by Anne Calhoun
“Hawthorn wants to see you,” he said, his face blank.
Conn felt his eyebrows pull together slightly. The sergeant was easygoing, and had a reputation for backing his officers in questionable situations. Conn had given him no grief, or less than he usually gave a sergeant. “Where is he?” he asked.
“Briefing room,” the sergeant said, and went back to his paperwork.
Conn made a right at the bullpen and turned into the briefing room to find Hawthorn waiting for him, a couple of manila folders in his hand. “Close the door,” he said.
Conn closed it, shoved his fists into his jeans pockets. Lieutenant Hawthorn gestured for Conn to sit down, so he did, shifting his hands to his jacket pockets.
“What can you tell me about arrest of Jordy Bettis?”
Conn frowned, and stared straight at his LT. Other cops managed to look at people without coming across like they were two seconds away from hitting something. Hawthorn was capably demonstrating that exact technique: cool, collected stare, unwavering but also not challenging. Conn still hadn’t mastered it. “Not much to tell. It was a noise disturbance call. He got in my face. I arrested him. It’s in my report.”
“I want to hear it from you. What was Bettis’s condition when you booked him?”
Conn felt his shoulders hitching up toward his ears, and consciously lowered them. “I had to take him down to get him cuffed, so he’s probably got a few bruises.”
Without a word Hawthorn flipped open the manila folder to reveal pictures of a battered, beaten face. Two black eyes. Split lip. A gash on his cheekbone fastened together with surgical tape.
“He’s got multiple bruises on his torso consistent with a beatdown, and no defensive wounds other than deep abrasions on his wrists.”
Incredulous, Conn flashed a look at Hawthorn. “You suggesting I handcuffed this guy then beat the crap out of him?”
“That’s what his lawyer’s suggesting,” Hawthorn said.
Conn’s brain danced sideways, like a deer on black ice. Hawthorn opened another folder and slid it across the table. “Look that over. If you have anything to add, or change, now’s the time to do it.”
Conn kept his hands in his pockets. He didn’t even look down at the report. “I stand by my initial report, sir. Whatever happened to him did not happen in my custody.”
The open file remained on the table between them. Conn had spent enough time in offices to know the furniture was pretty much the same—gray tables, chairs and cubicle walls in matching fabric. The difference here was the guns, the uniforms, the handcuffs, and the fact that this was the only world had Conn ever wanted to be in.
“It’s not your first time having this conversation,” Hawthorn said.
That’s what was in the other file. Conn’s personnel record. He felt the tips of his ears heat, but he didn’t respond. Hawthorn could read, and he was third-generation LPD, the son of the former chief of police, now the mayor. He had knowledge and connections in the department Conn couldn’t begin to imagine, much less understand. Connor didn’t make the mistake of assuming Hawthorn didn’t know every single detail of Conn’s history from the moment he reported to the academy.
“No, sir,” he said finally.
“Four months ago you drove your cruiser through a chain-link fence.”
“In pursuit of a suspected rapist,” Conn said. “I caught him, too.”
“Six months before that you used the butt of your service weapon to threaten a suspect who was driving away from a scene.”
“I was on the running board of the guy’s Flex while he accelerated up the Thirteenth Street on-ramp to the interstate,” Conn said. “He was endangering my life.”
“The individual, when apprehended, also suffered abrasions and bruises.”
“He fucking tripped over his own fucking feet when he was running away!” Conn took a deep breath and reached deep for some self-control. “How is it my fault he face-planted in the gravel by the side of the road?”
Hawthorn’s gaze was bland and level, his voice perfectly modulated. “It’s your fault, Officer McCormick, because part of the job is keeping control of situations, not escalating them.”
Conn remembered how surprised he’d been when Hawthorn pulled him off patrol to work undercover. Conn knew where he was going to spend his days as a LPD officer: on patrol, in a cruiser. He didn’t have the temperament to make detective. He sat back, breathing slow and deep, trying to keep his temper under control, knowing he was walking a very fine line between angry and insubordinate. “What’s going on here, LT?”
“I’m reassigning you,” Hawthorn said.
Conn was on his feet, leaving his stomach around his knees. “LT, I didn’t do that!”
Hawthorn’s gaze flashed over Conn’s fists, planted on the table, and the breadth of his shoulders. It was a subtle, Hawthornesque reminder of the very temper Conn tried so hard to control. “Until we can ascertain who did, I need you out of sight.”
Conn’s mind stumbled over the implications, emotion warring in his gut. “To desk duty?” He hated desk duty. Being inside all day made him want to crawl out of his skin.
“Not exactly.”
“I didn’t beat up Bettis. Things get out of control when I’m around. I know that. But I’ve never”—he shoved his fists against the sheepskin-lined pockets of his jacket for emphasis—“ever, so much as pulled a dog in the road with someone who’s in my custody.”
“The problem,” Hawthorn said, “is that you act like someone who could. Would. What you do before a suspect is in custody always bleeds over.”
Rocked to his very core, Conn sat back down. A black hole yawned inside him, sucking at all his carefully constructed defenses. It wasn’t the first time he’d been falsely accused. He’d been six feet tall by the eighth grade, with a temper, which made him an easy target for finger pointing and had gotten him sent to anger management classes. Name the emotions. I’m afraid of being abandoned by my family. Again.
He shook it off. He was thirty years old, not nine. Thirty-year-old men didn’t fear being abandoned. If the department thought they could take his gun and badge, they’d better think twice. “Reassigned.”
“Temporarily,” Hawthorn said, the threat of “permanent” implicit in his tone of voice. “Someone assaulted him while he was our responsibility. We’ll start digging and find out exactly what happened.”
A knock at the door.
“Yes,” Hawthorn said, looking up.
“Someone here to see you, LT,” the duty sergeant said, not making eye contact with Conn.
“Send them in.”
“Am I dismissed?” Conn asked, getting to his feet.
“No. You need to be here, too.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Conn saw a flash of suit. He turned to look at the newcomers. He was prepared for Internal Affairs. He was prepared for Captain Swarthmore. He wasn’t prepared for the guy in the suit from the concert last night, courteously opening the door wider for a tiny slip of a girl with wild brown hair shot through with streaks of gold and big green eyes, dressed in an oversized down parka, jeans, and fur-trimmed boots.
“Chris Wellendorf,” the guy said, holding out his hand to Hawthorn. Conn barely heard him over the thrumming in his ears as the girl made eye contact with him. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, signaling recognition on multiple levels, but it was the green scarf around her throat and the mug in her hand that made him do a double take.
Queen Maud was standing beside the conference table, shaking her head to Hawthorn’s offer of water or a soda. Was there some problem with last night’s arrest? He’d filed his report before going home, so it was fresh in his memory.
“I’ve got my own brew,” she said, holding up one of those thirty-dollar insulated mugs.
“Hot water and honey,” Chris said quickly. “Not brew brew.”
“I didn’t think she was drinking beer at one in the afternoon,” Hawthorn said mildly as they took seats at the end of the table. “Have
a seat, Officer McCormick.”
Feeling clueless, and not liking it, Conn sat back down, but this time next to Hawthorn rather than across the table from him. The choice of seat presented a unified LPD and gave him the opportunity to get a good look at this new iteration of Queen Maud.
“Thank you for meeting with us so quickly,” Chris said. “I’m on a flight back to New York in a couple of hours and want this squared away before I leave.”
“You feel you need police protection, Ms. Ward?” Hawthorn asked.
“Not really,” Maud said with a stubborn lift of her chin. “But Chris does. And what Chris wants, Chris gets.”
Chris smiled blandly, apparently unfazed by being thrown under the bus. “The incident at the concert last night only confirms—”
“That once in a blue moon a crazy guy will get through security. It hasn’t happened before. Not on this tour. Not on the last two,” Maud said.
“But it could happen again,” Chris said.
Maud sipped from her tumbler, then slid a glare at Chris.
“You want peace and quiet,” Chris said. The words held a significance Conn didn’t understand. “You’ve got a few weeks. You’ll work better if everything’s taken care of, and you don’t have to worry.”
“I don’t worry,” Maud said. “You do that for me.”
“I do, and that’s why we’re here, having this lovely conversation with these gentlemen who carry guns for a living. If I’m not worried about your safety and security, I can worry about other things, like the conversation I need to have with Eric.”
Maud leaned over to say something to Chris. Conn seized the moment. “What the hell is going on, LT?”
“Ms. Ward’s representatives have asked us to provide twenty-four hour protection for the duration of her stay in Lancaster,” Hawthorn explained in an undertone. “You’re it.”
Conn’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“He asked for you specifically.” Hawthorn flicked a glance at Chris, unruffled despite Maud’s furious glare. Her next words got Conn’s full attention.
“You’re blackmailing me!”
Conn and Hawthorn both looked up.
“Not that kind of blackmail, gentlemen,” Chris said, looking entirely at ease with being accused of committing a Class A felony. “Decide which option you prefer.”
“Fine,” Maud said. She sat back in her chair and folded her arms in a way that indicated she was anything but fine.
Conn had no doubt in his mind that the not-quite-blackmail involved accepting police protection. The only thing worse than doing close protection work was doing close protection work for someone who didn’t want it. “Why me?” he said to Chris.
“Based on your performance last night, you’re eminently suited to the job,” Chris said.
Conn bit back his automatic hell, no. He flicked a quick glance at Hawthorn. Was this an order? Defying a direct order would get him in immediate trouble. Insubordination. Hawthorn’s face wasn’t giving anything away.
“I’m not trained as a body man,” Conn said.
Chris waved away the objection. “Our devoted fan last night got past two others cops, but not you. Why?”
“He tripped my crazy wire,” Conn said dismissively.
Chris nodded encouragingly, like Conn was a slightly slow child reciting his letters. “Can you be more specific?”
That’s where the preternatural alertness came in handy. Like most kids with a temperamental father and who’d bounced in and out of homes and schools, Conn was an expert in reading people. It wasn’t until he joined the force that he realized that between his childhood and his time in the army, he had an advantage over clean-cut suburban kids. Conn knew from liars, from cheats, from crazy. He sat back, folded his arms over his chest, and let him have it.
“He looked like the rest of the band. Flannel over jeans, Converse, beard. No big deal. But he was casing the place like it was new to him. Like he didn’t know what all the equipment was. And he wasn’t doing anything useful. Everyone else was breaking stuff down at Mach 2, all systems go, like they just wanted to get out of there. He seemed aimless, out of place, intoxicated, and a little wild around the eyes. Like I said. He tripped my crazy wire.”
Silence around the table. Chris’s eyes had gone from amused kindergarten teacher to assessing. Conn doubted the change meant anything good for him. Hawthorn was still blank. Maud was focused on the table, but she slid him a sidelong glance that sent his heart rate up again when he met her gaze.
Hawthorn opened a file folder. “Is there a specific threat we need to be aware of?”
Chris said nothing, just pulled a manila folder of his own from his briefcase. But rather than handing it to Hawthorn, he pushed it down the table to Conn. After a long moment, Conn leaned forward and opened it. Inside were dozens of pages printed from websites, some emails, a few actual letters typed on typewriters. He read the first two, both containing lurid descriptions of how the anonymous writer wanted to torture Maud before raping her.
It made his stomach turn. He looked up. “Jesus Christ,” he said before he could filter his words. “This is above my pay grade. You guys must know of security firms that specialize in close protection.”
“We do,” Chris said. “Cady prefers to have someone local.”
Conn blinked. “Who?”
“My name is actually Cady,” Maud said. “Maud is my stage name.”
Great. A stage name. Like this wasn’t ridiculous enough. “Why someone local?” he asked, trying to get a handle on the insanity.
“I’m home,” she said simply. “I want someone who knows this town like I do, who’s going to be comfortable here.”
“What kind of hours are we talking about?” Conn asked.
“All of the hours,” Chris replied cheerfully.
“Twenty-four seven?” Conn said with a lift of his eyebrows.
“I realize the situation is unusual compared to other off-duty jobs,” Hawthorn said. “Your cooperation in this matter is noted.”
In other words, take the batshit crazy assignment as a body man to the bubble gum pop star, and I’ll back you when you need it. Conn huffed and sat back again. “The lady gets a say,” he said, because arresting people was one thing but he was done forcing his company on someone who didn’t want it. He spent enough of his life with people who didn’t want him around.
Cady looked at him, sizing him up. It took a split second, maybe two, and everyone did it, because he was six foot six and solid muscle. Gang members did it to search for weaknesses, knowing they’d likely have a long-term relationship with him. Women in bars did it, gauging whether or not they’d have any luck approaching him. Hell, he did it himself, with women, with other men, but mostly with himself in the mirror every morning, wondering if this was the day he’d beat his dad.
But Cady’s look was mostly business. She was hiring him for a job. It was the heat glimmering behind those green eyes as, for just a moment, she looked at his shoulders that made his blood feel like syrup in his veins, his nerve endings glow.
“What do you know about the music business?” she asked. The lift to her chin was back.
“I don’t see how that’s—” Chris started. He subsided when she lifted her hand without looking at him. The dynamic was interesting. Chris was in charge, but she held a fair amount of sway. Sensible, not throwing a tantrum, determined to hold her ground.
And maybe there was a way out of this. Maybe ignorance was bliss. “Not a damn thing,” he said, truthfully.
“Ed Sheeran?”
He free-associated, knowing his motor mouth was his last chance of getting him out of this. “Overexposed.”
“Why did Zayn break up with Perrie Edwards?”
“Zayn? Is that a name or an alien invasion force?”
“What kind of music do you listen to?”
He shrugged. “Country, mostly. It’s just background noise.”
“Go to concerts?”
“Only when I’m
getting paid to work them.”
“Any aspirations to work in Hollywood?”
“Hell, no.”
Cady turned back to Chris and Hawthorn. “He’s hired.”
Goddammit. He had real problems to deal with. Someone was railroading him for a brutal assault he didn’t commit, which meant someone in the only family he had had turned on him. His dad’s best time came in December, with the cool dry weather making for perfect track conditions. Now wasn’t a good time to switch careers and babysit a pop star who wanted him around about as much as he wanted to be with her.
Exactly how much was that? In the cold light of day after the concert, he thought he’d imagined the connection humming between them. Now he wasn’t sure. But with Hawthorn staring at him and Cady giving her reluctant consent, he really had no other choice. “When do I start?”
“Now,” Chris said.
Everyone stood, Cady zipping her coat to her chin and pulling up the hood, thanking Hawthorn for his help.
“I’ll keep the file,” Conn said to Chris, like a good little Boy Scout. “Unless you need a copy.”
“I have an electronic version of every threat we’ve received against Cady. The internet chatter is too voluminous to archive, but we screen cap the worst ones.”
Voluminous? “Okay,” Conn said. He brazenly tucked the file with the pictures of the assault he allegedly committed under the psychos file.
Cady was already out the door, peering around the bullpen with interest. Conn stopped Hawthorn on his way out. “The county runs the jail,” he said, under his breath.
“I’m aware of that, McCormick. I’m looking into the matter,” Hawthorn said testily. “You need to stay out of trouble. You need to stay busy. You need a rock-solid alibi for your movements from here on out, which, thanks to Ms. Ward, you now have. And for once in your fucking life, you need to stay out of everyone’s grill while we work this case.”
CHAPTER THREE
Did Shoulders know how he looked at people?
Feeling shorter than usual, Cady followed her little entourage down the hall. Chris and Lieutenant Hawthorn were of a height, around six feet tall, but Shoulders, aka Officer McCormick, towered over all of them. Especially her. He was easily twelve and maybe fourteen inches taller than she was, and up close, he blocked out one of the overhead lights.
