Love Is Heartless, page 1
Love Is Heartless
By Kim Fielding
A Love Can’t Novel
Small but mighty—that could be Detective Nevin Ng’s motto. Now a dedicated member of the Portland Police Bureau, he didn’t let a tough start in life stop him from protecting those in need. He doesn’t take crap from anyone, and he doesn’t do relationships. Until he responds to the severe beating of a senior citizen and meets the victim’s wealthy, bow-tied landlord.
Property manager and developer Colin Westwood grew up with all the things Nevin never had, like plenty of money and a supportive, loving family. Too supportive, perhaps, since his childhood illness has left his parents unwilling to admit he’s a strong, grown man. Colin does do relationships, but they never work out. Now he’s thinking maybe he won’t just go with the flow. Maybe it’s time to try something more exciting. But being a witness to a terrible crime—or two—was more than he bargained for.
Despite their differences, Colin and Nevin discover that the sparks fly when they’re together. But sparks are short-lived, dampened by the advent of brutal crimes, and Colin and Nevin have seemingly little in common. The question is whether they have the heart to build something lasting.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
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Copyright
Thank you to the incomparable Amy Lane, who gave me part of the name of a certain punk band.
Prologue
September 1997
THE HANDCUFFS fucking hurt. That bitch of a cop could’ve used a zip tie, but she’d slapped cuffs on Nevin instead and ratcheted them tight enough to trap his small wrists. The knuckles of his right hand throbbed where they had connected with Prick’s face. Nevin kicked hard at the inside of the squad car, but he only managed to hurt his foot, so he settled into a deep scowl instead.
The cop kept him waiting as she took her sweet time talking to Nevin’s foster father. The guy’s name was Price, but Nevin called him Prick instead—because he was one. Like right now, Prick stood in his driveway with the sun glaring off his bald spot, and he waved his hands in what looked like a dramatic retelling of the afternoon’s events. Dramatic and full of fucking lies, no doubt.
Nevin Ng snarled as he watched. Prick’s nose had swelled, and drying blood splattered his polo shirt. That was good.
The cop finished her conversation with Prick and then spent a long time talking to someone on her radio. When she finally plopped down into the front seat of the squad car, she slammed the door and sighed. She didn’t say anything for such a long time that Nevin began to fidget.
“C’mon,” he finally growled. “Juvie’s waiting.”
She twisted around to look at him through the metal grille. “How old are you, Nevin?”
“Fifteen.” He looked younger. On the rare occasions he’d gone to a restaurant with any of his foster parents, the restaurant staff automatically handed him the children’s menu and crayons. He fucking hated that.
“Pretty soon you’ll be too old for juvie,” the cop said.
“So?”
“So what do you think is going to happen when a pretty little thing like you ends up in jail?”
He bared his teeth. “Any of those assholes come near me, I’ll rip their balls off.” He would, too. He could beat the shit out of guys twice his size.
The cop snorted a laugh. “You’re a tough little twerp, aren’t you?” Her expression softened a bit as she looked at him. “Tell you what. Let’s go get something to eat and have us a little chat.”
“You’re gonna give me a burger before hauling me in?”
“I was thinking something better than burgers. And if we have a good talk, maybe I won’t have to haul you in.”
Nevin narrowed his eyes. “You’re just saying that to keep me calm. I know Prick’s gonna press charges.”
“Prick—um, Mr. Price—has no choice in the matter. I decide whether to arrest you, not him. And if I do, someone in the juvenile unit at the DA’s office decides whether to file a petition.” She faced forward, put on her seat belt, and started the engine.
Nevin’s wrists still hurt, but now he had something else to think about while the car rumbled through traffic. He didn’t know if she was telling him the truth about pressing charges, and he had no idea what her angle might be. What the fuck did she want from him? He considered various possibilities, but nothing made sense.
The car turned onto Macadam, which surprised him. He’d expected her to take I-5 over the river into Northeast, where the juvenile facility was. Instead she pulled into a small strip mall and parked. Then she got out, opened his door, and looked down at him.
“If I take those cuffs off, will you behave?”
“I can’t eat with them on, lady.”
“Not unless I spoon-feed you like a baby bird. But I’m not that maternal. Okay, I’ll take them off, but I warn you—if you make a run for it, I will catch you. And then you’ll be eating your dinner at Donald E. Long instead.”
“They have shitty food.”
She grinned. “So don’t run.”
As she unlocked the cuffs, he considered taking off. But although he was fast, this cop had long legs and looked athletic. Besides, this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where he could easily hide. And he was hungry. He followed her across the lot.
The restaurant turned out to be a Mexican place with an emphasis on healthy foods, which was weird. But they had enchiladas, and the cop let him order chips and guacamole. He dug in as soon as his food arrived, but she held her spoon and looked at him over her plate of rice and beans.
“For a little guy, you can really chow down.”
He glared. “Look, lady—”
“Officer Pender to you, kid. Or ma’am.”
Nevin rolled his eyes before shoving another forkful of enchilada into his mouth. Officer Pender was pretty. Really old—at least thirty—but with smooth sepia skin and closely shorn black hair. Maybe he should drop the attitude and try for a little flirting instead. She might buy that, even if she was a cop.
But before he could turn on the charm, she pointed her spoon at him. “How come you decked Price?”
He smiled slightly, remembering the satisfying feel of his fist connecting with Prick’s nose. But when Officer Pender raised her eyebrows, he frowned. “You didn’t read me my rights.”
“That’s because you’re not in custody and I’m not interrogating you.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because I think Mr. Price lied to me.”
That surprised him, and he paused as he reached for his Coke. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“He told me he was trying to get you to do your homework, and instead you called him a name and punched him. But I gotta tell you, kid, my bullshit detector’s top-notch, and I think he’s full of it. Plus I talked to your social worker. She told me that you have problems with authority, but even when you get bumped around from school to school, you earn straight As.”
He shrugged. His classwork came easy to him. Maybe he enjoyed it because it was something to concentrate on besides his crappy life.
“So why did you hit him?” Officer Pender asked.
“You won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
He pushed away his empty plate and crossed his arms. He knew the drill. He’d spill, but the only thing the cop would see was a runty kid who’d been in so many foster and group homes he couldn’t remember them all—an unwanted mutt who’d end up in prison soon enough. That’s what everyone else had seen when he tried to tell them about Prick. Officer Pender was going to take him to juvie—or somewhere else with locks on the doors—so Nevin’s days in the Price household were thankfully over. Which would have been just peachy, except it left Becka with Prick and nobody to look out for her.
Fuck. Nevin had to at least try.
“Prick has another foster kid,” he said. “Becka. She’s… dunno. Eleven or twelve, I guess. But she thinks more like a preschooler. She doesn’t even know her ABCs. She’s sweet, though.” She couldn’t pronounce Nevin’s name—she called him Nin instead—and she insisted he watch cartoons with her after school. In the mornings she’d hand him several plastic flower barrettes and wait patiently while he tackled the knots in her curly blonde hair.
Officer Pender’s warm brown eyes had gone icy. “What about her?”
“Prick is…. Becka told me he touched her. She doesn’t know the right words, so I don’t know exactly what he….” Nevin shook his head impatiently. “She didn’t like it. I know that much .”
“Did you report this to anyone?”
“I tried. I told my social worker. She said I was making shit up ’cause Prick’s too strict and I wanted another placement.” Nevin hadn’t expected that bitch to listen to him. A couple of years earlier, when another pearl of a foster father had taken to slapping him around, she hadn’t believed Nevin because he didn’t have bruises to show for it.
The officer’s mouth thinned. “So what did you do?”
“I tried talking to Mrs. Prick, but she wouldn’t even let me get the words out. That twat doesn’t care about anything but herself.”
“Watch the language. A young man’s gotta learn to respect women.”
“How’m I supposed to respect anyone who knows her husband’s a skeeze and does nothing about it? Anyway, when she shot me down, I told Prick that if he touched Becka again, I’d cut off his dick while he was sleeping. He tried to grab me and I belted him.”
“You hit him pretty hard.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Small but mighty.”
Unsure what to make of her reaction, Nevin slurped his Coke.
Officer Pender silently ate her meal, seemingly oblivious to the way he toyed with his straw and jiggled his legs. When she was finished, she wiped her lips on a paper napkin and gave him a piercing look. “You care about Becka.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You’ve only known her a few months.”
“So?”
“Why defend her?”
He looked away. A few tables over, three women in their early twenties laughed as they sat down. They seemed so fucking happy. It wasn’t fair. Years ago, he used to dream of someday being happy too. He used to think that even if he didn’t land with a decent foster placement, at least someday he would grow up and create a loving family of his own. Now he knew better—and those kind of dreams were for dumbshits.
“She’s just a little kid,” Nevin said quietly. “I don’t know what the hell happened to her family, but nobody’s looking out for her.”
“Nobody but you.”
Nevin twitched his shoulders.
Officer Pender sat up straight and brushed an imaginary crumb from her uniform. If he had a nice uniform like that, he’d keep it clean too.
“You’re at a crossroads, Nevin Ng,” she said.
He glanced out the window toward the parking lot. “Huh?”
“Metaphorical. Look, life dealt you a shitty hand. That sucks. You can wallow in that shit until it covers you, kid. Until it becomes you. Then, I don’t care what a tough cookie you are, you’re going to end up rotting in prison or just plain dead.”
“So?” he demanded, his jaw clenched.
“So you don’t have to go that way, little man. If you’re such a badass, you can beat that shit. Rise above it. Instead of wasting your life, you can use it to help some of the Beckas of the world. Because there’s a lot of them, aren’t there? Believe me, I know.”
His throat was tight. “I can’t do nothing for nobody.”
“Bullshit. Today—right now—you can do something for yourself. That’s where you got to start. Won’t be so hard if some folks give you a hand. And I might know where to find those folks. And when you get a few more years on you—and maybe a few more inches—then you go out and save the world.” She grinned and polished her badge with the heel of her hand. “Cape and tights optional.”
Nevin glowered at her, but all she did was smile serenely back. And the damnedest thing happened—he looked at her and saw nothing but the truth. She believed that stuff she’d just told him. Maybe even… believed in him, just a little.
He leaned forward and sighed. “So who are these folks you’re talking about?”
Chapter One
June 2015
CLUTCHING A cardboard coffee cup, Nevin stood on the small porch and watched the rain. Welcome to June in Oregon. A uniformed officer cut across the tidy front lawn and clomped up the stairs. He would have gone tromping right inside if Nevin hadn’t stopped him with an upraised hand.
“Wipe your feet first, fuckwad.”
The guy opened his mouth as if to protest but then clearly thought better of it and carefully scraped his shoes on the doormat.
“You gorillas just about done in there?” Nevin asked.
The uniformed officers were used to the way Nevin addressed them. Hell, they could treat uniforms the same way if they ever managed to move up the ranks.
This one shook his head. “We’re gonna be a while.”
“Fuck. Well, send out the landlord. I want to chat with him.”
The landlord emerged a minute or two later, his denim-blue eyes wide in his pale face. He’d clearly been running his fingers through his hair, working the strands free of product and into a wavy, sand-colored tangle. He tugged at his polka-dot bow tie, which was a bit crooked. “You wanted to talk to me, Officer?”
“Detective. Nevin Ng. And yeah.”
“Colin Westwood.” The landlord held out a neatly manicured hand, which Nevin shook. Westwood’s palm felt clammy, a good match for his green-tinged pallor. He looked like the type who’d shriek if he found a spider in his bathtub, but Nevin had to give him at least some credit. According to the first officers on the scene, Westwood had waited until emergency personnel arrived before rushing outside to puke into the rhododendrons. It was good of him to tend to the victim and not foul the crime scene.
The porch was bare except for the mat and a pair of empty flowerpots, and Nevin was tired of standing. “Follow me.” He led the way down the sidewalk to his car.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Westwood smiled. “I didn’t realize the Portland Police Bureau got so creative with its cop cars.”
Nevin stroked the hood, disrupting some of the raindrops that glistened like jewels. “She’s all mine. A 1967 with a 400 V-8 and 335 horses under her hood.”
“It’s… purple.”
“Factory original color. Plum mist. Her name’s Julie.”
Westwood blinked. “Why Julie?”
“Name of the first girl I fucked. Get inside before we drown.” Nevin followed his own advice, slipping into the comfortable driver’s seat. He didn’t bother to tell Westwood that his previous car—a far less showy but perfectly serviceable ’08 Camaro—had been named Luis, the first boy Nevin had fucked.
After Westwood sat down in the passenger seat and closed the door, he stroked the wood-covered console between them. “Is the interior original too?”
“Some of it. The leather’s not a stock color, but I like charcoal gray. Most of the rest is restored or replaced to factory specs.”
“Wow. I, uh, don’t know anything about cars.”
That didn’t surprise Nevin. That soulless BMW parked in the driveway undoubtedly belonged to Colin. “I didn’t bring you in to talk about cars. Tell me what happened here today, Mr. Westwood.”
“Colin. And I already told—”
“Humor me.”
“Okay.” Colin gave a shaky sigh. “I was coming over to take a look at the toilet. Mrs. Ruskin called yesterday and said it was broken.”
“It took you a day to fix a little old lady’s toilet?”
Colin rolled his eyes. “It was in the guest bath—she has another. And anyway, she calls just about every week to get me to repair something. It’s never a big deal. Last week she said her window was broken, but it turned out the cord for the blinds was so tangled she couldn’t reach it. She’s really just looking for a little company.”
“No family?”
“A niece, but she’s in, um, Delaware.”
Nevin pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket, opened to a fresh page, and scribbled a few words. “Somebody’s going to have to notify the niece.”
“I already did. Mrs. Ruskin gave me her contact info years ago.”
“I’ll need that name and number.”
Colin patted his shirt pocket and then frowned. “Darn. I left my phone inside.” He reached for the car door, but Nevin grabbed his arm.
“Not yet,” Nevin said. “You can get it later. The niece is it?”
“Pretty much. Mrs. Ruskin has a few friends, but they’re all around her age. Most of them don’t drive anymore, so they don’t see each other much. I’ve been telling her she should consider moving into one of those assisted living places.”
