Under the Surface

by Anne Calhoun

  She’d seen a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to take apart a prominent pipeline of cocaine and heroin into Lancaster, and gone to the police with the information. They’d asked her if she’d help them get the evidence they’d need to take out the biggest threat to the East Side’s economic and social health.

  She was the lynchpin, and she couldn’t tell anyone. Lieutenant Ian Hawthorn, her contact, made two things abundantly clear: they needed hard-and-fast evidence of Lyle Murphy’s intent to launder drug money through Eye Candy, and she couldn’t tell a soul what she was doing. Not her father, who believed in salvation and second chances. Not her brother, a defense attorney who believed all cops were lying bullies with badges. Not her best friend and manager. No one. Which meant she couldn’t say anything to her father about staying away from Victor, his best friend from childhood, because Victor might tip off Lyle.

  “Nothing wrong with dreaming, Dad,” she said finally.

  “You’ll be at dinner Monday night?”

  Two years ago, before the rift over her job that kept her from the Webber Monday family nights for eighteen months, he wouldn’t have asked. “I will,” she said lightly. “Love to Mom.”

  The door closed behind him, and Eve went back to the cartons of fruit waiting for her, wielding the knife precisely, as if lemons sliced in quarter-inch increments would settle her nerves. But as she worked, the memory of the shuttered look in Chad’s dark hazel eyes skittered across her skin to settle deep in her belly. While every owner and manager paid lip service to “appropriate relationships” and “professional work environments,” the sexually charged atmosphere of bars and nightclubs was a breeding ground for quick, explosive, short-lived relationships based on chemistry—the kind of chemistry she’d felt in one ten-minute interview. With the bar finally launched to a promising whirlwind of buzz and a whole lot of chemistry with her newest bartender candidate, for the first time in a very long time she could look forward to mixing a little pleasure with business.

  What her parents didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Everyone kept secrets, even a pastor’s daughter.

  * * *

  Mistake number one: the “yes, ma’am” that came right after he opened the door and made eye contact with Eve Webber. The connection hit him like a blow to the sternum, dropping him twelve years into the past to boot camp, where ma’am and sir became spinal reflexes. While a bartender in need of a job might use ma’am out of respect, his tone would have been gentler, less authoritative.

  Mistake number two: getting scratch on the way onto the street. Ideal employees didn’t drive like a sixteen-year-old trying to impress a girl in the school parking lot. But the adrenaline contracted the muscles in his calf, and the next thing he knew the rear tires were spinning. Once again, instinct took over and he automatically corrected for the swerve. In an effort to slow his pulse he exhaled slow and deep, relaxed his grip on the wheel, and, most important, lifted the gas pedal from the Jeep’s floor.

  For Detective Matt Dorchester, one of the most treacherous parts of undercover work for the Lancaster Police Department was discovering exactly how deeply military and paramilitary organizations were carved into his bones. Twenty minutes into his newest role and he’d already made two dangerous mistakes, two more than he’d made in either of his previous, months-long undercover assignments.

  Most men know how to steer out of a skid. It’s not a dead giveaway that you’ve spent years behind the wheel of a Crown Vic with the Interceptor package. Most important, you’re not clinging to your honor with your fingertips.

  The sun hung low in the sky, the mid-afternoon heat index just over a hundred degrees. The humidity-saturated air lay thick and damp against his skin as he scrupulously obeyed the speed limit all the way from Eye Candy to the Eastern Precinct. Storefronts and chrome bumpers reflected the sun’s glare as heat and shimmer, much like the thick layers of Eve Webber’s black hair fell in her face as she talked, glinting against her jaw, her cheekbone. Intellectually he knew it would be cool to the touch, but that didn’t stop his hand from tingling with the desire to slide through the strands.

  Get a grip, Dorchester. That wasn’t a job interview, let alone a date. You’re a cop. She’s an informant in danger.

  At the stoplight before the turn into the Eastern Precinct he flexed his hand to short-circuit the sensation in his fingers, felt the scabs covering his knuckles tug at the healing skin. He’d stop tonight, get another bottle of ibuprofen for his brother, and pick up a tube of antibacterial ointment while he was at it. Battered knuckles wouldn’t go over well in a bar like Eye Candy. Once inside the building, he sidestepped Officer Connor McCormick bringing in a handcuffed, viciously swearing man.

  “Busy night?” Matt asked, taking in his arrest’s prison-honed muscles and ink. Conn was a couple of inches taller than Matt and built like a tank. Conn had started working undercover in the last few months, mostly buy-and-busts. Matt knew him as a solid cop, usually first on a scene, and like Matt, he lived and breathed the job.

  “Never a dull moment,” Conn said, grinning.

  “What’d he do?” Matt asked, nodding at Conn’s detainee.

  “Breaking and entering, assault, resisting arrest,” Conn said. “For starters. Pattern matches a string of similar incidents.”

  “You got nothing, motherfucker,” the guy snarled.

  “What I’ve got is DNA from when you spit on me,” Conn said, almost cheerful as the guy tried to wrench free. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re handcuffed and in the middle of the Block,” he asked, using the name on the street for the Eastern. More usefully, he tightened his grip on the pressure point in the guy’s elbow. “This dance is just getting started.”

  The guy snarled out a string of profanities describing his night with Conn’s mother.

  “Sounds about right,” Conn said, but Matt didn’t miss the glint in Conn’s eye. “She’s been dead for twenty years, but dead’s probably the only way you get laid.”

  The guy checked for a second. “Respects, man,” he said, “but you’re still a pig motherfucker. Get your fucking hand off my fucking elbow! I can’t feel my fucking fingers!”

  “Need a hand?” Matt asked.

  “Nah,” Conn said. “He’s a pussy … cat. Besides, Hawthorn’s looking for you.”

  Great. Matt left him to it, and took the stairs two at a time to the undercover unit’s bullpen. His partner, Detective Joanna Sorenson, sat at her desk. Another detective, Andy Carlucci, loomed over her shoulder, a blatant invasion of personal space guaranteed to drive Sorenson nuts.

  “Jesus Christ, Dorchester, you’re going undercover in a strip club? Who’d you piss off?” Carlucci said, mock-astonished. “No neo-Nazis? No domestic terrorists stockpiling explosives?”

  Jealousy rode the edges of the words. Carlucci routinely petitioned Lieutenant Hawthorn for undercover assignments, and was just as routinely turned down. Volatile and far too quick to make assumptions or rush a situation, Carlucci lacked the qualities crucial for successful undercover work: an unflappable demeanor, bone-deep patience, wits, and finely tuned instincts. Matt’s father drilled in unemotional patience. Nineteen months in Iraq and eight years on Lancaster’s streets honed the wits and instincts.

  Matt ignored Carlucci, sat down across from Sorenson, and powered up his laptop. Carlucci lingered at Sorenson’s shoulder for a moment, then straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “Watch your back with the owner,” he said. “A guy hiring all male bartenders…” He let the end of the sentence hang in the air. When he didn’t get the expected protest, or any response at all, he linked his fingers across his belly and spoke to Sorenson. “Your last name’s Sorenson. You’re third generation LPD and your father shit gold bricks so you can write your own ticket with the lieutenant, but you’re working with this stiff. He’s got zero personality.”

  “He gets the job done,” Sorenson said without looking up.

  “Low standards, Sorenson,” Carlucci said.


  At the stress on Sorenson’s last name Matt cut Andy a look, but Andy still focused on Sorenson, who was proofreading an arrest report. “Getting the job done is the only standard that matters, Carlucci,” she replied with a lack of interest that would successfully drive Carlucci nuts. “How’s your clearance rate?”

  Carlucci turned back to his own desk. “Fuck you both.”

  “Black, two sugars, thanks,” Sorenson said absently.

  Same shit, different day. Matt dropped Carlucci from his awareness, started a new case file, and began composing the report describing his interview with Eve Webber.

  At fifteen thirty hours I approached Ms. Webber in her place of business. Subject is female, Caucasian, approximately five feet six inches—

  … mostly slim, toned legs.…

  … green eyes, black hair …

  … that kept falling in her eyes …

  That memory halted his fingers on the keyboard. Touching hair was often a subconscious gesture expressing interest in a man. Eve Webber’s just wouldn’t stay out of her face, sliding free from its mooring behind her ear, shadowing an eye, but he didn’t think she was coming on to him. A woman prepared to tell a potential bartender to keep his hands off the customers or face retribution akin to the wrath of God wouldn’t bother to flirt. She’d name a time and place, and bring her best game.

  And flirting didn’t explain that strange humming connection that revved into the red zone when their fingers met.

  “What’s this all about anyway?” Carlucci asked.

  The informant offered the job contingent on satisfactory performance tonight.

  Delete.

  Matt reached for the distancing language of a police report to describe the bar’s interior, the possibility of alternate exits upstairs or in the back.

  “The operation with the FBI and the DEA to get Lyle Murphy. He’s moving home and bringing bad news with him,” Sorenson said when it became apparent Matt wasn’t going to bother answering Carlucci.

  “What kind of bad news?”

  “The Strykers.”

  As he reread the report, Matt heard Carlucci’s faint whistle. Much better. Calm, logical, focused on the case at hand. No mention of hair or legs or eyes, as if describing features could sum up the sheer femininity radiating from Eve Webber during a simple job interview. Ten minutes with her and he’d felt something. Still felt it thirty minutes later. Not desire. He understood desire, dealt with it. This was different, more visceral, deeply buried, long forgotten, and leading him to make two mistakes when the acceptable error rate was zero point zero.

  Lieutenant Ian Hawthorn walked down the aisle between the detectives’ desks. “Well?” he said to Matt.

  “I’ve got a trial shift tonight,” Matt said. “If she’s happy at the end of it, I’ve got the job.”

  Hawthorn folded his arms. “The FBI’s been running this operation for over a year, and getting nowhere until a couple of weeks ago, when Ms. Webber walked in off the street and said Murphy approached her about using her bar to launder the money they’re making in the region. She agreed to be an informant and help us get him. She’s the connection the Feds needed to get the whole chain, from the buy-and-busts on street corners right up to the top guys.”

  Carlucci whistled again.

  “That’s the good news. The bad news is that somehow word got back to Murphy. McCormick was booking a Stryker when she walked in. Maybe he saw her, and reported back to Lyle Murphy. It doesn’t matter,” Hawthorn said. “She managed to talk her way out of the situation with Lyle but people who inform on the Strykers have a nasty habit of dying in a drive-by, or worse, disappearing off the face of the earth. So Detective Dorchester just got himself a job as Eye Candy’s newest bartender.”

  “This is a big fucking deal. Shouldn’t we put in plainclothes officers?” Carlucci asked. “Hang out in the bar, keep an eye on the situation?”

  Sorenson shoved her keyboard tray under her desk and looked at Carlucci, her gaze flicking over the buzz cut, slacks, and suit jacket. “Even plainclothes cops look like cops. They walk and talk and think like cops, and a ten-year-old in that neighborhood can pick us out of a crowd. Matt, on the other hand, looks like the kind of guy who’d bounce from job to job, city to city. Just the right amount of bad boy,” she said consideringly. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Matt said. He knew exactly how he looked, how to make it work for him, how to switch things up when it wasn’t working. It worked for Eve Webber. Anyone with eyes could see that.

  “She refused a police presence in her place of business,” Hawthorn said. “Which works in our favor. If she knows Matt’s a cop, she might make a mistake, tell someone, give the whole thing away before we even get started. Murphy would kill her without thinking twice about it. She doesn’t know exactly how high we’re aiming either. All she’s thinking about is the East Side, not bringing down the whole Strykers’ pipeline. If she makes a mistake, we lose the whole case and look like boneheads in front of the Feds.”

  Hawthorn wasn’t telling them everything, which didn’t surprise Matt. Hawthorn was the youngest member of the only LPD family with a longer history than Sorenson’s. He’d learned discretion at his father’s knee, grew up watching press conferences when his dad was the chief of police, and worked on his subsequent campaign for mayor. Hawthorn’s detractors branded him a political animal, not human. Normally Matt didn’t ask questions, but it was his ass on the line with Eve Webber.

  “You don’t trust her,” Matt said. That’s emotion talking. Besides, you can’t go back now and tell her who you really are, then ask her out.

  “I don’t trust anyone,” Hawthorn responded. “One, we offered her a police presence. She refused. Two, I know Eve from high school. She’s impulsive, tends to act before she thinks.”

  “Great,” Sorenson said.

  “Three, she needs money. We ran her financials. Opening the bar has her in debt up to her eyeballs. People have been tempted for far less than what Murphy offered her. I’m not looking to get double-crossed. This way we keep our cards close to our chest, provide protection, and keep her on our side. Best-case scenario, nothing interesting happens and she never finds out. We get the evidence we need, Matt quits when this is over, and everyone goes away happy.”

  That was classic Hawthorn: get intel and trust no one, not even a high school friend. And the only thing Matt had to sacrifice was his honor. He was the expendable point man out in front, getting the most up-to-date, accurate information about a situation. Like walking point, undercover work was the department’s riskiest assignment, requiring ice water for blood and an ability to juggle identities over long periods of time. But they were dead wrong about her. No way would she take money from a guy like Murphy. He knew an honorable person when he saw one. He just didn’t see one in the mirror much anymore.

  “Matt, what’s your read?”

  “The bar’s right in that borderline neighborhood between the river and civilization. Two blocks north and you’re shopping for high-end goods in SoMa. A block south and you’re in those abandoned warehouses the city wants to knock down for the new business park. The building’s a basic cinderblock exterior with a very expensive, upscale interior and about as girl-oriented as you can get. Murphy’s smart. We’d never look twice at this place.”

  “Did she ask for references?”

  “I used Gino as my current employer. She knew the bar, so she might call him.”

  Gino was a retired cop now managing his family’s bar. “I called him just after you left and explained the situation. He’ll verify your cover.”

  “We’re taking a risk with my undercover identity,” Matt said. “She was carrying an iPhone like we’d have to pry it out of her cold, dead hands. I guarantee pictures from inside Eye Candy are all over the internet.”

  “Everyone has a cell phone with a camera these days. It’s never bothered you before,” Hawthorn said. “She doesn’t hire women—”

  “Thank God,” Sore
nson said under her breath. Matt huffed. He’d spent plenty of time on the other end of a mike feed listening to Sorenson banter with johns.

  “—and you’re our best.”

  Hawthorn’s phone rang. Carlucci wandered off. Matt slumped in his chair and opened the top drawer of his desk, rummaging through the assortment of paper clips and pens in the pencil tray.

  Across the desk, Sorenson was working her way through an arrest report. “What did you do to your knuckles?” she asked without looking up.

  “Went at the speed bag a little too long last night.”

  That got him raised eyebrows, Sorenson’s version of mother hen clucking and fussing.

  “Luke didn’t get the job. He’s pretty frustrated.”

  His brother graduated from college in May and still hadn’t found a full-time job in his field of biology. Matt told him not to worry about it, but with each near miss Luke’s temper frayed a little more. Tensions were high in the small house.

  “And that sent you to the speed bag because…?”

  “Needed a workout,” he said evenly.

  Sorenson went back to the report. Matt returned his attention to his open desk drawer, pushed aside a jumble of small binder clips and rubber bands, and found a thin gold wedding ring He hooked it with his index finger, then used his opposing thumb and forefinger to set it spinning in a hypnotic, gleaming whirl on the surface of his desk.

  Married? Not married? What’s my angle here?

  When the gold circle spun down and clattered to a stop, Sorenson asked, “You think this’ll go down better if there’s a Mrs. Chad Henderson?”

  Sometimes a ring helped. He wore it when working prostitution busts because hookers were less wary of a “married man,” as if wedding vows somehow explained trolling Craigslist for sex. The smart ones still made him strip to his skin before talking money because most cops wouldn’t go that far to throw off suspicion.

  He would.

  “I wasn’t wearing it for the interview,” he said as he flicked the ring into a second spin.

  “Left it at home?” Sorenson offered.