His Mafia Queen

No Answers

RILEY

An hour later, I'm walking into the Tampa Police Department. My insides are still shaking like leaves dropping from the trees in my native New England, because news about the discovery of Doyle's body has shaken me to my core.

I hope I didn't reveal how rattled I was to my editor. I tried to maintain a poker face when he asked me to contact Gabriel, merely nodded. We discussed Doyle for a while longer, then I managed to escape by saying I wanted to check in on my police sources, who might know something about Doyle's demise.

This is not a lie. My sources surely know something. The question is, will it involve Gabriel? Do I want to know the answer to that question?

No. I don't. But I need to find out, if only to save my sanity.

Did he have the time to kill Doyle over the weekend? He was with me for Friday night and most of Saturday, except for his meeting. Which wasn't longer than a couple of hours. Enough time to off a man, though. Not enough time to drive a body to the Everglades, which is about three hours south.

But Gabriel Greco wouldn't personally dispose of a body. Hell, he might not even kill anyone himself, although I wouldn't put it past him. I can't imagine a man as powerful and connected as Gabriel would kill with his bare hands.

I pull open the door to the police station and shiver. Gabriel's hands. The ones that touched me, the ones that caressed me, the ones that brought me to unimaginable heights of pleasure. Were they the same hands that killed a city councilman?

I need answers.

Because I have another critical question: did Gabriel know Doyle was dead on Saturday night? Did he bring me to that party, harboring that knowledge? Did he order me into his bed while aware that the man I was investigating had shuffled off this mortal coil?

A thousand questions are running through my brain. My editor told me that Doyle's body had been found early Saturday evening. If Gabriel knew, he hadn't let on.

Of course, we were too busy fucking. What was he going to do, pause from licking my pussy to tell me the news?

I walk up the escalator, not bothering to stand and ride like I usually do. Instead of stopping to chat with the front desk clerk, I take a hard left toward the office of Joe Lewis, the police department's public information officer. Joe's one of my better sources in the department.

I'm hoping he'll have information on Doyle, since he knew I'd been poking around on the disappearance.

As always, Joe's door is open. In addition to fielding questions from the media, he also takes requests from the public and handles other community-oriented affairs. Like kids' tours and badge requests, real small potatoes stuff. I enter without saying hi and flop into a tired leather chair that faces his messy desk.

Joe looks up, his sixty-something eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good morning, Ms. Murphy. Please. Have a seat."

"What do you know about Doyle?" I demand.

"Nothing like hard hitting questions early on a Monday. Jeez, Riley, it's not even noon and you're coming in here with guns blazing."

"I'm not bullshitting, Joe. I want information. I need to write a story." What I need is the certainty that the guy I screwed the other night isn't the main suspect...

Joe chuckles. "I think everyone does in the city, now that this news has leaked out. But it's not our case. Not our jurisdiction."

I let out a sigh. This isn't what I want to hear. "Surely your guys are on it, though, right? Your homicide department? He was reported missing here in Tampa."