Union Jacked

by Diane Vallere

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  She moved her handbag from the desk to the counter. She held it open so I could peer inside. Nestled on top of a sparkly sweater and folded jeans was a pair of shoes from one of Nick’s previous collections. “I bought them on eBay. It’s my first pair of designer shoes.”

  Okay. Okay! We were finally speaking the same language!

  “Riley, I was here, and I did talk to a woman who told me her name was Emma. The furniture was draped in plastic, and she was trying to decide what color to paint the walls. You don’t know who I’m talking about?”

  Riley’s face lit up like a spelling bee contestant who remembers where to put the Y in “rhythm.” “The life coach!” she said.

  “Life coach?”

  “Yes. I get it now. Emma made arrangements to use our lobby to see patients until the renovations are finished on her office. It was all very hush-hush, and Doctor Oplinger told us we wouldn’t see or hear from her. I forgot all about that.” She tipped her head and gave me a knowing smile. “I knew you were faking being pregnant.”

  “But I’m not faking,” I said. “I threw up and cleaned my house and haven’t had pizza for a week.”

  “Have you taken a pregnancy test?” she asked. I shook my head. “You’re already here. Let me prep the test, and you can be sure before you drive home.”

  I froze. Riley was right. I didn’t know anything. I thought I knew, but was this like the rest of my life? When I thought I knew something and charged ahead before I was sure?

  Arguably the easiest thing on my to-do list should have been peeing on a stick. But I’d been carting those pregnancy tests around with me everywhere I went, and they were still in the bag.

  Because I didn’t want to be alone when I found out.

  Either way.

  “Nick’s on his way home from China, and I’d rather do this with him. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I understand completely, and if you are pregnant, call me. I’ll get you the next available appointment.” She squeezed my hand. “And tomorrow, when I get in to work, I’ll find out how you can reach Emma to set up a proper appointment. Although if you’re married to Nick Taylor, your life must be perfect. Why you need a life coach is beyond me.”

  Bolstered by Riley’s boost of confidence, I went back to Loncar’s floor. The door to his room was open. The bed was empty. My stomach lurched, and my positive thinking went AWOL. The toilet flushed, the bathroom opened, and I was face-to-face with Loncar in a hospital gown.

  I covered my eyes with my hands. “I’ll leave. I’ll leave and come back and pretend this never happened.”

  “Turn around while I get into bed and then sit,” he commanded.

  I did a one-eighty and waited.

  “Okay.”

  I turned back. Loncar was in the hospital bed. The sheets and blanket were pulled up to his waist, and even though I knew his non-athletic build usually strained the buttons on his dress shirts, I couldn’t help noticing he looked smaller and more fragile than usual.

  “You didn’t listen to me,” he said.

  I looked down at my hands. Did I ever listen? I felt like I’d let Loncar down, and I couldn’t find the nerve to tell him. The machines beeped in the background. I waited for him to say something. He didn’t. I’m an impatient sort who doesn’t do well with prolonged silences. (Loncar knows this.) I cracked.

  “I didn’t stay out of it. I tried,” I said. Loncar remained silent. I looked away and then, realizing how guilty that made me appear, looked back. “I didn’t try hard. But I work at Tradava, so I had to return to the scene of the crime to go to my job. And I’m one of three people on your hospital visitor list, so somebody knew I’d try to come here to visit you, and they made sure I could. But ask Detective Madden. I did what you always want me to do. I cooperated with the police. I can’t help it if he isn’t doing his job.”

  “Madden’s a good cop.”

  “He wants to date my friend.”

  Loncar raised his eyebrows. “Which friend?”

  “Cat Lestes. He investigated the murder of her husband while you were in Tahiti.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Whiskey Mick’s.”

  “Madden asked you to meet him at a cop bar?”

  “No, Whiskey Mick’s was my idea. I was scoping out a band for—” An image of The Ex-Pistols flashed into my head, and I bit my lip. “The why doesn’t matter.”

  Loncar scowled. He picked up his cup and handed it to me. “Get me fresh water.”

  “I don’t think they want you drinking water. I think they want you sucking on ice.”

  “Get me fresh water.”

  “Fine. I’ll get you fresh water.” I filled Loncar’s cup and handed it to him. “Why do you care who suggested the bar?”

  Loncar finished the water and set the cup down. “Madden must be thinking the same thing I am. If somebody on the force leaked information that led the shooter to Tradava, then that person might be on the inside. You’re no stranger to the police force, Ms. Kidd. You have a reputation. Some cops think you’re a nuisance.”

  I would have argued the point on principle, but I’d recently experienced overwhelming evidence to the contrary. “Is that why Madden ordered me an apple juice?”

  Loncar smiled. “The next time you see Madden, give him a break. He did you a favor. Besides, what if Madden makes your friend happy and you’re standing in their way? Madden had to start over when he relocated here. Ms. Lestes is working on her own chapter two. It’s not like you to interfere with people looking to move on.”

  Loncar wasn’t talking about Cat and Madden. He was talking about himself. There’d been a time when he wanted to reconcile with his wife, but maybe that time had passed, and didn’t he deserve a second chance too?

  Peggy Loncar hadn’t returned any of my calls about the party. As far as I knew, she hadn’t used her visitor privileges to check on her ex-husband either. She’d moved on. Loncar could spend his spare time miserable if he wanted. He could throw in the towel on love, or he could question every decision he’d made that had led him to that moment when his life changed unexpectedly and the rug was pulled out from under his orthopedic shoes. And he’d never get answers. He’d never know if there was one thing that soured his wife on their marriage because there wasn’t. There was never one thing.

  Couples didn’t break up because one person left the dishes in the sink on a random Tuesday in May. They broke up because at least one of them had a clear view of the day-in/day-out monotony of their joint life and reached a point where they couldn’t take it anymore. The catalyst could be anything: an unexpected email from a forgotten high school relationship, a sudden inheritance that makes a different life possible, or a life-threating wake-up call in the form of a scary health diagnosis. The result was one person verbalizing their unhappiness and saying they wanted out. And in most cases, when one person was unhappy, so was the other, whether they admitted it or not.

  Peggy Loncar hadn’t done anything to the detective when she asked for a divorce. She’d done something for him. She’d given him a chance to find his own brand of happiness with his future. Maybe she didn’t see it that way, and maybe he didn’t either, but I did. And if I could see that, then I could see his point about Madden.

  “I hate it when you’re right,” I said.

  “Now you know how I feel when you solve my cases.”

  I smiled. “About that. You told me not to get involved in this, and I tried not to, but I can’t help it. I was there. I saw things you didn’t and I know things you don’t.”

  “Like what?”

  “When you were shot, you said it was about you. I don’t know if anybody told you, but Harvey Monahan, the union captain, died from internal injuries.”

  “He was shot in the shoulder.”

  “The bullet passed through his shoulder and lodged in his torso and never came out. Madden said when a bullet is left in the body it can do a lot of damage. You think y
ou were the target, but that would mean Harvey was an innocent victim.”

  “What’s your take?” Loncar asked.

  I leaned back and considered the question, barely registering how out of character it was for him to ask. “I don’t think this was about you. It doesn’t fit. You think someone had it out for the cops, but nobody else acts like that’s the case. Harvey was at Tradava every day since the strike started. If someone were out to get him, they’d know where to find him.”

  “Why do you think someone was out to get Harvey?” Loncar asked.

  “Well, there’s Tradava and Piccadilly Group. The financiers pulled out of the deal to buy Tradava because of Harvey’s death, and we’re talking about hundreds of millions of dollars that Piccadilly should have had zero chance to get back after their offer was accepted.”

  “Business.”

  I nodded. “I’m not saying that’s what happened, but I’m going through the possibilities.”

  “Any other theories?”

  I took a breath to answer and then stopped myself. This had to be a trap. Contrary to the white lie I’d told the Pokémon doctor, Loncar and I didn’t sit around discussing cases.

  I narrowed my eyes. “What’s happening here? Why are you talking about this with me?”

  Loncar turned and looked out the window. “My daughter put three people on the visitor list, and not one of them is a cop. The message is clear. Get better so I can retire. I don’t want to retire. I’ve got nothing to look forward to except for a party I don’t want. If this is my last case, I’m going to solve it.”

  “And me?”

  “I need access. My daughter won’t do it, and my ex-wife hasn’t been here once.”

  “How do you know? You’ve been in a coma.”

  “Ms. Kidd.”

  “Oh, right, you’re a cop. You have informants.” I looked away. Real ones, apparently.

  I sat up a little straighter. “Do you want me to go through the suspects? I have whiteboards at home. I could bring them here. We could set up a war room while you recover, except no, somebody might see. How about I give you the rundown?”

  “Ms. Kidd,” Loncar said. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What?” I felt a seismic shift between us. Loncar was giving me a job!

  “That party you’re planning—I need you to use that.”

  My hopes deflated. “You just said you didn’t want a party.”

  “I don’t, but nobody has to know that. I need you to use the party as an excuse to get into my house.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need you to find out where my wife was the morning of the shooting.”

  20

  Drugs Are Whack

  “You suspect your wife?” I asked.

  “Right now, I suspect everybody.”

  “That’s the way I work. You’re usually more discerning with your suspects.”

  “Maybe it’s the drugs.”

  “Yeah, drugs are whack.”

  The lines and planes of Loncar’s weathered face were more pronounced than usual, and I wondered about the toll of lying in a hospital bed recovering. He had lived his life in search of something. Whatever the caseload, whatever the crime, he was driven to detect what happened and who did it. And here he was, the center of a crime he couldn’t solve. It had to be making him crazy.

  “Captain Valderama told me about the task force. He said the department has been keeping an eye on various ports of entry, and the union strike fit the profile. What does any of that have to do with your ex-wife?”

  Loncar didn’t respond. I sat there, silent, waiting for him to crack like I did when the tables were turned. The vital signs monitor beeped in the background, and the longer we sat in silence, the harder staying quiet became. He was very good at this.

  I finally broke the silence. “Harvey left a folder of information on the table where I was working. Remember when you tried to look in the folder, and I stopped you? I found out later that folder wasn’t mine. It was Harvey’s plans. One of the items was to wait for the police.”

  “He knew we were coming?” It was a question asked in a manner that didn’t require an answer. Whatever he knew, he hadn’t known that. “He knew we were coming,” he said again, though this time it was a statement. He’d worked through what that meant. Unfortunately, I was still in the dark.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means it was a trap.”

  “A trap implies that someone or something is being caught. There were too many uncontrollable variables that morning to successfully set a trap.”

  I paused and remembered my conversation with Izzy Smalls. She’d admitted to being there, and she’d implicated Bob Pennino too. Who else had been there?

  Loncar adjusted his position and then spun his hand in a circle toward him. “Give me the players.”

  “Aside from the strikers, there were a lot of people at Tradava the morning of the shooting. Harvey’s sister, Taryn, was part of the strike.”

  “Who else?”

  “Izzy Smalls. She’s in a band that I—um, yes, she was there to meet up with her ex, a cop named Bob? Do you know him?”

  Loncar nodded. “Keep going.”

  “It was a parking lot outside of a major retailer. There were customers and employees, and without pulling the parking lot surveillance footage, there’s no way to know how many people were there.” I paused. “Do you want me to pull the parking lot surveillance footage?” I asked, half hoping he’d say yes and tell me how to do it.

  “Is that it?”

  I guessed that was a no. I turned away and thought back to what had happened. “Victoria and I were sampling tea until she went inside with Harvey—”

  “Who’s Victoria?”

  “Victoria Pratt. Sales executive from Piccadilly Group. She and Harvey were negotiating the strike settlement.”

  “She wasn’t with you when the shooting took place?”

  “No. Victoria and Harvey left me in the parking lot. Harvey came out and said they reached an agreement, and seconds later, the shooting happened.”

  “Have you talked to Ms. Pratt since then?”

  “Yes. She and Harvey have a history, and it isn’t particularly nice. He’s been blackmailing her to get results for the union.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  “She told me,” I said.

  “She told you.” He didn’t say it as a question, but I sensed his hint of disbelief.

  “We bonded over tea.”

  “I thought you drank coffee.”

  “People change.”

  Loncar sat up. “Here’s what I need you to do.” He put his hands over his face and rubbed at his forehead as if he were trying to smooth out decades of wrinkles. When he dropped his hands, he looked more miserable than I’d ever seen him before (and now his forehead was red).

  “Can I count on you?” he asked.

  “I’m not going to break into your house unless you give me more intel.”

  “Ms. Kidd,” Loncar said. “There is nothing illegal about what I’m asking you to do. I will give you my keys. Tell Peggy you want some personal items from my office. She won’t give you a hard time. She’s been on me to clear out that room for months. Once you’re in, get to the kitchen and check the planner on the table under the phone. Can you do that?”

  Maybe. “Absolutely.”

  “Contact every person who knows me and tell them the party is on.”

  “But I just told you there is no party.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Worry about getting the word out. Whoever’s behind this used you. They used me. I’m going out on a limb here, but I don’t think that’s going to sit well with either one of us.”

  He had a point.

  I drove home. Logan stood inside the front door, meowing a welcome home/pay me attention wail. I scooped him up against my Keep Calm and Carry On sweater. He angled his head to rub against my chin. I scratched his ears and stood still, appr
eciating the complete peace of mind that is tangible when I’m holding my cat. Outside, a car screeched to a stop in front of the driveway. I turned my head and saw Nick get out of a black sedan and wrangle two suitcases from the trunk. Moments later, he burst through the door.

  “Kidd,” he said. He dropped the suitcases and pulled me into a hug. Logan, who didn’t know the details of Nick’s sudden return, let out a fresh wail at being squished. Nick loosened his arms, and the now-angry ball of black fur jumped down, onto the chair then the floor and ran into the kitchen. Nick pulled me close again, and I turned my head and laid it across his chest. The emotions I’d tried to keep at bay returned, and there was no stopping them. Nick’s heart thumped, either from the short jog from the car service to the front door or the possibility that I might become responsible for raising his unborn child.

  Gently, I pushed Nick away. “There’s another reason I’ve been visiting the hospital,” I said. “Detective Loncar was shot. In the parking lot outside Tradava. He’s been in a coma for two days, but he woke up,” I said.

  Nick didn’t say anything. He kept his arms around me, loosely, and studied my tear-streaked face. I searched his eyes for signs that hinted toward his reaction.

  He put his finger under my chin and raised my face to look at his. “He’s going to be okay,” he said. “Detective Loncar is a tough cop. He’s resilient. He’ll recover.”

  “He looked so small,” I said. “Loncar has always been this big guy with a gruff exterior. Even after I got to know him a little, I thought he was invincible. Like old shoe leather.”

  “He’s a person. Just like you and me.”

  “He could have died,” I said. A fresh wave of tears filled my eyes.

  “But he didn’t,” Nick countered. I pressed my cheek into his suit jacket, and he rested his chin on my head. We stood like that for a long, intimate moment. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to eat. I just wanted to be.

  “What if I’m pregnant?” I finally asked. “What if we have a baby and it doesn’t change anything and I put myself in danger? What if bad guys get me and you have to be a single dad?”