by Anne Calhoun
“The trolley quit running after Labor Day,” Eve said. “The city shut it down until the holiday season. It’s a great plan. They decorated the interior and exterior, and they’re using it to shuttle people between the different business districts. It gets people used to using the trolley, and it boosts traffic to the local shops.”
“If that’s the SoMa trolley, that means he’s still in Lancaster,” Conn said. “He lied to Cady. To me. He said he was going home. But he’s still in Lancaster.”
“You don’t know that,” Sorenson said. Caleb Webber stood to her left, watching the conversation with an intensity Caleb knew meant he was filing away every word.
“The trolley’s bells were modeled after the street cars that used to run in the fifties,” Eve said.
“Lots of cities had street cars,” Conn said, his brain working away furiously. “But not anymore.”
“San Francisco does,” Sorenson said. When Dorchester lifted an eyebrow at her, she added, “What? Vacation last year. They’re quaint.”
“He lives in Brooklyn,” Conn said, keeping the conversation on track.
“Are there street cars still running in Brooklyn?”
“No idea,” Conn said, and made a note to check.
Eve had tactfully wandered away to inspect the items on Cady’s shelves while Cady carried on her conversation with Chris. “We can’t do anything without her permission,” Hawthorn said, keeping his voice low. “We need proof he’s gaslighting her before we make an accusation like that.”
“I’ll get it,” Conn said. He’d get it or go down in flames trying.
“Don’t tell me anything else,” Hawthorn said, like he was reading Conn’s mind. “All I’ll say is this: You don’t need to make it stand up in court. You just need enough to make him stop.”
“I’ll get it, LT,” Conn repeated. “Can I have a minute before you leave?”
Hawthorn looked at him, then at Sorenson and Dorchester. “Head back to the precinct,” he said quietly.
“Call me if you need anything,” Caleb said to Cady. “The firm can handle any transaction for you, and run interference if you need it.”
“Thanks, Caleb.”
Dorchester collected Eve, following Caleb and Sorenson out the front door. It closed with a quiet snick of the latch. Conn wondered if everything Matt Dorchester did sounded lethal.
“What the progress into Jordy’s beatdown?”
“Nobody saw, heard, or did nothing, ever, in the history of the world,” Hawthorn said.
“Someone always rolls, LT,” Conn said.
“Not this time. This time, nobody’s talking. I offered every incentive I could think of to everyone who would normally sell his mother down the river to get a cop on his side. Not a thing.”
Conn shoved his fists into his pockets and blew out his breath, trying to get his emotions under control.
“I recognize that look on your face,” Hawthorn said. “It’s the look someone gets right before he does something he’ll have to explain later.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lieutenant.”
“Don’t feed me that line of bullshit, Officer McCormick,” Hawthorn said amiably. “You think this is the first time I’ve supervised a hotshot with a temper? I’ll give you a clue. It’s not. Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t.”
“Sir,” Conn said.
Hawthorn’s stare could have bored through steel. Conn knew his answer wasn’t an affirmative, but his time in the army taught him how and when to keep his mouth shut. When uncomfortable, most people talked to fill silences; it was one of a detective’s main staples to get information. Just wait, because the witness or the suspect would crack and start talking first.
But Hawthorn wasn’t a witness, or a suspect. He’d been a cop longer than Conn, and came from a family of cops. But Conn knew he didn’t have to outlast his LT. He just had to last long enough for Cady to get off the phone with Chris. But it was like being ground between two stones: the LPD and Cady’s safety.
“What are you two doing over here?” she asked. “Having a staring contest?”
“We’re coming to an agreement, Ms. Ward,” Hawthorn said, his gaze still fixed on Conn. He waited for his LT to throw him under the bus and tell Cady everything. “Is there anything else the department can do to help you feel safe?”
“No, thanks,” Cady said. “You’ve already done so much. I’m comfortable with where we’ve left things.”
“Then we will proceed exactly as we have been,” Hawthorn said, still looking at Conn.
Conn didn’t flinch. He didn’t so much as blink. It was easy enough for Hawthorn to make promises and walk away, back to his budget meetings and his statistics. He wasn’t the one guarding Cady every hour of every day, watching her struggle to finish her album, worry about her future, handle her family and friends and fans with grace and aplomb with this threat hanging over her head.
He wasn’t the one in love with her.
Oh, shit.
“Great,” Cady said cheerfully.
Conn startled before he remembered that while Cady’s songs made it seem like she could see into his soul, she couldn’t. She was looking at him like she’d looked at him every other second they’d been together, wary and fascinated, like she wanted to touch but wasn’t sure she could.
Hawthorn arched an eyebrow, clearly catching some nuance he’d missed before, one Conn didn’t want his LT recording, analyzing, slotting into the statistics and bar charts he probably kept on all his officers. Likes Indian food and country music. Drives a Bronco. Takes kids on ATV rides in the winter. Breeds angora rabbits because his daughter loves them. Divorced twice.
Falling in love with Cady Ward.
For the life of him, Conn couldn’t figure out how to get out of this one. Cady saved the day. She held out her hand to Hawthorn, gave him a wide smile, and said, “Thanks so much for coming all the way out here, Lieutenant Hawthorn. I really appreciate it. If you’re interested, I can get you tickets and backstage passes to the kick-off concert for my next tour. I always start in Lancaster.”
Hawthorn blushed. Conn got a grip on the counter, because the world was reeling on its moorings. Ian Hawthorn actually blushed like a little girl, the tips of his ears going as red as the tomatoes ripening on Cady’s counter. “That’s not necessary, Ms. Ward,” he said. “We’re just doing our jobs.”
Conn tried hard not to think about how extremely unprofessional his interactions with Cady had been as he watched Cady arch an eyebrow at Hawthorn. “You came to my house on a Saturday afternoon before the holidays. I’m sure you have better things to be doing, and I appreciate you going above and beyond to keep me safe. I’d be honored to have you come to the concert as my guest.”
Hawthorn struggled with professional ethics for maybe another five seconds, then gave in. “That would be great,” he said. “I used to watch you sing in SoMa, when I was on patrol.”
She smiled. “I’ll be in touch when we have a date, so I know how many tickets you want.”
She’d managed to totally disarm Hawthorn, something Conn had never seen in all his time working with the undercover unit. Hawthorn collected his folders and his laptop, pulled on his coat and said goodbye. When she closed the door behind him, she flipped the deadbolt and turned to Conn.
“What was that all about?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“What do you mean?” Conn said, stalling for time. He’d been in love before. He wasn’t that badly fucked up that he thought he’d never love again. This felt different. Trying to pinpoint exactly why while Cady glared at him with narrowed eyes was beyond him.
“We’re coming to an agreement? He’s not trying to push cameras on me, is he?”
“No,” Conn said, totally truthfully. “He meant something else.”
“The accusation that you beat up that prisoner?”
Damn, she was quick. Also, not self-centered. Unlike all the stories he’d heard of celebrities becomin
g self-absorbed divas, Cady thought about the people close to her. If anyone was acting like a self-absorbed diva, it was Emily, but maybe that was just teenage girl.
He had less than a second to decide whether or not to involve her even more deeply in that case. “Yes,” he said.
“Well? What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” he said. He took her arm to guide her away from the windows at the front of the house, but ended up with her fingers woven through his as they headed to the sofa in front of the fireplace.
“Nothing,” she repeated. “Really? Don’t the police take these accusations very seriously?”
“We do. We are. But usually someone rolls, talks, gives up someone else in exchange for a deal. That’s what we’ve got to offer, a reduced sentence, time served, charges dropped. None of the usual fish are biting.”
“That seems odd,” Cady said.
“It is odd.” Conn stared at his hand, linked with hers, and thought, Not as odd as knowing I’m falling in love with you. Did he tell her about Cesar’s comment? Did he worry her more? How did people manage this relationship stuff? It was insanely complicated, and totally outside his experience. “Very odd.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Cady just being Cady, the firelight making her crazy hair gleam like old oak, turning the curve of her cheek rose red. Conn’s brain tried to think about two things at once: the way his heart was skittering in his chest and the extremely unusual show of solidarity from the East Side’s biggest gang. Why would they do that? Someone usually wanted out badly enough to give up a piece of information, or could be enticed into it. It took real leadership to enforce that kind of solidarity, and the Strykers hadn’t had that kind of leadership since Matt Dorchester took out Lyle Jenkins last summer.
Or so they thought.
Conn’s brain jerked into a gear he didn’t know he had. Maybe they were going about this the wrong way. Maybe there wasn’t an absence of leadership in the Strykers. Maybe an invisible hand was holding everything together more tightly than before. Maybe Lyle’s unexpected death didn’t cut off the snake’s head. Maybe it made room for a King Cobra to take over for a garden snake.
“Okay,” Cady said, a little smile on her face. “I recognize that expression of someone deep in thought. I’m going back to my studio.”
Conn tightened his grip on her hand. “No, wait,” he started. Then he stopped. What was he going to say? I’m falling in love with you? She heard that a dozen times a day from complete strangers. Even if he did say it, nothing changed the fact that she was Queen Maud, and he was a Lancaster cop who’d just made a decision that would end what was growing between them.
Her expression turned from amused to slightly quizzical, her brows drawing in slightly, the smile losing its gleam. “What?” she asked.
“Just keep your phone with you. I’ll be up here.”
“Sure thing,” she said.
She withdrew her fingers from his. He didn’t want to let her go, but he had to, so he held on to what he could, the sweet, electric slide of her skin against his, lighting his nerves on fire. The heat remained long after he heard the door to her studio close.
Finally he shook it off, got up and grabbed his laptop and his notebook from his duffle bag, and opened it. He signed in to the department’s secure database, and tried to think through how a detective would approach this. His detractors joked that Ian Hawthorn, the son of a loved and well-respected former police chief, thought he was the second coming of Jesus. What would Hawthorn do?
He wouldn’t start with Conn’s usual tactic: going out on the street and tracking down people he knew could give him answers, then threatening them until they gave it up. Hawthorn would gather data, analytics, metrics. Information, both detailed and bird’s eye. Conn started by cross-referencing the gang unit’s list of current and former Strykers, even the dead ones, with a list of arrests going back three years. Then he started looking at the results, which cases got dismissed or pled down, and which ones never went to trial because a witness recanted or evidence disappeared. The results matched both the official line when the city government wanted answers on the state of the East Side and the chatter in the department: the Strykers were slippery as fuck. This wasn’t news.
Frustrated, he got up and headed back outside to tackle the woodpile again. It wasn’t running full tilt after a burglary suspect, but it would have to do. Fifteen minutes in, his phone buzzed. Shane.
Got what you wanted. I also picked up her Christmas tree. What next?
Conn looked at the back of the house. Cady would probably be in her studio for hours yet, Shane could be here in twenty minutes, and Conn had no time to waste. He texted Shane her address. Park at the end of the driveway.
He stayed at the woodpile while he waited, but the physical exertion didn’t drive away the conflicted emotions swirling in a sick dance in the pit of his stomach. He had to do this. Had to keep her safe. She’d asked him not to. But in a short span of time she’d gone from a face in the glossy magazine rack at the end of the supermarket checkout counter to the woman he couldn’t bear to lose.
His phone buzzed again. I’m here.
He sank the axe into the stump and trotted along the shoveled path around the side of the house, skirting the big evergreens. A dark blue junker pickup with in-transit plates idled roughly at the end of the driveway. A watch cap similar to the one Cady had confiscated at the Christmas tree lot covered Shane’s white-blond hair.
Shane rolled the window down with an actual hand crank. “I figured I should do this incognito, yo,” he said with a quick grin. He handed a white plastic Radio Shack bag through the window. “It’s pretty easy to set up. Took me and Finn a couple of hours while the software installed on our computers. You have wifi?”
“Yeah,” Conn said.
Shane looked at the house. “Nice. Not what I expected a superstar to own, but it’s nice. Homey. I’m kind of surprised it didn’t come with a full security system and a trained guard dog.”
“She doesn’t want cameras,” Conn said, because he’d never lied to Shane and wasn’t about to start now.
Shane’s brows lifted. “So what are you doing?”
“The threat is getting too close. Too personal. I don’t want to lose her.”
His friend was too smart not to follow the chain of repercussions all the way to the bitter end. He shook his head. “You always had to do the right thing. Where do you want the tree?”
Even when he knew another fight to protect a smaller kid would mean getting shuffled to the next family member in the contact list. It didn’t matter if he was on the right side. All that mattered was that he was a pain in the ass. Not easy. He was big, loud, argumentative, stubborn, and in everyone’s face. Bag clenched in one hand, he said, “Got a minute to help me get it into the house?”
“Let me check with my boss,” Shane said. “Oh, wait. I am the boss. Yeah, I’ve got a minute.”
Together they wrestled the fir into the house via the sliding glass doors. It was considerably longer than a minute before they had the tree straight in the stand. “The branches will settle in a day or two,” Shane said. “It’s a nice one.”
Conn remembered tagging along with the Ward women to pick it out, the way Patty and Cady included him in their decision. The plastic bag with the cameras tugged at his conscience. “Does doing the wrong thing for the right reasons make it right?”
“Who the fuck knows?” Shane said philosophically. “Do what you have to so you can look yourself in the mirror, and pray. Mind if I wash my hands before I go? I left Mickey in charge of the shop. I just hope it’s still standing when I get back.”
* * *
He interpreted silence on the social media front to mean Cady was deeply entrenched in her songwriting session. The cameras were small, and simple, the batteries already installed. They were triggered by motion, the footage stored in the cloud. He borrowed a sturdy deck chair. Using the screwdriver attachment on his pocketknife, he had them i
nstalled and turned on in less than half an hour.
Observation was on his mind as he worked, surveillance, recording details, actions, which led him to Hawthorn’s meticulously compiled reports, the ones he barely glanced at during briefings. But between one turn of a screw, a thought occurred to him: How did the Strykers stack up compared to other gangs in Lancaster? Surely the units compiled the same metrics on other gangs. Hawthorn was a metrics freak. But Conn couldn’t remember the same chatter about the Twentieth Street Bloods, or the Murder Angels.
He folded up his pocketknife, put the deck chair back, and hurried inside. Behind Cady’s studio door the same fragment of the same song was now on some kind of loop. He didn’t stop, just took the stairs two at a time to the main room and opened his computer again.
Knowing what he was looking for and how to compile it meant the second round didn’t take him as long. The numbers were so interesting he did the same thing for the Solo Angeles. Then he sat back and blew out his breath.
Strykers were arrested as frequently as members of the Twentieth Street Bloods or the Murder Angels crew. Those statistics matched. What didn’t match was the rate of dismissals. Three years ago, the department’s ability to make a good case against the Strykers started to drop. Not off a cliff, but over the course of about eighteen months, something very interesting happened. The Strykers were the baddest guys in town, based on his experience on the streets. He’d assumed that the higher-ups were accumulating trends that contradicted his lone perspective.
The number of arrests started to drop just after a specific group of cops moved over to the gang unit. Conn knew these guys. They were the guys he met for a beer a couple of times a month, guys who got him through his rookie probationary period, who’d watched his back ever since.
The official story was that the Strykers were in disarray, weakened, no longer a threat. The Twentieth Street Bloods and the Murder Angels were smaller, more deadly gangs with connections to out-of-state groups that made them a higher priority than the homegrown Strykers. Conn now saw it a different way. The department had missed it, because you couldn’t compile statistics on arrests that never happened. Someone in the gang unit was at the very least taking money not to go after the Strykers. At the very least. Worst-case scenario, they were actively distributing, insinuating themselves into the management structure. No, it wasn’t the kind of racket a big city gang was running, but as he’d just spent the last two weeks telling Cady, people did all kinds of crazy, illegal shit for not very much money at all. They seized the opportunity in front of them. When Lyle Jenkins died, someone smart stepped in.
