Turn Me Loose

by Anne Calhoun

  “Eighteen months ago we started seeing a spike in crime we traced to cheap heroin, flowing in from Mexico. It was a new, more potent form, pure and cheap, and it flooded the market, driving prices down and spreading west, into the burbs. We also saw an increase in ODs, intakes at addiction treatment centers, and violence. We learned from Dorchester’s encounter with Hector Santiago that the cartels were working with local gangs to gain new turf.”

  “That explains the spike in violence,” his dad said.

  “Exactly.”

  “How close are we to closing this down?”

  And here was the reason for the meeting. This was his area. He’d gathered the data, traced it to the roots, and was close to shutting down the traffic. McCormick was undercover in plain sight, working his regular shift as a patrol officer with the city’s Eastern Precinct. Only the people in this room knew he was also gathering data to arrest, prosecute, and convict the dirty cops who had swarmed in to take advantage of a vacuum in the city’s gang leadership, created when Dorchester took out a vicious drug runner threatening Eve.

  “We’re close,” Ian said. “Five months of work and McCormick has data on high-level distributors and their dealers.”

  McCormick cleared his throat and squared up. “Kenny knows where the meetings to deliver shipments will take place. He directs patrols away from that area and sends in one of his guys to make sure nothing goes down. Five minutes and everyone’s gone, and the drugs are out for delivery.”

  Swarthmore added, “We’ve also got proof of cops taking money and drugs from crime scenes, coercion of suspects, and several instances of planting evidence to frame members of other gangs, illegal searches, false testimony.”

  “What do we know about the supplier?”

  “Not much,” McCormick admitted. “Kenny’s playing his cards close to his chest. I’m in, but not the inner circle.”

  “Does it matter?” his father asked, switching to devil’s advocate in the blink of an eye. “We can shut down the current distributors and clean house at the same time.”

  “According to Kenny, this guy’s been trying to get into Lancaster for a while, opening new territory for a gang out of Mexico. If we don’t shut him down, he’ll try again.”

  Ian tapped the file with the question mark on a big blue sticky note on it. “I want this guy, Dad.”

  His father looked at him. Ian recognized the glint in his eye, having inherited his father’s ruthless, relentless drive. He knew what Ian meant—I want this bust, this clearance, our house cleaned from top to bottom. I want the captain’s bars. “How do we go about getting him?”

  Swarthmore said, “Kenny’s top distributor is a guy named Malik Hathaway. We’ve got enough on Malik to arrest him.”

  Ian shook his head. “If we go after any of them, the rest will run. I want to leave the top leadership in place.” He flipped open Malik’s file. “What about Malik’s brother?”

  “Isaiah?” McCormick blew out his breath. “We’ve picked him up for shoplifting, petty theft, but not in the last few months. He’s not involved, as far as I can tell. His brother gets him to run packages every so often, but only as a last resort.”

  Ian studied the pictures in the file. Just another kid in a hoodie getting into another junker of a car with a brown sack in his hand. Just another means to an end. He pushed his memory of Riva, white-faced when she approached his table, then gorgeously furious with him when he dared broach the sanctity of her kitchen. “Do we have enough to arrest him?”

  “Yeah,” McCormick said.

  “Bring him in. Let’s see what means more to him, his family or his freedom.”

  The meeting broke up, Swarthmore and Dorchester catching up on another case, Jo checking her voice mail on her way down the stairs. McCormick took the back door through the empty apartment behind the office, protecting his cover.

  Ian collected the folders and shut his laptop’s lid. Looking at it brought back to mind standing by the kitchen door while Riva Henneman calmly directed a panicked group of kids through the procedure for dealing with a grease fire, and he clutched his laptop like a kid with a security blanket.

  The memory hit him with all the unexpectedness of Jamie landing a punch Ian didn’t see coming when they were sparring at Lancaster’s boxing club. One minute he’d been getting his laptop out to work through his meal. The next Riva was standing there, drawing all the oxygen out of the room despite the wide-open windows and warm spring breeze. He’d looked up into her face, and all his brain could do was notice. Riva. Different.

  All grown up. The slender body of an eighteen-year-old college student had filled out into a woman’s curves. Her slouched posture was now ramrod straight, shoulders back, head held high, her pale blue eyes snapping. Finely arched brows. A wide, mobile mouth, alternately prim or carnal depending on the color of her lipstick and how heavily she applied it. She still wore her chestnut hair long but had stopped straightening it to that artificially sleek look. It was now pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing the freckles spattered across her cheeks, nose, and forehead. They were a little darker but maybe that was because she was pale with shock at seeing him. He hoped it was shock. God knew his mouth was hanging open like an idiot’s.

  He’d chosen the restaurant because Eve had talked up the farm-to-table ethos and the owner’s community involvement, and Matt had talked up the rib eye special. In the space of two racing heartbeats his day went from average, ordinary, data-driven metrics for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to the visceral, full-body memory of the erotic thrill he’d spent the last seven years trying to forget.

  He couldn’t have her. Ever. She’d been a suspect, a confidential informant he’d ruthlessly used to shut down a campus drug ring and earn his first commendation. He’d been ambitious, concerned with nothing other than proving himself as a Hawthorn, living up to his dad’s reputation, and Jamie’s. Everyone else acted like cancer gave him a pass, but he didn’t want a pass and flatly refused to be the weak link in the Hawthorn family. He wanted to stand tall beside his brother and his father. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Until he’d wanted Riva. He’d needed her cooperation, but been terrified the entire time, sending a slender, defiant, sexy girl into dangerous situations. Underneath all of that was the most dangerous thing in the world: the desire to throw it all away.

  He’d taken all of that conflicted emotion out on her.

  His father was waiting by Ian’s truck. “What’s up, Dad?”

  “I’m a little disappointed. I thought maybe you and Eve had gotten together.”

  Ever since his brother, Jamie, finally convinced the love of his life to give a long distance relationship a shot, his parents were in full-on matchmaker mode.

  “Eve’s great.” He clicked open the locks and tossed the laptop bag up on the seat. “I can’t imagine holidays sitting across from Caleb Webber.” Eve’s brother was a hot-shot defense attorney who loved making cops’ lives difficult.

  “Dorchester seems all right with it.”

  “He’s in love with her. I’m not.”

  “Is there anyone? Anyone at all?”

  Just a tall, leggy, chestnut-haired former suspect turned organic farmer who hated him enough to refuse him service. He wasn’t even sure what she did for a living. Was that farm hers? Just the restaurant? Or was she the liaison with the East Side Community Center? He’d given in and searched her name on social media. The farm had a page, but no clues about the owner. She had no social media profiles under her name.

  “It’s spring, so an old man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love?” he said.

  “Who you calling old?”

  “I don’t want to steal Jamie’s lovefest limelight.”

  “You think they’ll get married soon?”

  Jamie was an active duty SEAL stationed in Virginia Beach. He’d come home nearly a year ago and claimed the girl he’d never forgotten, Charlie Stannard, a former pro basketball player and now the girls’ basketball coach a
t East High. They were still working out the long-distance-relationship details. “Ask Jamie.”

  “Jamie ignores the question.”

  A sure sign his brother was in stealth mode about something, probably the proposal. “Even when Mom asks?”

  “Even when your mother asks.”

  “I’d prepare for a big announcement.”

  “So you don’t know something we don’t?”

  “I know lots of things about Jamie you don’t,” Ian said. “But not that particular thing.”

  “Humph,” his dad said. “You and your brother. Thick as thieves.”

  “You’ve got to renegotiate the city’s contract with the sanitation service, and you’re thinking about Jamie getting married?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I think about you getting married.”

  “Give it a rest, Dad.”

  “Is it the cancer?”

  No. Yes. Maybe. Ian didn’t know how to answer that question, because sometimes, sure, a woman got a good look at the scar on his pectoral from the chemo port and bugged out. Sometimes she went all maternal and protective on him, and he bugged out. Sometimes she didn’t ask, because talking wasn’t part of the program.

  “I’m not looking for someone right now. I’m busy at work, and this thing takes up most of my off-duty time.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  The last thing he wanted was company in the exam room. “No.” He softened his tone. “I’ll go. I promise.”

  His dad was more fine with Jamie joining the US Navy SEALs and going off on incredibly complicated, dangerous missions he knew almost nothing about than he was with Ian having cancer. It was the illusion of control. Jamie was highly trained, with his teammates, in control of his situations. Ian was alone with a ticking time bomb of a body that had deceived him once already. “I know, Dad. I’m fine. I’m sleeping, eating right, not drinking to excess, exercising. I’m fine. I’m just not dating, okay?”

  His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. McCormick. We got him.

  “I have to go, Dad. Work.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Have fun with the sanitation engineers.”

  His father snorted. “Stay out of trouble.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later he pulled into the parking lot behind the Eastern Precinct, known to the cops and most east side residents as the Block. To protect both the cruisers and cops’ cars, the parking lot was fenced off with eight feet of chain link topped with barbed wire. He held the door for a cop bringing in a drugged-out homeless guy, then kept on holding it for two cops returning to their vehicle.

  “Thanks, LT.”

  McCormick was waiting in the observation room, feet spread, arms folded, looking like he wouldn’t move until doomsday. Through the reflective glass Ian saw a kid slumped over the table, face buried in the arm of a gray hoodie, nicked-up hands and a shock of blond hair the only visible identifying features.

  “He asleep?”

  “He’s being eighteen,” McCormick said.

  “Any trouble?” McCormick was seven inches taller than Ian and had him by a good sixty pounds of muscle. Ian didn’t expect him to say yes.

  “Nothing beyond the standard.”

  “Charges?” They didn’t need anything big, just enough to arrest him and scare him.

  “He was named last week by a small-time corner kid as the guy who delivered his packages.”

  “Any truth to it?”

  McCormick shrugged. “Probably. It’s a Stryker corner. They don’t usually use Isaiah for that, but he’s done it a couple of times.”

  “Has he asked for a lawyer?”

  “No. He made one phone call. I assume his aunt’s gonna show up any minute.” At Ian’s raised eyebrow, McCormick added, “He and Malik live with their aunt.”

  Ian studied the top of Isaiah’s head a moment longer. “Want some coffee?”

  “Sure. He’s not going anywhere.”

  Ian poured out two cups, added sugar to McCormick’s, and shifted both cups to his right hand. On his way back to the interrogation room, he scanned the email on his phone.

  Ian handed McCormick his coffee. “All yours,” he said.

  “His phone call’s here,” McCormick said, tipping his head at the glass.

  Ian looked up to find Riva Henneman standing beside the table in the interrogation room.

  “Shit,” he said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Please don’t let him be here.

  Riva had chanted the mantra all way to the Block, switching from reciting it under her breath to mentally repeating it to herself while she asked at the front desk for Isaiah. She’d held her chin high the whole way back to a very familiar interview room, but Hawthorn was nowhere in sight.

  To her relief, the room held only Isaiah and herself. Her heart was pounding, her stomach roiling like she’d eaten bad fish, but she held it together, reaching for skills she’d learned in this very precinct, in this very interrogation room. Stay calm. Don’t give anything away. She dropped her purse to the floor and perched on the edge of the chair beside him.

  “Isaiah, what’s going on?”

  “Got arrested,” he said.

  His blond hair fell forward, into his eyes. He was handcuffed to the table. The sullen look on his face, so different from the open excitement and delight she saw when she taught him a new recipe or approved an improvement he’d made to one of hers was gone, replaced by the kid who’d skulked into her kitchen back in February. All the progress she’d made was lost.

  “So I see,” she said lightly. “What happened?”

  “Someone snitched.”

  Monosyllabic answers, closed-off expression. All too familiar. She waited.

  “Little Ray said I delivered a package to him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah, but this was months ago. I’ve said no to Malik every time since I started working for you.” His face closed off again, the expression of someone who didn’t expect authority figures to believe him.

  “I believe you,” she said. But she also knew all about statute of limitations, and what cops would do to get an arrest, a conviction. “Did you call a lawyer?” He needed help, just as she’d needed one seven years ago. The conversation was seared into her memory.

  Dad? I got arrested. Selling … you know. What you asked me to sell.

  A few low, muttered words, “knew a girl would fuck this up … stupid bitch” among them. Then, Did you tell them about me?

  No! Of course not!

  Don’t, if you know what’s good for you. I’m not jeopardizing this relationship because you couldn’t handle a job twelve-year-olds do without getting busted. Don’t call me again.

  Then he’d hung up on her.

  “No money for a lawyer.” At her glance, he added, “Malik’s the one with a good lawyer. I’m not taking his help with this.”

  She blew out her breath, then dug in her bag for her cell phone to text Eve.

  I need your brother’s work number.

  You finally want to get a drink with him? I’ll give you his mobile, but he’s in Cleveland for a couple of weeks, doing depositions. I’ll set the two of you up when he gets back!

  “Dammit,” she breathed.

  Thanks, but I don’t want to get a drink with him. I need a lawyer.

  The response came almost immediately. What’s going on?

  It’s not for me. For Isaiah.

  Three dots appeared. While she waited, she said absently. “Where’s your mom?”

  “Gone.”

  She looked up. “Gone, gone?”

  “Gone, gone.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Where I’ll be going.”

  Prison. Great. “Who’s responsible for you?”

  “I’m eighteen. I am.”

  “You turned eighteen six weeks ago,” Riva said. “Who was responsible for you before then?”

  “Malik, I guess. We live with my au
nt.”

  “Tell me what happened. You said this wasn’t recent.”

  “Cop rolls up a couple of hours ago and arrests me. Says I can have a second chance, if I roll on Malik. I’m not snitching on my brother.”

  A warning bell went off in her brain. “Tell me exactly what happened.” At his disbelieving snort, she added, “You can’t shock me. Trust me on this one.”

  The story was all too familiar. He lived on the outskirts of all kinds of illegal activity; half of the east side made ends meet any way they could. Malik was up and coming in the Strykers. For the most part he kept his little brother out of things, but every so often, he asked Isaiah to do something he trusted no one else to do.

  “Including delivering packages.”

  “Just the big ones,” Isaiah said ironically.

  Cops wouldn’t hesitate to use family members to go after the biggest fish of them all, the suppliers.

  “What did they want?”

  “Malik’s supplier.”

  “Do you know who supplies him?” Her heart was in her throat.

  “Yeah. But I’m not giving up my brother.”

  “Let me guess.” But it wasn’t really a guess. Her past, her fate, was catching up with her. She leaned in close, keeping her voice down to a low murmur. “It’s a guy out of Chicago, goes by the name of Rory.”

  The look on Isaiah’s face was almost as priceless as the look on Ian’s at the restaurant. Riva knew how shocking this must be to him, that his clean living, organic farming food arts and sciences mentor knew high-level drug dealers by name. “How do you know him?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “Just sit tight and keep your mouth shut until I get back.”

  Isaiah stared at her, eyes full of wild hope and total disbelief. “You can help me?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How?”

  Easy. All she had to do was give Ian Hawthorn what she’d withheld seven years ago. All she had to do was ask for help from the man she hated as much as she desired.

  She opened the door and found herself staring at the bulging right biceps of a mountain of muscle standing outside. He wore jeans, a half-zip pullover, a gun on his hip, and a badge on his belt. “I’d like to speak to Ian Hawthorn, please.”