed to bring her back to the moment, her eyes flashing first, down to their hands, then wide, and f**k, there was so much to unpack in what she’d said.

The most important of which was that Delia was right.

It was a case. And they all mattered.

Even when they were impossible.

“Okay,” Garza said, slowly lifting her hand off his sternum to replace it by her side.

“Okay?” Delia repeated.

But Garza didn’t hesitate. “Okay, I will look to see if there are any street cams or businesses with security cameras that show the entrance to that alley. If there are any, we can go from there. If not…” He let his expression deliver the bad news that she’d be shit out of luck if that were the case. “And rookie?”—Garza turned his gaze to Xander, whose expression was an even split between shock and awe—“If you so much as breathe a single syllable about this conversation to anyone, I will make sure you get stuck manning the drunk tank for a solid f*****g month. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely.” At the last second, Xander released a smirk. “Detective Grouchy Pants.”

Rather than respond—because, unfortunately, Xander was a good cop and throttling him would be frowned upon—Garza turned toward the Intelligence office, nodding for Delia to follow.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Well, I mean, I’m not sorry, but I didn’t think all of that would be out loud.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Garza said. He punctuated the sentence with a shrug, and she took the hint that he didn’t want to get gabby. They moved through the door, past all the blue and white confetti (okay, there was no way Sinclair had okayed that) and toward Garza’s desk. He was aware of everyone taking notice of Delia, mostly from the corners of their eyes, although Isabella gave him her curiosity point blank. Maxwell had joined Hale and Hollister, who were now sneaking the extra cupcakes they’d ordered specifically for “taste testing purposes”, and Garza gestured to the spare seat they always kept between their desks for witnesses, victims, or any other guests they needed to bring upstairs.

“It’ll take me a minute or two to get online and see where the closest street cams are,” he said, sliding into his chair and tapping his desktop to life. “Can you describe your bag for me? Or, if you’ve got a photo, that would be even better.”

Cue up the crickets.

“Hello? Earth to Delia?” Garza looked up in time to catch her not even paying attention, her stare focused off to the side.

Surprise tagged him in the chest, followed by a quick shot of irritation. She’d been so gung ho to make him pull up this footage, and she was spacing out on him now?

“Delia.” He waved a hand, giving her exactly two seconds to respond before he retracted his offer entirely. “You were the one who was all mad at me because you thought I wasn’t listening to you. Now, you’re not listening to me?”

“No,” she said, and in that split second, Garza realized that her eyes were fixed on his case board. Specifically, on one photo in particular.

“I’m too busy wondering how you know Nick, and why you have him listed as the suspect of what looks like a major crime.”