Just One Look. Joanne Rock

      Petite and delicate-boned, she’d inherited the superfair skin that often goes with red hair, the bridge of her nose dusted with light freckles. Thin, arched eyebrows outlined wide brown eyes and her high cheekbones glowed a pink shade that hadn’t been there before she left the room.

      He sat across from her now on a battered wooden rocker draped with a pink silk scarf, making a few notes while she scratched Buster’s head. He’d tried to tell her that Buster was a dog he’d rescued, a candidate for doggy death row because he’d bitten his former owner, even though Warren had never seen any evidence of viciousness. The dog was protective—sure. But what cop wouldn’t appreciate a canine that didn’t let anyone get the drop on him? And Buster had always liked women best anyway, the damn player. The animal lay with his head on Tabitha’s thigh, giving Warren surreptitious looks of superiority out of one contented brown eye.

      “You can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt you or even just harass you? Since the curtains aren’t completely opaque, I have to think the shooter didn’t aim to hit you. Did you realize how visible you are from the street?”

      He didn’t mean to censure her for her wardrobe choices, but damn. She needed heavier curtains if she was going to wander around in a street-level apartment dressed in that outfit she’d been wearing. Residual heat flared to life all over again at the memory.

      “Oh. I guess not.” Her hand stilled on the dog’s head. “And no one I know would resort to such openly brutal actions. In my business, people tend to do more damage to one another at a social level. You know, slight someone at a party or start a rumor about an enemy.”

      He wondered if people like her had any idea how privileged they were to live in that kind of world, a far cry from the open cruelty Warren had witnessed his whole life.

      “A patrol car will be here soon to go over the scene more thoroughly, but as long as I’m here we could get a few of the questions out of the way.” When she didn’t protest, he followed up on her last comment. “Where do you work?”

      “I’m a body double.” The answering lift of her chin was slight but noticeable.

      He wondered why the job was cause to be defensive.

      “Is there much call for that kind of work in New York?” He pictured that as a Hollywood profession, but he could certainly see this woman fulfilling that kind of role.

      And thanks for the reminder of the high, full breasts and sweetly puckered nipples that he’d glimpsed beneath her negligee. He’d be lucky to get through this interview without breaking into a sweat.

      “I keep busy enough. A lot of the soap operas are shot in New York and now that they allow more skin on daytime television, the actresses are put in more compromising positions than ever before. If they don’t feel comfortable with a shower scene or a love scene, I stand in for the most brazen moments.”

      “Any resentment among your peers for how much work you get or jealousy from the women you stand in for?”

      She looked down at Buster and cupped his ear as she stroked his fur. Was she thinking or stalling?

      “My ex-husband had affairs with a few of the women on daytime TV, but I don’t see why any of them would resent me these days. My husband and I parted ways nearly a year ago and the divorce has been final for months.”

      That sounded like a recipe for disaster. And what kind of scumbag landed a wife like this woman and then turned around and sabotaged it by screwing around behind her back?

      Even Buster lifted his head long enough to look incensed.

      “Was the divorce contentious?” He tried to maintain an open mind about the woman. She might be hot, but for all Warren knew she could be possessive or high maintenance. Women in film had a certain reputation, after all.

      “He cheated on me with multiple women, Detective. It was definitely difficult.” Her lips pursed tight. Held.

      “But you don’t think he’d want to hurt you?”

      “Not with violence.”

      “Ms. Everhart, I’m going to be honest with you and say I think there’s a decent chance your window was pierced by stray gunfire from a dispute that didn’t involve you. But you can’t be too careful when there was only one bullet fired in a neighborhood that doesn’t see a lot of random criminal mischief.” He asked her for the names of the women her husband slept with as well as the ex himself before scribbling them down on a pilfered piece of paper from a stray notebook on her overloaded coffee table. “So let the police help you decide who might be violent and who isn’t before you withhold information about a recent divorce. Are you sure there’s no one else in your life that might want to make trouble for you?”

      “No one that I’m aware of.” She clutched a bright yellow satin throw pillow to her chest, the movement jerky. Uneasy.

      “Are you sure you’ll be all right alone tonight?” He hated it that this had happened on his block, the same route he jogged every night and considered his backyard. “You definitely don’t want to stay in your apartment with the window compromised and the lock broken on your door.”

      He regretted the need to bust in here, but she could have been hurt…or worse.

      Tonight’s incident with Tabitha hadn’t exactly mirrored the hellish night of his sixteenth birthday, but the scream and the gunshot had freaked him out for a few minutes, had him busting into her apartment like a SWAT guy. But the mental trip down memory lane never failed to bring out his inner vigilante—the need to protect that went beyond his badge.

      “I’ll be fine. I’m sure the shot wasn’t meant for my window and I’ll call tomorrow to have the glass replaced.”

      “But you won’t try to stay here.” He didn’t want her anywhere near the apartment until they’d had the chance to go over everything in detail.

      He’d seen the shell casing embedded in the back of her couch earlier and he’d toyed with the idea of removing it but it had been lodged tightly in a hardwood interior and he didn’t want to compromise the scene without the proper tools. Besides, seeing a bullet pried out of their possessions tended to freak some people out and he hadn’t had enough time to accomplish the task while she’d been out of the room. As a longtime ballistics expert, Warren already knew the shell belonged to a .38, a weapon that wasn’t exactly the firearm of choice of today’s bigger-is-better street thugs.

      “I can stay at a hotel tonight. I’ll be okay.”

      Something about her tone made him think she was trying hard to convince herself more than him. But then, Warren would bet his badge this woman was an expert in talking herself through hardship. Her whole apartment spoke of hard times covered over with brightly decorated facades, optimism in the face of anguish. He had to admire that kind of grit.

      “Fine. There’s just one more thing. I’ll run a few tests on the bullet just to see if anything unusual comes up, but is there any chance you know anyone who carries a .38?”

      She stilled. Buster nudged his snout back under her hand to restart her attentions.

      “Ms. Everhart?”

      “Call me Tabitha.” She scratched the dog idly but didn’t meet Warren’s gaze. “I don’t know any sane person who would carry a gun around the streets of New York, Detective.”

      That answer begged a follow-up question, but she stood abruptly and strode toward the kitchen, her bare feet falling with the smallest of sounds on the hardwood floors covered with thin throw rugs.

      “Can I get you some water? You said you were out running.” She came back with a bottle for him and then hastened to the sink to fill a bowl for Buster. “You both must be thirsty.”

      When she had run out of activity and stood awkwardly beside her dining room table some twelve feet away from him, Warren asked the question she so obviously didn’t want to answer. The lights of an approaching squad