by Mary Calmes
We made a giant loop and made it back home right before we both turned into Popsicles. Since I hadn’t seen Chickie relieve himself, I told Ian he should probably walk him around the block once more.
“But I’m hungry,” he whined.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Your dog did not take a shit, and he needs to.”
Ian pivoted to look at his dog. “Chickie!” he yelled.
Chickie took one look at his master and squatted right there on the patch of grass beside the curb. Ian’s expression of disgust and disbelief sent me into hysterics.
“You scared the shit outta the dog!”
“That’s not funny.”
I couldn’t even breathe, it was so funny.
As Ian pulled plastic bags from his pocket, I doubled over, and Chickie came barreling up the steps past him—right to me—and licked my face, very pleased with himself.
“Stupid dog,” he muttered as I continued to howl. “Stupid partner.”
The man was cursed with both of us.
IAN TOOK off his hoodie and pulled on a zippered cardigan of mine before he came into the kitchen and watched me put together our sandwiches. I had picked them up from Bruno & Meade, a deli I loved, and what I liked about it was that it didn’t assemble to-go orders. They gave you everything that came on the sandwich, all the ingredients, but the bread was sealed separately so it didn’t get hard—or soft, depending on which kind you ordered—and everything else came in Ziploc bags or small plastic containers.
“You realize this is the height of laziness, right?” Ian commented as he put sliced bread and butter pickles into his mouth. “I mean, seriously, you could buy all this crap at the store and do this yourself.”
“Oh yeah? The aioli mayonnaise, the chorizo salame, and Ossau you like? Really?” I asked, sliding the plate over to him. “You think I could just pop into a Jewel for that?”
He scowled at me.
“The sourdough that’s freshly baked every day?”
Something was muttered under his breath.
“I got the gouda you like, and the marinated olives too.”
“Are you still talking?”
“Why, yes.” I smirked. “I am.”
“Shut up,” he muttered, grabbing a bottle of his favorite beer—Three Floyds Gumballhead, which I made sure was always there—from the refrigerator before he turned for the living room.
“And roma tomatoes are your favorite, so I made sure I asked for—”
“Yeah, fine, you’re a fuckin’ saint and I’m an ungrateful ass.”
I cackled as he flopped down onto the couch and turned on the TV. The sounds of football filled the room. After a moment he turned around and looked at me.
“What? Need a napkin?”
“No, I have a—you’re not gonna argue?”
“Why would I argue?”
“Ass,” he mumbled, turning back to the game.
I joined him on the couch, sitting close like I always did, and he took some potato chips off my plate. “Go get your own,” I said, smacking his hand away.
He shoved me with his shoulder and I almost dumped my plate.
“What’re you doing?”
“Don’t be stupid,” he retorted, nudging my knee gently with his and then leaving his leg pressed against mine. “Since when don’t I eat off your plate?”
He was right. I would let Ian do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I was his for the taking—as were my potato chips.
Chapter 3
IAN LEFT about one in the morning and had promised to be back at seven to pick me up for breakfast. When he wasn’t there by quarter after, I called him, but it went straight to voice mail. Since I didn’t want to be late and the walk to the train platform would take too much time, I decided to drive my truck. I so seldom drove the Toyota Tacoma, I had thought on numerous occasions about selling it. But inevitably, someone needed help moving practically the moment I’d start to seriously consider the idea. And today I was glad I still had it as I headed in to work.
I was halfway there and got a call from Ian.
“Where the hell are you?” I snapped, annoyed and hungry and without coffee.
“I could say the same.”
“I’m starving, asshole; you were supposed to feed me.”
“Do you ever read your texts?”
“I don’t have a text from you.”
“Yes, you—oh shit.”
“Oh shit, what?”
“I e-mailed you, I didn’t text you. Fuck.”
“Just tell me where you are.”
“Oh crap, Kage is calling me on the other line. Hold on.”
“Ian—”
“Wait,” he barked, and then silence.
I had no idea where I was supposed to be driving, but not knowing where Ian was would make me crazy faster than anything. Knowing he was somewhere I should have been too, to back him up and keep him safe, would unravel my well-constructed façade. I needed to find him.
The line went dead, and then my phone rang right afterward from a number that wasn’t in my caller ID. Concerned that it might be my boss, I started hunting around for my earpiece. It rang five times before I gave up and answered.
“Jones.”
“What’s the rule?” The deep and gravelly voice of my boss, Supervisory Deputy US Marshal Sam Kage, rumbled in my ear
“Third ring,” I replied automatically.
“What’s your excuse, then?”
“I was talking to Ian.”
“No, I was actually talking to Doyle, so try again.”
“Well, I was talking to him before you were.”
“Why aren’t you with him?”
“That’s a really good question.”
“Pardon me?”
Fuck.
“Again I ask: why didn’t you pick up your phone?”
Lying to him, about anything, big or small, was a mistake. “I can’t find my earpiece.”
“I’m sorry?”
Double fuck.
“Where is it?” Kage growled.
“It’s here somewhere.”
“So since I’m not on speaker, may I assume that you’re holding your phone?”
No coffee and Kage first thing. FML. “Yessir.”
“Stop the car and find the earpiece, Jones.”
Procedure had to be followed. After pulling over before I got on the expressway, I retrieved the earpiece from the very back of the glove compartment, put it in, connected my phone, and told Kage he could go ahead and start talking.
“I’m sorry?” he asked irritably.
It was like throwing gasoline on a fire. As I banged my forehead on the steering wheel, I prayed he would just tell me what he wanted me to know.
“I need you to meet vice detectives out in the Washington Park area to take custody of Kemen Bentley, a missing witness who was supposed to have testified against Taylor Ledesma, his former lover, before he escaped protective police custody. He got caught in a task force run by vice, the FBI, and the state police. They were cracking down on underage girls and boys working as escorts, and he was there in one of the hotels they raided.”
“Yessir.”
“Doyle is on site.”
“Roger that.”
“Make sure he texts or calls you from here on out.” He hung up without another word, as was his way.
I called Ian.
“Shit.”
“That was fun,” I said, making sure he couldn’t miss the sarcasm.
“I fucked up.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I was tired.”
“He only calls you because Doyle is before Jones in his phone.”
“I know.”
“Use your phone correctly.”
“Fuck. Yes, fine. I will.”
I felt better. “Okay.”
“I didn’t have breakfast, you know,” he complained. “Or coffee.”
“Whose fault?”
“Stop being mad.”
“I’m not mad; I’m just annoyed. And I hate not knowing where you are. It’s like when you go off on your missions and… but you know that.”
“I do,” he husked.
“Yeah, so,” I began, realizing how miserable I sounded. “When you’re actually here and you disappear—that’s fucked up, Ian.”
Heavy sigh from him. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’m your partner. I should always know where you are.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I smiled into the phone. “Now, about food. We’ll get some after we take custody of the witness.”
“So you’re not gonna be pissed all day?”
“Who cares if I am? You don’t have to ride with me.”
“What? No. When we get back to the office, your car stays there.”
“Maybe I wanna drive today.”
“No.” He didn’t like me on the phone in the car, even on my earpiece, because he didn’t think I was a good driver. Having me even a bit distracted annoyed the hell out of him.
“You don’t get to just say no, Ian. Your word isn’t law.”
“It’s not?” He was baiting me.
“Fuck you.”
He snickered. “You want pizza for dinner? I really want pizza.”
“We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
“Yeah, but I like to plan, you know that.”
I did know that. “Maybe Emma wants to go out.”
“But no deep-dish,” he said, blithely ignoring me. “I want hand-tossed.”
“No one eats that in Chicago.”
“I do.”
“You don’t count.”
“I do too count.”
Yes, he did. He counted more than anyone to me.
“I’m your partner; you gotta take care of me.”
All the words that came out of his mouth that he didn’t actually hear? They were astounding.
“Beer or wine?” I asked, trying to restore normalcy on my end.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he groused. “Wine? With pizza?”
So much disdain in his voice. “Fine, beer it is.”
“How far out are you?”
“Like twenty minutes, if I wasn’t about to be in morning traffic.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll get with the guys from vice.”
I snorted out a laugh.
“How old are you?”
“No coffee,” I reminded.
“Yeah,” he agreed, almost sadly.
“What’s with the tone?”
“Nothing.”
“Something,” I said confidently, because I knew him too well, every nuance of his voice categorized and memorized. He couldn’t hide anything from me.
“It’s too late to rethink your lot, M. You’re stuck with me.”
“Where’s this coming from?”
“Just, you know… I’m not easy.”
“Oh buddy, I know.”
“Shut up.”
“And I wouldn’t dream of getting a new partner.”
“Okay,” he said hoarsely, and then he hung up.
The drive should have taken maybe twenty-five minutes, but this was morning traffic on I-90 East toward Washington Park. I’d be lucky to be there before Christmas.
By the time I reached where the raid had gone down, I was more than ready to stretch my legs. Climbing out of the truck, I went around to the trunk of the deVille and opened it. As it was a work car, we both carried keys for it. I took off my jacket and my suit blazer, put on my tac vest, and eyed the raid slicker. SOP said it had to go on, but it was freezing, and my parka with “US Marshal” across the back was at home. But I could imagine getting shot because no one knew who I was and what Kage would say, and worst of all, what he would do to me and what my new job description would be. He was not to be messed with.
After putting my blazer and jacket both back on, I pulled the raid slicker on over that, then removed my badge from the chain around my neck I’d worn out of my house and clipped it to my belt.
“Miro!”
Glancing around, I found Ian dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt with “US Marshal” emblazoned down the arm, his vest, khaki cargo pants, and a baseball hat.
“Dressing down today, marshal,” I teased, closing in.
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, we both were supposed to, but since I dropped the ball, I guess I’ll be doing all the heavy lifting today.”
“You poor thing.”
“This is what I’m saying.”
“At least I should stay clean today,” I quipped, reaching his side but not getting too close. All I wanted was to grab him, so I kept my distance on purpose.
Except… moving quickly with that fluid way he had, he stepped right into my personal space. “You said you weren’t mad.”
“I’m not,” I said, my voice thick.
“Then act like it.”
“Okay,” I said at the same time a man came flying out the front entrance and started racing across the parking lot.
It happened so fast. I saw the men chasing him, made out the letters “FBI” on their raid jackets even from a distance, and took off, sprinting around the cars to intercept who I figured was a fleeing suspect. I ran a long route, circumventing the other pursuers, and emerged to the right of him. Hurtling into his path, I clipped him on the shoulder and we went down together, rolling, sliding over snow and gravel until a car halted our momentum.
Winded, gasping, I choked as the man shoved me off and tried to scramble away, crawling on hands and knees.
“Freeze, asshole,” Ian bellowed, running up to us, his Glock leveled at the man’s head. “Don’t fuckin’ move!”
I heaved for breath as the man was swarmed, shoved facedown onto the asphalt, and searched for weapons. Checking my wrist, making sure the cast was still intact, I realized from the twinge of pain that shot through it that I needed to take it easy on the tackling until I was back at 100 percent.
“Put your hands up,” one of the agents yelled, coming around the back of the Toyota Camry we had rolled up against, his gun leveled at me.
“The fuck you say!” Ian yelled before he drove the man back, lifting him up off his feet and pile-driving him over the trunk with a forearm in the guy’s throat. “That’s a fuckin’ deputy US marshal you’re pointing your goddamn gun at!”
Lots of movement, and I was hauled to my feet as four state police officers pulled Ian off the agent and crowded around him until he holstered his weapon.
“How ’bout a thank you for catching your suspect,” Ian snarled.
I pushed into the crowd, grabbed hold of his vest, and shoved him backward until we were free, only the two of us outside the throng of troopers.
“Hey,” I said softly, my hands on his sides, slipping to his hips without thought.
“Fuck you!” he shouted at them all. “You don’t draw a gun unless you know what the fuck you’re supposed to be shooting at!”
He was furious, and it was only because I could bench-press more than he could, having muscle on him where he had height on me, that I could hold him still.
“Hey,” I said again.
His blue eyes flicked sideways and met mine.
“Thank you for having my back.”
“Always,” he grumbled. “You know that.”
And I did.
“You’re bleeding.”
I shrugged. “Every time, you know that.”
“Is your wrist okay?” he asked, grabbing hold of it, turning it over in his hands, checking even before I could form an answer.
“It’s fine.”
“Stop doing shit like that,” he said crossly, letting go, seemingly reassured that the plaster was holding together. “Wait for me.”
“I will.”
“Miro!”
“I promise,” I replied, chuckling. “Don’t fuss.”
It was always weird walking into someone else’s investigation, but since the feds were in charge, it wasn’t as bad as it was j
ust dealing with Chicago PD or state troopers. Sometimes there was a lot of posturing, and I always wanted to tell everyone to whip ’em out and I’d get my ruler and proclaim a winner. Ridiculous.
The special agent in charge, the one running the task force, apologized for his man pulling a gun on me and then waited for Ian to return the sentiment.
“What?” my partner asked irritably.
He shook his head and walked us to the hotel room where the missing witness perched on the bathroom counter, his feet in the sink, looking bored.
“Mr. Bentley,” I greeted him.
“Sweetheart, do you know that you’re bleeding?”
I shrugged, walking into the room before Ian. “Where ya been, Kemen?”
He flashed me a beautiful smile, all perfect white even teeth and dimples. The boy, all of nineteen, was stunning, warm mocha skin and huge green eyes. I understood why he’d been kept, but I grieved for the loss of his childhood.
I remembered his file. He’d been sold by his mother for drugs when he was only ten, then changed hands several times until Taylor Ledesma saw him dancing at a club and took him from the guy who was selling his ass for three hundred a night. Kemen became Ledesma’s sole property and prized possession. The good part was that never again was he raped, gangbanged, or passed around. The bad part was, he had no freedom. He was not allowed outside of the waterfront penthouse apartment.
“I won’t testify,” he said curtly. “Taylor Ledesma was decent to me. I explained that to the police and I’m telling it to you guys. I won’t.”
“That was smart, what you did,” I commented casually.
When his focus shifted to me, I could tell I had piqued his interest.
“Because Ledesma conducted all his business in Spanish, you decided to learn the language so you’d know what the hell was going on.”
“Yeah, sure, made sense, right?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “And Ledesma never made you leave the room when he conducted business—how come?”
Kemen swiveled to face me, stretching all the tight muscles. “He liked showing me off to men who would never have me. He got off on it.”
“Makes sense. So then what happened?”
“There was a raid on his home. The FBI showed up, and they took me into custody but then handed me over to Chicago PD when they thought I was underage.”