All Kinds of Tied Down

by Mary Calmes

  He studied me a moment. “I would very much like to see you more than only when you need an answer about something.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Are we negotiating?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly.

  “Marshal,” Rohl warned from behind me.

  “He’s talking to me right now,” Hartley reminded her icily before his gaze returned to mine. “So?”

  “What do you want?”

  “What are you offering?” he asked softly, seductively.

  I thought of what I could actually do and not need to give myself the Silkwood shower when I got home and added to that. “Once a year.”

  “Every six months,” he countered.

  “Done,” I said, because that was, in fact, my limit. The most time the prison allowed was thirty minutes in maximum security. I could go there twice a year, for a total of an hour. I could. “Now tell me about your admirer.”

  “I’ll say who, but not how.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you should relocate my sister and her family, Miro.”

  I met his stare. “Why’s that?”

  He shrugged. “I have more than one follower, and many of them blame her for my arrest.”

  “She’s your sister,” I reminded him.

  “She left the ring for you to find, Miro.”

  “It was an accident; we both know it was.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he sighed, mapping my face, the study almost unnerving.

  I turned in my seat, but Thompson was already on his phone.

  “We’re on it,” he snapped.

  I pivoted back to Hartley. “The name?”

  “What will people think?”

  “That I came here with these people and saw you and then we found this guy.”

  “And I’ll be a snitch?”

  “I caught you; it follows that I would catch him. Don’t you think?”

  “But then you’ll have a bull’s-eye on your back,” he said sharply. “I can’t have that.”

  “Well, however you talk to them all—make sure I’m okay.”

  “As long as you keep your word.”

  “I thought you were in my debt.”

  He looked like I’d hit him.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Quick nod.

  I inhaled quickly. “I’ll show. I promise.” He was a serial killer, and normally they didn’t do well in captivity. Someone always had a question for him—they needed insight, answers—and I was the carrot they dangled to get him to play ball. Someone would always be there to remind me of my commitment to the law, and therefore, to seeing Hartley.

  He swallowed hard. “Clark Viana has a home in Highland Park.”

  “What does he do?” Rohl asked.

  “He’s a stockbroker.”

  “And how will we know he’s our man, Doctor?”

  “He keeps trophies in his wine cellar.”

  “Okay,” Rohl huffed, and suddenly the whole room was on a phone, no longer caring about me or the good doctor.

  Since they were all busy talking, no one noticed when Hartley reached out and took hold of my tie. The guard, from where he was standing behind Hartley, couldn’t see what was going on, but that was okay. I wasn’t scared. I had, in fact, never been frightened of him, and that had become the basis for our ongoing relationship. That and the fact that he’d tried to kill me and failed.

  “I’ll find out how you’re getting messages out,” I promised.

  His grip on my pale blue tie with the red circles was light; if I leaned back it would have slid over his curled fingers. “Someday, Miro Jones, I will possess you, and you will be my greatest work.”

  I nodded.

  “You might not believe me now, but you will.”

  “I’m sure,” I said as he slowly opened his hand.

  “There will come a morning when you’ll open your eyes and I’ll be there with you,” Hartley whispered, the middle finger of his right hand inches from my face.

  “Not fuckin’ likely,” I grunted, leaning back, the tie running through his hand like water before I stood up. “We’ll save your sister and her family.”

  His smile made his eyes glimmer. “The things you think I care about, Miro.”

  I moved through the crowd of agents to the door.

  “Do take care of yourself,” Hartley added.

  I knocked on the heavy steel door.

  “I’ll see you in July when it’s hot.”

  “Yes, you will,” I agreed as the door opened and I slipped out.

  Looking back in at the room, I watched Hartley as more questions were fired at him, but he went silent, facing them with dead eyes until finally the guard announced it was time for him to be returned to his cell.

  I was suddenly ridiculously thankful that I’d driven and didn’t have to wait on the FBI agents so I could leave. I thought about the last time I had made the trip out to Elgin.

  That day I had felt the bile rise in my throat and bolted down the hallway as I pulled my phone from the breast pocket of my suit jacket. There was only one person I wanted to talk to.

  “Hey,” came the gravelly voice over the line. “You almost done in there?”

  “Why? Where are you?”

  “Outside.”

  He was there. All I had to do was reach him.

  “You drove out?” I asked as I was buzzed through the inner door and then the outer one, leading down the corridor that separated solitary from general population.

  “Yeah. I figured you needed backup.”

  “I do,” I agreed, speeding up, wanting out, needing out. “I’ll be hungry after, I always am.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I barf.”

  “I would too.”

  “Okay,” I said, my voice cracking as I was allowed through another three doors. Each one had to open and close before the next could. And while the security measures were impressive, I could barely breathe. “I’m almost there.”

  “Miro?”

  I dragged in a breath. “Yeah. I’m here.”

  The line was silent as I passed through another two doors. I didn’t see the warden, which was fine. He was probably waiting to say good-bye to the feds. I was just a marshal; he saw us all the time.

  Ending the call, I collected my gun, badge, and keys on the other side of the metal detector and jogged to the front door. Hitting the panic bar, I was outside on the steps moments later. Not stopping, I rushed down the stairs and vomited into the trash can. Moments later I was passed a bottle of water and napkins and a hand pressed between my shoulder blades.

  “You okay?”

  I nodded, still bent over, shivering.

  Ian rubbed gentle circles on my back and then, because I was sweating, pushed my hair out of my face as I straightened up. “You’re gonna be okay. Rinse out your mouth and I’ll get you some pancakes. Breakfast cures everything.”

  But it wasn’t eggs or toast or hash browns I needed, it was Ian.

  I needed Ian.

  That was almost two years ago. And today, as I crashed through the last door to the outside and ran down the same stairs and heaved up my spleen, he wasn’t there.

  No grounding touch, no rough caress.

  No rumbling voice.

  No cocky grin that said he could make it better by sheer force of will.

  I missed him, and some days it felt like my chest was full of pins every time I took a breath. And on even worse days, I had to talk to a serial killer because I was the only one he liked well enough to converse with.

  My breakfast and lunch were all gone in one shot, my stomach left clenching as I made sure I was done before I moved.

  “What the fuck, man,” a guy who passed me moaned. “That’s fuckin’ gross.”

  “Shut the hell up,” a woman snapped at him, closing in on me with a tub of baby wipes in one hand and a toddler on her hip. “Here you go, shug, clean yourself up.”

  It was nice. I thanked her profusely, and when I r
eached my car, I smelled lavender fresh. I’d left a bottle of water in the front seat, which was good, because I needed to rinse my mouth out. Gargle. I toyed with the idea of either running home or to the office to get into my locker. In either place there was a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  As I contemplated where I was going, my phone beeped, and I saw Kohn’s name appear on the display.

  “Hey, I—”

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m out at Elgin.”

  “That was this morning?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’re with me today and we’re on transport. Hurry up and report to the office so we can get our assignment.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Good,” he said and hung up.

  IT HAD been a roulette wheel of partners since Ian was away, and today I had self-proclaimed metrosexual Eli Kohn sitting at Ian’s desk when I got to the office.

  “Hey, Jonesy,” he greeted me cheerfully.

  I flipped him off.

  “So grouchy first thing this morning. You must need coffee?”

  I needed my partner back. That’s what was missing and making me foul. “You’re with me?”

  “Always, baby.”

  I shook my head as he cackled.

  Kage filled the doorway of his office and notified us that we were on transport this morning and retrieval in the afternoon. Kohn walked over and took the piece of paper Kage held out.

  “Remember, gentlemen, not getting updates makes me cranky.”

  I knew that firsthand. Kage liked to know where we all were. Not checking in got you sent home without pay. “Yessir.”

  “Jones.”

  I stopped moving and gave him my undivided attention.

  “The feds said that you were invaluable to their investigation, though they felt that your methods bordered on misconduct.”

  I coughed.

  “They said that you flirted with Dr. Hartley and that he extracted a promise for you to see him twice a year.”

  “I think that whatever they heard, or didn’t, has no bearing on their case.”

  “Agreed.” He clipped the word. “You did good work today.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “How does it feel to have the cast off?”

  I flexed my hand for him. “You have no idea.”

  He nodded quickly, retreating back into his office but leaving the door open like always. I caught up with Kohn in the hall.

  “You know, you and Doyle make the rest of us look good.”

  I missed Ian too much to take any crap about him. I was in defense mode. “What’re you talking about?”

  “You guys jump off balconies.”

  “That was just the once,” I said snidely, stuffing my scarf into my quilted black jacket, hoping it didn’t get much colder.

  He grabbed my right bicep, stopping me so he could step in front of me. “I was there for the first one, but I heard that the second time, you flew.”

  “That’s not how I remember it.”

  “Tell me how you remember it, then.”

  Easing my arm free, I explained about jumping off Emma’s balcony after the drug dealer as we walked. By the time we got to the elevator, he was staring at me like I was insane. “What?”

  “Are you kidding?” he said dryly. “You don’t follow people off balconies, Jones.”

  I scoffed, pulling my phone out of my coat pocket as it started buzzing.

  “You’re not the Green Beret, ya know. Your partner is.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I placated him, grabbing his wool and cashmere toggle coat and holding out my phone so he could see the text from the Chicago PD homicide detective our office was working with. “Rybin says that he and Cassel will meet us at the safe house in Brookfield so we can take custody of our witness to transport her to court for her deposition.”

  “Why are you getting a text from a detective and not someone on our team?”

  “You know White gives out our numbers to the detectives he’s working with.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not protocol.”

  I scoffed.

  “Shut up.”

  “Mr. I took time off my last security detail to go bang some girl before picking up dinner.”

  “One time!”

  I did my best Sam Kage impersonation. “Perhaps you need an extended vacation, Mr. Kohn, so you can get all the fucking out of your system.”

  “Crap,” he groaned. “You would have thought Ching would have warned me that he was on his way over from the safe house.”

  I snickered. “Ching lives for that shit, you know that.”

  “I know it now,” he said, exasperated.

  I couldn’t help laughing.

  “And that Kage impression is kinda creepy.”

  We rode the elevator down in silence and when the doors whooshed open, Chris Becker stood there with his partner, Wes Ching.

  They made an interesting pair, Becker, the ex-University of Kentucky linebacker, and Ching, his smaller though decidedly more aggressive partner. Becker was one of those guys women watched when he walked down the street, a confident stride and easy smile. Ching was quieter, and, people thought, the saner of the two, until he kicked down a door and charged through. After a raid it was always “That black guy and the Asian guy, what the fuck was with them?” Of course that was only if Kage wasn’t around. If he was, you could bet no one said a word about any member of his team. It wasn’t healthy.

  When Becker saw us, the cocky grin instantly appeared. “Morning, ladies,” he teased, waggling his thick brown brows.

  Kohn flipped him off.

  “What’s wrong with you, you havin’ your period?” Ching asked loudly.

  I smiled at all the women in the hall getting on the elevator. “Make sure you all report that bullshit to Supervisor Kage upstairs.”

  “Fuck you, Jones!”

  Kohn pointed at Becker before turning to follow me down the hall. “Asshat,” he grumbled.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “But when Becker’s coming through the door after your ass, you like him, right?”

  He grunted.

  That was a yes.

  In the car, Kohn started complaining. “Let’s take mine. This is like going back in time.”

  “It’s vintage.”

  “It’s shit,” he confirmed. “For fuck’s sake, Jones, there aren’t even any air bags in this.”

  I changed the subject, because I had to drive. I had a whole thing about other people driving; it was only because Ian was such a dictator about it that I gave in to him. “So what witness are we transporting?”

  “Nina Tolliver,” he said, grinning. “And I heard you like her, so that’s good, right?”

  “I don’t make judgments,” I lied, flat out, because of course I did. I was human, after all. “And I don’t like her like I wanna pick out china patterns with her. I just think she’s a good person who totally won big in the ‘I married a psycho murdering scumbag’ department.”

  Drew Tolliver had started out as muscle in the Corza crime family and worked his way up and up until he was a major player in prostitution, drugs, loan-sharking, protection, and guns, and his newest addition right before the feds busted him was assassinations. His wife had been blind to all of that. What she did see, the day he stopped beating only on her and started in on his twin boys, age seven and a half, was that he was a bad man.

  “I can’t imagine being a prisoner in my own house,” Kohn said thoughtfully. “It was smart to send her kids off to boarding school. I mean, sucks for her not to see them, but at least they were safe.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “And it gave her time to get a new hobby.”

  The amount of incriminating evidence Nina Tolliver had collected on everyone who came to their home was staggering. By simply leaving her laptop on in the living room when men dropped by to see her husband and turning on a web camera no one ever noticed, she got hours of damning footage. Mur
ders were planned, people were named, and every face was captured, so there could be no doubt about who was talking, who was giving orders, and who was carrying them out.

  Then, to get away, she’d begged him to take her along on a trip to Atlantic City, and he’d relented. “She’s really brave,” I interjected, because it had to be said. “And it was brilliant to freak out on the plane with an air marshal. They took her off in cuffs.”

  “Yes. Brilliant.”

  “And now she gets to finally be with her kids in a safe, secure place.”

  “As soon as she testifies,” he reminded me. “Which the first part of is her deposition.”

  “Which she does today.” I sighed. “So let’s get her there so she can put her husband away for life. The quicker she starts this process, the faster he rolls, and guys even higher up the food chain can be put away.”

  “You know her husband doesn’t deserve to go into the program.”

  “WITSEC doesn’t judge; it depends on what he saw,” I said sagely.

  “Yeah, I know. It just sucks.”

  THE SAFE house in Brookfield was not federal, but a Chicago PD property, and as such, it lacked many of the amenities that usually came with ours. It was a small ranch-style suburban tract home with a huge basement. It was older, had only radiators for warmth, and basically reminded me of one of my least favorite foster homes, down to the pink tile and frosted glass sliding doors in the bathroom. There were some missing ceiling tiles in the kitchen, so if you were cooking, you could glance up and observe spiderwebs above you. The whole place gave me the creeps. It smelled like Pine-Sol and mold. I was glad protection rotation only came around every three or four months. Sometimes marshals did transport, sometimes protection, sometimes relocation. They moved us around so we stayed sharp. It was also supposed to make it impossible for anyone to ever be able to say with any kind of certainty which marshal would show up for what duty.

  It was why Topher Cassel, Joshua Rybin, Ted Koons, and Keith Wallace, the four Chicago PD detectives there when Kohn and I showed up, had no idea who was going to walk through the door. They probably didn’t expect the GQ model Eli Kohn resembled. Between the clothes, the three hundred dollar haircut, and his lean and muscular build, they probably thought someone was screwing with them.