Between Heaven and Hell (WeHo Book 14)

  Between Heaven and Hell

  Sherryl D. Hancock

  Copyright © Sherryl D. Hancock 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Vulpine Press in the United Kingdom in 2019

  ISBN: 978-1-912701-79-7

  Cover by Claire Wood

  Cover photo credit: Tirzah D. Hancock

  www.vulpine-press.com

  Also in the WeHo series:

  When Love Wins

  When Angels Fall

  Break in the Storm

  Turning Tables

  Marking Time

  Jet Blue

  Water Under the Bridge

  Vendetta

  Gray Skies

  Everything to Everyone

  Lightning Strykes

  In Plain Sight

  Quid Pro Quo

  For the Telling

  Prologue

  “Just put your hands where I can see them!”

  Catalina was in a San Diego bar called Gossip Grill—more specifically, in the bathroom. She’d seen a blond, butch-looking woman dealing in the club, and as a cop she couldn’t allow that. So she’d followed her to the bathroom, waited until everyone was out but her, and moved to arrest her, while Jovina stood guard outside to keep everyone else out.

  “If you’ll just” the woman started to say, moving her hand toward her jacket.

  “Put your fucking hands up or I’m going to assume you’re going for a gun,” Catalina growled.

  “And if you blow my fucking cover, I’ll assume you’re dumber than you look,” the woman growled right back.

  Catalina narrowed her blue eyes. “You said what?” she said, glancing behind her to make sure no one was coming into the bathroom.

  “Badge 4578, LAPD—check it out. But in the meantime, can I put my hands down?”

  Catalina was shocked. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Why are you this far south?”

  “Followed a lead.” The woman turned around and leaned a hip against the bathroom sink, looking Catalina over with her green eyes. “You’re a cop?” she asked cynically.

  “DOJ, Special Agent Supervisor for LA IMPACT,” Cat said, even as she texted the information to her CLETS people to ensure that this woman was telling the truth.

  “And what are you doing this far south, SAS…”

  “Roché,” Catalina supplied. “Catalina Roché. And I’m on vacation.”

  The woman grinned. “I take it your hot Latina is keeping our fellow lesbians at bay?”

  Catalina laughed. “Yeah,” she said, nodding as her contact came back with information. “So, Sinclair Christensen.” She smiled, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out her wallet, then took out a card. “If you ever want to change directions, I supervise the counter-meth team with DOJ. Give me a call.”

  Sinclair nodded, pocketing the card. “Does everyone in this place know you’re a cop?” she asked, with a grin that made her eyes sparkle.

  “No one here knows I’m a cop—this is my first time here,” Catalina said. “So you’re free to join us for a drink if you’d like.”

  “Done.”

  They spent the rest of the evening drinking, talking, and having a generally good time. Catalina gave Sinclair the names of her previous team members—all narcs with San Diego PD—in the event she needed some backup while in the city. She also told Sinclair to look them up in LA when she returned—that a group of them hung out at the Club in West Hollywood.

  “Not too close to your cover, is it?” Catalina asked. She knew Sinclair would need to keep a buffer between where she hung out and where she worked.

  “Nope, I’m down in Watts.”

  “Then come hang,” Catalina said, smiling.

  Sinclair nodded. “I just might.”

  Two nights later, she crawled into bed next to a hot young redhead.

  “You’re back,” the woman said as she turned over, snuggling into Sinclair’s arms.

  “Mmhmm,” Sinclair murmured, sliding her hands over smooth skin. “Ended up in San Diego.”

  “Way down there?”

  “Yeah,” Sinclair said, pulling her closer in an effort to distract her—it worked.

  “Mmm… Sin…” the girl sighed, pressing her lips to Sinclair’s skin.

  Minutes later they were making love, and she didn’t ask any more questions.

  Later, River lay looking up at Sinclair. She knew she’d purposely distracted her from asking questions. She liked that Sinclair wanted to keep her out of her business. It bothered River that Sinclair was a drug dealer; what also bothered her was what she’d heard about the woman: that she was dangerous and couldn’t be trusted. She’d never found that to be true in the entire time she’d known her. Granted, that was only three months so far, but Sinclair had never been anything but kind to her. One man had told her that Sinclair had killed people, shooting them in the head over a drug deal going bad.

  River tried not to think about that. She knew being with this woman was probably the craziest thing she’d ever done, but she didn’t care. Sinclair was incredibly exciting, and attractive in a sporty, butch kind of way, with long blond hair that was always pulled back, beautiful green eyes, and a long, lean body with just enough muscle to keep her from being skinny. River knew she was addicted to Sinclair. She was the first woman she’d ever been so highly sexually attracted to, and she knew that was part of the problem. Her body couldn’t give this woman up, even if her head told her she was crazy.

  As a nurse, River McCall had never pictured herself as the girlfriend of a drug dealer. She truly hated drugs, and saw the effects of them every day at the clinic she worked in. It didn’t seem to matter when Sinclair pulled her into her arms; she lost all sense of reason.

  She fell asleep, her hand on Sinclair’s cheek.

  A week later, Sinclair entered a house in Bel Air, dropping her keys into the antique Imari plate on the antique foyer table. Walking through the house, she checked through the mail, tossing it on the marble counter in the kitchen. She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer, then opened it and tossed the cap on the counter, grinning because she knew it would drive Tracey insane if she left it there.

  “All the more reason to do it,” she said.

  She went into their bedroom. Setting her beer down, she stripped off her “butch gear,” as she referred to it most of the time. She stepped into the steam shower and cleaned up, washing her hair. Afterward she put on a pair of yoga pants and an LA Galaxy tank top. Moving out to the veranda overlooking Los Angeles, she drank her beer and read her text messages.

  Catalina was inviting her to the Club again. It did sound like it could be an interesting trip to make. Tracey abhorred WeHo—she said it was “too gay.” It made Sinclair roll her eyes every time, and it also made her want to remind Tracey that she was technically gay. She hadn’t done it, just because she didn’t want to get into a big, wicked fight with her, and they always got ugly these days. Just wasn’t worth the stress.

  Leaning back, turning her face up to the summer sun, she relaxed, something she couldn’t do often. She finished the first beer and went to the built-in fridge on the veranda for the second. She saw that the caretaker had noted what kind of beer she drank, Blu
e Moon Belgian White, and had stocked all of the fridges with it. She loved that man!

  Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the display. It was Tracey. She thought about ignoring it, but she’d only keep calling till she got ahold of her, so Sinclair picked it up.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “That really isn’t a proper way to answer a phone, you know.”

  “What were ya lookin’ for?” Sinclair asked, purposely using slang to irritate Tracey further.

  Tracey sighed, shaking her head. “Never mind. I take it you’re home.”

  “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have been using this phone, Trace…”

  “Oh yes, that’s right—this is the non–drug dealer phone.”

  Sinclair didn’t respond. For some reason Tracey was spoiling for a fight, and she wasn’t in the mood, so she just waited.

  “I should be home day after tomorrow,” Tracey said. “Will you still be home?”

  “Probably,” Sinclair said evenly.

  “So… what are you doing tonight?” Tracey asked distractedly; one of her colleagues had just walked up, motioning to her that the next meeting was starting.

  “Think I’m gonna hit WeHo,” Sinclair said, her green eyes sparkling in the setting sun as she waited for Tracey’s reaction.

  “Oh Lord,” Tracey said predictably. “Don’t let any of that trash rub off… I mean, any more of that trash, since I’m sure you still have Watts all over you. Don’t you dare sleep in our bed before you shower—God only knows what kind of crud is in that dive they gave you for an apartment down there…”

  Sinclair listened to the diatribe while drinking her beer and rolling her eyes. “Well, they don’t hand out penthouses to the narcs in Watts, babe—that’s just for the narcs in Bel Air.”.

  “Don’t get all cunty,” Tracey said sharply.

  “Then stop being a cunt.”

  “I have to go.”

  “See ya,” Sinclair said, hanging up immediately and tossing her phone on the table.

  “Definitely hitting WeHo tonight.”

  That night, Catalina stared openmouthed at Sinclair. “You’re a girl…” she said, grinning.

  Sinclair laughed. “Some days, yeah.”

  She was dressed in navy blue slacks, a cream tank top, a fitted jacket in varied shades of blue with a silver star pattern, and navy heels. Her long blond hair was loose and hung to her mid-back in a silky curtain. Her makeup was not overdone, but perfect. Catalina was looking at a completely different person from the one she’d tried to arrest in San Diego.

  “That’s the newest Cavalli,” Devin said, smiling as the newcomer walked up.

  “Oh Lord,” Skyler said, rolling her light green eyes.

  “Sinclair, this is Devin James-Boché and her wife, Skyler Boché,” Catalina said.

  “Love the Cavalli,” Devin said as she nodded to Sinclair.

  “Thanks,” Sinclair said, smiling in return.

  “This is my boss,” Catalina said. “Jericho Tehrani and her wife, Zoey. Jericho is the head of the division. Jericho, this is Sinclair Christensen—I told you about her, from my San Diego trip.”

  Jericho nodded, her bright blue eyes taking in the newcomer with interest. “If you fooled Cat, you must be a pretty good narc.”

  Sinclair grinned. “Didn’t take her for a cop either, so she must have been pretty good too in her UC days.”

  “I had my moments,” Cat said.

  Later in the evening, after Cat had introduced Sinclair to everyone in the group, Sinclair had gone out to smoke and get some fresh air when she overheard Jet and Quinn discussing soccer.

  “Nah, Brazil isn’t doing that well this year,” Quinn said, shaking her head, “so Jovina’s gonna have to give up that Cup dream.”

  “I think you’re wrong—I think they’re gonna pull it out,” Jet said.

  “Who do you think’ll take it?” Sinclair asked Quinn.

  “I’m thinking Germany.”

  “And I’m thinking Italy might come back this time,” Sinclair said.

  “Nah,” Quinn said, shaking her head. “So you know soccer?”

  “Played a lot in school. I was even on the LAPD team for a while.”

  “Well, then you need to hang out with us more. We’re getting outnumbered by the girls that don’t know soccer.”

  Sinclair grinned. “I just might do that.”

  Chapter 1

  His name was Anthony Bodega and he was a dirtbag, no question about it. Sinclair always felt the need to take a shower after dealing with him. He dripped machismo out of every pore, and it really rankled him that she had flat out told him she didn’t do men. Hell, it was the reason she’d adopted the butch persona, so she could avoid pigs like him in this line of work. She had a good back story and a well-developed reputation for being a hot head who would snap and kill people. It made it a bit easier for her to get through to people when she needed to, but Tony wasn’t as easy as a lot of them.

  Tony Bodega had a well-developed sense of suspicion; it was the reason she’d been so deep undercover for so damned long. She knew if she could get to Tony’s supplier, she could take down a large part of the ring that supplied for the LA Crips. She had to remind herself constantly not to get too antsy. If she did, Tony would sense it, and that could easily get her killed.

  “Nah, I think we just need to add some more time to that one option,” she drawled, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. They were sitting out on the veranda of Tony’s Malibu home.

  “You want more time on that one?” he asked, surprised.

  Sinclair shrugged. “I got all the time in the world,” she said, grinning lazily.

  Tony looked thoughtful for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.

  Sinclair held her emotions in check. What she really wanted was for him to have the drugs delivered this week, like he’d planned. But since he’d brought up the problem with supply, she didn’t want to jump at the bait and tell him the shipment needed to be on time regardless of supply issues. She knew that was what he was waiting for from her, and she wasn’t going to be stupid and fall for it.

  “Well, maybe I can bring in my other guy to make up the difference,” Tony said offhandedly.

  Sinclair shrugged. “Whatever, man. However you want to do things, this is your gig. I’m just the pass through.”

  Tony nodded, liking that the lesbo wasn’t too concerned about the timing. Even if she wouldn’t fuck him, he liked her; she didn’t sweat shit she didn’t need to worry about. She did what she was told and handled what needed to be handled.

  Sinclair’s phone pinged, and she glanced at the notification, her expression inscrutable.

  “I’m gonna go,” she said, getting up. “Got some business to handle on the south end.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Not for long,” Sinclair said, her grin menacing.

  Tony frowned, but nodded. “Just make sure it’s clean.”

  “Always.”

  Sinclair walked through the Malibu house, nodding to the men standing around, even stopping to take a good, long look at the hot brunette shaking her ass to the music playing. She walked out to the driveway and got into the Go Green 1970 Dodge Challenger, firing it up with a satisfying roar. It always drew a series of cheers and whistles from the guys at the house. Sinclair shook her head and drove off.

  She headed back toward LA. The notification she’d received was from her service, telling her she had an important message. She leaned over and unlocked her glove box, reaching for the other phone she kept there. She called the service and waited for her messages, grimacing when they came through. Taking the next off-ramp, she changed direction and headed for the nursing home.

  Inside, she smiled at the nurse at the front desk as she pulled the tie out of her hair; her grandfather preferred her hair down.

  “He’s being difficult again?” Sinclair asked the nurse.

  She rolled her eyes. “You know how he is, girl!”

  Sinclair sighe
d loudly. “Yeah, I know. Let me go see what I can do.”

  “Good luck!” the woman said, shaking her head. The girl was a saint.

  Walking into her grandfather’s private room, Sinclair glanced around. There were remnants of food on the wall where he’d apparently thrown his breakfast.

  “Practicing for the series again, huh?” she said, smiling as she leaned down to kiss her grandfather’s cheek.

  “They brought me frigging mangos again—I hate that shit!” Abe Christensen said, making a face, his eyes—green like Sinclair’s—flashing in annoyance.

  “Okay, well, I’ll tell them again about how much you abhor those particular fruit-like substances… but Dad, ya gotta stop throwing shit,” she said patiently.

  “Oh, what’re they gonna do? Stop taking my money?”

  “They can kick you outta here, and trust me, you don’t wanna know what some of those other places look like.”

  Abe smiled at Sinclair, patting her hand. “Such a good girl,” he said. “We’re so lucky to have you.”

  “So work with me, huh?” Sinclair said, smiling at her grandfather.

  Abe grimaced. “It’s just so irritating that they can’t remember one simple thing.”

  “I’ll tell them you’re deathly allergic to them,” Sinclair said. “Maybe that’ll make them remember.”

  “Did I tell you why I hate mangos?”

  “No—why?” Sinclair asked, settling in for one of her grandfather’s stories.

  “Well, you see, this movie producer, he wanted to get his picture made real bad. So he kept sending me things. Extravagant things! He sent me wine, and liquor, and once he sent me a girl. Yep! A girl! I thought your grandmother was going to go kill him personally. Oh, she was so mad!”

  “Oh, I’ll bet.”

  Sinclair’s grandmother, Aida, had been a feisty one. She could easily picture the tiny little redhead storming some guy’s office with bat in hand.

  “So the next thing he does is start sending me these damned fruit baskets. Apple, pears, grapes—you name it, they were in those baskets! And then came the mangos.”