Going Deep

by Anne Calhoun

  “We’re getting good times,” Shane said. “The weather’s damn near perfect.”

  “Who’s running?”

  Shane started rattling off teams and names. As Conn worked on the engine with Shane, he glanced around the airstrip. Lancaster’s airport was basically for small planes, a skydiving school, and the occasional weekday commuter flight to Chicago or Pittsburgh. The weekend hobby pilots had an amicable relationship with the drag racing association. Occasionally they had to clear a taxi strip of cars finished with their runs so a private plane could land, but the announcer kept his ear tuned to the air traffic and just about anyone who flew in and out of the airstrip on a regular basis had the announcer’s cell phone. On one memorable occasion they’d had an engine-failure emergency landing, but as there was always a fire engine and ambulance on standby; a good chunk of the racers were off-duty firefighters, cops, or EMTs; and the cars were all designed to go very fast, very quickly, the crisis went like a textbook training exercise.

  Between making adjustments to the fuel pump, he looked around the airstrip, seeing it through Cady’s eyes. A taxi strip flanked either side of the main runway; Conn, Shane, and Cady and the rest of Team McCool, along with the crews for the other cars were arrayed in a kind of pit row along the one closest to the airfield entrance while cars that had finished their runs cruised back to the pit along the other. Cars lined up to make their runs at the near end of the runway before rolling up the staging lanes to the burnout strip. Two cars revved their engines on the burnout strip, warming up their tires, sending the smell of hot rubber into the air.

  He and Shane both stopped to watch the run. The cars roared down the track, engines revving into a high whine. Ten seconds, give or take—races won or lost in hundredths of a second. It was a sport of reflexes and speed, reputations solidified and legends made on less time than it took to blink. When they’d made the final adjustments, Conn rummaged through the trailer for his safety jacket and helmet.

  “I’ve got that,” Cady said.

  He looked over at her and found his jacket draped over her legs. “I’ll swap you,” he said, and shrugged out of his jacket. “Sure you’re not too cold?”

  “Not at all.”

  He zipped up the jacket and plucked his helmet from her outstretched hand. “Thanks. You don’t have to watch or anything,” he said. “Grab some tea. They’ve got portable heaters inside the hanger.”

  “I wouldn’t miss this for anything,” she said. “It’s a dial-in night, right?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Some races were straight head-to-head competitions, but Conn wasn’t here to race kids in their souped-up street cars. He was racing a time. 9.99 seconds. That was his dad’s best time in the ZL1. In dial-in, the focus was on the driver’s performance, the starts adjusted so that, theoretically, the cars would cross the finish line at the same time. It rewarded both the driver and the car’s consistency, not who had the most cash to buy the newest, best equipment. It was all about driver skill.

  “What did you dial-in?” she asked, peering at the slip of paper in his hand.

  “Nine point nine-nine.”

  His dad’s best time. Conn had never broken ten seconds. A 9.99 finish would tie him with his father. Nine point nine-eight or faster would mean he’d “broken out”; he’d be disqualified from the race, but would’ve beaten his dad’s time.

  Still carrying his jacket, Cady kept pace beside the ZL1 until he turned right to get in line for his run and she turned left to find a spot in the bleachers. They weren’t crowded, only family members, girlfriends, and die-hard fans willing to sit on backless metal bleachers in this weather. Cady got a good seat on the first row and draped his jacket over her knees again. She was looking around with interest, taking in the Christmas-tree starting system, the interval timers, the speed traps used to calculate top speed.

  Shit. This was a stupid idea, leaving her protected only by her anonymity while he raced down a demon he’d never beat.

  He rolled forward a few feet to prestaging, as another pair of cars left the line. Burn the tires to warm them up, roll to the starting line, watch the amber lights on the Christmas tree flash down in half-second increments. At the last one, he floored the accelerator and shot down the track. The bleachers passed in a blur. All he heard was the engine and his own breathing as he focused on a fast, clean run. Shit. He mistimed the shift from third to fourth! The GT beat him to the line, but in handicap racing all that mattered was staying under your time.

  The interval timer flashed 10.00 just ahead of the shutdown area. Fuck, fuck! As he drove sedately down the taxi strip at ten miles per hour, he caught a glimpse of Shane sitting by Cady. Keeping her company, keeping an eye on her. It didn’t matter. Shane had his back.

  It was open night at the track, so he did a few more runs. His times varied from 10.01 to 10.00 before he gave up and exited the track, rolling back to the trailer. Shane was already there.

  “Driver error,” Conn said.

  “Don’t be too sure about that,” Shane said, hands on hips, listening to the engine. “I’ll take a look at it tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for looking after Cady.”

  “I didn’t do it for you,” Shane said, then winked at him. “She seems down to earth. Normal. Not like your typical famous person.”

  “How many famous people do you know?”

  “One, now,” Shane said. “Mom loves all those entertainment shows. Batshit crazy, the whole pack of them. But not Cady.”

  Not Cady, who had dated Harry Linton and planned to drop a record that would make her a global superstar. “No,” he said absently. “Not Cady.”

  Cady strolled up, wearing his jacket over hers. She looked absurd, her petite body disappearing into her puffy down coat and his denim jacket. She had her hands jammed into the pockets, and based on the bulge inside the coat, her insulated mug wedged inside.

  “Nice runs,” she said. “You were close. A hundredth of a second.”

  Not close enough. “Thanks,” he said, slicing Shane a look to keep him from telling her why they weren’t great runs at all. He had maybe a month left of weather closest to the dry, cold air in which his dad made his best run. If he couldn’t do it by Christmas, his chances were shot for another year.

  “I’m going to stop at the porta-potty,” she said.

  “You sure? We’re not far from town.”

  “I could wait,” she mused, “but I have to pee, there are porta-potties by the hanger, and I’m not that fastidious about them.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  He escorted her there, and stood discreetly to the side when she went inside. He was leaning against the hangar wall, examining the grease under his nails and wondering what the hell had happened in his life, when someone very big and very solid thudded back against the corrugated metal beside him.

  Conn straightened, shoulders squaring, hand automatically going to his hip before his brain caught up with his body. He recognized this guy.

  “Cesar, right? From Eye Candy? Why aren’t you at work?”

  “It’s my birthday. Miss Eve gave me the night off.”

  Conn’s eyes narrowed. Could be true. Could be total bullshit.

  Cesar kept his gaze focused on the line of cars waiting to race. Outside Eye Candy he seemed harder, the years of street life coming to the surface. The gang tattoo on his neck was visible in the light before he hunched his shoulders. “You’re looking in the wrong place.”

  Two seconds earlier Conn’s brain had been coasting along in neutral. Now it jerked from second gear into overdrive. “For what?”

  Cesar just looked at him. He was all but hidden in the dark shadow angling across the hanger’s metal wall; a sharp line delineated the lights on the drag strip and the pitch-blackness leading into the grassy field behind the hanger the jump school used as a landing site.

  “It ain’t the county. Ain’t the street. Look closer than that. Inside the Block,” Cesar said.

 
; The Block was street slang for the Eastern Precinct, based on the building’s square shape and brick facade. The architecture was uninspired, as most city facilities were, and felt like a prison or the kind of place to make a last stand when the zombie apocalypse arrived. Cops were insiders. Everyone else wasn’t.

  Cesar was saying the answer to who beat up Jordy Jackson and framed Conn for it was inside the Block. He’d been betrayed by one of his own.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fury seared Conn’s veins. Police departments were no different than any other segment of the population; they had good guys and bad guys, but Cesar was hinting at a level of corruption that included assaulting a prisoner and framing another cop for it. The possibility was zero. His muscles tightened as his temper flared. The only thing that stopped him from fisting his hands in Cesar’s hoodie and slamming him into the wall was the fact that their combined weight might send the hangar crashing to the ground.

  Reflexively he shoved his fists into his jacket pocket, and got a grip. He had to ask the questions. Even false leads had to be run down, to prove a case beyond a shadow of a doubt. “Not the county.”

  Cesar shook his head. In the distant part of his mind Conn had to laugh. Cesar’s big bald head was protected from the cold by the same type of black wool watch cap Conn wore.

  “Where should I look?”

  “Somebody has to replace Hector.” He stepped further into the hangar’s long, cold shadow.

  Bullshit. “You’re saying someone inside the Block went after leadership of the Strykers?” he asked, incredulous. “Who?”

  Cesar edged deeper into the shadows. “I got people depending on me. I got a future,” he said, shaking his head.

  All of Conn’s options zipped through his head. He could arrest Cesar on some charge, get him into the Block, make him talk. Until a few days ago that was exactly the kind of in-your-face move he’d pull. But Hawthorn told him to stay out of everyone’s grill. So he bit his tongue, shoved his fists deeper into his pockets, and let Cesar walk away.

  Cesar was lying. Had to be. Except … he had a good thing going working for Eve, and everyone knew messing with Eve would bring down Matt Dorchester’s wrath, with the power of the LPD behind it. Cesar had nothing to gain by lying, and everything to lose. Unless lying to Conn got Cesar some kind of street payoff.

  He shook his head. Instinct told him Cesar wasn’t wired for the streets. He was too soft, too kind, too willing to work an actual job and struggle his way to a GED. The streets weren’t easier for him. Which meant he had nothing to gain by lying.

  Which meant Conn had to take his statement seriously.

  Which meant Conn was in deep, deep shit. The average street tough couldn’t do a tenth of the damage to Conn a crooked cop could. Everything was on the line. His job, his identity, possibly his freedom.

  Fuck Hawthorn. Time to do some detective work. He strode back into the light and found Cady helping Shane close and lock the trailer doors. “There you are,” she said when Conn rounded the corner of the hangar. The crowd had dissipated, only a few lingering to talk to the racing teams as they drove cars onto trailers and closed up folding chairs.

  “Watch your fingers,” he said.

  “We were very careful,” she said solemnly, but the teasing in her eyes faded as she got a good look at his face.

  “All set?” he said to Shane.

  “We’re good to go,” Shane said, then turned to Cady. “You’re officially on the pit crew for Team McCool.”

  “Wow,” Cady said. “I’m honored.”

  “You’re our good luck charm. Nothing broke on the old girl tonight.”

  Cady laughed. “I’ll be your lucky rabbit’s foot any day. Next weekend?”

  “Every weekend it’s dry, we race.”

  She collected her insulated mug from the ground beside the trailer and fell into step beside Conn. He was prepared for feminine inquisitiveness, but Cady didn’t say anything as they climbed into the Audi, or when he gave it too much gas and kicked up gravel as they shot out of the lot and down the road to the highway.

  “That was fun,” she said with a longing look at the gauges. “Thanks for suggesting it. Makes me want to take her out for a run.”

  He struggled with an answer. She obviously wanted to burn off more energy, and it was her car. The odds of a stalker running them off the road were slim, but the odds of nailing a deer on some back county road were pretty good, this time of year. He wanted to get back to her house and sign into the department’s system and start running down more information on Jordy’s known accomplices, and the current situation on the street in Lancaster.

  “Conn. At least let me drive home,” she said as they neared the stop sign at the intersection of the airport road and the highway.

  He shifted into park at the stop sign and got out of the car. In a flash she was out of her seat, darting around the hood. “Yes, yes, yes,” she said.

  He’d barely buckled up when she peered around him to her left, then back down the highway toward Lancaster. Nothing coming in either direction. She turned right, away from town, then jammed the pedal to the floor.

  The Audi hit sixty miles per hour in the time it took him to scrabble for the sissy bar above the passenger door. It hit a hundred before he could draw breath. The engine purred hard up to a hundred and ten, RPMs screaming into the red by the time he bellowed, “Slow down. Right fucking now!”

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said, already easing back to the speed limit. “God, I needed that.”

  “Do you think me being in the car with you means you won’t get a ticket? Hell, I’ll write you one myself!”

  “Go for it,” she said. Her right hand rested on the gearshift while she drove with her left, handling the sports car with ease. “But it would be worth it. Again? Just once more? Please?”

  “No,” he said, finally letting go of the sissy bar. “No way. If you really want to drive fast that badly, I’ll bring you out for the next test-and-tune event.”

  “Fine, but I’m going home by the back roads. What’s a test-and-tune?”

  “It’s a good time for beginners to take some practice runs and for the rest of us to see what tinkering over the week did to our times.”

  “Your times were extremely consistent,” she said. She’d slowed down to the speed limit and turned on the high beams, the better to see the pinpoint reflections of deer’s eyes in a ditch before they bounded up onto the road.

  “I’ve been racing that car since I was eighteen,” he said. “I know what it can do.”

  “The point of a dial-in is to get as close to the time you choose without going over, right?” At his nod, she added, “So you were really close. Very consistent.”

  He consistently failed to beat his dad’s time. “Yeah.”

  The car purred up and down the wooded, rolling hills to the north of Lancaster, quiet, controlled but with a hint of menace to it. Or maybe that was just him, projecting. She pulled up to a second set of gates on the opposite side of the development and keyed in her code. She cruised through the streets. Conn studied the houses more closely: big, mostly brick but some modern architectural statement houses scattered throughout the lots. The big windows weren’t covered, the homeowners’ Saturday night on full display to anyone who drove by.

  “Good thing you didn’t pick a house like that,” Conn said. “That would be a nightmare to secure.”

  She glanced over. “That’s a Maud house,” Cady mused. “Maybe I’m not sophisticated enough, but that feels like a small museum to me, not a house. Where did you grow up?”

  “Here.”

  “I meant, where, here? Which neighborhood?”

  “The South Side.”

  “Oh. I don’t know that neighborhood as well.”

  His monosyllabic approach worked, because Cady drove the rest of the way in silence. He waited while she parked the car then escorted her up the steps. Moving on autopilot, he left her in the kitchen filling her steamer, to hang up his ja
cket. When he came back, she was staring down at an open folder he’d left on the island. “I was thinking about some of these emails, and the website going down,” she said. Then her voice slowed. “What’s this?”

  She’d opened the folder on Jordy, not the psychos folder. He wanted to leap across the table and tear it from her hand. Don’t show weakness. Don’t flinch. Instead, he shoved his fists in his jeans pockets, hunched his shoulders. She was reading it, flipping through the pages, the damning pictures.

  Then she looked at him, her hazel eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re accused of doing this.”

  It wasn’t a question. “Yeah,” he said. His voice sounded both rough and emotionless at the same time. He waited for the automatic question. Did you do this?

  “You didn’t do this.”

  He opened his mouth. Closed it. Obstinately chose the devil’s advocate role. “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “One trip to the drag races and a night in bed and you know me? You don’t know me. I’m capable of that. When I was a kid, I got into fights for the fun of it. I’ve got all kinds of anger issues.”

  She looked at the close-up of Jordy’s face. “We all are. Everyone’s capable of violence if the right button’s pushed. But I know you a little. You’re not the kind of man who hurts someone else when he’s angry or in pain.”

  He snorted to cover the hot rush inside him. “Sure I’m not.”

  She paged through the report. It was official police business pertaining to an open case. She was a civilian. He should have confiscated it. He didn’t, although he couldn’t say why. Maybe because she deserved to know who was living in her house, sleeping in her bed. Maybe it was because he wanted her to know. “Most people look at me and see brutal.”

  She looked up. Blinked. “Are they blind?”

  “Why don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not blind. You didn’t do this, so who did?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, frustration surging again. His hands were jammed so far into his pockets he thought he might rip the seams at the bottom. “That’s why I’m here, with you. Hawthorn needed to get me out of sight while he investigates.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets, the denim scraping his knuckles before he shoved his hands over his head. “Fuck!”