by Anne Calhoun
He let himself out the front door and started walking. A couple of blocks later he could walk without wincing, which was key for any conversation with Jo. She’d pick up on the slightest hint of pain or weakness.
“Are you dead?”
“No.”
“Are you near death?”
“No.”
“Then why are you calling me at this obscene hour?”
“Jo, it’s after seven. Did you do another shift for McCormick?”
“Something like that.” Sheets rustled, a pause, probably Jo looking at her phone. “Ugh, you’re right.”
“Make coffee and call me back.”
She hung up on him. Ian kept walking. His muscles were loosening up with movement, so he added a few tentative shoulder rolls, then arm swings, testing his ribs. He’d turned for Henneman’s house by the time Jo called back.
“It takes you twenty-five minutes to make coffee?”
“Sometimes. What’s going on?”
He brought her up to speed, covering the conversation with Rory, glossing over the boxing injuries.
“You’re hurt,” she said. “I can hear it in your breathing.”
“I’m fine. Bruised, not broken.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Riva said the same thing.”
“I liked that girl seven years ago, and I like her more now.”
“She says Rory’s wound up, ready to do something big. What are you hearing there?”
“McCormick says there’s signs of something big happening, but he doesn’t know what. Could be an expansion effort, could be something else. He’s meeting with a couple of Kenny’s lieutenants later today.”
“Let me know as soon as you know,” Ian said.
“Obviously. How are things otherwise?”
“Fine,” he said. “We’re picking up the ingredients for her mom’s party later today, then getting ready for it. A cleaning crew is coming through this morning.”
“It all sounds very ladies who lunch,” Jo said. “Tea and cucumber sandwiches and ten thousand dollar checks. Pinkies up, bitches.”
“Part of it is,” Ian said. “But Riva’s part isn’t. She’s trying to get her mother out. I thought this was about Isaiah, but she’s actually trying to find a way to help her mother.”
“Her mother’s a grown woman. She can help herself.”
“She’s been living with a sociopath for over thirty years. I’m not sure she can operate a light switch.”
“True.” Jo was silent for a moment. Ian heard the sound of a spoon against china, which didn’t make any sense. Jo took her coffee black, and made it in a coffeepot her dad used to own, then poured it directly into a big insulated mug. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her drink it from a mug, much less a china cup. Before he could ask, she said, “So what’s your plan? How long do you think you can stay after this lunch thing?”
“I don’t know. A day, maybe two at the most. If Rory hasn’t taken the bait by then, I come home, stay in touch through Ian Fallon’s email account, and hope he comes sniffing around.”
“Any other options?”
“No.”
“If I remember correctly, Ms. Henneman said she’d go into business with him.” He heard Jo swallow, then mutter, “Damn, that’s good.”
“Not an option, Jo.”
“It’s a very good option, Ian. If Chicago can’t get this guy, we can. She’s done it before.”
“With midgrade dealers, with small stakes, with us supervising her every move. No. That’s not an option.”
“You may not like it, but it may be our only option. She came to us. If we don’t help her, what’s to stop her from going to the FBI and making a deal with them?”
The thought sent a bolt of fear up his spine. “Me.”
Jo laughed.
“I don’t want her in the middle of this, Jo. It’s not her job to bring down a major drug pipeline.”
“It isn’t,” Jo agreed with an even tone that set Ian’s nerves on edge. “It’s her family. She’s trying to help her mother and to do that, she has to turn in her father. Don’t make this harder for her than it has to be.”
“I don’t want to make it harder,” he snapped, then flinched as his ribs twinged. “I want to make it easier for her.”
“Your girl doesn’t do easy,” Jo said. “Think about it. She could have called in a really expensive lawyer, plead down, gotten off with probation. She didn’t. She dealt with us, week after week, rather than slink off and pretend it never happened. Then she dropped out of school and started farming. Remember how God punished Adam for the original sin? He punished him with farming. Cops probably hadn’t been invented back then or God would have made Adam a cop.”
He heard the clink of silver against china again. “Gone upscale?”
“What?”
“You’re drinking your coffee out of a cup. Since when do you use a cup, not a travel mug?”
“The women’s magazines all say I should pamper myself.”
“Since when do you read women’s magazines?”
“It’s all over the covers in the checkout lanes.”
“Since when do you shop for groceries?” Jo ate better than most cops, but takeout salads were still takeout.
“Stop trying to distract me. I’m curious. Ask her about it.”
He’d just found a tentative peace with Riva. He wasn’t about to risk it by asking her to defend her choices made so long ago. “Ask her yourself the next time you see her.”
“I will. You don’t think I will?”
Fuck. He knew Jo would. “Call me as soon as you hear anything from McCormick.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Her nose woke her up, rich earthy scents winding deep into her brain as she drifted from sleep to wakefulness. The lilac bush in bloom under her window, the scent of the dew on freshly mown grass, the dark layers of mulch laid over all the flower beds and around the trees, cool, crisp morning air that held the promise of warmth.
It was Riva’s favorite way to wake up, called out of sleep by nature’s smells and sounds, anchoring her consciousness to the life she’d built with her own two hands. The day she woke up and resented what she smelled was the day she put the farm up for sale. But under the scents carried in by the morning breeze was something more primitive, wired to her back brain: the scent of Ian’s soap and skin coming from the pillow under her head.
She had a vague memory of turning to him in the middle of the night, blindly seeking the heat his body gave off, and another memory of him tucking a pillow under her head before he eased out of bed. Indulging in a great big yawn, she smoothed her hair back from her face. A stretch made her body hum with residual pleasure, a low, vibrating resonance that softened her joints.
Oh, she was home, asleep in her own bed, which smelled deliciously, sinfully of Ian Hawthorn, which meant what she thought were memories of the last few days were only a dream, an awful dream. Somehow, she couldn’t remember exactly how, they’d gotten past their history and were together.
Then she opened her eyes. Guest room. Fireplace, still with the fire unlit. The door to the bathroom was open, the light off; no sounds came from Ian’s bedroom.
Wrong dream.
Memory steamrolled her pleasant fantasy, spiking her adrenaline and sending her scrambling out of bed. Where was he? With his ribs as battered as they were she doubted he’d gone for a run. He could be with her dad, doing God only knew what in an effort to worm his way into her dad’s confidence. He could be downstairs, reading the paper and drinking coffee. Only one way to find out.
She dressed quickly in clothes suited for a day of work—jeans, a blue V-neck T-shirt, and her Converse sneakers—and trotted down the stairs. The front rooms were empty, silent, dust hanging in the still air. The light was on over the stove in the kitchen, but otherwise, no signs of life or movement. No half-empty coffeepot, no dishes in the sink. He’d basically vanished.
A foot thudded against the
back porch, making Riva jump. Ian crossed the veranda and opened the back door. He wore loose shorts and a faded T-shirt advertising a 10K cancer fundraising race back in 2012.
“You went running?” she asked, incredulous.
“Walking. Slowly walking,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “Movement’s good for sore muscles. Where’s your dad?”
“Who knows?”
“Text him and find out if he’s at the warehouse today or not. We’re going out to pick up the ingredients for the party, right?”
“Yes,” Riva said absently as she pulled her phone from her back pocket. Hi! Are you at the warehouse or on a route today?
“What else is on the schedule?”
“Um, the rental company is bringing over the chairs and tables today. The forecast is perfect, so we’ll set up in the backyard, then cover everything with drop cloths.”
“How long until your mom wakes up?”
“I’ll get her up after we get back from the grocery run,” Riva said. “There’s no point in her being awake and fretting over the china or the centerpieces.”
“I want to search the house and the warehouse again. I haven’t been able to search the third floor because she’s been sleeping so much. His laptop has to be here.”
“We don’t know that,” Riva said. “He has breakfast most mornings at a coffee shop about a mile from here. Maybe the owner keeps it there for him.”
Ian shook his head. “He wouldn’t let it out of his immediate control for the same reason he wouldn’t keep it at the boxing gym. It would have to be a place that’s safe, secured, where he’s confident no one else will get their hands on it. Would he back his data up to the cloud?”
“I can’t see him doing that,” Riva said. “He wouldn’t run the risk of an accidental hack.”
“House or warehouse.” His words were decisive and blunt. There would be no talking about what happened last night, much less about their emotions. For all she knew, he didn’t have any emotions, much less feelings for her. They couldn’t act on them anyway. “I’ll start down here.”
“I need to get organized,” she said. “Are you up to lifting and carrying today?”
He nodded, his face already distant.
“What’s up?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
He closed the distance between then and bent to murmur in her ear. “Jo says there’s something big going down in Lancaster. Soon. She’s going to call me as soon as she’s got details.”
“Okay,” she said. She started a pot of coffee while Ian laboriously climbed the stairs to the second floor and returned a minute later wearing a pair of black latex gloves.
While she examined recipes and blocked out the timing to prepare, assemble, and then make different components, backing into the schedule from the moment when everyone sat down to lunch, Ian methodically went through the first and second floors of their house. He pulled up rugs, tested floorboards, removed light switch plates, shook out pillows, and looked in every single pot, pan, and drawer in the kitchen. In the office just off the kitchen, he lifted pictures off the wall and ran his hand over it.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Looking for seams,” he said.
The whole scene had a surreal feel, windows open to the fresh spring day while a black-gloved, beat-up cop methodically took apart her family home. “Want more coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
By the time he reappeared, she had a schedule blocked out down to the minute and a to-do list that covered the front and back of a single sheet of paper.
“Nothing?” she asked.
He’d changed while he was upstairs, and now wore jeans, boots, and a button-down shirt. “Not yet.” He stripped off the gloves and tucked them in his jeans pocket. “The third floor makes sense. Your mother’s not going to have any idea what he’s doing while he’s on the laptop.”
“I need to pick up the ingredients,” she said.
“I’ll search the rest of the house when we get back.”
She looked at her phone. “Dad says he’s running a route today.” She handed him the sheet of paper. “That’s what we’re doing today.”
He did a double take. “Okay. Let’s get moving. I want to search the warehouse while he’s out.”
It was funny how easily she and Ian settled into that most mundane of tasks, running errands. They stopped at the upscale party supply shop and picked up the place cards and menu cards, then went to the florist. She’d half suspected Ian would brood in the truck, but to her surprise, he stayed by her side the whole time, carrying bags and boxes of floral arrangements without complaint.
“Thanks,” she said after he secured the florist’s boxes in the truck’s bed.
“For what?” he said, surprised.
“For helping,” she said quietly. “With everything.”
She had so much more to say, but the day had taken on a surreal quality, fresh green leaves dancing in the sunshine and soft breeze while she ran errands with Ian for a garden party and Ian plotted how to root out drugs and corruption and keep them safe.
“You’re welcome,” he said, just as quietly.
She was once again left with the feeling that everything about them was too big, too explosive, too charged to fit into a day-to-day life. They had baggage, history, friction, and then something like this happened, the kaleidoscope shifted and the fragments were just colored beads, bit of glass, nothing more. They were just Ian and Riva, running errands. Like normal people. Like a couple. Like a normal couple.
He looked at her to-do list. “All we have left is to pick up the ingredients from Urban Canopy and Growing Home,” he said. “And hit the warehouse.”
“Let’s do the warehouse first,” she said. “I don’t want to leave the ingredients out in the hot sun.”
“Fair enough.”
“Stop here.”
Riva’s truck wasn’t visible through the office window or door. The site was quiet, no one coming or going. She peered out the windshield, then at Ian, who was doing some cop-radar-listening thing. “Why?”
“I don’t want to just rock up to the door and find him there.”
“Why not?”
“We have no reason to be there.”
“Sure we do.”
“We do?”
“I want candy for the party tomorrow,” Riva said. “I’m making dirt cakes for dessert.”
“You’re making what?” Ian asked.
“Dirt cakes. They’re a refrigerated pudding cake. You use crumbled cookies as the ‘dirt’ and get gummy worms and fake flowers for decorations.”
He gaped at her. “Really?”
“No. But I told Dad it was a way to promote Henneman Candy and Vending. A boost for business. That kind of thing. He believed that. I already texted and asked if I could grab some packages of cookies and gummy worms.”
“Nice,” he said. “What are you going to do tomorrow when you serve those chocolate bomb cake things?”
“I’ll tell him I got worried about being too cute, or the worms didn’t go with the napkins, or I couldn’t find any unglazed flower pots. You can’t make them in glazed pots.”
Ian didn’t seem interested in this detail. “What if he’s got the laptop with him?”
“We still need to do the search. You never know what we might find.”
They pulled up to the gate. Riva keyed in the code and drove through the gate when it opened. She parked in front of the building and looked around.
“What?” Ian asked.
“Dad’s car isn’t here.”
“So?”
“He said he’s running a route. If that’s the case, he’d leave his car here.”
“Maybe he changed his mind,” Ian said. “Do the drivers ever come back for something they forgot?”
She shook her head. “Unless there’s some special request, they usually just fill the machine with what they’ve got.”
“Still. I don’t want to be here any longe
r than I have to.”
They quickly searched the warehouse to make sure they were alone, then Ian went to work again, this time pulling at the carpet to make sure it didn’t roll back. They stood in the warehouse and looked at the wall-to-wall shelving holding hundreds of boxes.
“High or low?” Ian said.
“Low,” she replied.
He grabbed a couple of boxes of snack-package Oreos and the gummy worms. Keeping an ear cocked for movement in the office, she pushed over the rolling ladder and went to work, shaking boxes to gauge their weight, riffling through packages of candy. They worked quickly, thoroughly, and found nothing at all.
Ian appeared unfazed. “Had to be done,” he said.
She stripped off her gloves and rubbed her eyes. “Let’s get going. The rental delivery people will be there around four.”
She felt like she was racing the clock in every way possible, her mother’s luncheon, getting her dad’s laptop, and her time with Ian. They made stops at Growing Home and Urban Canopy for the luncheon ingredients, then pulled up alongside the house just as the delivery truck was backing into the driveway. “Can you unload the perishables?” she asked. “If you run out of room up here, there’s a fridge in the basement. I’ll deal with it later.”
“I’ve got it,” Ian said.
She directed the rental company in setting up the tables and chairs, counted the linens and drop cloths to protect the furniture, signed for everything, and then headed into the house. The truck started with a rumble, and she sent them off with a wave. In the kitchen Ian had unloaded everything, neatly sorting things into their projected uses.
“Why doesn’t this surprise me?” She set the linens on the table next to the place cards and menus.
He surveyed the piles. “You’re going to have to sort it eventually. Might as well do it when you’re unloading it. What next?”
“I’ll go upstairs and see what Mom’s doing,” she said. “I don’t think she’s been out of bed all day, and that’s not like her.”
