Page 94 of Playing with Fire

Quinn covered my mouth with his hand. “I’ll do it because I want to. I like seeing you smile while you’re snuggling in my blanket. When I get you home, I’ll take you to the station and let you cuff me to a chair so you can force me to watch while you beat Suzy to death.”

If his goal was to stop me from crying, he was failing miserably. I sniffled and pulled his hand from my mouth. “Really, Quinn? Homemade napalm? Are you sure you’re a cop?”

He smiled, reached across the table, and grabbed a napkin so he could wipe my cheeks. “I’m a bad one. I ditched work the instant I got the call you were here. I may have forgotten to tell anyone why I was leaving. If I’m fired, I might have to mooch off you for a while.”

The realization he could mooch off me startled me so much I stared at him with wide eyes. I liked the thought of him at my mercy. “Underwear model.”

Quinn’s eyebrows rose. “You want me to model underwear?”

“I’d make a fortune to pay for your mooching.” Swallowing and rubbing my eyes, I cleared my throat and tried to pretend I wasn’t a sniffling, crying mess. “Why do I need to handcuff you while I beat Suzy to death?”

“It’s more fun that way. Everyone in the station will love it. You can gather your loyal fans and have them watch Suzy’s murder while I howl over the injustice of it all.”

A weak laugh bubbled up and escaped between my unsuccessful attempts to quit blubbering. “I don’t have loyal fans.”

“You have an entire station full of them. Not only did you get them a good coffee maker, you taught them how to use it. That’s automatic heroine status among us cops. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”

“Now you’re the one being ridiculous.”

“If it makes you stop crying, I’ll be ridiculous and take my shirt off.”

“You without your shirt is never ridiculous.” While there was a box of tissues on the counter, I grabbed a napkin and blew my nose. “I’m sorry I ate part of your uniform.”

Quinn laughed. “It gives me a good excuse to order some new ones. Go to the bathroom and wash your face. I love you, but you are not one of those women who does the crying with grace thing. You might scare the on-duty cops.”

I cringed because he was right. On a good day, I only splotched bright red in uneven patches, making me look like I’d been on the losing end of a nasty fight. On a bad one, I scared babies. “I hate you because you’re right.”

“No, you love me because I’m honest.”

I did, but instead of admitting it, I stuck my tongue out at him.

Despite Quinn’s warning preparing me for the discussion, the investigation did wear away at my nerves. My patience frayed, and the snarky, cranky elements of my personality rose to the surface, forcing me to bite my tongue several times so I wouldn’t snap at someone—or hiss like one of Grandfather Quinn’s snakes.

If I hunted the gorgon down and asked him really nicely, would he bite someone for me? I could have antivenin nearby along with some neutralizer. That counted as considerate, right?

I sighed. I understood why the two chiefs needed information about me and my lifestyle, but it shamed me to reveal my difficulties with getting by. Some people called it making a living. I called it barely surviving.

Quinn’s teasing over my greasy burger ended the instant he got his hands on my financials. With narrowed eyes, he flipped through the pages. “I think we can eliminate wealth as a motivation: Audrey likes her money like she enjoys her men.”

I snorted. “Plentiful and easily spent?”

Crap. There went my mouth again, blabbing whatever it felt like. My face flushed from embarrassment.

“Close enough.” Quinn sighed. “I had no idea it was possible to live in New York on this income, Bailey.”

The heat in my cheeks intensified. I needed to swallow so I could speak. “I managed. If you need help with your budget, I’m your woman.”

There. Somehow, my pride survived almost intact. Everyone appreciated good budgeting skills.

“Next time I beat my head against the wall working on the law enforcement budget, I’ll take you up on that. Whenever I call in accountants, they start to cry. They’re always complaining about how I want to do too much with too little. It’s not my fault the city doesn’t want to give me more funding.”

I wondered if my foot would taste terrible if I actually stuck it in my mouth. “I’ll take your word on that.”

Quinn tossed my financials into the box of papers representing my life. “It has to be your immunities she’s after. Nothing else makes sense.”

Chief Hollands glared at the pair of whiteboards taking up precious space in his office. One focused on me while the other concentrated on Quinn and Audrey’s failed relationship. “Sam, when did you learn about Bailey’s immunities?”

Quinn grabbed the red marker, which we were using to denote first encounters or occurrences, and made a notation on my whiteboard. “I knew she had immunities from her file, but I didn’t believe it until five years ago. A bomber rigged an explosive device to glass containers and detonated them. They contained gorgon bile. When I called the CDC for cleanup, they sent her—it was her first solo job. The CDC tries to keep newly certified consultants and agents partnered for a year before sending them out on their own. Her task was to clean the site, purify the petrified victims, and apply the neutralizer. Per protocol, she was handling the bile while wearing a hazmat suit. Unfortunately, my team, the CDC’s bomb squad, and the NYPD’s auxiliary squad missed a device. It detonated, and several glass shards pierced her suit. Instead of petrifying, she cursed a storm, ripped her suit off, pulled a chunk of glass out of her arm, and started tearing down ceiling tiles. Five destructive minutes later, she had pulled down broken jars and one more device. Her solution to an active bomb was to grab the C4 and rip off the attached wires.”