Turn Me Loose

by Anne Calhoun

Ian laughed. “Asked who?”

  “I know some guys in Lancaster. I looked into business opportunities when Riva went to school there. Made some contacts.”

  Ian’s heart hurled itself slow and hard against his rib cage. THUD. THUD. THUD. Would he know if Rory had taken his picture? Ian had never seen him aim a cell phone at him, but that didn’t mean anything these days. All it would take to blow this sky high was Rory taking his picture and sending it to Kenny.

  What if Rory had separated him from Riva in order to kidnap her? “So you’ve discovered my secret.”

  Rory didn’t blink. “Maybe. What’s your secret?”

  “I don’t work for the city. Lancaster outsources their IT work. I work for one of the subcontractors on the accounting side.”

  “That would explain why none of my contacts had ever heard of Ian Fallon.”

  “It’s just easier to say I work for the city,” Ian said. He pulled out his phone and sent Jo a text. Hey, how’s your mom doing? It was a lame code, dating back to their high school days, before either of them got cool enough to invent something sophisticated. They’d started it when they were hiding late nights out from their attentive, hard-to-fool parents, and never got out of the habit.

  Rory gave him an assessing glance. Ian tried his best to look malleable, easy to persuade, and a little desperate. This was the tricky part. Guys like Kenny, street smart and suspicious, didn’t trust gift horses. He’d manipulated McCormick into working for him, counting on Conn’s fear of being abandoned to keep him under his thumb. But Rory, who believed he was the center of the universe, that everything should fall into line to benefit him, might see Ian as no less than what he deserved, a sign that the universe rewarded his initiative.

  They pulled into a bland office park. Buildings clustered around parking lots, the names of various companies over the entrances. A staffing agency, accounting, design, medical supplies and testing.

  “Where are we going?” Ian asked as he climbed out of the truck.

  “Prospective client in building four,” Rory said. He grabbed a leather satchel from behind the driver’s seat. For a moment Ian saw the dull gleam of the barrel of a shotgun before Rory tucked a blanket over it.

  Riva had said he carried a gun while he ran the route, because he collected the proceeds from the vending machines. Today he was driving his truck. HENNEMAN CANDY AND VENDING was emblazoned on the side, so maybe he’d still be targeted? Ian watched him walk, searching for the sign of a gun at his waist or ankle. If he was carrying a concealed weapon, it was small, maybe even the Sig Ian himself favored and had tucked into his waistband.

  Definitely armed. Definitely dangerous.

  “Synergy Staffing,” Ian read as they walked down the hall. “Did you call them or did they call you?”

  “They called me,” Rory said. He opened the glass door to the reception area. “After you.”

  A young woman in a black pantsuit and a lavender blouse took Rory’s name, then murmured into a phone. “Mike will be right with you. Can I get you coffee or a soda?”

  “No, thank you,” Rory said. Ian also declined. They seated themselves in the reception area, along with two other individuals Ian assumed were people looking for temporary work.

  “Mr. Henneman?”

  Ian barely stopped himself from doing a double take. Mike was Micah Sewell, Ian’s contact in Chicago. What the hell was going on?

  Rory stood and offered his hand. “It’s Rory, please. This is Ian Fallon. He’s shadowing me for the day.”

  “Right this way,” Mike/Micah said. He led them to a small conference room furnished with a round table, four chairs, and the kind of inspirational art Ian often saw in corporate settings. Ian sat down and took out his Moleskine.

  A couple of minutes into the presentation, Ian had to admit that Rory knew his business. He ran through a decent patter highlighting the advantages of onsite vending: improved efficiency due to fewer breaks to get food or snacks, improved employee morale, selections tailored to align with insurance incentives to make healthy choices. The materials were slick, glossy, and customized for Synergy, down to the projected gross and the profit-sharing split between Synergy and Henneman Candy.

  “What would it take to get you to sign on the dotted line today?” Rory finished. He knew his sales and marketing too.

  “This looks really good, Rory,” Micah said. He was studying the cost/benefit sheet with an absorption Ian had to admire. “I can’t sign before the management team meets. I’m going to present this, along with two other proposals, to the team, and we’ll get back to you.”

  Rory’s smile never wavered. “There’s some flexibility in those numbers,” he said easily. “I’ll work harder to get your business, and deliver a higher-quality product.”

  “I can’t give you any inside information,” Micah said earnestly. “But I can tell you we surveyed our employees to find out what they wanted in the machines. Your proposal falls right in line with what they wanted, and your profit-sharing plan is very fair.”

  Rory relaxed slightly. “Good. If you have any questions, call or email any time. We pride ourselves on our customer service, and that starts before we sign the contract.”

  “Great,” Micah said. “Thanks so much for coming by.”

  “You okay?” Rory said as they left the building.

  “Yeah. Fine. I wasn’t expecting it to be so intense,” Ian said. Might as well go with the truth. “You’re really laying it all on the line, every time you go to a meeting. It’s like applying for a job, over and over and over.”

  “Every interaction is like applying for a job, over and over,” Rory said. “No safety net, no nothing. Do the job, better than anyone else out there, or lose the contract. There’s nothing like knowing you eat what you kill. Still want to leave your cube?”

  “More than ever,” Ian said. His phone rang. Jo. “Do you mind if I take this?”

  “Not at all,” Rory said. “I’ve got some calls to make.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Hi,” he said, forgoing his usual brusque Hawthorn for a civilian’s greeting.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Thanks for calling back. I can’t talk in depth right now, but I took a look at that variance analysis, and I think you’ve got a problem with the data,” he replied. “Tell me again what your subset parameters were?”

  “Geek,” Jo said with feeling. “Dorchester says everyone he’s talked to thinks you’re at Mayo, getting some kind of specialized testing done. I buzzed McCormick. He confirmed what Dorchester’s hearing, and says nothing’s shaking the web right now. If rumors were flying he might not know what they are, but he’d definitely see signs.”

  Ian turned the corner. “I’ve got maybe a minute,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. It’s fine. I’m running a route with Henneman right now. Sewell was there. I’m guessing CPD’s setting up a long-haul sting, trying to get Henneman for money laundering.”

  “Not good. Too many cooks in the kitchen,” Jo mused. “That’s not our turf. You should back off.”

  No way was that happening, because Riva answered to no one’s jurisdiction, and she wasn’t leaving this undone. Which meant he wasn’t leaving her. “I can’t,” he said. “I told Riva we’d get him.”

  “She can take her deal to the local cops.”

  “A deal with them doesn’t help Isaiah or her mother.”

  “What’s her mother got to do with this? Don’t answer that. Riva can do whatever she wants,” Jo said, with what Ian knew was admirable patience for her, “but that doesn’t affect how we police Lancaster. Rory Henneman is Chicago’s problem, not ours.”

  “Jo, her father’s a vicious sociopath. As nearly as I can tell he’s manipulated her and her mother for years, playing them off each other.”

  “That’s her excuse for what she did?” Jo asked. Probing idly, testing for weakness almost second nature.

  “Not hers.
She’s never made an excuse.”

  “Hmm.” Jo hated excuses, so this was a point in Riva’s favor.

  “Riva wants this done, now, to help Isaiah and her mother, and who knows if any arrests Chicago makes will trickle down to Lancaster? I’ve got a plan,” he said. “The plan is to make Henneman think I’m the perfect inside guy with the city.”

  “I thought Riva was going to get what we needed.”

  “That’s plan B.”

  “Why isn’t it plan A?”

  “Because this is the better option.”

  “No,” Jo said, like she was talking to a five-year-old trying to put a square peg in a round hole, “it’s not a better option. You’ve got to build trust. She’s already inside.”

  He didn’t say anything, because from a protocol standpoint, Jo was right. But Ian couldn’t bring himself to send Riva into danger again, not now that he knew her father was of the sociopath flavor of humanity.

  “Any other shitty, career-killing decisions you want to talk over?” she asked.

  “I’ve been to more urban gardens in the last two days than I have in my entire life up to now.”

  “How many?”

  “Three.”

  “What’s going on with Riva?”

  This was Jo. He wouldn’t lie to her, but he also wouldn’t tell her something she’d have to answer questions about under oath. His silence was enough.

  “Dammit, Ian. You’re going to lose that promotion, and possibly your badge.”

  What was he supposed to say to that? She was right. He was going to let down his family and the department. But when he gut-checked the situation, the person he wasn’t letting down was himself. “No, I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will,” she countered. Jo wasn’t gentle. She had, on occasion, slapped him on the back of the head hard enough to rattle his teeth, and the teasing Ian endured after Riva spent an evening buying drugs while wearing the very jacket he’d worn to the club last night ranked right up there with the worst of his plebe year at the Naval Academy. “Isn’t there another way for you to get her out of your system? Someone who looks like her?”

  “I don’t want a substitute for her.”

  “Have you seen her since the trial?”

  She’d switched into automatic interrogation mode. “No.”

  “Talked to her.”

  “No.”

  “Called her? Driven by her house? Searched her in a database?”

  “No, no, and no. I just … never forgot her.” He heard fabric rustle as Jo switched positions. “What the hell? Are you still in bed?”

  “I took a surveillance shift for McCormick last night. What is it about her?”

  How did he explain the electric spark of recognition happening on a cellular level? Best not to try with Jo, who was even less romantic and sentimental than he was. “Back then, she was mad at me, but she was even more mad at herself. She was ashamed of what she’d done. Now, I’m seeing behind the scenes. She’s trying to be a good person. A citizen. A contributing member of the community.” Speaking the words out loud made him stop and think. Riva’s job wasn’t just a job, and she wasn’t doing this just for Isaiah. There was so much more than that. Riva wasn’t just trying to make amends for not telling him about her father seven years ago. She was trying to atone.

  “Well, fuck,” Jo said. “You aren’t just trying to sleep with her. You like her.”

  He froze for a split second. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I do.”

  Jo’s snort was eloquent. “What is it with this unit? Matt falls for an informant, McCormick’s quitting to do security for a pop star, and you’re … I don’t even know what you’re doing. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “As long as we’re clear on that. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  There was an odd note to her voice. Before Ian could ask about it, she hung up.

  * * *

  Ian walked back to the truck and got in. Time to up the ante on getting a look at that laptop. “Hey, I was thinking. You want me to take a look at your data and see if there’s anything you could optimize to increase your profit? That’s my job. You’re helping me out, maybe I could help you out too.”

  It was a risk, questioning Rory’s competence like that.

  “It’s not rocket science,” Rory said. “I know my profit margins. But why the hell not? Come to the gym with me tonight. Let’s see what you’re made of. We’ll take it from there.”

  “Sounds great,” Ian said easily. He spotted a coffee shop on the corner. “Hey, can you drop me here? That call was for a work thing I need to look into. I’ll get a cab back.”

  “No problem. Call Riva. She can come get you.”

  Ian walked into the coffee shop and dialed Micah’s number. “It’s Hawthorn.”

  “Fuck, you almost gave me a heart attack when you walked through the door with Henneman,” Micah said.

  “A little warning would have been nice,” Ian shot back.”There’s too many cooks in this kitchen, and somebody’s going to get burned.”

  “We threw it together at the last minute. My captain’s into this now. He hates the idea of some small-town PD getting a bust this big.”

  “He can have the bust,” Ian said, mentally adding as long as he doesn’t fuck it up. “I’m here to make sure my own house gets clean. What’s the story?”

  “A friend of mine owns the staffing agency. She agreed to let me mock up business cards and conduct some meetings there. He’s got the contract; there aren’t any other bidders. We’re building a case, company by company, to get evidence for money laundering. We’ve also started surveillance on his warehouse and house, to see who comes and goes from those locations after hours. Maybe he’s letting the cartels use the warehouse to store shipments. Any other places we should keep an eye on?”

  “He goes to a gym,” Ian said.

  “Name?”

  “Sweet Science.”

  Ian heard clicking and tapping. “Shit. I’m already getting blowback about the OT.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on that for you,” Ian said. “I’m going with him tonight. You won’t get information from most of the guys in a boxing club. They’re tight.”

  “Damn, this looks pretty serious. You a fighter?”

  “On occasion,” Ian said.

  “It doesn’t seem like your thing.”

  Ian thought about Matt Dorchester’s battered knuckles, about the upper body strength and speed you developed from working the speed bag, about the long hours training for three-minute rounds. He thought about the sheer terror he felt every time he stepped in the ring. “I’m full of surprises,” he said.

  * * *

  He didn’t call Riva to come get him. Instead, he used Uber to get a ride back to the house. Her truck was parked on the street, so he felt pretty confident she was home, even though she’d ignored his texts. Midafternoon sunshine poured through the trees and dappled the foyer when he let himself through the back door. The kitchen counters were immaculate; the only sign Riva had been at work was the fridge, jammed with storage containers filled with food he couldn’t identify.

  The rest of the house was eerily quiet. He stepped softly through the dining room, then across the foyer to the front parlor. Empty. He climbed the stairs and stopped in front of her closed door. He lifted his hand to the knob, then set his shoulders and turned for his own bedroom door.

  Inside, he toed out of his boots and looked at the bathroom door. It was open, and so was the door to Riva’s adjoining room. She was curled up on her side, sound asleep, a soft throw covering her bare legs, a book tipped over onto its spine. One finger held her page. Jo’s questions flashed him back to the second time he’d met Riva.

  Six years earlier …

  Ian was waiting in a pretrial room at the courthouse when Riva opened the door and walked in, attention focused on the county attorney. “You’ll be giving your testimony from another room, to protect your anonymity,” the attorney was saying.

 
; “I understand.” Her voice was quiet, even as she resolutely didn’t look at him. “Thanks for explaining everything.”

  “Wait here until the bailiff comes to get you.”

  Riva sat on one of the wooden benches running the length of the wall. Ian didn’t miss the fact that she’d seated herself as far away from him as she could. She wore a simple skirt and blouse and low heels, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that spread between her shoulder blades like the variegated wingspan of a bird of prey.

  The terms of her agreement stipulated that until the trial was over, she had to tell the department and the county attorney any time she moved or changed jobs. So Ian knew she’d left the university’s housing for an apartment in the student district and that she was no longer employed as a work-study student with the business department but at a natural foods co-op downtown. But that was all.

  “Hi, Riva.”

  She glanced at him. Impossible that such a short look could hold so much anger and self-loathing. “Officer Hawthorn.”

  He didn’t correct her. Most civilians wouldn’t know that three chevrons on his upper arm meant he’d been promoted to sergeant. Riva wouldn’t care.

  “How’ve you been?”

  “Fine.”

  She was prettier than she’d been at eighteen, her face more angular, more reserved. She’d gained weight, too, lost the coltish look and some of the makeup. But it didn’t look like life had been kind to her. There was a new reserve in her face, a new wisdom, paid for, as it always was, with pain.

  Pain he’d caused her. His heart ached a little.

  “Why aren’t you in a suit?”

  Maybe she’d thought through the impossibility of their situation, come to terms with it. Forgiven him. He seized the chance to come and sit near her, leaving a respectable amount of distance between them. “I work in a uniform, so that’s what I wear to court.”

  “You weren’t in a uniform back then.”

  “I was undercover. We have a hard time finding cops who look young enough to pass for college kids.”

  “You fooled me.” She stroked the side of her mouth, indicating the place where Ian knew pain had creased his skin. He knew his face was forbidding, almost hard. “These made me think you were a grad student, though.”