True slept now, exhaling in relief as the last of her staff trickled out the front door. She watched them leave every night, enjoying the banter and camaraderie that had built up over the past few years. They’d spend an hour or so at O’Shannahan’s, venting whatever they needed to get out of their systems in a safe place she didn’t dare intrude into. As much as she would have enjoyed joining them for a beer, having the boss show up like some kind of after-hours overseer just felt...well, it felt rude.
Cruz wasn’t in the first flood out. She chuckled to herself as she wandered over to her desk, unbuttoned and shrugged out of her chef’s jacket. She stretched her arms over her head, untied her hair and shook her hands through it.
He’d have been given the brunt of the grunt work tonight. Sam would have seen to that. The ritual breaking-in of the new guy—and by guy she meant man or woman—had become a right of passage for her crew, one she fully embraced while staying completely, well, mostly, hands off. And it gave Cruz one more way to see who these people really were.
So it might be a bit passive-aggressive on her part. It wasn’t as if he was unfamiliar with the practice. Tatum sorted through the various paperwork and receipts Susan had given her from the registers, the computer printouts. While it was part of Richard’s job to maintain the books and accounts, this was one aspect of her business she hadn’t quite been able to let go of completely. She liked seeing the numbers add up, and could still remember the thrill of seeing her profit margin move out of the red and solidly into black.
If Cruz was right and True was being used in some way, it had to show up somewhere in the books, didn’t it? Her second skimming of the records didn’t provide any new answers or suspicions. His investigation was, she decided, going to be quick, cursory, and a complete waste of time. She heard the faint echo of voices as the final group of employees, Cruz included this time no doubt, headed out for the night.
Casually, she knocked her hand against her laptop to wake it up, sorted through the papers and notes, and jotted down totals to keep track of the meals that had been preferred for the evening. When she was ready to put the information into her personal spreadsheet, she pulled her computer closer.
A loud bang followed by a door slamming had Tatum jumping in her chair. She took a deep breath, silently cursed Cruz for making her so darned jumpy, and tried to refocus. She’d had to pull the branzino off the menu special due to its suspicious quality, something she planned to discuss with her supplier first thing in the morning. It wasn’t the first time this particular business had tried to slip something past her, but it would definitely be the last.
There it was again. Not a bang this time, but a crash, as if someone had run into something in the kitchen.
Tatum got up, pulled open the door and stood on the top of the landing, leaned over and yelled, “Richard? Are you still here?” She could have sworn she’d seen him leave with the others, but he wasn’t exactly a joiner. He also wasn’t the workaholic she was and had a tendency to take care of most of the business early in the morning.
Their styles might not be exact, and he did have the tendency to walk around with his nose in the air, something that came in handy with her snootier clientele. He was, above all else, an excellent schmoozer and marketer, and in just the last few months he’d helped her and True make their mark in Chicago’s food world. One place he did not excel, however, was in the kitchen. Which was exactly how she wanted it. “Richard?”
Restaurants weren’t the safest place in the world for non-chefs, and it was that thought that had her moving quietly down the stairs through the silent confines of True.
After successful nights like this she could almost hear the restaurant’s heartbeat; her business was alive, had been from the moment she’d swiped her first paint sample on the wall. The bar and main dining room were bathed in dim light. The kitchen was dark, but she could move through True blindfolded. She wound her way around the counters and appliances toward the back office near the back alley and loading bay, past the walk-in refrigerator. “Richard?” she called again. “Are you all right?”
Something scampered behind her. An odd shuffling of feet and fabric. Tatum spun around, wishing she’d clicked on the light. “Darn it,” she told herself in a harsh whisper. “Stop letting him spook you.” Cruz. Her eyes narrowed. Was he behind this? Snooping around? Or was he deliberately trying to scare her into believing she had drug dealers in her midst? “You’re being ridiculous.” Then again, after having seen that cool determination in his eyes earlier this evening, would she put it past him? “Ha, ha, very funny, Cruz.” She backtracked, stopped at the edge of the stainless steel work counter, and clicked on the lights. Electricity buzzed overhead as they flickered on. Rather than ease her nerves, the hair on the back of her neck prickled as she caught sight of the walk-in refrigerator’s door standing open.
“What on earth?” She stalked toward it, ignoring the warning bells going off in her head. She poked her head inside the walk-in, reached for the light switch. She heard a shuffling behind her, more than a scamper this time, but before she could turn around, she was shoved forward into the icy room. She flailed, struggled to catch her balance, and smashed headfirst into one of the metal shelving units.
Before she could catch her breath, the door slammed shut.
* * *
Cruz had situated himself by the front window of O’Shannahan’s to nurse his one-beer limit. The True crowd apparently had attained their own dedicated table in the seventy-five-year-old establishment. The throwback-style pub had a history as rich and diverse as Chicago itself, from the scarred yet polished bar that had been salvaged and shipped from a now defunct hotel in Dublin, to the framed news clippings featuring Irish-influenced accomplishments and successes lining the faux brick walls.
According to the stories he’d heard over the last forty minutes, O’Shannahan’s had nearly gone under a few years ago. Then True had opened. The rejuvenation of the neighborhood gave the beleaguered owners new hope. Rather than closing up and giving up, they’d taken the chance on a bit of rebranding and marketing, and now enjoyed a new lease—literally and figuratively—along with a steady clientele. A clientele that included True employees who, as a continuous thank-you from the pub, were all given half-off drinks their first hour each night.
“It’s not like Ty not to join us after work,” Colby said with something akin to motherly concern shining in her eyes. “Is everything okay with him?”
“Who knows.” Sam shrugged and took a pull of his beer. “He’s not exactly the chattiest in our bunch.” He grinned at Colby, who rolled her eyes. “If he wants us to know, he’ll tell us.” When Cruz continued to watch the restaurant, Sam gave him a friendly nudge on the arm. “Can’t leave it alone, can you?”
Cruz shifted his attention to the table, but only for a moment. The lights in True were low; he couldn’t see a thing other than the steady glow in the back right corner, precisely where Tatum’s second-floor office was located. Given the frenzied activity that took place most of the day, after-closing was the ideal time for anything illegal to go down. “Can’t leave what alone?”
“Work,” Sam said. “Feels good to find where you fit. Where you belong.”
Hearing the sentimentality in the younger man’s voice, Cruz stepped through the verbal door that just opened. “Is that what happened to you? To all of you?” he added so as not to single Sam out. “You found where you fit?”
“You know it.” Sam toasted him with his bottle. “That woman over there? Tatum? She gave me the chance I needed in this business.”
“She’s saved a lot of our lives,” Quallis chimed in. “Not many folks with her stellar reputation would hire ex-cons like us.”
“Ex-cons? You’ve served time?” Cruz leaned forward. He feigned his surprise, but not his interest. There was always a lot more to people than what their criminal records said. “Both of you?”
&
nbsp; “Three of us,” Sam corrected. “Ty, too.”
“You mind me asking what you were sentenced for?” Cruz knew of course, but reading a file and hearing about it firsthand were two entirely different things.
“Accessory after the fact. Armed robbery,” Sam said with a familiar flinch of remorse.
“You didn’t accessorize anything,” Quallis told him, then looked to Cruz, who forced a smile at the intentional joke.
“Quall, drop it,” Sam said with more than a hint of irritation. “I got seven years.”
“Kid didn’t know what his buddies had just pulled off. He just gave them a ride,” Quallis qualified. “Turns out they’d knocked over a convenience store earlier that night, then hoofed it over to where Sam was working and begged a ride.”
Sam glared at Quallis. “You going to let me tell it my way or not?”
“They gave you seven years for that?” Why was he surprised? The sentencing of Black defendants typically skewed into the unjust realm. Cruz wasn’t immune to the societal inequities; he had a close-up view every single day. As a Hispanic cop, he’d dealt with more than his share of racism and prejudice on both sides of the system. He liked to think he was making a small difference at least. He sure hoped so.
“They gave him seven years because he wouldn’t rat out his friends,” Quallis continued on his rant as if Sam hadn’t spoken.
“I was out in three.” Sam’s voice quieted, as if he’d changed his mind and wanted to be discussing anything else.
“That sucks,” Cruz said. Things had gotten better in the last...he took another drink of beer and longed for another. Who was he kidding? It was going to take a long time for things to get significantly better where the judicial system was concerned. It was a shame Sam had lost even that much of his life for a first-time offence. That said, there was something noble, if not misguided, about the young man not having ratted out his friends. “I’m sorry.”
“I found a way through it,” Sam said and shrugged. “Kept my head down. Didn’t make trouble. Got a job in the prison kitchen. Took classes online and then finished my degree at a community college when I got out. I worked my butt off in a pizza place near my mom’s house to pay for it. Now look at me.” He toasted to True. “I’m a top sous-chef for Tatum-freaking-Colton. One day I’m gonna have my own place, serve my own food my way. But for now? I’m where I’m meant to be and learning everything I can.”
“We’re all where we’re meant to be. Speaking of—” Quallis glanced over his shoulder “—Tatum’s running late.” He checked his watch, frowned. “She’s usually heading out about now.”
Cruz looked back at the light, saw shadows moving in and out. “You know what time Tatum leaves?”
“Why do you think we chose a table by the window?” Colby chimed in. “None of us go home until she does.”
It took a lot to surprise Cruz. They’d managed to do so multiple times in just one night. “She doesn’t know, does she?”
“Nope. We’ve worked hard to keep it that way.” Quallis’s crystal blue eyes narrowed. “So if she suddenly finds out we’ll know who squealed.” That grin of his spread slowly and reminded Cruz of a certain maniacal comic book villain.
Cruz chuckled, recognizing a challenge when he heard it. He leaned forward, reached into his back pocket for his phone. He swore, checked his other pocket, patted the front of his jeans. He swore again. “I must have left my phone in my locker.”
“Uh-huh.” Sam finished his beer. “That’s believable.”
“Agreed,” Quallis teased. “A likely story.”
“Work on your creativity, Cruz,” Colby suggested. “You’d best get over there before she locks you out for the night.”
“Right.” He got to his feet, grabbed his bag, pulled a ten out of his wallet and tossed it on the table. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
* * *
Tatum had only been truly terrified three times in her life.
Once when she was seven and had gotten separated from her parents and sisters at a Halloween fair, and found herself lost in a haunted corn maze. The second time had been shortly after she’d gotten her driver’s license and had white-knuckled it through a thirty-minute downpour on the highway. Number three hit just a few weeks ago when the police had notified the family of her father and uncle’s murder. The feeling of her heart lurching inside her body, as if it had forgotten how to beat, was something she’d never wanted to feel again. Something she’d never forget.
But she felt it again now. Surrounded by pulsating silence trapped in the one place she had always been, always felt safe. Tatum dived toward the beam of light streaming in through the small, square window. She grabbed the metal lever handle, but pushing or pulling proved futile. The handle wouldn’t budge.
The door remained closed.
In those other instances, tears had broken through the fear, released her from the paralytic inability to think clearly. Even if she had the inclination to cry now, any attempt would have evaporated beneath the steam of anger building inside of her.
Tatum turned her back on the door, slammed her fist against it as her head throbbed. She touched cold fingers to her scalp, fingers that came away bloodied. She swallowed the panic climbing into her throat. Control and calm would get her through. She had to blink constantly to stop her eyes from burning against the cold. She found the light switch, flicked it on and breathed a sigh of relief when the bare bulb overhead fizzled to life.
“Cell phone.” She found it in her back pocket, the one place she tried not to keep it because of her tendency to sit on and crack screens. Thank goodness for bad habits. Tatum almost kissed it as she tapped the screen. Until she saw she had no bars. No signal. No way out. Cursing, and as the cold began seeping into her bones, she started to pace. This wasn’t supposed to be able to happen. She’d purposely chosen a walk-in refrigeration model that prevented someone being trapped. Which meant one thing.
Someone had locked her inside.
CHAPTER 8
The cold air snapped through Cruz like a whip as he jogged across the street. True’s dimmed interior displayed its elegant facade in the darkness of the night. Streetlights hummed and buzzed, and his footfalls echoed into the darkness. He tried the front door first, not surprised to find it locked. He rapped on the glass, but seconds ticked by without any response.
Cruz took a step back, then walked around to the front of the building where he could get a better vantage into the second-floor office, but as he found the right line of sight he spotted Tatum descending the stairs and circling into the kitchen.
He almost knocked again, then decided to wait until she came back out. He didn’t like the idea of her being alone like this. Not at this hour. The neighborhood might have become safer in recent years, but as he well knew, no place was 100 percent safe.
Cruz stood there, staring at the outline of the swinging kitchen doors, mentally willing her to come back out so he could get her attention. When the seconds continued to tick by, he’d had enough. He raised a hand to knock on the glass.
Just as a figure in black streaked out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her office.
Cruz immediately dropped into cop mode. Whoever that was, was too big. Too frantic.
Too male.
Cruz swore, and as he ran around the corner of the building to the back alley, he dragged his backpack in front of him, rummaging inside for his gun. He tossed the bag aside and, pistol in hand, came to a skidding halt when he spotted the taillights of a dark SUV parked directly in front of the metal door of the loading bay. Cruz ducked behind a dumpster, staying out of sight of the idling car as he considered his options. He could call for backup, but that would risk blowing his cover. Once the cops set foot in True, he’d be out, and he had too much at stake to give up so fast. Besides, by the time anyone got here, they’d be long gone. The streetlamps were still blazin
g, but the nearby ones weren’t close or bright enough to give him a good look at the license plate.
He needed to get inside. Tatum was in there. For a moment, impulse overruled reason and he nearly revealed himself. Tatum. His heart jackhammered in his chest. Exciting, entrancing, trusting Tatum who had been so certain no one on her staff could be involved in criminal activity. Anger and frustration boiled their way through his blood. She could be hurt or...worse. Cruz gritted his teeth, gripped his free hand around the edge of the dumpster, poked his head up as someone inside the car pushed open the passenger door.
Voices exploded in the night. Muffled, indistinct, unrecognizable. The shadowy figure he’d seen moments before ducked out the half-raised loading accordion door and into the vehicle. Cruz began moving when the car did, sticking close to the wall, focusing his attention on the grime-covered plate. He caught two numbers and a letter, but the popular make and model of the car would make it nearly impossible to trace.
He ducked into the loading bay, tucked his gun into the back waistband of his pants and hurried through the darkness as quickly as he could. Passing by the bright white catering van with True’s logo painted on the outside, he collided with crates along with some boxes in his rush to get to the kitchen, but the gossamer quality of the plastic tarp draped between the main kitchen door and the loading bay acted as a beacon.
He stepped inside the creepy silence of True. “Tatum?” His voice echoed back at him as he made his way through the dish room, into the kitchen and around to the other side. “Tatum?”
He forced himself to stay in one spot, to listen and look. He turned in a slow, deliberate circle. There! A bang. Dull. Heavy. Weak. He inclined his head, and when it came again, he shifted his attention to the walk-in refrigerator.
Son of a...
The metal lever handle of the walk-in had been wedged closed with an oversize metal ladle. She was inside.
The bang sounded again, and this time the light inside flickered. “Tatum!” he yelled as he grabbed a towel and grabbed hold of the utensil to pull it free. He dropped it to the ground with a clang, but before he could open the door, it sprung open and Tatum, hands and arms filled with something he couldn’t identify, flew out.
Harlequin Romantic Suspense March 2021 Page 8