To Trust a Cop. Sharon Hartley

      “Then don’t follow so closely,” he said.

      “Thank you, Detective, for your professional advice, but I’ve never been made on a tail.” She kept her gaze fixed on the road, but the heat of his scrutiny made her squirm. At least the car’s movement created a rush of cooling air.

      “And how many tails have you been on?”

      “Probably less than you,” she admitted as she stepped harder on the gas. “So Nurse Cole is involved with whatever the doc’s into?”

      “You know I can’t answer that.” Cody peered at the speedometer.

      “What happened to trading information?”

      “Don’t speed,” he said.

      “I’m not speeding.” Okay. So she was—but only a little.

      Merlene stayed well behind the BMW as she followed the nurse toward Miller Drive, holding out her right hand to test the blessedly cold air blasting from AC vents.

      “She’s probably just going to the grocery store,” Merlene muttered. “Won’t even have time to cool the car down.”

      Warren loosened his tie. “Glamorous work.”

      Suppressing a laugh, she thought of the khaki shorts and sleeveless cotton blouse she wore, her usual surveillance uniform. Some glamour. In case she needed to follow a subject to a more formal atmosphere, she always kept a skirt and jacket hanging in the backseat. A good investigator was always prepared.

      “I hope she is going to meet Johnson,” Warren said.

      With both vehicles caught by a red light, Merlene scribbled the time and mileage in her notebook. “Why?”

      “Because he didn’t show up at his office today.”

      She raised her head. “Are you saying you don’t know where he is?”

      He rubbed a hand over his chin. “Not at the moment.”

      “Why don’t you have him under surveillance?”

      “Good question,” Warren said.

      “Well, well. I guess you should have let me stay last night,” she said, not even trying to keep satisfied amusement out of her voice. She couldn’t help but enjoy this turn of events. “I’d know his location if you hadn’t run me off.”

      Warren answered with a strangled noise.

      The BMW turned south on Galloway Road, and Merlene stayed with it.

      “How long have you been a private investigator?” he asked.

      “Two years. I work with D. J. Cooke Investigations.”

      Warren nodded as if he knew where she worked, which she didn’t like one bit. But of course he’d probably verified her license was current and she’d paid all her fees. Fortunately her boss was a stickler for those kinds of details.

      “I didn’t know D.J. was still around,” the detective said. “Tell him I said hello.”

      Was that a note of respect in Warren’s usually overbearing tone? “You know D.J.?”

      “He’s a good man.”

      “He is, isn’t he?” She adored her boss, a distant relative from Missouri. He’d taught her how to follow a subject and not get nailed. D.J. was semiretired now, bothered by too many medical problems, but she’d heard tall tales of his exciting career, first as a cop and then a P.I. “Did you ever work together?” She’d love to hear another war story about D.J.’s time on the job.

      “My dad knew him,” Warren said in a flat voice.

      She threw him a look, but he stared out the windshield, his eyes fixed on the vehicle in front of them.

      “Linda is turning into Norman Brothers,” he said.

      “Shoot.” Merlene drove slowly past the gourmet grocery, confirmed that her subject had parked in its lot, then turned around at the next intersection.

      “I don’t see Johnson’s car,” Merlene said as she drove through the jammed parking lot.

      She maneuvered the Corolla into an empty space, then reached into a zippered sports bag in the backseat and selected a red wig.

      “You’re going to follow her in?” Warren asked.

      “Unless you want to.” Gathering her long hair into a bun, she tugged the wig securely over her head. The detective leaned against the passenger door to watch.

      Hating that his scrutiny made her self-conscious, she checked herself in the rearview mirror, rearranged the wig with quick fingers, then grimaced at her pale face surrounded by a mop of hideous red hair.

      Oh, definitely a glamorous job, she thought, angry with herself for caring what she looked like.

      “Cole might meet the doc here,” she said. “Haven’t you heard the grocery store’s a hot spot to pick up dates?”

      “Speaking from experience?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

      “There you go with rude questions again.”

      He grinned. “That’s one hell of a wig.”

      “It works.” She placed tortoiseshell frames with clear lenses on her nose. “I don’t want Dr. Johnson to recognize me.”

      “The doc won’t meet her here.”

      “Probably not,” Merlene agreed, “but it’s my job to confirm that. Stay put and keep the air-conditioning running.”

      Without waiting for an answer, she stepped out of the car and breathed a sigh of relief. Detective Warren’s presence made the compact car feel like a toy.

      * * *

      CODY LAUGHED AS he watched Merlene half run across the lot and enter the grocery. Stay put? Where did she get her nerve? He should have arrested her for kidnapping him.

      But he enjoyed the feminine sway of her hips, thinking good things definitely came in small packages. He smiled, guessing this was one lady who never resorted to the grocery to meet members of the opposite sex.

      And a meet at a produce market wasn’t Richard Johnson’s style, especially since the good doctor wasn’t having an affair with “Nurse” Cole. Linda Cole had been hired only as a player in Johnson’s elaborate game of fraud and deceit. No wonder the wife got suspicious, considering how much time her husband spent with the bogus Florence Nightingale.

      She’d be more likely to hook up with Sean Feldman, the attorney mastermind of the scheme, but a survey of the parking lot didn’t reveal either of his vehicles. Too bad. Merlene could have recorded Nurse Cole and Feldman together. That would be one nice piece of evidence against Feldman, the lawyer who filed lawsuits based on the phony injuries diagnosed by Dr. Johnson, allowing them to fleece insurance companies out of millions. Usually by quick settlement so the insurers didn’t have to even bear the expense of a trial. What an easy con.

      So where was Doc Johnson? Had he gotten wind of the coming bust and rabbited? If so, he hadn’t cleaned out any accounts. Didn’t seem likely since he’d made a fortune off his various schemes, including a lucrative pill mill in Hallandale where any addict with an itch could get a prescription for a fee. Cody shook his head, thinking about the greedy physician who’d supplied narcotics to his sister’s husband.

      Cody still searched for answers when Linda exited the store and loaded brown paper bags into the trunk of her white BMW. She lit a cigarette, dropped the lighter back in her oversize purse and climbed behind the wheel.

      Moments later Merlene slid into the driver’s seat and yanked off the wig. “Oh, that itches.” She scratched her head, her own dark hair cascading to her shoulders in waves.

      “You look better with your own hair.”