Under the Surface (3 page)

Jealousy rode the edges of the words. Carlucci routinely petitioned Lieutenant Hawthorn for undercover assignments, and was just as routinely turned down. Volatile and far too quick to make assumptions or rush a situation, Carlucci lacked the qualities crucial for successful undercover work: an unflappable demeanor, bone-deep patience, wits, and finely tuned instincts. Matt's father drilled in unemotional patience. Nineteen months in Iraq and eight years on Lancaster's streets honed the wits and instincts.

Matt ignored Carlucci, sat down across from Sorenson, and powered up his laptop. Carlucci lingered at Sorenson's shoulder for a moment, then straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “Watch your back with the owner,” he said. “A guy hiring all male bartenders…” He let the end of the sentence hang in the air. When he didn't get the expected protest, or any response at all, he linked his fingers across his belly and spoke to Sorenson. “Your last name's Sorenson. You're third generation LPD and your father shit gold bricks so you can write your own ticket with the lieutenant, but you're working with this stiff. He's got zero personality.”

“He gets the job done,” Sorenson said without looking up.

“Low standards,
Sorenson
,” Carlucci said.

At the stress on Sorenson's last name Matt cut Andy a look, but Andy still focused on Sorenson, who was proofreading an arrest report. “Getting the job done is the only standard that matters, Carlucci,” she replied with a lack of interest that would successfully drive
Carlucci
nuts. “How's your clearance rate?”

Carlucci turned back to his own desk. “Fuck you both.”

“Black, two sugars, thanks,” Sorenson said absently.

Same shit, different day. Matt dropped Carlucci from his awareness, started a new case file, and began composing the report describing his interview with Eve Webber.

At fifteen thirty hours I approached Ms. Webber in her place of business. Subject is female, Caucasian, approximately five feet six inches—

 …
mostly slim, toned legs.…

 … green eyes, black hair …

 …
that kept falling in her eyes …

That memory halted his fingers on the keyboard. Touching hair was often a subconscious gesture expressing interest in a man. Eve Webber's just wouldn't stay out of her face, sliding free from its mooring behind her ear, shadowing an eye, but he didn't think she was coming on to him. A woman prepared to tell a potential bartender to keep his hands off the customers or face retribution akin to the wrath of God wouldn't bother to flirt. She'd name a time and place, and bring her best game.

And flirting didn't explain that strange humming connection that revved into the red zone when their fingers met.

“What's this all about anyway?” Carlucci asked.

The informant offered the job contingent on satisfactory performance tonight.

Delete.

Matt reached for the distancing language of a police report to describe the bar's interior, the possibility of alternate exits upstairs or in the back.

“The operation with the FBI and the DEA to get Lyle Murphy. He's moving home and bringing bad news with him,” Sorenson said when it became apparent Matt wasn't going to bother answering Carlucci.

“What kind of bad news?”

“The Strykers.”

As he reread the report, Matt heard Carlucci's faint whistle. Much better. Calm, logical, focused on the case at hand. No mention of hair or legs or eyes, as if describing features could sum up the sheer femininity radiating from Eve Webber during a simple job interview. Ten minutes with her and he'd felt something. Still felt it thirty minutes later. Not desire. He understood desire, dealt with it. This was different, more visceral, deeply buried, long forgotten, and leading him to make two mistakes when the acceptable error rate was zero point zero.

Lieutenant Ian Hawthorn walked down the aisle between the detectives' desks. “Well?” he said to Matt.

“I've got a trial shift tonight,” Matt said. “If she's happy at the end of it, I've got the job.”

Hawthorn folded his arms. “The FBI's been running this operation for over a year, and getting nowhere until a couple of weeks ago, when Ms. Webber walked in off the street and said Murphy approached her about using her bar to launder the money they're making in the region. She agreed to be an informant and help us get him. She's the connection the Feds needed to get the whole chain, from the buy-and-busts on street corners right up to the top guys.”

Carlucci whistled again.

“That's the good news. The bad news is that somehow word got back to Murphy. McCormick was booking a Stryker when she walked in. Maybe he saw her, and reported back to Lyle Murphy. It doesn't matter,” Hawthorn said. “She managed to talk her way out of the situation with Lyle but people who inform on the Strykers have a nasty habit of dying in a drive-by, or worse, disappearing off the face of the earth. So Detective Dorchester just got himself a job as Eye Candy's newest bartender.”

“This is a big fucking deal. Shouldn't we put in plainclothes officers?” Carlucci asked. “Hang out in the bar, keep an eye on the situation?”

Sorenson shoved her keyboard tray under her desk and looked at Carlucci, her gaze flicking over the buzz cut, slacks, and suit jacket. “Even plainclothes cops look like cops. They walk and talk and think like cops, and a ten-year-old in that neighborhood can pick us out of a crowd. Matt, on the other hand, looks like the kind of guy who'd bounce from job to job, city to city. Just the right amount of bad boy,” she said consideringly. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Matt said. He knew exactly how he looked, how to make it work for him, how to switch things up when it wasn't working. It worked for Eve Webber. Anyone with eyes could see that.

“She refused a police presence in her place of business,” Hawthorn said. “Which works in our favor. If she knows Matt's a cop, she might make a mistake, tell someone, give the whole thing away before we even get started. Murphy would kill her without thinking twice about it. She doesn't know exactly how high we're aiming either. All she's thinking about is the East Side, not bringing down the whole Strykers' pipeline. If she makes a mistake, we lose the whole case and look like boneheads in front of the Feds.”

Hawthorn wasn't telling them everything, which didn't surprise Matt. Hawthorn was the youngest member of the only LPD family with a longer history than Sorenson's. He'd learned discretion at his father's knee, grew up watching press conferences when his dad was the chief of police, and worked on his subsequent campaign for mayor. Hawthorn's detractors branded him a political animal, not human. Normally Matt didn't ask questions, but it was his ass on the line with Eve Webber.

“You don't trust her,” Matt said.
That's emotion talking. Besides, you can't go back now and tell her who you really are, then ask her out.

“I don't trust anyone,” Hawthorn responded. “One, we offered her a police presence. She refused. Two, I know Eve from high school. She's impulsive, tends to act before she thinks.”

“Great,” Sorenson said.

“Three, she needs money. We ran her financials. Opening the bar has her in debt up to her eyeballs. People have been tempted for far less than what Murphy offered her. I'm not looking to get double-crossed. This way we keep our cards close to our chest, provide protection, and keep her on our side. Best-case scenario, nothing interesting happens and she never finds out. We get the evidence we need, Matt quits when this is over, and everyone goes away happy.”

That was classic Hawthorn: get intel and trust no one, not even a high school friend. And the only thing Matt had to sacrifice was his honor. He was the expendable point man out in front, getting the most up-to-date, accurate information about a situation. Like walking point, undercover work was the department's riskiest assignment, requiring ice water for blood and an ability to juggle identities over long periods of time. But they were dead wrong about her. No way would she take money from a guy like Murphy. He knew an honorable person when he saw one. He just didn't see one in the mirror much anymore.

“Matt, what's your read?”

“The bar's right in that borderline neighborhood between the river and civilization. Two blocks north and you're shopping for high-end goods in SoMa. A block south and you're in those abandoned warehouses the city wants to knock down for the new business park. The building's a basic cinderblock exterior with a very expensive, upscale interior and about as girl-oriented as you can get. Murphy's smart. We'd never look twice at this place.”

“Did she ask for references?”

“I used Gino as my current employer. She knew the bar, so she might call him.”

Gino was a retired cop now managing his family's bar. “I called him just after you left and explained the situation. He'll verify your cover.”

“We're taking a risk with my undercover identity,” Matt said. “She was carrying an iPhone like we'd have to pry it out of her cold, dead hands. I guarantee pictures from inside Eye Candy are all over the internet.”

“Everyone has a cell phone with a camera these days. It's never bothered you before,” Hawthorn said. “She doesn't hire women—”

“Thank God,” Sorenson said under her breath. Matt huffed. He'd spent plenty of time on the other end of a mike feed listening to Sorenson banter with johns.

“—and you're our best.”

Hawthorn's phone rang. Carlucci wandered off. Matt slumped in his chair and opened the top drawer of his desk, rummaging through the assortment of paper clips and pens in the pencil tray.

Across the desk, Sorenson was working her way through an arrest report. “What did you do to your knuckles?” she asked without looking up.

“Went at the speed bag a little too long last night.”

That got him raised eyebrows, Sorenson's version of mother hen clucking and fussing.

“Luke didn't get the job. He's pretty frustrated.”

His brother graduated from college in May and still hadn't found a full-time job in his field of biology. Matt told him not to worry about it, but with each near miss Luke's temper frayed a little more. Tensions were high in the small house.

“And that sent you to the speed bag because…?”

“Needed a workout,” he said evenly.

Sorenson went back to the report. Matt returned his attention to his open desk drawer, pushed aside a jumble of small binder clips and rubber bands, and found a thin gold wedding ring He hooked it with his index finger, then used his opposing thumb and forefinger to set it spinning in a hypnotic, gleaming whirl on the surface of his desk.

Married? Not married? What's my angle here?

When the gold circle spun down and clattered to a stop, Sorenson asked, “You think this'll go down better if there's a Mrs. Chad Henderson?”

Sometimes a ring helped. He wore it when working prostitution busts because hookers were less wary of a “married man,” as if wedding vows somehow explained trolling Craigslist for sex. The smart ones still made him strip to his skin before talking money because most cops wouldn't go that far to throw off suspicion.

He would.

“I wasn't wearing it for the interview,” he said as he flicked the ring into a second spin.

“Left it at home?” Sorenson offered.

“Possible,” he said absently.

If he wore the ring, she'd back off. No way would Eve start anything with a married man. But the stakes were too high to give her any excuse to put distance between them. Without her knowledge or consent, he had to get up in her business, in her personal life, in her head. He didn't like it at all.

Do your job. She's the most important informant in the biggest case in the department's history, and she's playing with fire. If the Strykers find out what she's doing …

Snapshots of brutalized bodies flared in his brain. To scatter them he flattened his palm over the ring, ending the spin with a thud, swept it back in the drawer, and got to his feet.

“Hold on and I'll wire you up,” Sorenson said.

Standard protocol for undercover operations called for any officer involved to wear a wire, but Matt shook his head. “She had a concert-worthy sound system in there,” he said. “And she said she'd get me my shirt later. No telling who will be around when I change.” He'd have to ditch the nearly invisible Sig P239 inside his waistband before he reported for work. The Ka-bar and the Kahr PM9 would be fine on either ankle, hidden by his jeans.

Sorenson sat back in her chair. “So no radio either, in what could be a long-term operation,” she said. “I don't like it.”

He looked down at her. “You like working with someone who gets the job done.”

“There's a fine line between ‘results' and ‘cowboy.' Grab a phone and give me the number,” she said. “Check in when you leave too, so I don't lose my beauty sleep worrying about you.”

“I'm late. Tell Hawthorn,” he said, knowing his LT would be no happier with his unmonitored state than his partner was. Sorenson knew that too, because she flipped him off. He tossed her a half salute/half wave, signed out a cell phone he'd use as Chad Henderson's for the duration of the case, registered his call sign and location with dispatch, then headed out to protect the department's most valuable asset, who just happened to be the first woman in years he'd felt even a flicker of emotion for.

Lock it down, Dorchester. It's on.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Eve tapped the screen on her iPhone to disconnect a call and smiled at Chad. “You're early,” she said.

He gestured to the fruit boxes stacked neatly to her left and the filled tubs waiting to be distributed along the bar. “Thought you might need a hand with prep.”