Turn Me Loose

by Anne Calhoun

I am a nice man. I’m a very nice man. Just not to your daughter. With your daughter I was a cop first, an asshole second, and a man third.

  “Things are different,” he said as he picked up his pace. Now she’d slept in his apartment. Now he’d seen her morning look, soft and sleepy and dangerously decaffeinated. Now she’d seen him rock hard and ready for her.

  The “short version” of her life sent a little stinger of regret for the way he’d treated her through his chest. Being a miracle was a double-edged sword. His family was so grateful he had survived the cancer they still lit candles and wrote notes to the doctors who treated him. Riva was a miracle, too, but all it got her was manipulation and guilt. His respect for her was growing by leaps and bounds.

  The Hennemans lived in the Logan Square neighborhood, in a house remodeled to within an inch of its life, and remodeled well. He’d done some research on the real estate situation, and found that Rory Henneman had gotten in early and cheap in what was now a very desirable neighborhood. He made a mental note to ask about that at dinner.

  The second interesting thing about the house was that the property was in Stephanie Henneman’s name only. Not Rory’s. He wondered if Riva’s mother even knew about that. If she’d come from money, she should have some in her own name, but all of Henneman’s accounts were in his name only.

  He sprinted the last quarter mile back to the Hennemans’ home, slowing when he reached their block to catch his breath. He let himself in through the back gate to familiarize himself with the yard. The house was an interesting mix of Victorian—porch that curved around the front and side, detached garage, peaks and dormers on the uppermost level—and modern finishes and styling inside, all white trim and dark hardwood floors and gray tones in paint and carpets. The yard was no different, with the big trees common to an older neighborhood towering over a Japanese garden, teak benches and burbling fountains, a rock garden, and a big expanse of grass. Probably for the grandchildren.

  He heard a male voice and paused outside the door. The tone was low, even pleasant, but the words caught his attention. “… what’s your excuse today, Stephanie?”

  “Dad, I—”

  “Shut up, Riva. I asked your mother a question. I want an answer.”

  Ian couldn’t hear the response, but Rory must have gotten one because he said, “Another headache? Is this a menopause symptom? That’s the third one this week!”

  “Dad, really, I wanted to cook for you and Mom. Show you what I’ve learned.”

  Ian’s stomach turned over. Gone was the confident, assertive tone he’d heard in the kitchen at Oasis, or the in-your-face attitude she’d used during the heated negotiations about where she would sleep. Riva’s voice was colorless, small, almost pleading.

  “What you’ve learned is what any home ec major from the nineteen fifties learned in high school,” Rory said, razor sharp, dismissive, and mocking.

  He hadn’t met Rory Henneman face-to-face, already had good reason to think he was scum, but in that moment, Ian hated him. He stopped himself just short of using his cop’s knock on the door, noiselessly making his way back down the path, then whistling as he approached the door. His tactic worked; Sugar greeted him with a flurry of barking and scrabbling claws. “The damn dog’s good for something” came through the door.

  “Hey, Riva,” he said through the screen door. “Can I come in?”

  “Let the man in,” Rory said over a ringing cell phone. He sounded magnanimous, the lord welcoming the visitor to his castle. If Ian hadn’t heard the previous conversation, he would have thought Rory was the nicest guy on the block.

  As she fumbled with the door latch, Stephanie’s pupils were black holes in her eyes. In the dim kitchen light, the effect was eerie enough to make the hair stand up on Ian’s arms. “Hey, girl,” he said, and bent down to scratch Sugar’s little head.

  Riva raised her brows. Did you hear that? He gave her a slight nod.

  “Dad’s home,” she said in a normal tone. She glanced significantly at a closed white six-panel door and mouthed, He’s in there, with his laptop. “He had to take a call. Ten minutes until dinner.”

  “Great. I’ll take a quick shower.”

  He divested himself of Sugar and took the stairs two at a time. Nine minutes later he walked back down the stairs in chinos, another of his nondescript thin sweaters over a T-shirt, his boots, and his Sig. He followed the sound of voices to the dining room, white paneling with plum paint above and white crown molding, where Stephanie was fussing over china and linens while Riva set platters of food on various trivets.

  He forgot about that when he got a good look at Riva, hair clinging to her temples, face flushed, and forehead pinched with worry as she set a pot roast on the last trivet. “Here we go. I hope it’s good. Dad, this is my colleague, Ian. Ian, my father, Rory Henneman.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Rory said, giving Ian’s hand a firm shake.

  Riva’s father wasn’t what he expected. A couple of inches shorter than Ian, he wore nice jeans and a button-down with the logo for Henneman Vending embroidered on the pocket. He had Riva’s chestnut hair and blue eyes. All it took was the handshake, that brief, two-, maybe three-second moment when their hands clasped, and Ian felt a vibration at the base of his skull, like someone had slid an ice pick in between the bones. It didn’t happen often—a couple of times when he’d walked into a domestic murder scene when the killer was still there, another couple of times when he was working on the street. He’d been expecting a run-of-the-mill guy looking to get rich. Instead his early warning system blared dangerdangerdanger until his nape all but vibrated with it.

  Then Rory dropped his hand and the moment broke. “Thanks for opening your home to me,” Ian said.

  “Any friend of Riva’s is welcome here. This smells delicious.” Rory glanced at his wife, then at his daughter. “What is it?”

  “It’s pot roast,” Stephanie said brightly.

  “I can see that,” Rory said, but Ian saw Stephanie flinch ever so slightly. Rory’s gaze was watchful, like a big cat hunkered low in the grass, picking out the slowest in a herd of gazelles. “What’s it seasoned with?”

  Stephanie froze for just a moment, eyes wide, unblinking. Ian doubted she even knew she’d done it; the movement had the sharpness of a spinal reflex. “Um, garlic, and rosemary, and…” She looked at Riva.

  “Go ahead, Mom,” Riva said.

  Stephanie laughed, then reached down and rubbed Sugar’s little head. “You tell him, dear. I can’t remember.”

  “It’s a paleron, not a rump roast, rubbed with salt and pepper, then seared, then roasted with the celery, rutabaga, carrots, and mushrooms in a really good cabernet Ian picked out on the way up here.”

  Rory smiled. “At least someone knows what we’re eating,” he said to Ian.

  “Please, go ahead,” Stephanie said belatedly, gesturing to the steaming platters.

  Ian’s mouth filled with saliva as he transferred a succulent piece of beef to his plate, then passed the platter to Stephanie. The smells were incredible, hints of spices rising from the crust on the meat, the vegetables retaining some of their crispness yet yielding easily to his fork.

  Rory slowly chewed a bite of beef. “So this is what you’ve been doing in Lancaster?”

  “This is it,” Riva said lightly.

  “Is this what you’re cooking for your mother’s … luncheon?” There was no way to tell if he approved or not.

  “We’re still talking about menus, but Mom, I’d prefer to go shopping the morning of the luncheon and make something from whatever’s fresh at the stands.”

  “Don’t you need to send out menus with the invitations?” Rory again, undermining in the most solicitous tone possible.

  “So we’ll send out menus that say ‘The meal will be cooked with ingredients harvested only hours before. Bring your appetites and sense of adventure!’”

  “Maybe you should stick with the caterer,” Rory said.

  Ian slid a gla
nce at Stephanie, mechanically slicing away at the beef with an equally mechanical smile on her face. So far none of her food had made it to her mouth.

  “Up to you, Mom,” Riva said. Her tone was bright, but forced. Ian bent his head over his food, using his peripheral vision and hearing to take in data.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Rory said. “Maybe your mother will learn something from you.” The stinger froze Stephanie’s hands for just a second. “This isn’t bad. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

  “The people I met through the co-op,” Riva said, her color high, her voice forced into an eagerness that made Ian seethe for her. “Most of them loved to cook and cared passionately where the ingredients came from. We used to joke we spent a quarter of our paychecks on rent and the rest on food.”

  “How’s the restaurant doing?”

  “Oh, you know…” Riva said, pushing her roast around on her plate, a false cheery optimism in her voice.

  Ian shot her a look over the asparagus. Back at the Block, when she’d said she would ingratiate herself with her father to get the information he needed, he’d blithely agreed. But after a mere fifteen minutes in Rory’s company, he knew there was no way he’d let Riva put herself at risk like that. The man was manipulative, egocentric, and cruel, which made him dangerous to Riva in more ways than one.

  “We’ve added one or two spring preview nights a week, until the harvest really gets steady and productive. Then in the summer we’ll be open Thursday through Saturday nights, with special events on Sundays and Wednesdays. I’ve got some kids from a community center working for us.”

  “We?” Rory asked with a glance at Ian.

  Riva blushed and tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s really a community effort. That’s part of the reason why I’m back. Chicago has a strong urban farming initiative.”

  “Ah,” Rory said sagely, as if this made more sense than coming back to help Stephanie with the luncheon. “Now I get it.”

  Time for Ian to jump in. “I’m mostly observing at this point,” Ian added. “Riva tells me you have your own business. Candy and vending, right? That’s cool. How long have you had it?”

  “Since before I had Riva. I’m my own boss, and I’m competitive. I like to kill what I eat, not punch a clock and take a paycheck.”

  Ian quickly discarded the idea of giving Rory his cover story and instead stroked Rory’s ego. “When Riva told me about your business, I checked on what the city does for vending. We use the same company that staffs the cafeteria.”

  “That’s pretty common. The big guys come in and get the vending as part of the food service contract. We just have to scrap a little harder for market share. I’ve bought out a couple of guys who couldn’t make it work.”

  Ian filed that away. Buying out legit businesses meant getting cash somewhere. Loans from banks, or an infusion of cash from another, less legal source?

  “How many guys do you have working for you?” He added another smile to tone down the way his voice drifted toward an interrogation.

  Rory spent the next twenty minutes explaining his business in detail. The number of drivers he had and the number of routes they ran. What made stops profitable. This fit Ian’s plan perfectly. He wanted attention directed away from Riva, to himself. The safest thing was for him to gain Rory’s trust and get access to his office for a thorough search. The door was closed, but the second he got a chance, he’d take a look, see what kind of security the laptop had and whether he was using a server.

  “It depends on what’s in the machines,” Rory was saying. “That’s our second-biggest problem after the Aramarks and Marriotts. People want healthy food now. The business used to be candy and soda, maybe muffins that would last for a week in a machine. Now people want fresh. I’m replacing candy machines with ones that dispense fruit and vegetables, those microwavable oatmeals, organic snack bars, that kind of thing.”

  “Sounds more labor intensive,” Ian said. “Fruit has a shorter shelf life than Twinkies.”

  “It is,” Rory agreed. “You better believe it is.”

  “I‘ve got some ideas for healthy snacks with a decent shelf life,” Riva interjected.

  Ian shot her another covert look, but Rory ignored her. “What do you do now, Ian?”

  “Right now I work for the city,” he said. Rule number one of undercover work was to avoid volunteering more information than had been asked for, and keep the story simple.

  “No wonder you’re looking to make a change,” Rory said. “Bureaucracy kills me. Once you go into business for yourself, you’ll never go back. Doing what, exactly?”

  “Analytics, mostly. Data analysis, monitor metrics, search for ways to improve services while keeping costs down.”

  “Sounds exciting.” Just a hint of regret that Ian didn’t get to work at a real job.

  “Yeah.” He kept his tone moderate, but added a little ruefulness to it. He was starting to get a handle on what made Rory tick. “I have a degree in philosophy—”

  Rory laughed. “Much of a job market for that?”

  “Not really, so the minor in statistics came in handy. Mostly my job’s about looking at the big picture, then breaking down the variables to improve efficiency.”

  “Government is a good place to start for efficiency improvements.”

  “I know, right? But you’d be amazed at how inefficient most business processes are. The little details in terms of service delivery or waste really add up.”

  He cut a piece of celery, added a bit of meat to his fork, and chewed the mouthful while watching Rory. Ian the skinny analytical office drone now had all of Rory’s attention.

  Perfect.

  “So you’re interested in farming?”

  He leaned forward and injected a frustrated note into his voice. “I have to try something. A couple of friends of mine recommended Riva’s restaurant. I went, and was really blown away by how good food could taste when it was a couple of hours out of the ground. It got me out of the statistics and back into philosophy. What’s the purpose of being alive? It can’t be all spreadsheets and meetings.”

  “Damn straight it can’t be.” Rory topped off Ian’s wine but didn’t offer it to Riva or Stephanie. The women at the other end of the table had ceased to exist.

  “Riva’s brought me along on a few of her day trips to farmers’ markets, CSAs, supplying restaurants. I want to get a feel for the business side of things because that’s where I can really help. How does it all work? How do you handle fluctuations in supply and demand?”

  “You don’t,” Riva interjected.

  He looked at her.

  “You don’t manage for them. You flow with them. If late frost get the peas and kale harvest, I adapt what I serve.” She flashed him a little warning smile.

  “What about the restaurants you supply?”

  “They adapt, too. Obviously they want some information. What are we planting? Some ingredients are the same, spinach and Swiss chard, carrots and peas and broccoli, but I sit down with the chefs I supply and talk about what their creative vision is for each season. Together we’ll come up with seasonal menus around what we plant, and we keep them up to date on how the growing season is going, what pests we’re seeing, how we’re handling them. I always throw in a few things I think will do well, just in case. We can use a low tunnel to warm the soil and protect against frost, but nature happens. Insect invasions happen. Part of the farm-to-table ethos is a willingness to enjoy what you’re served rather than dictating the experience. If you want consistency, there’s always the McDonalds drive-thru.”

  “It’s that flexible?” Ian asked, astonished.

  She shrugged. “Some of the best dishes I’ve served have come from an afternoon browsing at the farmers’ market.”

  Rory sat back and swirled his wine in his glass. “Do you play any sports?”

  Bad Ian for taking his attention off Rory. It was time for another fast decision. “Basketball in high school,” Ian said. “
Around the time I lost interest in my job, I took up boxing.”

  Bingo. Rory’s eyes lit up. He said, “I sponsor a couple of local boxers.”

  Ian knew that. A deep search had turned up Rory’s name associated with a local boxing organization. The name disappeared pretty quickly, but he’d taken a chance. “Did you see the Spence-Algieri fight?”

  “Yeah. From the first row.”

  “You went to New York for that fight?”

  “I did. Spence put on a clinic. I was close enough to get hit by flying sweat. You should come by the gym. Watch my boy train. He’s getting ready for a fight next month.”

  There it was, the crack he needed, his way in. There was no doubt that Rory, with his total lack of emotion and an eye to the long game, was behind the corruption in the LPD and the new pipeline of drugs Kenny and his guys ensured flowed unimpeded into Lancaster. He looked at Riva. “What do we have planned?”

  She wasn’t doing anything as obvious as glaring at him, but he’d spent enough time with Riva in a pissed-off state to know when she was seething and holding it back. “We need to work on the menu for the luncheon. Prep will take all day the day before. Day of is booked, of course. And I’ve got meetings set up with half a dozen local operations. There’s probably time for some visits to the gym,” she conceded.

  “Any dessert with this?” Rory asked.

  “Just ice cream. Actually, can I take a raincheck, Dad? Remember Kelly, my friend from high school? We made plans for me to come over and meet Wyatt.”

  Me? Not we? Who the hell is Kelly? Or Wyatt?

  Rory waved his hand like he was dismissing an underling.

  No way was Ian letting Riva head out into the Chicago night without him. “Let me grab my wallet and phone.”

  Riva reached for his plate and silverware. “You really don’t want to do that. It’s going to be all nursing and the consistency of poop and sleep schedules.”

  Alarms went off in his head. Maybe this was just Riva trying to get some time by herself, or maybe something more complicated was going on. Either way, she wasn’t going out at night without him. “I’d like to see more of Chicago.”