The Boss Vol. 4 (The Boss #4) by Cari Quinn, Taryn Elliott Page B
Authors: Cari Quinn, Taryn Elliott
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would’ve laid a MMA fighter low and slid in front of me while I searched for oxygen.
“Officer,” she said smoothly. “Thank you for coming so fast.”
“Are you the homeowner?”
When Grace nodded, I cupped her shoulder. “I am.”
She stiffened and moved to the side, turning her face away from me as the officer began to question me about what had occurred. I ran through the sequence of events without editorializing, more concerned about how Grace was taking things than in the notes the cop was taking on her little pad. I didn’t expect the police to find the culprits. Where I’d grown up, that wasn’t how things were done. The only justice was street justice. I might wear the veneer of a respectable man, but beneath, I’d been formed from gutter filth. There was no way in hell I’d sit back and wait for others to handle this situation for me. That wasn’t how I was built.
But I still smiled politely and played the game.
A second cop joined the first, after having apparently done a sweep of the premises. Odd they hadn’t done that together, though I think they were certain the threat had gone. Who could blame them? The second cop was the one who commented on the blood spatter near the door and on my knuckles. That seemed to take cop number one aback. She’d most likely tucked this event firmly into a manageable category, like most other Marblehead crimes. Blood made it different.
For me, as well.
Annabelle’s gun was taken from me to be brought in for testing, in case they caught the perps and were able to compare the man’s wound to the weapon I’d fired. There was talk of DNA testing and possibly working with a sketch artist from nearby Boston. Being insanely rich had its perks, and one of them was that they’d move heaven and earth to catch the dirty criminals who’d done this.
“Likely kids,” cop number two mused.
Nodding, I fingered the cuff link in my pocket. And didn’t say a goddamn word about it.
“You know how it is, Mr. Carson. You get these punk kids in the city who hear about all the respectable folks here in Marblehead, and they think they can make some easy money fencing whatever they can get their hands on. Especially with all the summer homes in the area. This time of year, there’s fewer neighbors around to report crime, especially on the waterfront. And this particular location recently changed hands—”
“Because my grandmother died. It wasn’t voluntary. We never would have sold this property. Do you know how long it’s been in my family?” Grace held up a hand before either of the cops could answer. “Never mind. I’m sorry. I’m just emotional right now.”
“Understandable.” Cop number two said, handing her his handkerchief in advance of her tears, I supposed. Except Grace wasn’t crying. She set her jaw and refused the offering with a sharp shake of her head.
Inwardly, I smiled for the first time in hours. That was my Grace. She wouldn’t accept anyone’s pity. Why would she? She was stronger than the supports that held up this house.
“There’s one part of the story you left out. You said you were…indisposed shortly before you heard the first noises that indicated a possible break-in.” Cop number one tilted her head, her gaze cool. “Indisposed in what way, sir?”
Sir was a title I now associated with Grace. Hearing it out of another woman’s mouth in such a patronizing way made me want to snarl. Somehow I kept hold of the impulse as I considered how to word my reply.
“Farrah—” Cop number two said with a wince, playing his good cop part to the hilt. “I don’t think that’s necessary in this case. Mr. Carson has done so much for this community. Why, he’s practically a pillar.”
A pillar who’d just fucked his assistant. Ex-assistant, but the work relationship stigma would remain for some.
“We were intimate and fell asleep,” Grace said without faltering. “I can’t give you times of release or anything like that,
“Officer,” she said smoothly. “Thank you for coming so fast.”
“Are you the homeowner?”
When Grace nodded, I cupped her shoulder. “I am.”
She stiffened and moved to the side, turning her face away from me as the officer began to question me about what had occurred. I ran through the sequence of events without editorializing, more concerned about how Grace was taking things than in the notes the cop was taking on her little pad. I didn’t expect the police to find the culprits. Where I’d grown up, that wasn’t how things were done. The only justice was street justice. I might wear the veneer of a respectable man, but beneath, I’d been formed from gutter filth. There was no way in hell I’d sit back and wait for others to handle this situation for me. That wasn’t how I was built.
But I still smiled politely and played the game.
A second cop joined the first, after having apparently done a sweep of the premises. Odd they hadn’t done that together, though I think they were certain the threat had gone. Who could blame them? The second cop was the one who commented on the blood spatter near the door and on my knuckles. That seemed to take cop number one aback. She’d most likely tucked this event firmly into a manageable category, like most other Marblehead crimes. Blood made it different.
For me, as well.
Annabelle’s gun was taken from me to be brought in for testing, in case they caught the perps and were able to compare the man’s wound to the weapon I’d fired. There was talk of DNA testing and possibly working with a sketch artist from nearby Boston. Being insanely rich had its perks, and one of them was that they’d move heaven and earth to catch the dirty criminals who’d done this.
“Likely kids,” cop number two mused.
Nodding, I fingered the cuff link in my pocket. And didn’t say a goddamn word about it.
“You know how it is, Mr. Carson. You get these punk kids in the city who hear about all the respectable folks here in Marblehead, and they think they can make some easy money fencing whatever they can get their hands on. Especially with all the summer homes in the area. This time of year, there’s fewer neighbors around to report crime, especially on the waterfront. And this particular location recently changed hands—”
“Because my grandmother died. It wasn’t voluntary. We never would have sold this property. Do you know how long it’s been in my family?” Grace held up a hand before either of the cops could answer. “Never mind. I’m sorry. I’m just emotional right now.”
“Understandable.” Cop number two said, handing her his handkerchief in advance of her tears, I supposed. Except Grace wasn’t crying. She set her jaw and refused the offering with a sharp shake of her head.
Inwardly, I smiled for the first time in hours. That was my Grace. She wouldn’t accept anyone’s pity. Why would she? She was stronger than the supports that held up this house.
“There’s one part of the story you left out. You said you were…indisposed shortly before you heard the first noises that indicated a possible break-in.” Cop number one tilted her head, her gaze cool. “Indisposed in what way, sir?”
Sir was a title I now associated with Grace. Hearing it out of another woman’s mouth in such a patronizing way made me want to snarl. Somehow I kept hold of the impulse as I considered how to word my reply.
“Farrah—” Cop number two said with a wince, playing his good cop part to the hilt. “I don’t think that’s necessary in this case. Mr. Carson has done so much for this community. Why, he’s practically a pillar.”
A pillar who’d just fucked his assistant. Ex-assistant, but the work relationship stigma would remain for some.
“We were intimate and fell asleep,” Grace said without faltering. “I can’t give you times of release or anything like that,
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