Union Jacked

by Diane Vallere

  “Shhhhh,” Nick said.

  “But it could happen,” I said. I pulled away from Nick and studied his face. “Even if I stay out of trouble, it could. That bullet could have hit me instead of Loncar.”

  Nick dropped his arms and led me to the sofa. We both sat. “Did you take a pregnancy test?” he asked softly.

  “I wanted us to take it together.” Considering what was involved in taking the test, that didn’t sound right. “I mean I didn’t want to find out by myself.”

  “I’m here now. And I think you should know—we should know—before either one of us lets any more ‘what ifs’ into the conversation.”

  “What if the stick turns pink and I help Loncar anyway? Are you going to divorce me?” My breathing became erratic, and hiccups kicked in. “Because I don’t think I can”—hic— “but your company—and Tradava”—hic— “and China—and Eddie—and Cat and Madden—” hic.

  “Kidd, hey, shhhhh, hey, come here.” He pulled me close, kissed my forehead, and held me tight. “Whatever we find out, it’s going to be okay. But we need to know.” He loosened his arms. “This is between us. Not Loncar or my company or Tradava or China or Eddie or Cat or Madden.”

  “Cat and Madden,” I corrected.

  Nick leaned closer. His lips brushed against mine, softly, gently. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then his lips pressed into mine—longer this time. My heartbeat raced, and I put my hands on his biceps and kissed back. When we pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine and spoke in a quiet, gravelly voice. “No matter what color that stick turns, it’s you and me.”

  “And Loncar?”

  “I like to think there will be times in our relationship when Loncar won’t be present.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He smiled. “Detective Loncar is my friend too. If he needs help, he’s going to get two for the price of one.”

  I peed on the stick. We waited for the response together. And then, we knew. I wasn’t ready to tell anybody yet, but we knew.

  You’ll find out soon enough.

  21

  A Proper Welcome Home

  Nick deserved a proper welcome home, and to be honest, the more I thought about that time in the garage, the more I wanted a repeat performance. I’d even cleared a spot on the workbench.

  When we were done (that garage was becoming my favorite room in the house), we negotiated dinner (Me: how about fish and chips? I haven’t tried Yelp #9. Nick: this isn’t going to be like the mac and cheese in Vegas, is it? Me: On second thought, maybe we should order cheesesteaks.) I set the table while Nick lugged his suitcases upstairs and took a post-sixteen-hours-on-a-plane shower. The food arrived, and we tabled conversation in favor of eating.

  “I never thought about sneakers before,” he said when we finished. “Sneakers. Leather and rubber. So simple. But they’re a whole different world. Nothing like the designer shoe market. The product coming out of these factories is amazing. Once we worked out the language barrier, there was no stopping us.”

  “Was that a problem?”

  He chuckled. “Things got weird on the third day when they started holding up samples and saying ‘Samantha?’ The translator finally told me they thought it was a new word for something I liked because whenever I said it, I smiled.”

  “You called me Samantha? You usually call me Kidd.”

  “I call you Samantha lots of times. When you’re—and when we’re—” He glanced at the door to the garage.

  I felt myself blush. “But I like when you call me Kidd too.”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “Well, that time in the spare bedroom, you called me Kidd,” I said, “but that time in the laundry room you called me Samantha. And then there was the time you called me Mrs. Taylor . . .”

  “That was the night we got married.”

  “You seemed to like that one.”

  “That’s because Mrs. Taylor has never gotten involved with the criminal element.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Does it bother you that I didn’t change my name? Because I don’t think I can stop being Samantha Kidd.”

  “I came to terms with that before I proposed.” He smiled warmly. “Kidd, face it. I know you better than anybody else. And what I don’t know, I want to know.” He retrieved a shoebox from the carryon suitcase he’d left by the door. He handed the box to me. “Tell me what you think,” he said.

  The sneakers were white leather with Union Jacks stitched onto the side in white glitter tweed. Raw edges to the fabric gave the style an edgy feel. The center of the flag started by the instep and folded over the laces, velcroing into place to complete the flag. They had a hidden wedge, which made them less unisex than if they’d been designed for sports. They were the perfect sneaker for walking from the car to the pizza store for takeout.

  There was totally a market for that.

  “I love them,” I said. I pulled my black moto boot off and wiggled my toes. Nick propped my foot on his knee. He removed the stuffing from the sample and eased it onto my foot like Prince Charming.

  “How does it fit?”

  “Like a glass slipper.”

  The laces were white, and by the toe two small metal charms dangled: “Nick’s” and “Kicks.”

  “You seem happy about this,” I said. “Excited.”

  “I am. I’m ready for something new. I’m not walking away from designer shoes forever, just for now. Is that okay with you?”

  I reached for his hand and squeezed. “You and me,” I said.

  I spent the rest of the night filling Nick in on the situation with Loncar. Aside from a couple of quick drive-by conversations with Eddie, I hadn’t realized just how much I’d been holding in myself. It felt good to talk about everything, and it felt even better not to be judged.

  “Let’s see if I have this straight,” Nick said. “Harvey Monahan was the union leader. He showed up at Tradava and organized a strike. Did he work for Tradava? Do I know him?”

  “Harvey showed up after Piccadilly put in the bid on Tradava. He’s led strikes in the last four stores that Piccadilly acquired. He used to work for them, but after Piccadilly instituted standardized testing, he was fired.”

  “Piccadilly Group. You said they backed out of the deal to buy Tradava after the shooting.”

  “Right. Does that mean something? They made an offer to buy the chain of stores. It was a good faith offer, and to the rest of the world, it was a done deal. And then there was a shooting at Tradava, which got them off the hook for their investment.” I wrote Piccadilly Group on one of the whiteboards and underneath wrote: motive—act of god clause

  “Kidd, it’s a stretch to think a company like Piccadilly Group, who has a history of buying struggling retail chains, would orchestrate a public shooting to get out of a business deal.”

  I capped my marker and leaned against the dining room table. “I know. But Piccadilly has millions of dollars at stake. I don’t want to ignore the possibility that money was a motive.”

  Equally unlikely possibilities filled the other boards: Harvey Monahan: attention for union gone wrong, Victoria Pratt: HM blackmail and Cop hater: random target. (That was my least favorite theory. I wasn’t willing to accept the pointlessness of our task if the shooting were random.)

  “What are you thinking?” Nick asked.

  “The day of the shooting, Loncar told me this was about him.”

  “I think it’s normal, if you’re shot, to think someone was shooting at you.”

  “No, I mean he got hit and went down in the parking lot at Tradava. I ran over to him. He told me to stay out of the investigation.”

  “No surprise there. When it comes to your involvement in police matters, Loncar plays like a broken record.”

  “He said it wasn’t random. It was about him. And when I was at the hospital earlier today, Loncar told me to use the party as an excuse to get into his house and find out where his wife was the morning of the shooting.�
��

  I uncapped the marker and wrote Peggy Loncar on the whiteboard.

  The request bothered me more than I cared to admit. In the years that I’d known Detective Loncar, I’d learned bits and pieces about his life. I’d also developed an appreciation for his dedication to the job. But this request of his felt less about police work and more personal.

  He couldn’t honestly believe his ex-wife had anything to do with the shooting. He was using me to spy on her.

  There are few things you are less predisposed to do in your first year of marriage than help a divorced husband dig up dirt on his ex-wife.

  “Peggy Loncar has nothing to do with the shooting at Tradava. It’s a bogus job. Just like Tradava gave me. It’s to keep me from doing more damage. Get me out of the way,” I said.

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “I’ll go to his house and snoop like he wants, but that can wait until tomorrow.” I stood up. “Are you jet-lagged?”

  “I slept on the plane. My sleep’s going to be wonky for the foreseeable future.”

  “Then grab your keys. We’re going to Whiskey Mick’s.”

  “Why?”

  I waved my hands by the whiteboards. “This has to do with the cops, and if Loncar won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll find out myself.”

  22

  Badge Bunny

  Whiskey Mick’s was less crowded than it had been last night. The noise level was low. The Ex-Pistols tuned their instruments by the stage, and tonight there were more couples than cops. Having Nick by my side kept me from feeling self-conscious, but I already knew this wasn’t destined to become my regular hangout. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim amber lighting, but when I did, I saw the person I wanted to see.

  Detective Madden nursed a glass of apple juice at the end of the bar.

  “Follow my lead,” I said to Nick.

  I strode toward Madden and took the stool next to him. “Two of what he’s having,” I said to the bartender.

  “Samantha—” Nick said.

  I held up my hand. “Trust me.”

  The bartender turned his back and filled two glasses. He set one in front of Nick and one in front of me. I lifted the glass and took a sip.

  This was not apple juice!

  I set the glass down, coughed, and then glared at Madden. “You’re not supposed to drink on duty,” I said.

  “I’m off duty. You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Why? Because this is a cop bar and I don’t belong? You’re sitting alone which suggests you aren’t here for the company.”

  “And you brought a date which suggests you’re not here for the company either.” Madden lifted his glass and drank, seeming to savor the taste. Could it be he liked whiskey?

  I swiveled toward Nick and took his hand, then rotated back toward Madden. “Detective, this is my husband, Nick Taylor. I don’t know if you had a chance to meet him last December when you worked that case involving my friend.”

  Madden looked from me to Nick and back to me. They shook hands. I slid my glass of whiskey toward Madden and shrugged, and then signaled to the bartender. “Can I get a water back?”

  “Back of what? You don’t have a drink.”

  Nick stifled a laugh. I elbowed him. “A glass of water, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I waited until the bartender went to get a clean glass, and I turned to Madden. “Detective Loncar was on a task force to investigate drug trafficking in Ribbon.”

  “Ms. Kidd—or is it Mrs. Taylor?”

  I glanced at Nick, and his eyes darkened. “Call me Samantha.”

  “Samantha, you already know I can’t tell you about Loncar’s investigation.”

  “But you know about it, right? Because he told me you’re a good cop. And you’re here, every night, and nobody on the force talks to you. Which tells me you’re not here for the camaraderie. You’re watching someone.”

  Madden lifted his glass and downed it. He pushed the empty glass toward the bartender but made no move to position my drink in front of him.

  If he thought the silent treatment would make me go away, then he was a fool. “What’s a badge bunny?”

  The question caught him off guard. “A woman who likes cops. Gets turned on by the uniform. Hangs around where cops hang around.”

  “Like here,” I said.

  “You could say that.”

  “The last time we were here, there was a woman named Bridget. She wears a leather jacket with big shoulder pads and black fringe down the sleeves. A couple of cops told me she was a badge bunny.”

  Madden set his glass down and pulled his glasses off. He used the tail of his green necktie to buff the lenses and then put the frames back on. “I’m not one to engage in gossip about my coworkers, Ms. Kidd. What Bridget does with her personal time is up to her.”

  I leaned forward. “Bridget was at the hospital the day Loncar was admitted. She’s been openly hostile toward me, along with a room full of police.”

  “She was hostile to a room of police officers?”

  “No, they were hostile too. Two days later, Bridget tried to pass herself off as Loncar’s daughter to get into his room—a room that was supposed to be guarded by a member of the force who coincidentally was on a break.” I searched Madden’s face for signs that something I said meant something to him in the grand scheme of the investigation and not just in the Samantha-doesn’t-play-well-with-others category. Nothing. “Loncar told me you’re a good cop. He told me you did me a favor by meeting me here the other night.”

  I thought my speech would have some sort of impact on Madden, but it didn’t. I slowly climbed off my stool and made eye contact with Nick. He came with me tonight because I said it was important, and after spending almost twenty-four hours on a plane, I was pretty sure sitting on an uncomfortable barstool in a cop bar wasn’t on the shortlist of places he wanted to be. But he was. Because I asked.

  I put my hands on either side of Nick’s face, leaned in, and kissed him. Everybody deserved a chance to be this happy.

  I opened my wallet, pulled out a soon-to-be-collector’s-item business card from Tradava, and wrote a phone number on the back. I gave it to Madden. “That’s Cat’s cell number. She hasn’t decided if she’s leaving Ribbon for good, so if you plan to live here, you should call her sooner rather than later.”

  He took the card and tucked it in his wallet. “Last night you said you didn’t want me calling your friend. What changed?”

  I turned to Nick. “Can you give me a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  I waited until Nick was a few feet away before answering. “Everything changed. I used to be afraid of Loncar, and now I’m afraid he’s going to die. I had a good job and the company filed bankruptcy.” I paused, knowing there was one more change I had to say out loud. “I thought I was pregnant, but I’m not.”

  I said it. I said it out loud to someone who didn’t know me well enough to know if the fact was significant.

  “Does that make you sad?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t stop to think about what I wanted, and now I can’t stop thinking about what I don’t have. But I lost my job and Nick’s starting a new company, and that’s more change. Do you want me to continue?”

  “There’s more?”

  “This whole city has changed. I moved here to live where I grew up, but it’s barely the town I remember. Fegley’s, Arners, Seafood Shanty, Bowl-O-Rama, they’re all gone.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means things change, but we don’t have to be sad about it. I don’t know if you and Cat will get along, but I have no right to stand in your way. You were nice to her. Even if you did treat her like a murder suspect, you weren’t mean about it. Call her. I think she’d like that.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I glanced around for Nick. “I’m going to use the ladies’ room. Will you tell Nick I’ll be right back?”


  “Sure.”

  I felt like a weight had lifted, the same way I felt when I confessed bad behavior to my parents in my teen years. I’d verbalized thoughts that had been swirling around inside me. I still didn’t know want I wanted, but that didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world anymore.

  I made my way past the stage. Izzy Smalls was in the middle of a rough cover of “Love Hurts.” I entered a small bathroom with two stalls, both in use. I stood by the sinks and waited until one of the doors swung open. Bridget glared at me.

  Tonight, she wore a tight black shirt with a cut-out that displayed a Y of cleavage caused, most likely, by an unnecessary push-up bra. Her fringed black leather jacket hung open, framing her chest. It looked like the slot of a coin machine, and I had a hard time looking away.

  “I thought I told you to stay away from me,” she said.

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Duh, you’re in the bathroom.” She pushed up the sleeves of her jacket and elbowed me out of the way. She turned the spigot on high. Water spit out. I stepped back and bumped into the door of the second stall.

  “What is your problem with me?” I asked Bridget.

  “You know what my problem is. Don’t act like such a goody two-shoes. I don’t like you hanging around my scene. I don’t like you hanging around my cop. You’re not good for him, and I am, and it’s just a matter of time until you’re out of the picture. Got it?”

  Was Bridget interested in Detective Madden?

  The toilet flushed, and the stall opened. It was the drummer for The Ex-Pistols. Bridget stepped back so the woman could wash her hands. The drummer left, and it was down to Bridget and me, and I realized why women go to the bathroom in groups.

  Bridget stuck her hands under the stream of water and flung her wet hands in my face. Droplets clung to my eyelashes. “Go. Away.” She grabbed the door handle and stormed out.

  “Hey,” I called to her back. She ignored me. The door started to close on me, and I used my foot as a doorstop. “Hey!” The crowd quieted. I felt the stare of more than one of the patrons, but instead of giving them my attention, I focused it all on Bridget. She turned back around. “He can do whatever he wants,” I said. “And trust me, he can do better than you.” Someone whistled low. A ripple of response fluttered through the bar. I returned to the bathroom and into the stall. There was no toilet paper.