by Anne Calhoun
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I could smell the gravy.”
“I can eat there again,” he said.
“Good, because it’s close to Eye Candy and we’re running late. Aha!”
She pulled a pair of starlet sunglasses from the bottom of the bag and started jamming the contents back in while he shrugged into his jacket. She unwound a thick, soft, purple scarf from the old-fashioned hat rack and wrapped it around her throat, then added a denim jacket to the ensemble before finishing with her puffy down coat. With the sunglasses she looked remote, untouchable.
Not at all like Queen Maud, or the woman who’d propositioned him the night before, yet somehow exactly like the kind of woman who’d proposition her body man.
“What?” she said as she led him through the house to the garage.
He’d thought he was keeping this pretty under control, but maybe not. The conversation at the Block hadn’t covered who to tell about incidents. Was Cady on the need-to-know list? Was Chris?
He’d told Hawthorn. Good enough for now. He jabbed the button to open the garage door and said the first thing that came to mind. “Why do your breasts look bigger?”
She laughed. She unzipped her jacket and reached into her bra, holding up what looked like a really flexible gel pad. He gaped at it, then overcorrected to avoid hitting one of the big evergreens lining the driveway. “There are my boobs, the very small ones God gave me. These are my backup boobs. They give me the cleavage God didn’t.”
Fascinated, he handled one. It was warm to the touch and had the consistency of a thin piece of raw chicken. “Why do you wear them?”
“It’s part of my image. My label believes boobs, as well as my voice, sell albums, songs, concert tickets, and merch.”
“And you’re wearing them today because…?”
“Interviews where photographs will be taken require the backup boobs.”
“Okay,” he said, as if it made sense.
“Come on,” she said, tucking the gel pad back into her bra. “That can’t be the weirdest thing you’ve heard in your line of work.”
He turned right out of the community’s pompous gates and headed back into Lancaster. “Are we including unmedicated paranoid schizophrenics? Then no. It’s top five on the list of weirdest things I’ve heard from people who don’t talk to their toasters.”
“Well,” she said lightly, and turned to stare out the window at the barren fields. “Sorry for the false advertising.”
He processed that, remembering the reality comment when she stumbled out of bed a few hours earlier. Did men go to bed with Queen Maud and gripe about waking up with Cady? “I wasn’t complaining,” he said after a couple of miles.
She turned to look at him, all big sunglasses and red lips, still swollen from his kiss.
“I wasn’t. We were…” He paused, not sure what to say to someone so clearly out of his league. “It was really good.”
Her lips curved into a smile, one he could tell reached her eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
At the diner she got the chicken fried steak and fries, and ate two thirds of the platter. Aside from a couple of glances, and every cook in the kitchen peering through the window at her, no one approached her. He stopped her when she pulled out her wallet at the end of the meal.
“I’ve got it this time.”
“Are you getting reimbursed for your expenses?”
He laughed as he thumbed through his cash and dropped a couple of bills on the table.
“Apparently not,” she said. At least she could find her own naiveté amusing.
“I have no idea how this works,” he said. He zipped up his jacket and shrugged to release the tail from his gun. “Maybe I’m supposed to submit expenses? Hawthorn didn’t say one way or the other.”
“It’s easier for me to just pay,” she said. She picked up the money and offered it back to him. “It’s a tax deduction for me. I think.”
He looked at her. This wasn’t a date, but something about her buying his meals raised his hackles. “It’s business.”
Her cheeks turned a shade of pink that went nicely with the thick purple scarf. “Mostly business.”
Keeping his emotions locked down, not getting attached to people who might leave, which was everyone except his fellow cops, was his specialty. But the sore twinge in his chest when she said it was an old, familiar hurt. Don’t get your hopes up. There’s nothing to hope for here.
He took the money back, folded the bills, and tucked them away. She left the same amount on the table. “Ready?”
“Let’s go.”
A smooth transition to the car, then they were back on the road, headed for Eye Candy. “You’re going to be late.”
“It’s expected,” she said, her attention focused on the street. “Things are looking good.”
He didn’t say anything. He saw too much of the East Side’s underbelly to appreciate a few planters and a couple of new businesses.
Eye Candy was located on the next street over from the construction zone for Mobile Media’s new data division and call center. The front of the bar faced Thirteenth Street while the back patio’s wrought-iron fence opened to what would be Mobile Media’s nicely landscaped headquarters. Right now bulldozers, cement trucks, and a huge crane dominated a big hole in the ground, girders and concrete rising from the poured foundation.
The door opened and Matt Dorchester’s girlfriend Eve braced it open. The skirt of her gray dress swirled in the wind as she called, “Hi! Get in here before you freeze to death!”
More hugging while he stood off to the side and did his job. No one had followed them from the restaurant, but he couldn’t shake the memory of the car’s taillights, bloodred and ominous as they disappeared over the hill. He’d been in the bar before, when Eve had worked as an informant for the department. He was never quite sure what to say around her, for two reasons. A few months earlier in the heat of the summer, he’d killed someone in front of her. Heroics aside, in the aftermath, it was awkward. The other reason was that he’d never seen two people look at each other like Eve and Matt did: as long as they had each other, they could handle anything.
“Is Matt coming later?” Cady asked, shrugging out of her coat.
“He thinks so. It depends on calls. Give me your purse, too. I’ll put them both upstairs in my office. Get whatever you want from the bar,” she called as she climbed the stairs. Eve navigated the spiral staircase pretty well for a tall woman in spike heels.
Cady walked behind the bar and surveyed the worktop like she knew what she was doing. “What can I get you?”
“Coke,” Conn said.
She scooped ice then aimed the nozzle into one of those tall slender glasses that holds far less than it looks like it does, then ran water for herself. He raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve spent more than my fair share of time in bars,” she said. “Singing, waitressing, bartending. For a while I thought that’s as far as I’d go. Thanks for letting me do the interview here,” Cady said when Eve crossed the dance floor.
“Are you serious? You’re doing me a favor,” Eve said, settling onto one of the bar stools. Both women had their cell phones out for a selfie. There was a moment of silence when he assumed they were posting to various social media sites. Eve set her phone facedown on the bar. “I can’t buy publicity like this, and it’s good to be in the paper for my actual business plan—entertaining people—not for taking down a drug ring.”
“Did business fall off after what happened?”
“Immediately after, no,” Eve said. “Lots of gawkers and first-time customers. We had a couple of slow months in the fall, but after I opened the patio for a Halloween party it picked back up again.”
Cady nodded. “You’ve got to keep things fresh.”
A brisk round of knocks ended the conversation. Cady unwrapped her scarf while Eve let in a woman carrying a big purse and a man with camera equipm
ent around his neck. Conn sized them up. The photographer wore credentials for the Star Trib, and had been around a few crime scenes. He recognized the reporter, Hannah Rafferty, from her picture next to the columns she wrote. Human interest stuff, mostly. Features seemed to be her specialty. He turned his attention back to Cady, to find that she’d changed once again, holding herself straighter, cocking her head to the side just a bit, a big smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes on her face. Even her laughter and voice were different, a little higher, a little younger.
So there was concert Cady, sleepy Cady, at-home Cady, and now this Cady, who seemed to be a dialed-down iteration of concert Cady, wearing a version of the same smiling mask.
He understood why. He did the same thing himself. The man who appeared in photos with Shane didn’t look much like the cop he glimpsed in the rearview mirror during a traffic stop or in plate glass windows at crime scenes. But this, with the makeup and hair and clothes, was almost a disappearing act.
He faded into the background while the reporter, photographer, and Cady determined the best location for the interview. They settled on the bar, Cady directly under one of the canister lights.
“Mind if I record this?”
“Not at all,” Cady said.
Hannah set her phone on the bar, then flipped open a notebook. “It’s nice to see you again. I think the last time we talked was about this time last year, when your first hit went big. How does it feel to be back in Lancaster?”
“Good. Really good. I noticed the new planters on Thirteenth Street, and there’s a building going up in the big hole in the ground behind Eye Candy.”
“No grass growing here,” Eve said, to polite laughter.
Hannah’s pen moved swiftly across the page but her eyes never left Cady’s. “You were on the road for six months?”
“Eight. Not that I’m counting,” Cady said. More polite laughter. “The opportunities just kept coming, each too good to pass up, a regional tour, then a national tour. I was fortunate enough to sing in new venues, in front of different audiences. I couldn’t ask for more.”
“Beats the state fair circuit?”
“Oh, I like the state fairs. The midways and the crowds, they’re just this fabulous cross section of humanity, and the smell of machine oil and sweat and funnel cakes. I like wandering through the barns, too.”
“Really? I’ve covered my share of state fairs. You must have been seeing something I wasn’t.”
“I liked watching people get their animals ready to show. The girls grooming horses, or fluffing the cow’s hide so it shows better. Bathing sheep. It’s so different from anything I know.”
Conn all but gaped at her. The woman swaying on her feet from exhaustion after eight months on the road was gone, replaced by the smiling shell who was always ready to give her fans more of what they wanted.
“Speaking of the music business, what’s next for you?”
“I’m taking some time off around the holidays,” she said smoothly. “Christmas is an important time for my family, and I’m happy to be home for longer than a couple of days.”
“You missed all of the excitement that happened here last summer,” the reporter said.
“Eve told me what happened. I was so afraid for her, but also really proud. We have to take a stand if we’re going to transform the East Side and ensure all of Lancaster continues to grow. Eve’s done the hard work for us. Now it’s up to the rest of the community to build on the momentum.”
“Is that the reason for the concert tonight?”
“We are taking a free-will donation to support the community center, but the main reason for the concert is to give back to the people who’ve supported me and my music from the beginning.”
“How do you keep your voice fresh?”
“I’ve got a comprehensive regime designed specifically to take care of it.”
Cady launched into a description of steam, hot soothing drinks, no caffeine or alcohol or soft drinks, enforced rest periods between shows, which lead to the question everyone seemed to want answered.…
“When is your next album coming out?”
“We’ve been working on material for a while now, and I’m pretty hopeful it will be ready to go soon.”
Nice. All true, nothing specific. Which occurred to Hannah too. “Come on. Throw me a bone here,” she said, like they were besties.
Cady shook her head, smiling that big smile all the while. “I understand people are excited for new material, and I’m so grateful for their enthusiasm. We’re just making sure what we release is worthy of their excitement.”
Hannah looked at her list of questions. “And what about Harry Linton?”
The big smile never faded. Conn was absolutely amazed how she handled such personal questions, asked as if people had every right to know all the details of her personal life. “He’s a friend, that’s all.”
“So you’re not planning to fly over to see him? That was on Twitter earlier today.”
“Was it? I can assure you the last thing I want to do right now is get on another bus, or plane, or train.” She and Hannah both laughed. “No, I’m spending the holidays with my family.”
“So you’re broken up?”
“I don’t believe either of us confirmed we were together, so I can’t say we’re broken up.” A response worthy of a defense attorney. “I’m fortunate to call Harry a good friend.”
The interview wound down as Eve’s staff started to set up seating for the show, carrying chairs from a storeroom out the back door to the patio, now enclosed in a big white tent. Cady posed for a few official pictures, then with Hannah, the photographer, and a couple of Eve’s staff.
“I’ll take care of the mic and amp myself,” Cady said.
Eve flashed her a thumbs-up and stepped out of the path of an employee wheeling out another stack of chairs. Conn’s eyes narrowed. Most of the back-office staff had gang ink he recognized.
“Eve certainly puts her money where her mouth is,” Hannah said. Her observant gaze followed Conn’s and connected the dots. “Even after what happened. It’s commendable.”
“She doesn’t back down,” Cady said. “That’s why I’m happy to be here, supporting her work. Thanks for the interview. I need to get ready to sing.”
Hannah’s gaze flashed over to Conn. “Officer McCormick, you were part of the team that rescued Eve when Hector Santiago kidnapped her.”
“I was,” he said. No use in denying it. His role was a matter of public record.
Hannah stayed by his side while her photographer reviewed shots. “Why does she have police protection?”
Conn said nothing. Even without the confidentiality agreement, he wouldn’t give a reporter a single detail about Cady.
“Is this an official presence, or part of the off-duty work officers can do?”
“Any questions about the LPD’s role in Ms. Ward’s security detail can be directed to Lieutenant Hawthorn, East Side Precinct.”
“You’re just the muscle?”
“I’m just the muscle.”
Hannah all but rolled her eyes. “What’s she like when she’s not performing?”
“You just talked to her for thirty minutes,” Conn pointed out, keeping one eye on Cady.
“And she was performing every single second of those thirty minutes.” Hannah looked at him. Conn just stared back, expressionless. He was beginning to understand why Chris had him sign the confidentiality agreement. Twenty-four hours into this gig and he could blow Cady’s privacy all to hell, putting Cady in danger and making the department look like a bunch of unprofessional amateurs.
“Maybe none of us know,” Hannah said. She collected her photographer and left. Outside the door a line had already formed. He made a mental note to check in with the bouncer before he opened up, and see if Eve could spare another big guy in case the crowd got out of hand. Getting Cady to safety would be easy; the big gates on the far side of the patio were unlocked, simply barred with a bolt.<
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He walked through the double doors leading to the patio, where a crew was setting up a temporary bar and three big heaters were blasting away. Cady was unpacking equipment when he approached. “Don’t you have someone to do that for you?”
“It’s a single amp,” she said, uncoiling a cord. A glass of ice water and her mug of hot water and honey sat next to a stool. “I’ve done it myself literally thousands of times.”
“Are all interviews like that one?”
“That was pretty standard. Why?”
She was so small. So vulnerable. A powerful, protective urge swept through him, to keep her safe, bundle her away so she could get the quiet and privacy she obviously wanted. “Never mind,” he said.
That kind of tenderness was unfamiliar, a little scary. He needed space, so he fell back on what he knew, crossing the dance floor to talk to the big bouncer waiting by the door. The guy was Conn’s height and wider, but he shifted his weight and forced himself to make eye contact as Conn approached. He was a big, open-hearted puppy. This guy wouldn’t have lasted five minutes on the streets.
“What’s your name?” Conn asked. His mental database was coming up blank for a name or an arrest history, but gang ink doesn’t lie. If he was inked and didn’t have a record, he was the first in history.
“Cesar.”
“Worked here long?”
He straightened his shoulders and met Conn’s gaze, like he’d remembered a lesson in interpersonal communication skills. “Ever since Miss Eve opened.”
“You a friend of hers?”
Cesar nodded.
“I’m Ms. Ward’s security detail.”
Matt Dorchester strode in from the parking lot and nodded a greeting to Conn. Conn threw a quick glance at Cesar. Matt gave an almost imperceptible nod to indicate Cesar was okay.
“I’ve got the entrance to the patio,” Matt said. “See you in a few.”
“You tight with Dorchester?”
“Yeah,” Conn said, then remembered he wasn’t in uniform or wearing his name tag. If it would get him Cesar’s focus on the line now stretching down the block to see Cady sing, he’d play up the connection. “I was there when he took down Santiago,” he said, aligning himself with Eve, Matt, and everything they were doing to clean up the East Side’s drug and gang problem.
