“Damn it,” Lieutenant Caylee Benton sighed.
In her right hand, she held a mug shot of Benjamin Tyler: thief and general all-around cop-evading thug. In her left hand, she held Matthew Fattore’s driver’s license. Seeing them side-by-side they obviously weren’t the same person. Benjamin Tyler was older and wasn’t nearly as handsome.
Subjectively, anyway.
“They look so much alike,” she muttered. “Like I need another report to write.”
Caylee ran a background check on Matthew Fattore. Apart from a couple public disturbance incidents nearly a decade before, he was clean. He did work at Fondant. The man who’d brought his license, José Rodriguez, worked with Matt.
She’d screwed up, big time.
She walked into the booking room, hiding her chagrin behind a poker face. Mistaken identity happened, but it had never happened on her watch. Her sergeants were more meticulous than that.
Apparently, she wasn’t.
Matt sat in a chair, hands still cuffed behind his back. He was scowling, but his outrage didn’t take away from his handsomeness.
His body was sculpted, from finely hewn muscle, plainly visible through his tight gray T-shirt—broad shoulders, a firm chest, tight abs. Tattoos wound around both of his beefy arms. A thick coif of jet-black hair graced his head and enhanced the beauty of his chiseled face. He definitely looked like the type of guy who worked in Tremont, Cleveland’s hipster enclave—bike and all.
“Mr. Fattore,” Caylee said.
He lifted his chin with a smirk. “Finally figured that out, did you?”
She urged him to his feet. “I’m very sorry about this.” She circled around him. “You unfortunately fit the description of a suspect we’re pursuing.”
She undid the cuffs, and Matt pulled his arms around in front of him. He worked his shoulders and they strained at his shirt. “I should sue the crap out of you.” He sounded like he was only half-joking.
“Mr. Fattore,” she spoke patiently. “I would advise you not to pursue such a costly and time-consuming endeavor. Intention counts in mistaken identity cases. We followed the letter of the law.”
“You didn’t even read me my Miranda Rights.”
Caylee wouldn’t mock him for his lack of knowledge. He had every right to be mad. “That’s…just TV. We don’t have to read those unless we’re going to interrogate you.” She held his license out to him.
Matt took it. “Thanks.” He pushed it into his hip pocket. “Glad I could stop by.”
“In the future, Mr. Fattore, I would suggest you keep your ID on you at all times. I’m truly sorry about this. Is there any way I can make this up to you?”
He gazed at her a moment then smiled widely. He had nice teeth, cutely crooked in the front. “Have lunch with me.”
