Union Jacked

by Diane Vallere

  But while I’m not thinking about Nick’s sneaker collection or how much money I could demand back from the cable company for those sports channels I never asked for, I’m also trying not to think about how many days past thirty I can attribute to random fluctuations in my cycle.

  In short, I needed a distraction.

  Loncar’s retirement party had fit the bill.

  Loncar’s shooting was going to bump that party for a problem that required far more bandwidth.

  I glanced at the clock and calculated the time change to China. Nick would be asleep.

  The first week that Nick spent in China was a comedy of missed phone calls and interrupted sleep schedules. After the night I fell asleep during phone sex, we agreed on a call schedule. It factored in his rigorous work demands and my not-a-morning-person needs, and we agreed we probably weren’t phone-sex people. But calling Nick now, the night before his last full day at the factory, was unscheduled.

  I could email him.

  Except this wasn’t email news.

  There was no way to summarize what had happened without stressing Nick out. There was nothing Nick could do for Loncar while he was in China, and it was far better for him to focus on establishing his new business.

  Nick’s personal growth would demand acknowledgment of the “rescue Samantha” tendency, and when he heard this news, he’d probably charter a flight home. And since I had a newfound appreciation for empowerment and prioritizing our individual personal goals, I thought it best to let Nick finish what he started.

  My self-help podcast was totally working.

  I drummed my fingers on the table and considered Loncar’s presence at Tradava. He wasn’t in the habit of following me around. In the past, he’d made it clear he wanted me to stay away from anything involving the police. But this time, he’d invaded my turf. Why?

  He knew something was going to happen.

  Detective Loncar had accepted a position on the Ribbon Police Force a few years before I gave up my career in New York City and moved back to town. There was absolutely no reason our paths should have crossed. He was a homicide detective, and I’d been the designer shoe buyer for a luxury retailer. What he spent on his wardrobe in a year was what I spent on one pair of shoes.

  But three years ago, I’d found the dead body of my new boss in an elevator at Tradava, and that’s when we met. It had been a somewhat rocky road since then, involving counterfeiting schemes, cold cases, arsonists, and mafia, but somewhere along the line of me ingratiating myself in his investigations, I learned the crime rate in our town had steadily been on the rise. It was the reason he’d taken the job. It wasn’t comforting to know our perceived idyllic town was a hotbed of criminal activity.

  I approached Tradava’s senior management and presented my idea. Two parties for the price of one. Giving back to the community. Celebrating a public servant. Getting positive press. They said yes. I got to work. It was the kind of juggling that could blow up in my face, but it was okay. I had a plan.

  Then, strike.

  Boom.

  In addition to the complications that arose with the strike, there were a few other things I needed to consider.

  Fact: Tradava was hurting. Sales were down. Staffing was nonexistent. Payroll was bleeding, and while we all held our breath to see what Piccadilly Group would do when they officially took over, the store was suffering.

  Fact: Job security is more guaranteed when you keep yourself busy with an active workload that your new employer thinks you are the only person to handle, which was how I came up with the whole thing.

  Fact: Focusing on Loncar’s party would give me access to Loncar’s life.

  I reached for the folder of plans for Loncar’s party and flipped it open. Captain Valderama would know by now what had happened, but the appropriate thing to do was to let him know the party was off. Until Loncar recovered, there was no way for me to plan a celebration.

  That’s when I realized the folder I’d brought home from Tradava wasn’t mine. Harvey had set one on the table for Victoria, but she refused it. When they went to the meeting, he must have picked up the wrong folder. Because when I flipped through the contents of the one I’d rescued from the spilled tea, I didn’t find Eddie’s design concepts or contact information for the all-female punk band or the ten best local caterers for fish and chips.

  I found information on the strike. And that info might have pointed toward motive.

  5

  This Was Different

  The first page in the folder was a list of employees from Tradava. I ran my finger down the list and found Eddie’s at the bottom, written in with a few other last-minute additions. The second page had a recap of dates, meeting times, and demands. On the third page was today’s date above the heading ACTION PLAN. Below, written in handwriting that tilted forward at an almost unreadable angle, was a list.

  alert the press

  amass most massive rally to date (hire ringers?)

  dress code

  prepare statement and demands

  wait until the police arrive

  MAKE THEM TAKE NOTICE

  These were Harvey’s plans for the strike. He’d known the cops were on their way—had he been the one to tip them off and draw Loncar to the scene? But Harvey had been as much of a victim as Loncar. He’d been shot in the shoulder. Was this part of his negotiation tactic? Would he literally take one for the team?

  This wasn’t like the other times I’d gotten mixed up in Detective Loncar’s investigations. This was different. I could make excuses for my behavior in the past: helping a friend in need, clearing my name from the list of persons of interest, and protecting my loved ones.

  All along, a tiny voice in my brain had quietly stated that when I was happy, when I was satisfied, when I found what I’d been searching for all this time, my instincts to run toward chaos and danger would fade. And just like the voice that questions my second bowl of ice cream after ten p.m., I’d learned to ignore those doubts and questions and believe that someday, everything would settle down and I’d be normal.

  But if that tiny voice was right, if I had everything I wanted—including a job with benefits, a steady paycheck, professional respect, and the love of a man who accepted me for me—and a shooter infiltrated that world and destroyed my inner circle, then what peace did I have? I couldn’t sit by and let him or her get away with it.

  I flipped through the pile on the table and found the police captain’s number. He answered before the first ring ended. “Valderama.”

  “This is Samantha Kidd,” I said. “Is there any news?” My whole body filled with nervous energy. I walked around my dining room table just to keep in motion.

  “Detective Loncar is in ICU at the Ribbon hospital,” he said. “He’s in a coma.”

  “Are they allowing visitors?”

  “Right now, just family. If his condition improves, they’ll relax the rules.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I didn’t mention the party. Until Loncar recovered, there were more important things to consider. “Captain, I found some notes from the union strike leader that indicated he expected the police to come to Tradava this morning. Do you know why Detective Loncar was there?”

  Valderama didn’t answer right away. When he did, it wasn’t what I expected. “Detective Loncar is part of a task force that’s investigating the rise in drug trafficking in Pennsylvania. The patterns are unusual. Like someone’s moving in temporarily and then getting out before they can be caught. We’re looking at businesses that could easily hide illegal activities. The strike at Tradava fit the bill. He went to check it out.”

  As I circled the table, my sight rested on Harvey’s folder. “Did Harvey Monahan know about the task force?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Detective Loncar had been in touch with Mr. Monahan about the possibility that someone would use his strike as a front. Mr. Monahan was cooperating fully.”

  And Harvey Monahan had been shot. That didn’t seem so random
anymore.

  I thanked Valderama and hung up. Logan jumped on the table, and I scooped him up, held him close, and set him on the floor. I refreshed his water and food. I cleaned his litter box. I emptied the dishwasher, carried out the trash, and collected the errant shoes scattered around the first floor and put them away in my bedroom closet upstairs. I changed the sheets, started a load of laundry, and bleached the grout on the tub. I felt like a robot programmed to perform mind-numbing tasks with no feeling or emotion.

  The second floor of my house consisted of my (and Nick’s now) bedroom and master bath, the hall bathroom, and my sister’s old room, which had first become a walk-in closet and morphed into a home office. I dug out a stack of metallic white dry erase boards from the closet and carried them to the kitchen. I placed six whiteboards by the base of the dining room wall before realizing whatever notes I took, whatever I wrote and affixed to those shiny magnetic surfaces, it wouldn’t be enough. I couldn’t sit here in my house and try to reason why someone had opened fire on a crowd at Tradava. I had to do something. Anything.

  I shrugged into a red Paddington coat and pulled on white Wellington rain boots. I added a quilted white Burberry hat, grabbed my white crossbody handbag, and drove Nick’s truck to the hospital. It was fifty-five degrees. Not particularly cold. But no matter how many layers I pulled on, I couldn’t get warm.

  The lobby of ICU was filled with police officers. Men and women in uniform stood in small conversational clusters by empty chairs, holding disposable cups of coffee and talking amongst themselves. I felt their unasked questions when I entered the room.

  A petite woman with a blond, mushroom-shaped poof of hair separated herself from the group and approached me. She wore a white turtleneck under a jacket made of patchworked black leather. The Dynasty-era shoulders made an unfortunate marriage to the Bon Jovi fringes that dangled from the back of the sleeves.

  “Ginger? I’m Bridget. Thanks for coming.” She put her hand on my upper arm and tried to steer me away from the group.

  “I’m not Ginger,” I said. “I’m Samantha. Samantha Kidd.”

  Her hand dropped, and two things became clear. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard my name, and she wouldn’t be heading up my fan club. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said in a low voice. “Turn around and leave.”

  “I want to check on Detective Loncar.” I looked from her to the officers around the room. They stared back at me. It had been a long day for everyone, and the aroma indicated as much. Bitter coffee mixed with spicy aftershave and a hint of B.O.

  I hadn’t expected a warm reception, but this was chillier than I’d been in the car. I strode into the center of the room and addressed the officers.

  “I don’t care what you think of me. I know I’ve made some mistakes in this town, and I know there were times when you all thought I was working in opposition with you. Detective Loncar and I had an understanding.”

  “He understood that you were a thorn in the department’s side,” said a heavyset man with thick black hair and a full mustache. The name B. Pennino was embroidered on his black jacket above a patch that said Security.

  “What I understand is that he was shot,” I said. “Somebody shot a cop. Outside my place of work. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t know why, but I’m going to find out.”

  “Lady, give up the ghost,” B. Pennino said. “This isn’t River Heights, and you’re not Nancy Drew.”

  “Good one, Bob,” said a balding man with a nose shaped like a pickle. He and B. Pennino—Bob—knocked knuckles. A couple of others snickered.

  “Yeah,” said a tall man with thinning hair slicked away from his face. “Go home. We don’t need your help.”

  Rumbles of agreement joined in. I turned to the woman in the Bon Jovi jacket, looking for some female solidarity. The men who’d been baiting me turned their attention to her too, as if curious how she would respond. Her expression was sour.

  “You’re not welcome here,” she said.

  The officers created a united front against me. I could have turned and left, but I stood my ground. The back of my neck grew prickly. My heart thumped so hard I pulled my coat closed so they couldn’t see.

  A man in a gray suit that closely matched the shade of his hair came out a hallway next to the vending machines. “Samantha,” he said. He held out his hand. “Kirk Valderama. Nice to meet you face-to-face.”

  “Captain,” I said. I shot a quick look at the hostile cops to get a read on their reaction. They were watching, but the energy in the room had shifted. It was one thing to intimidate me in front of their peers, but it was another to let their superior see them bully a civilian. I stood a little straighter and shook the captain’s hand. “How is he?” I asked.

  “Not well. The detective slipped into a coma on the way here, and there haven’t been any changes. The doctors said there appears to be no permanent damage, but the longer he remains unconscious, the more unlikely it is that he’ll recover.”

  “Are they allowing visitors?”

  “You’ll have to check at the desk on that.”

  I thanked the captain and approached the visitor check-in desk. It was about twenty feet from where the officers waited. A man in traditional blue scrubs over a white waffle-weave pullover greeted me. I kept my voice low and steady so as not to let the cops know they’d left me shaken.

  “Hi,” I said. “I would like to visit the man who was brought here today after the shooting at Tradava. His name is Loncar.” I paused. “I don’t know his first name.”

  “Approved visitors,” the orderly said. “Are you one of them?” He tipped the end of his pen toward the cops.

  I kept my eyes on him. “No. I’m a friend. I was there when the shooting happened. I was hoping—”

  “You were hoping to see your friend and reassure yourself that he’s going to be okay.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Doctor’s orders. If I could approve visitors, my lobby wouldn’t look like free donut day at Dunkin’.”

  I pressed my lips together. It was the first thing that had brought a smile to my face since this morning. “None of them are on the visitor list?”

  “There are three names on the visitor list. Peggy Loncar, Ginger Loncar, and Samantha Kidd.”

  “Samantha Kidd?” I asked. “I’m Samantha Kidd!”

  “You’re Samantha Kidd?”

  “Trust me. In this crowd, there is absolutely no benefit to lying about that.” I pulled my wallet from my handbag and handed four forms of ID to the orderly. (It seemed prudent to be thorough.)

  “Ma’am, your license and passport are enough. I don’t need your loyalty card for the pizza store or your discount card for pretzels.” He handed the cards back, and when I went to take them he asked, “Little Cheesers—yes or no?”

  “Definite yes.” I smiled. “I’m iffy on the pretzel rods.”

  He grinned. He picked up a wristband that was labeled visitor and wrote on “Loncar,” today’s date, and a floor and room number. “Hold out your arm,” he said.

  I glanced at the cops. Bridget stood by a cluster of cops and made no pretense to hide that she was eavesdropping. The attention focused on me multiplied as nudges and whispers directed others to the view of me getting a visitor bracelet when they could not. Bridget scowled at me and then stormed out of the lobby.

  I pretended I wasn’t being watched and collected my identification from the orderly. “Third floor,” he said. “Room Two B.” He looked at the clock mounted above the elevator wells. “Visiting hours are over at nine.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I turned to leave, and then, considering we’d bonded over cheese pretzels, turned back and pushed my luck. “Have Peggy or Ginger been here to see him?”

  “I can’t share that information,” the orderly said. “Sorry.”

  I thanked him anyway and went to the elevator wells, arrived on the third floor, and asked the nurse which way to Loncar’s room. She pointed to the
left and went back to her computer. I rounded the corner and was pushed out of the way to make room for a rush of medical staff who raced down the hall in the direction of a high pitched beeeeeeep. My pulse doubled in speed. Adrenaline made my arms feel awkward and useless. As I approached the end of the hall, I knew something was wrong.

  I stood in the doorway and watched as a team of medical staff pushed an oxygen mask over Detective Loncar’s face. And as I stood helplessly by, the machine that marked his heartbeat with a series of rapid beeps went steady while the spike of his pulse flatlined.

  6

  One of Them?

  Phrases I recognized from Grey’s Anatomy were called out, and the specialists in the room reacted to each other like they’d been practicing for this moment for years. The nurse who had given me directions to Loncar’s room grabbed my arm and whirled me around. “Who are you?”

  “That’s my detective—”

  She cut me off. “You need to leave. Now.” She blocked my view and closed the door behind me.

  I went back to the elevator but didn’t get on. I couldn’t leave. I was one of three people approved to see Loncar in the hospital, the other two being his wife and his daughter. And despite everything I said, I had no illusions about my relationship with the detective. Loncar wanted me to stay out of the crime wave of Ribbon, and when I ignored him, I complicated his life. So why was my name on that list? Why me and not any of his coworkers who waited in the room below? The last thing he’d said to me had been for me to stay away from this.

  Who had put me on that list? Approving me meant something. I knew it did. Loncar couldn’t investigate the shooting, and he wanted me to do it for him.

  Don’t you even say what you’re thinking! I already know he couldn’t have been the one to put me on that list—not if he’s in a coma. But I needed to do something. And for the foreseeable future, there was nobody who could stop me.