Flash Point. Metsy Hingle

voice of his that still held a trace of his Arkansas roots despite the years he’d spent in New York playing football for the Jets.

      “Anytime.” Nuccio puffed up his chest. “Just say the word and I’ll make a few calls, set something up for you.”

      “I appreciate that,” Leon told him. “I really do. But the thing is, I’m afraid having you set me up with your ladies would be a problem.”

      “Say, if you’re worried your old lady’s going to find out, don’t sweat it. These gals are discreet.”

      “I’m sure they are, but that’s not the problem,” Leon explained.

      Nuccio frowned a moment, then his eyes widened. “Holy shit! Don’t tell me you’ve never screwed around on your wife?”

      “Come to think of it, no. I haven’t.”

      “Hot damn, if that don’t beat all.” Nuccio let out a hoot. He slapped his leg. “Instead of calling you Vicious, they should call you Choirboy. What in the hell’s wrong with you, man? Here I am offering to cut you in on my female turf and you’re turning me down because you’re married?”

      “Actually, that’s only one of the reasons I’m turning you down. The other reason is I don’t pay women for sex.”

      Jack muffled a laugh. But the other guys hanging around the lockers didn’t. And as the whoops of laughter rumbled around the locker room, Nuccio’s face grew beet red. Jack almost felt sorry for him. Almost but not quite, since the jerk had been riding him for months now—ever since Jack had gotten a citation for his efforts in solving an eight-year-old murder that had languished in the cold-case files. A case to which Nuccio had once been assigned.

      Nuccio glared up at the much taller Leon. “Up yours, pal.”

      “No thanks,” Leon said, and flashed his pearly white teeth.

      “Some sports hero you are. The only woman you’re making it with is your own wife.”

      Leon’s smile widened. It was the smile of a man who was content with his life and with himself. A man who wasn’t going to be rattled by the barbs of some sorry ass jerk like Sal Nuccio. “Like I said, don’t knock it till you try it.”

      “Or maybe you don’t have any choice, because the chicks aren’t impressed with washed-up football stars. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that you never were a babe magnet—not even during your playing days,” Nuccio continued with a laugh. “No wonder the chicks ignore you now.”

      “Nuccio, my man, you’ve been reading way too many groupie magazines,” Leon said patiently. “The truth is, the ladies don’t ignore Napoleon the Vicious. But when I tell them I’m married, they naturally put the moves on my pal Jackson here.” Leon slung his arm around Jack’s shoulder, dwarfing his six-foot-two, one-hundred-ninety-pound frame. “Ain’t that right, Jackson?”

      “Sure,” Jack responded.

      “Yeah, right,” Nuccio told him.

      Leon released him and drew himself up to his six-foot-six height. “It’s the truth. Jackson here is a real player. Why, just last night he was at some fancy party at the Royal Sonesta, and the man had to practically fight the ladies off with a stick. Ain’t that so, Jackson?”

      “Sure is,” Jack said, going along with his partner’s story but wondering how Leon knew about the fund-raiser he’d attended since he hadn’t mentioned it to him.

      “In your dreams,” Nuccio countered. “Maybe the chicks give Mr. Ex-Football Star here a second look because he used to be somebody, but no way do they notice your sorry ass.”

      “According to Tessa’s friend Milly, they were noticing a lot more than his ass last night,” Leon informed him.

      “No shit! That true, Callaghan?” a first-year rookie named Doug called out. “You really have women crawling all over you last night?”

      “I don’t know if ‘crawling’ is the right word. But there were about a hundred women at the party,” Jack said, doing his best to keep a straight face as he referred to the fund-raiser his mother had guilted him in to attending. “And by the time the night was over, I’d say that at least half of them had hit on me.”

      “Aw, man,” came a comment from behind.

      “Some guys have all the luck,” someone else grumbled.

      Nuccio narrowed his eyes. “You expect us to believe you had fifty women trying to jump your bones last night?”

      “Actually it wasn’t my bones they were after,” Jack confessed. Although, in truth, Alicia Van Owen had made it clear to him that she was more than willing to resume the steamy affair that he’d put the brakes on two months ago. “It was my checkbook. Most of the ladies were members of the Junior League or friends of my mother’s or both. And they were hitting me up all evening for donations.”

      Leon roared with laughter. So did the other guys gathered around who’d been listening to the exchange. The only one who didn’t seem to find the story amusing was Sal Nuccio.

      “You’re a real comedian,” Nuccio told him.

      “Thank you,” Jack said, and took a bow.

      “Maybe you ought to turn in your badge and try using that smart mouth of yours to earn a living. Oh, wait a minute,” Nuccio continued, a hard look in his eyes. “That’s right. You don’t actually have to worry about earning a living like the rest of us ’cause your daddy left you a shit load of money. All you gotta do is have your mama make a phone call and wave her checkbook. And the next thing you know you got yourself a citation and the press makes you out to be some kind of hero.”

      Jack sobered instantly. “I earned that citation, Nuccio. And as far as the press is concerned, I don’t have any control over what they write and neither does my mother.”

      “Uh-huh. And we’re all supposed to believe that the Callaghan bucks didn’t influence any of it.”

      “They didn’t.”

      “Yeah, try telling it to somebody who doesn’t know any better. The truth is, that if it weren’t for your family’s money you’d still be a beat cop.”

      Jack shook his head. And that was the crux of Nuccio’s problem with him, the same problem the guy had had since they were kids—even before he’d shared the quarterback slot in high school. His family had had money and Nuccio’s didn’t. “It still burns your ass that my family has money, doesn’t it, Sal?”

      “The only thing that burns my ass is the way you get special treatment because of it,” Nuccio told him.

      When Jack started for him, Leon clamped a hand down on his shoulder. “If I were you, Nuccio, I’d go crawl back under that rock where you live before I set Jackson here loose and he turns you into the city’s latest homicide.”

      “You think I’m afraid of him? Of either of you?”

      “You should be,” Jack told him, his voice deadly soft in contrast to the anger racing through him.

      “Why? Because you’re gonna sic your big black partner here on me?”

      “No. You should be afraid because I’m going to whip your fat white ass.”

      Nuccio made a show of laughing at the remark, holding his sides and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “You hear that, fellows? Callaghan thinks he can whip my ass.” When none of the other cops gathered to share his amusement, Nuccio curled his lips in a snarl. “Go ahead and turn him loose. And let’s see who whips whose ass. I’ve yet to meet a rich boy who knew how to handle his fists.”

      “This one can,” Jack assured him.

      “Come on, guys, ya’ll are cops. You’re supposed to fight the bad guys. Not each other,” one of the other police officers pointed out. “Besides,