“Good for you. You mentioned grad school. Where are you going?”
“George Mason.”
“You must be busy. What do you do for fun?”
“Hang out with cool cops like you.” He smiled. “How ‘bout you, Detective? What do you do for fun?”
Stryker Truman. I do Stryker Truman.“I work a lot.” She didn’t want Lyle writing anything about her, so she asked him another question. “Are you from the area?”
“I’m a transplant from Florida.”
“The cold weather must’ve been a shock. Had you seen snow before?”
“Oh, sure. My grandfather lives up here. We visit him every Christmas.”
“We?”
“Me, and my mom and dad.”
“Are you close to your parents?”
Lyle stiffened. “Not really, but they let me live in their guest house for free.” That made him smile. “I like not having to pay rent.”
“I hear you on that,” Emerson said. “It’s expensive around here. When you’re not working on a story or studying, do you hang with grad school friends?”
“I’m too busy to party.”
For some reason, Lyle didn’t strike her as a loner, but it appeared he was. “Do you have someone special in your life?”
“I used to,” he replied. “But things didn’t work out.” He finished his soda. “Hey, I thought I was the one asking the questions.”
“You’ve asked plenty for one day.”
“One more,” he said. “What do you like most about being a homicide detective?”
“Catching the bad guys,” she replied.
13
The Dinner Date
Stryker felt damn good, and he had the fiery detective to thank for the uptick in his normally dark mood.
After parking at his office, he turned his attention to his latest challenge—ensuring the FBI didn’t suspend all operations during their investigation.As he made his way toward the building, his phone rang. Another blocked caller.
“What?” he growled.
“You having yourself a good morning, my friend?” Spinetti’s gruff voice dripped in sarcasm. “I sure as hell am.”
His blood turned to ice in his veins. “Stop calling me.”
“I heard you had a break-in,” Spinetti continued. “That must’ve been a bitch for ya. I gotta say, I hate when I’m having a good day and then,bam!some asshole comes along and fucks it up.”
Every muscle in Stryker’s neck went stiff and a growl shot out of him. “Admitting to a crime, Spinetti?”
“Listen up, motherfucker, I’m sitting here with nothing to play with but my dick. People talk. I listen. That ain’t a crime.”
“You come near me or my businesses again, I’ll rip your no-good heart out and shove it down your—”