Well, that was confusing.
Conn had assumed no-strings-attached sex with a hot celebrity would be fantastic. He didn’t think he was all that unusual—being used and left by a Hollywood star was supposed to fulfill every red-blooded American male’s wildest fantasy. The sex fit the bill—hot enough to turn his bones to ash, obviously just a thing she did to come down off the high of touring. She wasn’t looking for a relationship, and neither was he. No strings; no harm, no foul. He should have been cool with it. Thrilled.
He was, and he wasn’t.
Thinking about that while lying beside a sleeping Cady seemed dangerous, even more so when, beside him, Cady made a soft, throaty sound and snuggled into the pillows. He pulled the comforter up to her chin, scooted out from under the covers, snagged his jeans from the floor, and backed quietly out of her room, snagging his T-shirt from the hallway floor once he’d closed the bedroom door. Jeans on and buttoned, he put his hands on his hips and blew out a breath.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement in the front windows, a change in the way the light lay over the porch’s railing, nothing more. His heart rate spiked. His room overlooked the porch, while Cady’s faced the more private backyard. He ducked into his bedroom, pulling on his T-shirt as he did, and crept along the wall to the window. Parting the slats with his index finger, he scanned the front yard, thankful he’d spent the last thirty minutes in the dark with Cady since his eyes were already adjusted to the near total blackness. He found himself wishing for a few good, old-fashioned streetlights, because he couldn’t see anything beyond the ornamental evergreen pots lining the porch.
A car door slammed down the street, then an engine turned over.
“Fuck.” He sprinted for the front door, clearing the steps to the slate sidewalk in a single drop. By the time he reached the end of the curving driveway, the car was gone, red taillights visible rounding the bend.
He almost, almost sprinted up the hill in his jeans and T-shirt, but the thought of leaving Cady alone in the house stopped him. This could have been a distraction. He trotted back up the driveway, steam rising from his skin into the cold air. He’d left the front door wide open. He closed it and went into full cop mode.
The first room he checked was Cady’s. No difference there. Only her hair was visible above the comforter. He checked the closets, bathroom, and under the goddamn bed, all the while listening to her steady, deep breathing. Trustingly out for the count.
The rest of the house was empty. A quick search of the likely hiding places in the backyard turned up a possum who scared Conn almost as badly as Conn scared him before scuttling into the safety of the woods. Conn sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that he wouldn’t have to write a report explaining why he’d shot a really ridiculous animal, holstered his gun, and tried to bring his heart rate under two hundred.
Two things were now clear. One, whoever had been in the car acted alone. Two, this gave him a valid reason to talk to Hawthorn. Back in the house, he called Hawthorn’s cell. The LT answered with his last name, as usual.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No. I’m at Cady’s house. Do you have the address?
“Yes,” Hawthorn said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Conn gave him the gate code. “Don’t ring the doorbell when you get here.”
Hawthorn disconnected without even asking why. Conn took advantage of the delay to take a fast shower, with all the doors between him and Cady open and his gun on the sink. He was dressed in his game face and all his gear when Hawthorn tapped one knuckle on the window. Conn unlocked the front door and opened it.
“Why can’t I ring the bell?” Hawthorn said from the porch.
“Cady’s asleep. She finally crashed a couple of hours ago,” Conn said, truthfully. After Hawthorn walked in, Conn peered into the darkness. Hawthorn’s SUV was parked behind a stand of evergreen trees, out of sight from the road. Conn shut the door behind him, then explained what happened, leaving out the sex-with-the-star part.
“No one’s here?” Hawthorn leaned against the kitchen island, looking at Conn like he knew all his secrets.
“I checked the house and the property. Nearly shot a possum in the process.”
That got him one of Hawthorn’s rare quick grins. “How many people know where she lives?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’ll get a list tomorrow. Not many. She said she just bought the house, through a holding company or something. Her family. Her manager. Maybe a few friends?”
“People talk. ‘I know where Queen Maud lives’ is big-time social currency. Get that list and we’ll start running it down. Chances are it was a friend of a friend after a peek into the lifestyles of the rich and famous.”
Conn looked around the house. Hawthorn had grown up on the Hill, so he doubted the house was all that different from what Hawthorn was accustomed to. “What if it’s not?”
“That’s what you’re here for.” Hawthorn studied him. “You kept my file on Jordy Bettis.”
Conn shot him a look that stopped just short of insubordination. “You knew I would.”
Hawthorn folded his arms. “Any ideas?”
“I’ve been thinking about Jordy’s known associates.”
“The Strykers.”
“They’re in a turf war with the Demons.”
“Go on.”
Conn tried not to feel like he was back in college, giving a presentation to his classmates. This wasn’t his comfort zone. This kind of thinking was one step above the typical patrol cop’s response to calls, normally reserved for detectives and officers well above his pay grade “Someone from the Demons would have access to him in jail.”
“Go on,” Hawthorn said.
“What’s strange is that I’m named in the complaint. When gang violence spills back into the prison system, usually no one saw nothing, including the guy who took a beating. Even when cops or COs do give a beatdown, nobody saw nothing. “
Hawthorn quirked an eyebrow.
“So,” Conn said slowly, working it out in his head, “either someone in the Strykers has it out for me, or one of the guys at the jail does.”
Hawthorn nodded. “Exactly. Start thinking about all the people you’ve pissed off, McCormick. Make that list. Then we’ll talk.”
“It’s going to be a long list, LT.”
“You got another idea?”
“Were there any cameras in the vicinity of where the beating went down?”
Hawthorn shook his head. “This was pretty carefully planned.”
After a long pause, Conn said, “Looks like I’m making that list.”
Except he did have another idea, one he’d keep to himself for the time being. His LT was still thinking by the book, like he always did. But Conn had other channels for information, and tomorrow, he’d follow up with Kenny.
* * *
He slept fully clothed and lightly, waking at the slightest scratching on the roof or a sharp crack of wood outside. When the sky turned gray, he got up, searched for coffee until he remembered she didn’t drink anything high octane, and settled for a diet soda, grimacing at the chemical aftertaste. The woods seemed less threatening this morning: bare trunks and branches stark against the thin winter sky. Mounds of leaves and fallen logs gave the hillside a rustic look, if you were into that sort of thing. He had a long time to stare at them while he ran on her treadmill and worked his way through a TRX routine, his attention split between listening for any signs of life upstairs and looking for movement outside.
Turning the TV on gave him something to do. Alternating between texting Shane to check on the fuel pump repair and starting the list of people who could carry a grudge against him filled the commercials. Around eleven Cady’s bedroom door opened. He looked up and did a double take. Her hair was a wild rat’s nest around her head, and not in a good, sexy-angel-just-out-of-bed way.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said through a huge yawn. “Welcome to reality.”
He watched her shuffle over to the counter and run water into the steamer, then drape a towel over her head and hunch over the machine. A few minutes later she emerged, red-faced and with some hair clinging to her damp face. She rummaged in the fridge and came up with two hard-boiled eggs, already peeled, and an English muffin.
“We’re due at Eye Candy at four,” he said as she shuffled back toward her bedroom, chewing a big bite of egg. “Yeah,” she said again, giving him a distracted wave of her hand. The door closed, the bedsprings creaked, and then silence.
This was more boring than the days he spent doing surveillance on Matt Dorchester’s house last summer. He channel-surfed until he found one of the Bourne movies, and settled down to pass the time.
Just after two he heard the shower turn on. Forty-five minutes later the blow dryer shut off and Cady Ward, singer-songwriter, celebrity, walked out of her bedroom, slipping the wide green bracelet she always wore onto her left arm. She wore skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and a soft V-neck gray sweater that exposed her sternum and throat. Her hair had been tamed and curled into thick waves, and she wore enough makeup to look slightly mysterious. He caught himself before he did a double take, because her boobs were noticeably bigger. She carried a guitar case she set down beside the door, then turned for the kitchen. A minute later she had a thick paste of honey in the bottom of the travel mug and water boiling in an electric kettle. A quick stir, then she was back in the foyer, digging in a huge, fancy-looking leather bag.
“I’m starving,” she said without looking up. “Lunch?”
“Whatever you feel like,” he said.
“I feel like Sunny Side Up.” She cursed, then set the bag on the bench beside the door, went to her heels, and started taking things out of it. Wallet, keys, tablet, bottles of over-the-counter pain relievers, an e-reader, gum, lipsticks, a pair of leather gloves. He stared, fascinated. “But you ate there yesterday.”
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I could smell the gravy.”
“I can eat there again,” he said.
“Good, because it’s close to Eye Candy and we’re running late. Aha!”
She pulled a pair of starlet sunglasses from the bottom of the bag and started jamming the contents back in while he shrugged into his jacket. She unwound a thick, soft, purple scarf from the old-fashioned hat rack and wrapped it around her throat, then added a denim jacket to the ensemble before finishing with her puffy down coat. With the sunglasses she looked remote, untouchable.
Not at all like Queen Maud, or the woman who’d propositioned him the night before, yet somehow exactly like the kind of woman who’d proposition her body man.
“What?” she said as she led him through the house to the garage.
He’d thought he was keeping this pretty under control, but maybe not. The conversation at the Block hadn’t covered who to tell about incidents. Was Cady on the need-to-know list? Was Chris?
He’d told Hawthorn. Good enough for now. He jabbed the button to open the garage door and said the first thing that came to mind. “Why do your breasts look bigger?”
She laughed. She unzipped her jacket and reached into her bra, holding up what looked like a really flexible gel pad. He gaped at it, then overcorrected to avoid hitting one of the big evergreens lining the driveway. “There are my boobs, the very small ones God gave me. These are my backup boobs. They give me the cleavage God didn’t.”
Fascinated, he handled one. It was warm to the touch and had the consistency of a thin piece of raw chicken. “Why do you wear them?”
“It’s part of my image. My label believes boobs, as well as my voice, sell albums, songs, concert tickets, and merch.”
“And you’re wearing them today because…?”
“Interviews where photographs will be taken require the backup boobs.”
“Okay,” he said, as if it made sense.
“Come on,” she said, tucking the gel pad back into her bra. “That can’t be the weirdest thing you’ve heard in your line of work.”
He turned right out of the community’s pompous gates and headed back into Lancaster. “Are we including unmedicated paranoid schizophrenics? Then no. It’s top five on the list of weirdest things I’ve heard from people who don’t talk to their toasters.”
“Well,” she said lightly, and turned to stare out the window at the barren fields. “Sorry for the false advertising.”
He processed that, remembering the reality comment when she stumbled out of bed a few hours earlier. Did men go to bed with Queen Maud and gripe about waking up with Cady? “I wasn’t complaining,” he said after a couple of miles.
She turned to look at him, all big sunglasses and red lips, still swollen from his kiss.
“I wasn’t. We were…” He paused, not sure what to say to someone so clearly out of his league. “It was really good.”
Her lips curved into a smile, one he could tell reached her eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
At the diner she got the chicken fried steak and fries, and ate two thirds of the platter. Aside from a couple of glances, and every cook in the kitchen peering through the window at her, no one approached her. He stopped her when she pulled out her wallet at the end of the meal.
“I’ve got it this time.”
“Are you getting reimbursed for your expenses?”
He laughed as he thumbed through his cash and dropped a couple of bills on the table.
“Apparently not,” she said. At least she could find her own naiveté amusing.
“I have no idea how this works,” he said. He zipped up his jacket and shrugged to release the tail from his gun. “Maybe I’m supposed to submit expenses? Hawthorn didn’t say one way or the other.”
“It’s easier for me to just pay,” she said. She picked up the money and offered it back to him. “It’s a tax deduction for me. I think.”
He looked at her. This wasn’t a date, but something about her buying his meals raised his hackles. “It’s business.”
Her cheeks turned a shade of pink that went nicely with the thick purple scarf. “Mostly business.”
Keeping his emotions locked down, not getting attached to people who might leave, which was everyone except his fellow cops, was his specialty. But the sore twinge in his chest when she said it was an old, familiar hurt. Don’t get your hopes up. There’s nothing to hope for here.
He took the money back, folded the bills, and tucked them away. She left the same amount on the table. “Ready?”
“Let’s go.”
A smooth transition to the car, then they were back on the road, headed for Eye Candy. “You’re going to be late.”
“It’s expected,” she said, her attention focused on the street. “Things are looking good.”
He didn’t say anything. He saw too much of the East Side’s underbelly to appreciate a few planters and a couple of new businesses.
Eye Candy was located on the next street over from the construction zone for Mobile Media’s new data division and call center. The front of the bar faced Thirteenth Street while the back patio’s wrought-iron fence opened to what would be Mobile Media’s nicely landscaped headquarters. Right now bulldozers, cement trucks, and a huge crane dominated a big hole in the ground, girders and concrete rising from the poured foundation.
The door opened and Matt Dorchester’s girlfriend Eve braced it open. The skirt of her gray dress swirled in the wind as she called, “Hi! Get in here before you freeze to death!”
More hugging while he stood off to the side and did his job. No one had followed them from the restaurant, but he couldn’t shake the memory of the car’s taillights, bloodred and ominous as they disappeared over the hill. He’d been in the bar before, when Eve had worked as an informant for the department. He was never quite sure what to say around her, for two reasons. A few months earlier in the heat of the summer, he’d killed someone in front of her. Heroics aside, in the aftermath, it was awkward. The other reason was that he’d never seen two people look at each other like Eve and Matt did: as long as they had each other, they could handle anything.
“Is Matt coming later?” Cady asked, shrugging out of her coat.
“He thinks so. It depends on calls. Give me your purse, too. I’ll put them both upstairs in my office. Get whatever you want from the bar,” she called as she climbed the stairs. Eve navigated the spiral staircase pretty well for a tall woman in spike heels.
Cady walked behind the bar and surveyed the worktop like she knew what she was doing. “What can I get you?”
“Coke,” Conn said.
She scooped ice then aimed the nozzle into one of those tall slender glasses that holds far less than it looks like it does, then ran water for herself. He raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve spent more than my fair share of time in bars,” she said. “Singing, waitressing, bartending. For a while I thought that’s as far as I’d go. Thanks for letting me do the interview here,” Cady said when Eve crossed the dance floor.
“Are you serious? You’re doing me a favor,” Eve said, settling onto one of the bar stools. Both women had their cell phones out for a selfie. There was a moment of silence when he assumed they were posting to various social media sites. Eve set her phone facedown on the bar. “I can’t buy publicity like this, and it’s good to be in the paper for my actual business plan—entertaining people—not for taking down a drug ring.”
“Did business fall off after what happened?”
“Immediately after, no,” Eve said. “Lots of gawkers and first-time customers. We had a couple of slow months in the fall, but after I opened the patio for a Halloween party it picked back up again.”
Cady nodded. “You’ve got to keep things fresh.”
A brisk round of knocks ended the conversation. Cady unwrapped her scarf while Eve let in a woman carrying a big purse and a man with camera equipment around his neck. Conn sized them up. The photographer wore credentials for the Star Trib, and had been around a few crime scenes. He recognized the reporter, Hannah Rafferty, from her picture next to the columns she wrote. Human interest stuff, mostly. Features seemed to be her specialty. He turned his attention back to Cady, to find that she’d changed once again, holding herself straighter, cocking her head to the side just a bit, a big smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes on her face. Even her laughter and voice were different, a little higher, a little younger.
So there was concert Cady, sleepy Cady, at-home Cady, and now this Cady, who seemed to be a dialed-down iteration of concert Cady, wearing a version of the same smiling mask.
He understood why. He did the same thing himself. The man who appeared in photos with Shane didn’t look much like the cop he glimpsed in the rearview mirror during a traffic stop or in plate glass windows at crime scenes. But this, with the makeup and hair and clothes, was almost a disappearing act.
He faded into the background while the reporter, photographer, and Cady determined the best location for the interview. They settled on the bar, Cady directly under one of the canister lights.
“Mind if I record this?”
“Not at all,” Cady said.
Hannah set her phone on the bar, then flipped open a notebook. “It’s nice to see you again. I think the last time we talked was about this time last year, when your first hit went big. How does it feel to be back in Lancaster?”
“Good. Really good. I noticed the new planters on Thirteenth Street, and there’s a building going up in the big hole in the ground behind Eye Candy.”
“No grass growing here,” Eve said, to polite laughter.
Hannah’s pen moved swiftly across the page but her eyes never left Cady’s. “You were on the road for six months?”
“Eight. Not that I’m counting,” Cady said. More polite laughter. “The opportunities just kept coming, each too good to pass up, a regional tour, then a national tour. I was fortunate enough to sing in new venues, in front of different audiences. I couldn’t ask for more.”
“Beats the state fair circuit?”
“Oh, I like the state fairs. The midways and the crowds, they’re just this fabulous cross section of humanity, and the smell of machine oil and sweat and funnel cakes. I like wandering through the barns, too.”
“Really? I’ve covered my share of state fairs. You must have been seeing something I wasn’t.”
“I liked watching people get their animals ready to show. The girls grooming horses, or fluffing the cow’s hide so it shows better. Bathing sheep. It’s so different from anything I know.”
Conn all but gaped at her. The woman swaying on her feet from exhaustion after eight months on the road was gone, replaced by the smiling shell who was always ready to give her fans more of what they wanted.
“Speaking of the music business, what’s next for you?”
“I’m taking some time off around the holidays,” she said smoothly. “Christmas is an important time for my family, and I’m happy to be home for longer than a couple of days.”
“You missed all of the excitement that happened here last summer,” the reporter said.
“Eve told me what happened. I was so afraid for her, but also really proud. We have to take a stand if we’re going to transform the East Side and ensure all of Lancaster continues to grow. Eve’s done the hard work for us. Now it’s up to the rest of the community to build on the momentum.”
“Is that the reason for the concert tonight?”
“We are taking a free-will donation to support the community center, but the main reason for the concert is to give back to the people who’ve supported me and my music from the beginning.”
“How do you keep your voice fresh?”
“I’ve got a comprehensive regime designed specifically to take care of it.”
Cady launched into a description of steam, hot soothing drinks, no caffeine or alcohol or soft drinks, enforced rest periods between shows, which lead to the question everyone seemed to want answered.…
“When is your next album coming out?”
“We’ve been working on material for a while now, and I’m pretty hopeful it will be ready to go soon.”
Nice. All true, nothing specific. Which occurred to Hannah too. “Come on. Throw me a bone here,” she said, like they were besties.
Cady shook her head, smiling that big smile all the while. “I understand people are excited for new material, and I’m so grateful for their enthusiasm. We’re just making sure what we release is worthy of their excitement.”
Hannah looked at her list of questions. “And what about Harry Linton?”
The big smile never faded. Conn was absolutely amazed how she handled such personal questions, asked as if people had every right to know all the details of her personal life. “He’s a friend, that’s all.”
“So you’re not planning to fly over to see him? That was on Twitter earlier today.”
“Was it? I can assure you the last thing I want to do right now is get on another bus, or plane, or train.” She and Hannah both laughed. “No, I’m spending the holidays with my family.”
“So you’re broken up?”
“I don’t believe either of us confirmed we were together, so I can’t say we’re broken up.” A response worthy of a defense attorney. “I’m fortunate to call Harry a good friend.”
The interview wound down as Eve’s staff started to set up seating for the show, carrying chairs from a storeroom out the back door to the patio, now enclosed in a big white tent. Cady posed for a few official pictures, then with Hannah, the photographer, and a couple of Eve’s staff.
“I’ll take care of the mic and amp myself,” Cady said.
Eve flashed her a thumbs-up and stepped out of the path of an employee wheeling out another stack of chairs. Conn’s eyes narrowed. Most of the back-office staff had gang ink he recognized.
“Eve certainly puts her money where her mouth is,” Hannah said. Her observant gaze followed Conn’s and connected the dots. “Even after what happened. It’s commendable.”
“She doesn’t back down,” Cady said. “That’s why I’m happy to be here, supporting her work. Thanks for the interview. I need to get ready to sing.”
Hannah’s gaze flashed over to Conn. “Officer McCormick, you were part of the team that rescued Eve when Hector Santiago kidnapped her.”
“I was,” he said. No use in denying it. His role was a matter of public record.
Hannah stayed by his side while her photographer reviewed shots. “Why does she have police protection?”
Conn said nothing. Even without the confidentiality agreement, he wouldn’t give a reporter a single detail about Cady.
“Is this an official presence, or part of the off-duty work officers can do?”
“Any questions about the LPD’s role in Ms. Ward’s security detail can be directed to Lieutenant Hawthorn, East Side Precinct.”
“You’re just the muscle?”
“I’m just the muscle.”
Hannah all but rolled her eyes. “What’s she like when she’s not performing?”
“You just talked to her for thirty minutes,” Conn pointed out, keeping one eye on Cady.
“And she was performing every single second of those thirty minutes.” Hannah looked at him. Conn just stared back, expressionless. He was beginning to understand why Chris had him sign the confidentiality agreement. Twenty-four hours into this gig and he could blow Cady’s privacy all to hell, putting Cady in danger and making the department look like a bunch of unprofessional amateurs.
“Maybe none of us know,” Hannah said. She collected her photographer and left. Outside the door a line had already formed. He made a mental note to check in with the bouncer before he opened up, and see if Eve could spare another big guy in case the crowd got out of hand. Getting Cady to safety would be easy; the big gates on the far side of the patio were unlocked, simply barred with a bolt.
He walked through the double doors leading to the patio, where a crew was setting up a temporary bar and three big heaters were blasting away. Cady was unpacking equipment when he approached. “Don’t you have someone to do that for you?”
“It’s a single amp,” she said, uncoiling a cord. A glass of ice water and her mug of hot water and honey sat next to a stool. “I’ve done it myself literally thousands of times.”
“Are all interviews like that one?”
“That was pretty standard. Why?”
She was so small. So vulnerable. A powerful, protective urge swept through him, to keep her safe, bundle her away so she could get the quiet and privacy she obviously wanted. “Never mind,” he said.
That kind of tenderness was unfamiliar, a little scary. He needed space, so he fell back on what he knew, crossing the dance floor to talk to the big bouncer waiting by the door. The guy was Conn’s height and wider, but he shifted his weight and forced himself to make eye contact as Conn approached. He was a big, open-hearted puppy. This guy wouldn’t have lasted five minutes on the streets.
“What’s your name?” Conn asked. His mental database was coming up blank for a name or an arrest history, but gang ink doesn’t lie. If he was inked and didn’t have a record, he was the first in history.
“Cesar.”
“Worked here long?”
He straightened his shoulders and met Conn’s gaze, like he’d remembered a lesson in interpersonal communication skills. “Ever since Miss Eve opened.”
“You a friend of hers?”
Cesar nodded.
“I’m Ms. Ward’s security detail.”
Matt Dorchester strode in from the parking lot and nodded a greeting to Conn. Conn threw a quick glance at Cesar. Matt gave an almost imperceptible nod to indicate Cesar was okay.
“I’ve got the entrance to the patio,” Matt said. “See you in a few.”
“You tight with Dorchester?”
“Yeah,” Conn said, then remembered he wasn’t in uniform or wearing his name tag. If it would get him Cesar’s focus on the line now stretching down the block to see Cady sing, he’d play up the connection. “I was there when he took down Santiago,” he said, aligning himself with Eve, Matt, and everything they were doing to clean up the East Side’s drug and gang problem.
Recognition flickered in Cesar’s eyes. Good.
“You’ve got a handle on that line?” Conn said.
“Yessir,” Cesar said firmly. “I’ve got this.”
“Good.” He pulled out his phone and took Cesar’s number, then texted him. “That’s me. Text or call if you see any trouble.”