Dancing Around Cages

Cash Back

Sylus Payne hates his life.

Up until exactly one minute thirty-one seconds ago he was content to serve the citizens of Miami-Dade County, arrest scum of the murdering variety, locking them away until justice ran its course. Then he'd head to his two bedroom, two bath, two story, sparsely decorated duplex to unwind and prepare to do it all again the next day.

Never one to complain, Sylus lives a comfortable life, makes enough money to cover his expenses, is handsome enough to snag the occasional recreational babe, and wise enough not to get attached to any of them.

It's a shame. The day started out so nice. No homicides were called in — yet — and aside from the sporadic ringing of phones and the unsteady rhythm of keyboard pecking, the bullpen was eerily quiet. Sylus was actually making a dent in the mountains of paperwork he'd been neglecting for weeks.

He looks up when he hears the confident click-clacking of heels against the sturdy stone floor and immediately wishes he had called in this morning. Alas, serenity is not meant to be because sashaying down the short hallway is his past, trampling his contentment with a pair of killer Manolos.

His chickens have come home to roost. One chicken actually. Cashmere Vaughn, the woman he wishes he'd never met. A woman he's tried eleven years, eight months, sixteen days, and a few gut-wrenching hours — in vain — to forget.

Sylus had heard rumors she was back in town, assumed their paths would cross eventually. He being a homicide detective, she being an attorney specializing in criminal law, the odds leaned heavily in favor of a run-in. He expected - hoped if he had to run into her at all - he'd chance upon the high profile lawyer on one of his court days, in the courthouse. It was for that reason he had avoided trips to the justice building in the past month unless absolutely necessary. Those times his testimony was required he was on high alert, dutifully watching for a Cashmere Vaughn sighting.

His plan? Preempt any face to face contact if he could help it.

He'd figured he was safe from a close encounter of the Cashmere kind in the precinct, his territory. The bad guys he encounters are mostly poor bastards from the wrong side of the tracks. Most of her clients are white collar, rich, the type that keep lawyers on retainers. The eighth floor is currently void of anyone matching that description leaving Sylus completely perplexed by her sudden appearance at his worksite.

He, like every other warm blooded mammal within glancing radius, visually follows her stride for sexy stride until she comes to rest at the homicide floor receiving desk.

From his vantage point at his desk, situated at the furthest corner of the bullpen, he can see the vision in navy engaged in a friendly conversation with Marilyn, the Public Service Aide, or P-S-A. Marilyn is the precinct's version of a uniformed secretary. The voluptuous dark-skinned stunner greets the lawyer the same as she greets everyone, with a warm smile and cold hands.

Sylus watches as Cashmere gives the P-S-A her full attention, her close lipped smile never waning. He knows she won't be here long. There are no suspects in holding or being questioned in any of the interview rooms. She's likely here to pick up a file or to follow up on some information from one of the detectives. He says a silent prayer that it is not him she needs to converse with, that she'll get what she needs as quickly as possible and be on her way without ever noticing him.

He gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when Marilyn rises and escorts the counselor to the Captain's office. Captain Frantz Francois is the son of Haitian immigrants, born and bred on the tough streets of Miami, in an area infamously known as Little Haiti. A statuesque man with brown eyes and browner skin, he is no nonsense and always about business.