Page 23 of Fatal Strike
“We’ll find out.” She tried her coffee again, and like Goldilocks’s, the temperature was perfect. “I honestly understand how he wants to help and push us away at the same time. Losing his nephew to a gang means the death affected him, or he wouldn’t have chosen to rehabilitate others.”
“His thinking is a bit skewed.”
“I intended to research Catholicism and priestly vows last night, but it never happened. I’m pretty clueless when it comes to religion.”
“Everyone believes in something.” Jon shot her a look, then returned his focus to the road. “In short, a priest doesn’t betray those who seek his confidence,” he said. “Wonder if the nephew was caught in cross fire or if he was a gang member?”
“I’ll request it.” She typed a quick note to the FIG. “In your email, you mentioned wanting to talk about our partnership.”
“Yep. My partner fell while rock climbing with his kids. Had emergency surgery and will be out for six weeks.”
“Now you’re stuck with me. We’re working well together ...so far. Do you have family? Other than your dad, who reminds you of Father Gabriel?”
“Mom teaches political science on a collegiate level. Active in promoting literacy. Three sisters who are older, married, and with kids in high school.”
“Ever been married?”
“Nope. What about you?”
She took another delicious drink of coffee. “Haven’t found a man who wanted to take on my temperament or my job.” Truth was she’d like to one day find a husband, but then she’d have to be honest about her past.
“Parents? Brothers? Sisters?”
She hadn’t seen any of them in years. How did she respond? “I’d rather not discuss my family. I’m a one-woman show.”
“Hey, we all have things we want left alone. What have you heard about me? I’m sure I need to explain some rumors.”
She thought through the bits and pieces of info filtering through her brain. Jon was incredibly good-looking, but she’d not mention it. “Crack shot. Intense. Likable. Doesn’t talk a lot about himself. Okay, turnabout is fair play.”
“Don’t make her mad.” He lifted his brows, an exaggerated expression. “Stoic. New Yorker. Full of surprises. Outstanding marksmanship as your reputation proves. Can’t think of anything else.”
“I’m stubborn, particularly when I know I’m right.” She paused, running through the nicknames she’d been given. “What does New Yorker mean?”
“Beats me.”
“Cold? Unfeeling? Blunt? I fall into all three.”
“I think the accent,” he said.
“What about Panther?”
He took a breath. “I plead the Fifth.”
“Actually I don’t mind that one. Keeps the come-on boys away.”
“I’ll remember those words of wisdom. Here’s another question.” Traffic slid to a snail’s pace. “Is there anything about the way I handled the SWAT mission and later the preliminaries of Judge Mendez’s death that hindered our working relationship?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Bring it on.”
“I feel out of control with you driving.”
He laughed. “Can’t even picture myself sitting on the passenger side with you at the wheel.”
“Are you saying you can’t handle a woman driving?”
“I’d rather not discuss my obsessive fears.”
