Chapter Eight

 

There was a cold snap that evening. At Rhubarb and Ginger, Grady waited at a table for three. He’d brought his son on his dinner date with Tori. He’d texted her.

She sent him a message. “I’m delighted Shane can join us,” which surprised him but didn’t make her his type.

Other than her strong will, she was much too good-natured and sweet. As a divorced parent, he needed a simple, convenient arrangement. No strings. In spite of her gun-packing, mob background, family-oriented Tori might want marriage.

“Where’s Tori?” Shane asked. “I really liked those corn dogs.”

“Deep fried to taste.” He handed Shane a menu. “At this restaurant, if you like soup, there’s mulligatawny. It’s a chicken soup with vegetables and slices of apple.” He took a moment to savor the welcome warmth which had something to do with supportive testimonies.

Waitresses, Emma and Luanne, were not working tonight, but fiddles and accordions hummed under the buzz of conversation.

Shane leaned over the menu, elbows on the table. “Whoops, I forgot.” He pulled his elbows back. If Suzanne were here, she’d hit him upside the head. Shane put down his menu. “I’ll have a hamburger with bacon.”

“Okay,” Grady said. “It’s served with potatoes.”

“How about potatoes like French fries?” Tori breezed over, leaned down, and smiled at his son. “Nice to see you, Shane.”

Her eyes seemed brown tonight. Sometimes they were gold. “You look great. That’s some dress you’re wearing.”

“Thanks. This is the first time I’ve worn a dress in ten years. I like how the skirt spins when I turn. Look.”

As she spun, he admired her shapely legs. “How did you know blue was my favorite color?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” She boosted her bottom onto the chair next to Shane. “Bacon adds flavor to a hamburger.”

“That’s what I think.” Shane started chattering like a seven-year-old high on life. “My friend Abdul has two goldfish.”

“What are their names?” She tucked her knees to one side, her feet in high heels. She was one long, elegant line all the way down to the delicate scoop of her ankle bones, with interesting curves in between. Not that she was the curvy sort. She wasn’t, not exactly, but with those legs, she wore a skirt to perfection.

“One goldfish is named Sippy,” Shane said. “Piggy is the big one.”

“Piggy. Cute name for a fish.” She pursed her lips and made slurping noises like a pig at a trough.

“Hee, hee, hee. You’re silly.”

She placed a finger in the space between her nostrils and pulled her nose upward. She rolled her eyes back into their sockets until only the whites were visible and then said, “I’m going to be Miss Piggy for Halloween.”

Grady chuckled over the pig face she’d made and wondered how she learned to handle kids like that.

“I’m going to be Iron Man.” Shane put his hands on his hips. “Dad ordered the same costume in his size. Have you seen the movie?”

“I haven’t, but I’d like to.” A smile lingered on her lips.

“Halloween falls on a Saturday this year.” Grady perched on the edge of his chair, heart swelling at the ray of sunshine she’d just showered on his son. He fought to disentangle himself from the invisible thread forming between them.

They were partners searching for Seamus McGinn. How was he going to maintain his sanity with this irresistible woman in his life? Heat generated in his loins, and his heart hammered in his chest.

He was born and raised in a solid, third-generation military family. His father was a JAG lawyer, and his mother taught third grade on the base at Miramar. His sister, Mandy, served as a pilot in the navy. Not one to make snap judgements, Mandy never clicked with Susanne, and his parents were silent on the topic.

As he gazed at Tori, sitting in her proper clothing, admiration radiated through his veins. “How did your meeting go at city hall?”

“It went fine. Luis Otero introduced me. About twenty people attended, including Agent Guhleman. A rep from the waterfront union said McGinn owned that club we visited. Anyway, we focused on the topic of rehabilitation for the neighborhood.” Her shoulders stiffened and her eyes flashed with pride.

“Rehabilitation can happen after crime is tamped down,” he said.

She nodded. “After the meeting, Agent Guhleman pulled me aside. He suggested I visit the garden store, Petals.” Her lips relaxed into a smile.

“Can you buy plants for my window boxes?” He pulled out bills from his wallet and handed a hundred dollars to her.

“Lobelia flowers come in blue and trail over the sides.” She tucked the bills into her purse without looking at them. In public, she appeared prim, but alone with him, she possessed an uninhibited streak he found to be his undoing.

Amusement sparked in her eyes. When his gaze roamed down her body, she tightened her arms across her chest, causing her perky breasts to push upward. “Excuse me for just a minute. Nature calls.”

As Grady watched her walk away, a fire kindled deep within him. He took in the delicate sway of her hips and buttocks.

She was trouble.

* * *

“Dinner was lovely,” Tori said. “I had a whale of a good time.”

Shane bent forward, planted his elbows on the table, and rubbed his temples. “A whale of a good time?”

“Oh,” she said, “that means a big, wonderful time.”

“I have a whale of a time,” he said, “with my new friend.”

“Friends are important.” Grady held up his coffee mug. “Cheers.”

“You know what, Dad?” Shane dropped his dessert fork on the table.

“What, son?” He smiled at the enthusiasm in Shane’s eyes. Since the three of them sat down to eat, he’d been talking nonstop about his afternoon with his friend, Abdul.

His son said, “Abdul is getting a puppy.”

“What kind of puppy?” Tori asked.

Maybe it was time for a dog. Grady wiped his mouth with his napkin and placed it back on his lap.

“A pitbull. When he grows up, he’ll guard their store. Abdul said his big brother lives there, too.”

“A pitbull is a very strong dog,” Tori said. “Has Abdul named his puppy?”

“Petals,” Shane said, “named after their store.”

“Guess our neighbors own the garden center.” Fletcher forced himself to calm down.

The silence was suffocating. The owners had avoided Tori. What were they hiding? Or, were they afraid?

Finally, Tori said, “Well, guess what? I’ve been offered a dog.” Her words were warm and clear. “Health regulations don’t allow animals in a food truck. Mine isn’t in business right now, though.”

“What kind of dog?” Grady winked at Tori.

“A bloodhound.” She turned toward Shane. “His name is Sherlock. He’s old and had to retire from the police department.”

“Sherlock,” Shane said. “I bet he’s the bestest dog ever.”

“Well trained, too,” Tori said. “He likes other dogs. Maybe he and Petals can be friends.”

The excitement in his son’s eyes filled Grady’s soul with gratitude. He smiled at Tori, hoping she understood what dog-talk meant to him. “Where’s Sherlock now?”

“In my truck,” Tori said, “sniffing at everyone passing by.”

“I wish I had a dog.” Shane had the most pitiful eyes.

Tori took his small hand in hers. “Sherlock can be your dog. I’ll be your dog sitter when you and your dad are busy.”

“A dog for me?” Shane jumped out of his chair and ran to his dad. “Are we busy tonight?”

“Not too busy for Sherlock.” Grady closed his eyes as he leaned to hug his son.

Shane moved onto his lap.

God, he loved Shane so much and cherished him with everything good in himself. He pried Shane’s arms from around his neck and peered into his eyes. “Congratulations, you finally got a dog,” he said, placing him on the floor.

Shane raced toward the door of the restaurant without so much as a backward glance.

Grady turned his attention to Tori who’d bolted from her chair to catch up with him.

With a hand on Shane’s shoulder, she turned to wave at Grady before they headed out.

He took a few moments to pay the bill and collect his thoughts before he strolled from the restaurant. He spotted them at the passenger side of her truck. Tori held Shane at dog level.

Shane ran a hand over the dog’s smooth head and glanced at his dad. “You have a backyard.”

“Yup, surrounded by picket fence, but a dog needs walks.”

“Especially a dog this big,” Tori said, a smile tipping the corners of her mouth. “Sherlock likes to track on a trail. If you give him a scent, he’ll find the person with that scent.”

Tracking. Grady tensed with dread over Tori’s ongoing effort to find Vivienne. “What plans are up your sleeve?”

“My first one isn’t for Sherlock. I need to get into the second level of you-know-where,” she said, referring to the strip club.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, a bad feeling sinking in his gut.

“You will?” She stared at him, eyes wide and filled with gratitude. “Sherlock will take the lead on my second plan.”

“Finding Vivienne?” He balled his fists at his sides and looked away. His head throbbed over her risky search. He made the mistake of meeting her gaze. The look on her face pleaded for understanding. Her persistence overpowered his energy to stop her.

“She’s in danger.” The hopeful woman gazed up at him with eyes filled with warmth, the kind of down-to-earth warmth he longed to have wrapped around him.

“The mob hates anti-extortion squads,” he reminded her.

She waved off his warning. “About tonight,” she said. “Sherlock and I will sleep on the carpet in your office.”

It was crazy, her in his office, but necessary. As necessary as air. “Sounds good. Does our pet sitter have pajamas?”

“I brought them, an overnight bag, sleeping bag, plaid dog bed, and this cute dog toy.” She held up a miniature plush bloodhound and directed her conversation at Shane. “I play with this with Sherlock. It smells like me. If I hide, he finds me.”

Grady turned to face her, hands on hips, brow arched, and she sighed. “Serious business.”

“Having a dog is serious business.” Shane echoed the reason why he had never been allowed to have one.

“Very serious,” she said. “I also have a bag of serious formula dog food. No grain.”

Her concern with details seeped through his skin, into his heart. She didn’t want to cause him any difficulty. “You’re remarkable.”

* * *

In the afternoon of the next day, Grady and Guhleman arrived at the coroner’s office.

Six hours earlier, the doorbell to Grady’s office had rung. Tori had answered the front door and, after speaking with Gary Guhleman, learned the corpse of a Nebraska farmer had been transported to medical examiners in Long Beach.

“The Winter project,” was all the agent needed to say.

Tori had offered to drive Shane to school that morning. “Sherlock’s coming with us,” she’d yelled down the hall.

In no time, Shane had appeared, dressed and ready. “Can Sherlock walk me from your truck to meet my friends?”

“Of course. Sherlock is your dog.” She’d handed the leash to Shane who’d looked deliriously happy, and then had turned to Grady. “After school, Susanne is coming for Shane. Don’t think I’m foolhardy. With the Irish mob on my tail, your son is safer with his mom than with me.”

The air stuttered in his throat. “I fear for you, too.” He closed his eyes tight, grateful today for Susanne’s presence and Tori’s concern. At seven years old, Shane began the slow, inconspicuous, sometimes arduous process of finding his way. His way benefitted from their over-arching shield.

* * *

At the coroner’s office, Grady stood with Guhleman, about to witness an autopsy. Both wore white protective biohazard suits and stared at the draped body on the examining table.

Grady pressed his face against the plastic of the hood. Able to hide disdain for what they were about to witness, a soft fan pumped air through an attached hose. He breathed clean air.

The suited-up coroner, Dr. Hoag, used a gloved hand to lift the sheet. “As you can see, this man suffered. Terribly.” The corpse, covered with boils and pustules from head to toe, was once a successful cattleman.

Grady scanned Guhleman’s face, where a thin film of sweat formed on his forehead.

Uncertainty flickered through his eyes, but Guhleman hung tough and bent closer at the man lying before them. “Farmer Harry Anderson gave us a break. A year ago he was one of fifty recipients of bags of fertilizer for sorghum crops.”

Grady turned to him. “At the time, Dr. Winter’s lab rats didn’t show unwelcome development.”

“Correct,” Guhleman said with a tired sigh. “As Winter began filling out paperwork, results revealed the cruel truth.” Guhleman backed away from the table. “Once he knew, he put out a warning and recalled the fertilizer.”

“No one should die like this.” Grady flinched as agitation welled from a place so deep inside, it felt like a crevasse. For seven years, he’d defined himself as a lawyer, but in this case, who was to blame? Dr. Winter had recalled the fertilizer that Anderson kept and used. The worst thing that could happen, happened.

As the coroner wheeled the corpse away, a tense silence followed. Grady called after him, “Thank you, Dr. Hoag.”

“Thanks, doc,” Guhleman echoed, and the two of them passed through double doors to the outer office. “Wouldn’t you know it,” the agent said. “Anderson’s crops flourished, and cattle had plenty to eat. None showed signs of infection when he sent a cow to the packing plant.” The agent shook his head.

“A single cow?” Grady asked.

“Right, packages of various cuts filled up his home freezer.” Regret softened Guhleman’s voice, and he rubbed his chin.

“I see. Anderson consumed his own meat.” Grady was only vaguely aware of their conversation. He was thinking how long it would take for this toxin to make it into fertilizer bags for mass distribution.

Guhleman stood there for a second and then muttered, “Our bachelor farmer made a pot roast and called the doctor the next day.”

Grady felt a vibration in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He looked at the caller ID, pressed the answer button, and put the phone at his ear. “Hey, Tori. What’s up?” With his other hand, he removed the white protective clothing and tossed them into a bin.

“I’m walking Sherlock in an alley behind the garden store. I overheard a conversation.”

“Hold on.” He pushed a button. “Just so you know, you’re on speaker with Guhleman.” He motioned him over.

“Tori,” the agent said, “conversation between whom?”

“Between Abdul’s older brother, Nassar, and another Arab guy,” she said in response. “He gave him travel tips to Syria.”

Guhleman raised an eyebrow. “By doing what?”

“Told Nassar to buy gift cards for mobile messaging accounts. He wrote down a code for Islamic State recruiting. So, weird, isn’t it?” she asked.

“It makes joining up feel special.” Grady froze over the damage done by recruits.

Guhleman poked his face closer. “Recruits fork out money just like pledges do when they join a frat.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “Another thing, a long hauler delivered bags of fertilizer.”

Grady clenched his fists. “Not a pickup?”

“Nope, a gigantic Mack.”

“We know about the fertilizer. The fertilizer will go from the back alley to a warehouse.” Guhleman took his cellphone. “Tori. We’ve got a Syrian working undercover. Describe the guy for me.”

“Tight pants, scraggly beard, late twenties,” she said in a clipped tone.

“Jamal Bukai. His squad deciphered a plot to infect Midwesterners. When you mentioned the cagey store owner, we jumped on it.”

“What’s Nassar’s involvement?” she asked.

“No involvement with terrorists. Jamal befriended Nassar at the Islamic Center, Masjid Al-Shareef. He’s baiting him. Nassar isn’t taking it. Our guy knows the Irish mob has Nassar under their thumbs. He’s scared of them.”

“Poor Nassar,” Tori said.

“We’re watching those fertilizer bags,” Guhleman said.

“Handy for drug transport,” she said. “Stuffed between layers. It’d take a bloodhound to find it.”

Grady took back the phone. “High tail it out of there, please.” He closed his eyes, images of petite Tori bombarded him. Hardworking. Kind. Everyone had a breaking point. She’d survived a decade in prison. What would she face next?

“Hey, you should be overjoyed, Grady Fletcher. I bought flowers from Nassar,” she said. “The flats are in the bed of my pickup.”

“Great. Flowers. Now leave.”

“We left. Left a little something behind, though.” She laughed. “Sherlock lifted a leg to pee on a bag.”

“Did you get some dirty looks?” Grady asked.

“No. Nassar just smiled. When you return home, you’ll see trailing lobelia in your window boxes,” she gushed.

“You have a new hobby,” Grady said. “Don’t forget, we’re on for tonight.”

“Yeah,” she said, “another opportunity for me to get my hands dirty.”

“You’re good at digging, that’s for sure. See you at nine.” He clicked off and then turned to Guhleman. “Tori and I hope to explore the second level of Sip ‘N Strip.”

“Stay under the wire.” Guhleman sighed. “Tori’s a valuable asset. If things go wrong, I’m not known for my ability to sympathize.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Drat, I missed my haircut appointment.”

“You’ve got bigger problems than a missed haircut.”

Guhleman slapped Grady on the back as he walked by him. “She’s cute topless. Don’t punch me in the face for sending her flowers.”

“You sent them?”

“You should have. I’ll bet you got some anyway.” The agent licked his lips and stared him in the eye.

Grady didn’t flinch, but thinking about Tori sent his mind spinning. Having mind-blowing sex left him yearning to understand why she represented everything normal, safe, and honest.

“Hey, man. You could use a little ribbing,” Guhleman said, before holding the door as they headed out of the morgue.

The sky was light blue, the late October sun spilling a yellow glow over downtown Long Beach. Traffic went by. Life went on.

Guhleman pushed his way toward his vehicle. “Seriously, Grady, life in the FBI is wearing on me. I’ve had enough. The wife wants me to retire. But this project presented itself. I couldn’t walk away.”

Failure was not an option. “Glad you’re sticking with it.” A stab of guilt jolted his heart, but he shoved it aside. Tori had a good feeling she’d find something bad tonight. He’d go along.

Guhleman was an in-your-face type of guy, a digger and sniffer. “Keep me posted.” The agent chased his comment with a snort through his nose. “Another thing, we monitor deals between shady cops and mobsters. For them, money is the driving force.”

“Money, yes. They need a buyer for the laptop. Your intelligence gatherer heard chatter. Terrorists?” he asked.

The agent wore a permanent frown, and his shaggy hair showed more white than gray. “Not terrorists, a terrorist. My money is on a lone wolf. Every lone wolf craves recognition.”

“Are you suggesting someone like Ahmad Rahami?” Grady asked. Silhouetted against streetlights, the older agent’s form took on a dreamlike quality, the edges blurred with his substance set aglow as if translucent. “Rahami bought bomb-making equipment openly. He ordered citric acid, ball bearings, and electric igniters on eBay.”

Guhleman nodded. “The fool had items delivered to his workplace. Aw, hell. The face of terrorism changed. The threat from Muslim Jihadists is not as great as–”

“–the threat from hateful extremists,” Grady said. “I’m curious. Why didn’t your guy put Nassar into the good-kid category? What was the tipoff?”

Like a tracker, Guhleman angled his body forward while pulling keys from his pocket. “Jamal pegged Nassar as a happy pup owner. There’s nothing violent about him. Petal’s wagging tail puts a smile on his face.”

“That says a lot.” Grady understood. Like Shane, Nassar had a new best friend, a furry one offering protective affection.