Conn peered in the opaque reflective glass on Cady’s microwave and winced. He was about two weeks past a regulation haircut, and after falling asleep in Cady’s bed with wet hair, he looked like he did after he’d let Shane’s nieces and nephews go to town with their craft paste. He solved that problem with his watch cap, which, after ten minutes of riffling through pockets of every coat hanging in Cady’s mudroom, he found drying on top of the washing machine in the laundry room. She’d scrubbed all the sap off his jacket and hers; they hung side by side on hooks by the garage. His and hers hooks, he thought as he shouldered into his jacket. He backtracked into his bedroom for his gun, badge, and cuffs, then walked outside. He was due for a perimeter check.
As he strode down the driveway, scanning the snow for footprints, his boots crunched in the dusting that had fallen over night. It made it easier to track an intruder or a peeping creeper, but all he saw were deer tracks on the edge of the woods and rabbit prints leaping from a den sheltered under the pine trees. The driveway, slate path, and porch were all neatly cleared of snow, making it difficult to tell if anyone had poked around.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and set off around the side of the house, testing doors and windows, scanning the ground, the bare trees sloping up the hill at the edge of Cady’s property, the house itself. Someone was in her house, in her goddamn house, without her consent. By all rights she should have collapsed in hysterics, weeping and freaking out and calling in the National Guard or the SEALs or whoever it was famous people had on speed dial. Instead she womaned up and went on. He could tell she was freaked out by the way she bit at her lower lip, and by the fact that she looked worried when she went into the studio. The first day or two she was home, her studio was her retreat, a safe place where she could explore the stories she wanted to tell through songs. But the bastard who’d come into her home took away that security.
Conn wanted to wring his neck with his bare hands. A more useful tactic would be to convince Cady to install security cameras. He kicked at the woodpile, expecting the mama possum to skitter out and head for the hills again, but all he did was draw his attention to a gigantic wolf spider’s web, strung among the logs at the far end of the pile. “Jesus,” he muttered. The spider was the size of his fist, a hairy malevolent-looking fucker, to quote Hawthorn after a gang sweep briefing.
Only the LT would use a word like “malevolent.” Conn knew he needed to call him and report what Cesar said. But if Cesar was right and someone in the Block was behind Jordy Bettis’s assault, who could Conn trust? No one.
He needed to think. He needed to burn off some energy so he could think.
An axe next to the pile of logs, left there by the former owner, who’d dealt with the trees felled to clear the property by slowly turning them into firewood. Shane’s dad had taken them camping off and on as kids, so Conn knew how to use the axe, and knew he needed the release. He set a log on the stump scarred with indentations from the axe head, hoisted the axe over his head, and swung it at the log.
Thwack-crack.
The impact of the axe up his arm and the crack the log made as it split into two nicely sized pieces of firewood gave him something to do while he thought through the current situation. He had two problems. He was starting to think they were connected.
Cesar said he needed to look inside the Block to find Jordy Bettis’s attacker. Conn wished he could say that made no sense, but everyone knew it happened. But framing another officer for it was a completely different situation, explained only by the fact that no one in the gang community was taking credit for the assault. Someone had to roll. Hawthorn would have that information when he arrived in an hour or so.
But his brain followed the logic. If someone inside the Block had attacked Jordy in order to grease up Conn, then that meant anyone connected to Conn was also fair game. He wasn’t worried about Shane. Shane could take care of himself, and his family. But Cady was another story entirely. Cady was already under incredible pressure. The website attacks and the missing heirloom bracelet weren’t helping.
Thwack-crack. Conn set the split logs at the end of the pile and lifted another log onto the stump. He hefted the axe and paused.
Sneaky. Very sneaky. A psychological attack could tarnish Conn, make him even more vulnerable. Gang members wouldn’t have the resources to track down Cady, but someone at the Block would. They’d know how to work through the records, or, failing that, have a network of people to call on who would know contractors, electricians, plumbers, kitchen and bathroom guys.
The whole thing was starting to make more sense. The drunk guy aside, the attacks all started after Conn signed on as her body man. What if, rather than getting him out of the way, he’d inadvertently brought the woman he was falling for into harm’s way?
Thwack-crack.
His body was warm and loose despite the mid-December air, but the thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. His money was still on Chris. He wore his suits like Conn wore his uniform, so Conn had no doubt in his mind that despite the flippant attitude, if Chris had to land on someone like a ton of fucking bricks, he would. Chris had the most to lose if Cady decided to go her own way, which put him at the top of Conn’s list, by a mile. But having a top of the list meant he had to consider everyone else on that list too. Getting a solve meant nothing if it wasn’t the right solve.
Who else wanted to hurt Cady? The internet crazies came in second. She was ruining music, she was dating Harry Linton, she’d broken up with Harry Linton. What it boiled down to was this: She existed. She existed and she did her own thing.
Thwack-crack. Conn had a massive fucking problem with assholes who terrorized other people simply because they shone bright.
He made a mental note to go through the psychos folder again, with a fresh perspective. The threat had changed from physical to psychological. Reading explicit descriptions of someone wanting to take a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire to Cady was obvious. He needed to think of this in a different way, and he needed to set aside his emotions to do it.
Thwack-crack. He tossed the logs on the pile and set another piece on end to split. Which led to problem number two: Cady’s threat to him.
He was falling for her. Hard. He’d stood at the Field Energy Center and watched Queen Maud deliver a two-hour set, and felt not the slightest interest in her. But Cady … Cady drove fast and ate barbecue. Teased, and took care of, her little sister. Asked him for what she wanted, something he found hot as hell. Truth was, she was amazing. Not just as a singer-songwriter, because to be honest, it wasn’t his kind of music at all. But he appreciated people who did things from their heart, with all of their passion behind it. He raced that way, worked that way, had everyone fooled that he felt that way.
She’d see through him, find the fear inside. Which frightened him more than walking down one of the dark alleys in the warren of the East Side’s abandoned warehouses, more than flipping open the folder and seeing Jordy’s jacked-up face, more than seeing 10.00 come up on the clock at the drag races, more than watching the McCools at a holiday meal or a family function. The deepest fear he had was that he’d never truly belong.
Cady was making him face that fear. He’d been accepted into Shane’s family for so long he didn’t think about it. But Shane’s family was basically picture perfect, a miracle. He’d never aspired to have something like that for himself. But Cady’s family, with her salt-of-the-earth mother and her snotty-teenage-girl sister, was imperfect enough that he could dream about it. She’d cleaned his jacket, shared meals with him, taken him Christmas tree shopping with her family.
“Because you work for her,” Conn said, swiping the back of his hand over his forehead. His Henley clung to his back and arms. He shrugged his shoulders to adjust the fabric, then hoisted the axe and brought it down. The log splintered into two pieces that all but flew to the sides. “That’s all.”
Except it wasn’t. She’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t sleep with everyone who worked for, or with, her. He knew her well enough now to believe he’d done her a disservice assuming he was just a way for the celebrity to blow off steam.
He’d made a dent in the woodpile but gotten nowhere by letting his brain churn along while he worked. Breathing hard, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked in on Cady the same way Chris checked in on Cady: social media. She’d sent out a bunch of pictures he’d taken of her and Emily at the Christmas tree farm. Scrolling through the list of reposts and comments took five swipes of his thumb, and she’d posted it less than an hour ago. Emily’s coats had struck a chord with Cady’s followers, something that was sure to make her happy. Finally she posted a shot of her guitar and her notebook in the studio. Going in for some songwriting time! <3 <3 <3
She was in the house, and safe. The first part of that sentence was temporary: Cady was leaving town again, sooner rather than later. He’d damn well make sure she was safe when she left.
* * *
The woodpile workout gave him an excuse to take another shower, so he did, then pulled on a Henley and fresh jeans. His laundry was piling up, so he took it downstairs, threw in the pile of towels sitting in the basket to round out his load, puzzled his way through the high-end washing machine’s digital readout, and pressed START. Water started flowing into the drum, so he guessed it was working.
“Hey there,” Cady said. “Thanks for throwing the towels in.”
He turned to see her peering around the doorframe into the laundry room. “As long as I don’t throw in the towel?”
“Something like that,” she said with a smile. “But you didn’t have to do that. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever lived with a guy who offered to do anyone else’s laundry, much less did it without being asked.”
It was hard to unlearn patterns you learned as a kid. Travel light. Do your own laundry, wash your own dishes, be helpful if you can. He remembered all the times he offered to do the dishes, or mop floors, or fold laundry, trying to make himself useful so when he fucked up, lost his temper, got into trouble, he wouldn’t be passed along to the next relative. It hadn’t worked; enlisting was basically his best bet after he turned eighteen. He shrugged. “They were there, needing to be washed. It didn’t make any sense to do a half-full load of my own stuff. Unless you’ve got some special secret towel washing method I don’t know.”
“Open door, insert towels, dump in detergent, hit start.”
“That’s what I did.”
“You’re golden, then.”
“How did the session go?”
“Meh,” she said with a casual shrug that didn’t match the haunted look in her eyes. “Some days it’s easy peasy. Other days it’s a painful grind. Doesn’t matter. You show up and do the work.”
He caught her arm. “Hey,” he said, quiet, low. “How did it go?”
“Pretty fucking awful,” she replied, just as quiet. Like if the universe heard her, it would be twice as bad next time. “Thanks for asking. Want some lunch?”
“Sure,” he said.
They walked back into the kitchen. “I heard you going at the woodpile,” Cady said as she opened the refrigerator door. “Thanks. You also didn’t need to do that.”
“I’m used to a lot more stimulation than this,” he admitted.
“So am I,” she said, setting containers of stew and chopped-up veggies on the counter, then reaching for the pan to heat up the stew. “No, sit down, I’ve got this. Unless, if you need something to do, I wouldn’t mind being uncivilized and eating off trays in front of the fire.”
He used the leather carrier to haul in some of the logs from outside. By the time he had the fire going, she was carrying over a big tray laden with bowls of beef stew, sliced whole-grain bread, butter, and the fresh vegetables. After setting the tray on the tufted leather ottoman, she handed him a plate for bread and veggies, then a bowl of stew.
Her gaze was distant as she tucked her feet under her and settled in with her own bowl, eating with an absentmindedness that told him she was still far, far away. “You’re not worried about what’s going on?”
“One of the things I learned early on was that if I was going to hire someone to do a job, I either let that someone to do his or her job, or they were just a distraction. You seem extremely competent. I do neither of us any favors if I micromanage you. More importantly, I trust you.”
Her words startled him. She had no reason to really trust him, not at a time when he didn’t know who he could trust himself. The people he thought had his back might in fact be betraying him right now. Cady had family, friends, connections. He had nothing but himself.
He was hers, if she wanted him.
The thought flashed through his mind with the speed and searing impact of lightning. Where the hell did that come from?
“Good,” he said. He went back to eating stew, but now too distracted to really appreciate the flavors. It was a relief when he heard a car pull into the driveway, followed by a second vehicle. “Hawthorn and Dorchester,” he said with a quick glance at his watch.
Doors slammed. One, two … three … four. “Get out of sight,” Conn said.
“I’ll clean up,” Cady replied, stacking dishes on the tray.
The kitchen put her out of the line of sight to the door. Hand on his holster, Conn walked to the window and peered through the slatted blinds. He saw Dorchester’s Jeep, Hawthorn’s Durango, and a Mercedes no one he knew could afford. They’d come in personal cars to avoid drawing attention to Cady’s house, and parked in front of the big evergreens, so no one could see the cars from the street.
Heads appeared on the stairs, Detective Joanna Sorenson behind Hawthorn, which accounted for one door. But the head that appeared after Matt had smooth black hair glinting in the weak winter sunlight. Eve Webber. Matt had brought along emotional reinforcements.
The last person trotting up the stairs, in a suit and tie, was a lawyer Conn knew only by reputation. Caleb Webber.
Conn opened the door, and his mouth. “No, we weren’t followed,” Hawthorn said.
Eve patted him on the arm to say hello, then headed for the kitchen like she knew the place. “You sure it was a good idea to bring her along?” Conn said to Matt. “She’s had enough excitement to last most people a lifetime.”
“She’s not most people,” Matt said wryly as he unzipped his army jacket and shrugged out of it. “And she insisted.”
“I didn’t insist,” Eve called from the kitchen. “I simply pointed out that Cady might like a friend at the table. I know what it’s like to be in the middle of something like this. Conn, do you know my brother?”
Caleb Webber held out his hand, not bothering to smile. “Caleb Webber. I’m Cady’s local attorney. Her agent asked me to be here.”
“I’ll call Chris,” Cady added as she fiddled with her phone. “It’s so sweet of you to take time away from Eye Candy.”
“Natalie owes me, big time,” Eve said. “She took a few days’ vacation with no notice and just got back today.”
“That’s nice,” Cady said. “Where did she go?”
“Nowhere with sun. She’s as pale as she was before she left.”
“It’s a little early for me,” Cady said. “February. That’s when you want to get away, when it’s been cold and cloudy and slushy for months and you can’t take another second of it.”
“But you’ve still got March to go,” Eve added. “You were in Turks and Caicos last year, right?”
“Just before the tour started,” Cady confirmed.
Keeping Cady safe, let alone getting her any privacy, was going to be an impossible job. Anyone with access to the internet knew where she was, who she was with, what she was doing.
She gave him a bright smile. “Coffee, anyone?”
Everyone respectfully declined. It was interesting to watch Hawthorn, who was one of the most stone cold operators Conn had ever met, and Sorenson, who didn’t flinch for anyone, watch Cady out of the corners of their eyes.
“Really?” Cady said, “I’m making some for myself.”
“No coffee, Cady,” Chris said, the sharpness of his tone moderated by the fuzzy speakerphone sound quality.
“I’m sorry, Chris, I was driving under a bridge and didn’t hear that last bit,” she said, pouring beans into her fancy coffeemaker. “Come on, people. I don’t like to drink alone.”
“I’d love some,” Sorenson said. After that, the dam broke and everyone wanted coffee. Conn could almost smell Chris fuming away in Brooklyn as Cady happily scooped beans into the coffee maker’s reservoir.
“How’s the weather out east?” Conn asked casually.
“Typical December in the big city,” Chris said readily. “Yesterday it was in the fifties. Today the high is nineteen, and it’s going to get sloppy.”
Nothing anyone with a weather app couldn’t recite. Chris was no fool.
Coffees in hand, everyone clustered around the big island in the kitchen, Cady’s phone on speaker so Chris could hear everything and add to the conversation. Conn stood by Cady, both because he could, and because he wanted to keep one ear tuned to the background noise when he spoke. The guy was muting his end when he didn’t have something to say; there wasn’t enough static for the line to be open all the time.
They ran through official introductions so Chris would know who was who, then Hawthorn nodded at Conn. He flipped open his notebook and started the basic rundown of what had happened since he became Cady’s official bodyguard. It was embarrassingly short: threat level high, actual progress on said threat level low.
“Counselor, who knows Cady owns this house?”
Caleb didn’t bother to flip open the leather portfolio he’d brought with him. “All work and payments were processed through the limited liability corporation my firm set up for Cady. I know. My partner knows. Our paralegal knows. That’s it.”
Conn added three more people to his list of possible leaks.
“What are our next steps?” Hawthorn asked.
“We should install security cameras,” Conn said.
“No,” Cady said.
“I’m with Cady on this one,” Chris said from Brooklyn, or possibly from some hidey hole in the woods behind Cady’s house.
Conn’s gaze flickered to Hawthorn, who lifted one eyebrow ever so slightly. Cady missed this, because she was staring at the phone, coffee cup halfway to her lips. “Who are you and what have you done with my manager?”
“The best security you have right now is the fact that no one knows you bought this house,” Chris said. “If we involve a security company, that’s one more group of people who know someone important lives at that house. All we need is one curious tech starting to dig, ask questions, post pictures, and your privacy is gone. Then the security cameras are no longer optional.”
“People know where my mom lives,” Cady said to Conn. “That’s basically an open secret, and she doesn’t have security cameras.”
“Not that your mom’s not a lovely, lovely woman,” Chris said, “but no one really cares about her. Or your sister.”
“You’re pretty casual with the two people who matter most to Cady,” Conn said.
Silence from everyone around the kitchen island, and from Chris. Cady’s eyes were wide, unblinking. “You think this is a real threat. You’re not just being paranoid.”
“I’m absolutely, one hundred percent paranoid,” Conn said. “That’s my job. Over the last two weeks someone has taken down your website more than once and come into your home and stolen one of your most meaningful mementos. The attacks are getting closer. More personal. I’m making a very strong recommendation. You can choose not to take it, but if you don’t, you’re making my job that much harder.”
More silence.
“We can install the cameras,” Sorenson said. She was looking at Cady when she said it, not talking to Chris, or to Conn.
“We? As in one of your officers, who might also talk?” Chris asked.
“I can do it,” Sorenson said.
“Who are you? Have we met? How do I know you won’t talk?” Chris demanded.
Sorenson gave the phone a look that would have curdled milk. Dorchester hid a grin behind a cough. Hawthorn, as the ranking officer present, spoke. “The expression on Detective Sorenson’s face may not be translating well through the phone—”
“Actually, it is,” Chris said. “Ice crystals are forming on my screen as I speak.”
“I can assure you that you can trust the discretion of every officer in this room,” Hawthorn said smoothly.
“Up to you, Cady my dear.”
Cady worried at her lip again. “I really, really don’t want to do this,” she said. “Home is the only place I go where I don’t have to think about cameras. Every time I set foot off my property, I’m aware that someone could be taking my picture, or recording me. I have to think about what I’m wearing, doing, saying. Even here in Lancaster. It’s different than before.”
“Because you’re a bigger star now,” Chris interjected. “All the work, the millions the label has invested, is paying off. Just something to keep in mind, in case you were thinking about momentum. That sort of thing. Carry on.”
Conn glared at her. Millions? Millions invested in Cady’s next album?
It was Cady’s turn to look daggers at the phone. “But when I’m in my home, it’s the only place I can really relax. If you put up cameras, that changes the dynamic.”
“They’d be on the perimeter only,” Conn said, striving for reassuring. This wasn’t his forte, negotiating with people he cared about. “Entrances and exits. The woods.”
Cady shook her head. “It closes me down even more, Conn. My world is getting smaller and smaller when I need it to be big. Wide open. I need somewhere I can just be me. Not Maud. This house was supposed to be that place. Cameras turn it into a Maud space.”
He thought about what she said about needing lots of material, space, and time to write her songs. He thought about how small she was, how delicate, how easy it would be to hurt her. “Someone broke into your house. This is the safest thing we can do.”
“No one broke into my house,” she pointed out. “There were no signs of forced entry. Whoever it was had a key. We got the locks changed. I asked Mom to take the key off the hook by her back door. That’s going to narrow our field considerably.”
But not exclude Chris, who had now heard everything, and managed to talk Cady out of installing cameras.
“Trust me, Cady,” Conn said. The words echoed in his head. Trust me. Trust me. Trust me.
Cady looked at him, looked away, then glanced around the table. He was making this too intimate. He knew it, but didn’t care. If making her safe meant exposing how he felt, then he’d do it.
“No cameras. For now,” she said.
Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. They stared at each other for a second, and in that instant, Conn knew what he was going to do. He was going to install security cameras without her consent. He wasn’t trained in the technology, but he knew enough to figure out the basics. A couple of cameras transmitting on a secure wireless network to his laptop. No big deal. Cady didn’t want it, but the thought of someone sneaking in and out of her house made his skin crawl. He knew he was doing exactly what Hawthorn counseled him not to do, going rogue, but there was too much at stake.
Cady was at stake. Her safety, her security, her happiness. He’d probably just made the choice that would cost him her confidence, but better to remain alone than to be with her and lose her. He was used to alone. He was used to not letting the door hit him on the ass on the way out.
“No cameras,” he said, not at all surprised to hear how level his voice was.
“Great,” Chris said. “If we’re done, Cady, I need a few minutes.”
She picked up the phone, switched off the speaker mode, and walked toward the windows, her voice too low for Conn to hear. He pulled out his own cell phone and sent a text to Shane.
Need you to pick up a few things for me. He followed it up with a list. Cameras. Discreet, wireless, secured.
Shane’s reply was almost instantaneous. Want me to get the same setup I got for the garage? Easy to use.
Yes.
It’ll be cheaper online.
I need it ASAP.
I’m on it.
He turned to Hawthorn. Now was the time to tell him about Cesar’s accusation, something that had been circulating about the Block for a long time. But Conn wanted proof, something solid to take to his LT, something that protected his own hide. So he stuck to the subject at hand.
“I don’t trust her manager as far as I can throw him.”
“You don’t really have grounds not to trust him,” Hawthorn said, still focused on his spreadsheets or pie charts or tables.
“Besides the fact that Cady’s thinking about changing her direction in a way that could cost him his percentage of whatever Cady makes when her next album comes out?”
Finger poised over the power button, Hawthorn looked up from his laptop. “Come again?”
“I signed a confidentiality agreement. I can’t say anything more than this: Chris and Cady are butting heads over her future. He could lose big bucks in the coming year if Cady gets her way. You saw him, LT. Two weeks ago he was dead set on her having total protection, and now he talks her out of getting security cameras?”
“Understood,” Hawthorn said. “But none of this is what we’d normally classify as serious intent to harm.”
“Which is a flaw in the law, and in your way of thinking.” Caleb Webber spoke up unexpectedly. “It’s psychological. The most damaging thing you can do to a woman is make her think she’s not safe. As long as she thinks she isn’t, she’s off-balance, easier to control. This could easily be an attack not on her person but on her creativity.”
Sorenson’s face changed ever so slightly from professional blankness to faintly assessing. She gave him a small nod. “McCormick’s got a good point. Cady’s managed to tune out the internet trolls, but this is personal. If her manager wants to control her, this would go a long way toward doing that.”
“He’s not here, though,” Dorchester said. “You’d think he’d swoop in to save the day.”
“Maybe that’s the next step,” Conn said. “Freak her out, then calm her down. Problem solved, especially if the threats end.”
“Did anyone else hear the SoMa trolley in the background when Chris was talking?” Eve asked.
They all stared at her.
“You’re right,” Conn said. “That was the dinging during his call. I knew it was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.”
“The trolley quit running after Labor Day,” Eve said. “The city shut it down until the holiday season. It’s a great plan. They decorated the interior and exterior, and they’re using it to shuttle people between the different business districts. It gets people used to using the trolley, and it boosts traffic to the local shops.”
“If that’s the SoMa trolley, that means he’s still in Lancaster,” Conn said. “He lied to Cady. To me. He said he was going home. But he’s still in Lancaster.”
“You don’t know that,” Sorenson said. Caleb Webber stood to her left, watching the conversation with an intensity Caleb knew meant he was filing away every word.
“The trolley’s bells were modeled after the street cars that used to run in the fifties,” Eve said.
“Lots of cities had street cars,” Conn said, his brain working away furiously. “But not anymore.”
“San Francisco does,” Sorenson said. When Dorchester lifted an eyebrow at her, she added, “What? Vacation last year. They’re quaint.”
“He lives in Brooklyn,” Conn said, keeping the conversation on track.
“Are there street cars still running in Brooklyn?”
“No idea,” Conn said, and made a note to check.
Eve had tactfully wandered away to inspect the items on Cady’s shelves while Cady carried on her conversation with Chris. “We can’t do anything without her permission,” Hawthorn said, keeping his voice low. “We need proof he’s gaslighting her before we make an accusation like that.”
“I’ll get it,” Conn said. He’d get it or go down in flames trying.
“Don’t tell me anything else,” Hawthorn said, like he was reading Conn’s mind. “All I’ll say is this: You don’t need to make it stand up in court. You just need enough to make him stop.”
“I’ll get it, LT,” Conn repeated. “Can I have a minute before you leave?”
Hawthorn looked at him, then at Sorenson and Dorchester. “Head back to the precinct,” he said quietly.
“Call me if you need anything,” Caleb said to Cady. “The firm can handle any transaction for you, and run interference if you need it.”
“Thanks, Caleb.”
Dorchester collected Eve, following Caleb and Sorenson out the front door. It closed with a quiet snick of the latch. Conn wondered if everything Matt Dorchester did sounded lethal.
“What the progress into Jordy’s beatdown?”
“Nobody saw, heard, or did nothing, ever, in the history of the world,” Hawthorn said.
“Someone always rolls, LT,” Conn said.
“Not this time. This time, nobody’s talking. I offered every incentive I could think of to everyone who would normally sell his mother down the river to get a cop on his side. Not a thing.”
Conn shoved his fists into his pockets and blew out his breath, trying to get his emotions under control.
“I recognize that look on your face,” Hawthorn said. “It’s the look someone gets right before he does something he’ll have to explain later.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lieutenant.”
“Don’t feed me that line of bullshit, Officer McCormick,” Hawthorn said amiably. “You think this is the first time I’ve supervised a hotshot with a temper? I’ll give you a clue. It’s not. Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t.”
“Sir,” Conn said.
Hawthorn’s stare could have bored through steel. Conn knew his answer wasn’t an affirmative, but his time in the army taught him how and when to keep his mouth shut. When uncomfortable, most people talked to fill silences; it was one of a detective’s main staples to get information. Just wait, because the witness or the suspect would crack and start talking first.
But Hawthorn wasn’t a witness, or a suspect. He’d been a cop longer than Conn, and came from a family of cops. But Conn knew he didn’t have to outlast his LT. He just had to last long enough for Cady to get off the phone with Chris. But it was like being ground between two stones: the LPD and Cady’s safety.
“What are you two doing over here?” she asked. “Having a staring contest?”
“We’re coming to an agreement, Ms. Ward,” Hawthorn said, his gaze still fixed on Conn. He waited for his LT to throw him under the bus and tell Cady everything. “Is there anything else the department can do to help you feel safe?”
“No, thanks,” Cady said. “You’ve already done so much. I’m comfortable with where we’ve left things.”
“Then we will proceed exactly as we have been,” Hawthorn said, still looking at Conn.
Conn didn’t flinch. He didn’t so much as blink. It was easy enough for Hawthorn to make promises and walk away, back to his budget meetings and his statistics. He wasn’t the one guarding Cady every hour of every day, watching her struggle to finish her album, worry about her future, handle her family and friends and fans with grace and aplomb with this threat hanging over her head.
He wasn’t the one in love with her.
Oh, shit.
“Great,” Cady said cheerfully.
Conn startled before he remembered that while Cady’s songs made it seem like she could see into his soul, she couldn’t. She was looking at him like she’d looked at him every other second they’d been together, wary and fascinated, like she wanted to touch but wasn’t sure she could.
Hawthorn arched an eyebrow, clearly catching some nuance he’d missed before, one Conn didn’t want his LT recording, analyzing, slotting into the statistics and bar charts he probably kept on all his officers. Likes Indian food and country music. Drives a Bronco. Takes kids on ATV rides in the winter. Breeds angora rabbits because his daughter loves them. Divorced twice.
Falling in love with Cady Ward.
For the life of him, Conn couldn’t figure out how to get out of this one. Cady saved the day. She held out her hand to Hawthorn, gave him a wide smile, and said, “Thanks so much for coming all the way out here, Lieutenant Hawthorn. I really appreciate it. If you’re interested, I can get you tickets and backstage passes to the kick-off concert for my next tour. I always start in Lancaster.”
Hawthorn blushed. Conn got a grip on the counter, because the world was reeling on its moorings. Ian Hawthorn actually blushed like a little girl, the tips of his ears going as red as the tomatoes ripening on Cady’s counter. “That’s not necessary, Ms. Ward,” he said. “We’re just doing our jobs.”
Conn tried hard not to think about how extremely unprofessional his interactions with Cady had been as he watched Cady arch an eyebrow at Hawthorn. “You came to my house on a Saturday afternoon before the holidays. I’m sure you have better things to be doing, and I appreciate you going above and beyond to keep me safe. I’d be honored to have you come to the concert as my guest.”
Hawthorn struggled with professional ethics for maybe another five seconds, then gave in. “That would be great,” he said. “I used to watch you sing in SoMa, when I was on patrol.”
She smiled. “I’ll be in touch when we have a date, so I know how many tickets you want.”
She’d managed to totally disarm Hawthorn, something Conn had never seen in all his time working with the undercover unit. Hawthorn collected his folders and his laptop, pulled on his coat and said goodbye. When she closed the door behind him, she flipped the deadbolt and turned to Conn.
“What was that all about?”