Old Growth & Ivy (The Spook Hills Trilogy Book 1)

by Menard, Jayne

  The door to their office suite opened and in came Steve, uncharacteristically smiling to himself and jeez-louise, he was humming some tune or other. He raised a hand in greeting and made his way into his office, still humming. Something was up for sure. Then it hit Mathew – Brian and Moll had come back praising that woman they dealt with in Portland. Steve hustled back to Portland after the failed capture attempt in Manzanillo and today he was smiling and humming.

  Now Mathew was really depressed over his own life. Even Steve had someone he was dreaming about. He had known Steve a long time and had seen him go through a period of one night stands, followed by apparent abstinence, and now perhaps interested in forging a relationship. Brian and Moll dated whenever they could, although Mathew was never sure that Moll’s heart was in it. Moll was a bit of an island. Brian played the field, taking care not to get serious, wanting to avoid becoming stifled in the way his mother had suffocated him. Still in all, he knew that when Brian was ready, he would have no trouble finding a mate. Mathew reviewed the five things he needed to change within himself to have a chance at a good relationship. If he did not get moving soon, then the man reputed to have bedroom eyes would never be more than a member of their sometimes four-man FBI monkhood.

  ***

  A week later, Steve and Mathew flew to Los Angeles on the child trafficking case. They received word from the local FBI office that the undercover drug unit of the Los Angeles Police Department followed a lead and raided the operation of an alleged local pimp. The man ran women out of an upscale duplex and dispensed CNS stimulants to their clients, including cocaine and ecstasy. Secreted away in the basement, they found four children forced to work as part of the prostitution ring. All four spoke limited accented English and were from the Ukraine. Steve scheduled a Bubird as soon as the call came in, alerted Mathew and then grabbed the suitcase he always kept packed in his office to take off immediately for LA.

  Working with the local authorities, they reviewed the evidence and questioned the perps. Then they talked with the prostitutes and the four girls who ranged in age from eleven to sixteen. Seasoned agents though they were, both Mathew and Steve had trouble seeing those kids already hardened into a life of drugs and sex. They could go from innocent and fearful to cocky and aggressive, or to withdrawn and silent as if all they could do was play a role. That made a sort of sick sense, since the pimp was a failed movie director and some of the adult women working for him had once aspired to careers in Hollywood.

  Mathew was combing through the pimp’s texts and emails, hitting some that were encrypted and likely in one or more foreign languages. Steve estimated how much work they had yet to do and decided to leave on Friday. How he went back east would be determined by the phone call he was about to make to Ivy Littleton. When he talked with her early the week before at work, she had been, if not encouraging, at least not hostile. Early this week he called her again ostensibly to find out what other banks they might have data on, although he had no intention of using it. On the second call they talked about the case for a short time, then he asked about what she was doing at work and what Portland was like in the fall. While she was a little distant with him, he was encouraged enough to ask her to dinner Friday night.

  Steve selected her work phone even though it was after seven on Thursday evening. The call went to voice mail. He dialed her home phone. She picked up after three rings.

  “Ivy Vine? Steve Nielsen here.”

  “Steve? Are you calling to terrorize me into giving you more data?” she said, but she laughed after asking the question.

  “No, I’m down in L.A.”

  “You do get around, don’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah. Same case. Say, I could be in Portland late tomorrow afternoon and wondered if you would have dinner with me.”

  Ivy was silent. Steve waited for her to respond. Was she thinking up a reason to say no? Did she have another date? Was she in a relationship?

  “Steve, I don’t like to cross the line between business and personal lives.”

  “Understand. As far as I’m concerned, any future dealings with your company will be through your attorney at Corporate.” He paused to let that sink in, then said, “Look Ivy, I was a real jerk with you at times. It is my way to get what is needed for a case as quickly as possible. That is what I do, not who I am. Hopefully there were also times when you saw that I could be a reasonable guy.”

  “Maybe so. Still in all, you seem to bring out the worst in me.”

  “Ivy, give me a chance. Won’t you give me one dinner to prove myself?”

  Ivy was silent again. In the background, he could hear classical music playing. He waited. He could be good at waiting when he thought it would advance his cause. He watched the minute change on his laptop clock.

  “Seven. At a restaurant called Urban Farmer upstairs in the Nines Hotel. I will meet you there.”

  “I’ll make a reservation.”

  “I’ll be the woman sipping a Manhattan at the bar wondering why she is crazy enough to be there.”

  “Correction. You will be the lovely tall woman with the amazing hair wondering . . . “

  “See you tomorrow,” she said in a voice that sounded a little warmer than it had before.

  “Goodbye, Ivy.”

  Steve clicked off his phone. If the ceilings were higher, he might have jumped up in the air to release the tension from fearing he would be turned down. Tomorrow at 7. He opened the browser on his laptop to book the restaurant. He would take a commercial flight to Portland on his own nickel. Mathew could wrap things up here tomorrow, take the Bubird up to meet him in Portland early Saturday, pick him up and they would then fly back to D.C. together while Mathew briefed him on new findings.

  He stopped for a moment, reconsidering. Was he ready for the emotional ups and downs of getting to know someone? Did he have time? Was the mercurial Ivy a wise choice? The answer to each of those questions was ‘no’. Should he call her back and cancel? He sat back, trying to think rationally. It was only dinner. Nothing more. Was he so fearful emotionally that he could not risk having dinner with an intelligent, feisty woman with delicious curves, expressive eyes, and a mouth that . . .? Just dinner – who was he kidding? This was about a whole lot more than dinner. Com’on Nielsen. If you won’t take a risk now that you are 60, when the heck will you? He found the website for the restaurant, checked out its menu and then clicked the booking option.

  ***

  On Saturday afternoon, Ivy was out in her yard, cutting back spent perennials, deadheading the fall bloomers, and doing some pruning. She always found it a bit sad when the gardening season was over. The asters were still bravely showing off sapphire-blue flowers in a brilliant shade that only nature could have produced. Around their base, a deep pink hardy geranium bloomed playfully. They looked so happy and cheerful that she decided to leave them to enjoy any remaining sunny fall days.

  The garden needed to be tidied up before winter and a life-long Portlander like Ivy knew that the rains would soon hamper working outside. Around the neighborhood, other folks were mowing grass, working in the garden, caulking, doing repairs – all taking advantage of the still pleasant weather. The corgis were on the other side of the yard raising a ruckus at any passing dog, person, or squirrel. They were protective and territorial, making them the neighborhood busy-bodies. Soon Ivy would have to bring them to sit near her before they became too much of an irritant.

  While she worked, gradually filling up the gardening recycle bin, she was thinking over her time with Steve. Dinner the night before had gone better than she expected. After a little stumbling conversation at the beginning, they were soon chatting over appetizers, laughing when their entrees arrived and feeding each other tastes of dessert. Actually Steve fed her tastes of his dessert. He would take a taste of each course she was served, eat his food and then bide his time until he could finish off whatever she had ordered. He ordered extra side dishes of potatoes, asparagus and creamed spinach and ate those as we
ll. The man’s appetite was so prodigious that she had to smile at the memory. Once they were finished, he asked if she would like to take a walk around the city. After looking ruefully down at her heels, they walked first to her office where she put on a sensible pair of flats and out they went, walking over to Burnside, turning left and then going up to Broadway, where they turned and walked up to the Park blocks. The air was crisp and fresh with the chill of fall. Sometimes she leaned on Steve’s arm; sometimes he held her hand. Once in the park, shaded from the streetlight by one of the big-leafed trees, Steve asked if he could kiss her. That evening he had the manners of a gentleman. She had seen the more aggressive side of him and she was having trouble reconciling the two.

  Ivy stopped trimming the rudbeckia, still with a few of their cheerful black-eyed susan flowers that she put aside for an arrangement in the house. She thought about the way Steve had kissed her -- long, slow and increasingly sensual. For once in her life, she felt scaled to size when he put his arms around her. He gently drew her close, nestling her against him. Afterward he stared at her without smiling and said. “Oh yes, this is about much more than just dinner.” They meandered their way back to the parking lot where Ivy had left her car. Finding out that he would not leave until ten the next morning, she offered to pick him up at his hotel, buy him breakfast and drive him to the airport.

  Seeing him again that morning let her know that more than the wine the night before drew them together. They talked easily as they sipped lattes and dug into large plates of food at a place called Mothers downtown. All too soon, they were in the car and on their way to the Hillsboro airport where Steve had an FBI jet coming to pick him up. Once there, he wanted her to meet Mathew who she had heard a fair amount about. She watched from the small waiting room while Steve jogged out to the jet and returned with yet another fine-looking agent in his late thirties. Like Brian Tovey, Mathew Heylen was about six feet but more substantial. He had sandy hair and moody sea-green eyes that almost seem to laugh as they echoed his warm smile. Mathew was like a blue spruce, tall and handsome, with many fine attributes that made it a perfect specimen planting as the backbone of a garden. They talked for a few minutes and then Mathew left to go back on the plane.

  Steve kissed her again. “I will not say good-by, Ivy, because I am hoping this is only hello.” He strode towards the plane, then turned and hastened back, taking her in his arms, swooping her in a waltz-like turn and then dipping her back for another kiss. Those blue eyes of his were intense with warmth.

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” he asked gently pulling her back upright.

  Ivy let her face grow serious. “Making a big turkey dinner for a fellow I know who is going to be in Portland.”

  It surprised her that he appeared crestfallen. “It’s kind of iffy,” she continued, “You see, he travels a good deal and is very committed to his work.”

  Steve took in the teasing expression in her eyes and realized she was talking about him. “Darn it Ivy. You shouldn’t taunt a man like that. If this case is wrapped up by then, I will schedule to be in Portland for the Thanksgiving weekend. If not, let’s plan a long weekend together when the case is over. I want to know you better. You are one special woman, Ivy Vine.”

  “And I am learning that perhaps you are not always a fire-breathing dragon yourself, Agent Nielsen.”

  Smiling at the memory, Ivy went back to cutting down the perennials. Steve was different from any man she had dated in the way he seemed made up of contradictory parts. The brash, demanding FBI agent juxtaposed with the easy manners of a gentleman; his delight in technology seemed out of sync with an appreciation of fine wines; he was oversized and yet always pressed and neat. While he touched her gently, she worried that he could turn aggressive in a relationship during a rough spot. The long, soft kiss and the tender way he held her were as unexpected as the boyish grin that he rarely showed. Even with her concern, Ivy found she was eagerly anticipating hearing from him again.

  Chapter 4

  Back east once more, Steve pushed away from his desk at the FBI offices in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He swiveled in his chair to stare out at Pennsylvania Avenue where the small trees planted in the sidewalk were turning a delightful golden yellow. When he took the early 40 minute walk to work that morning, the chilly air in D.C. made him think of Ivy and their walk in Portland on Friday night. Being with her tantalized his senses and opened him to the smaller wonders of the world around him.

  He smiled to himself when he thought about her. She was brimming with intelligence; she was attractive. Heck, she was lovely. Why was she single? Single now for a long time -- a dozen years, but then he had been single for twenty-five years. Ivy Vine. Ivy Littleton. Steve found both the nickname Moll had given her and her real name pleasing. The letters twined around his tongue as he thought of her. She was tall just as he was, but with alluring curves. Like him she had dedicated her life to her career, yet unlike him she was ready to retire. She was noticeably self-sufficient and must have great inner strength. Even so, now and then he could see some conflict that she hid away. It crept out in her eyes before she pushed it back -- not fear exactly, but something was troubling her and that made her even more intriguing.

  Why would she find an oversized, ill-mannered man like him appealing? Steve had been thinking about that question on and off the last couple of days. He hoped that he had conjured up some of the charm his mother tried to instill in him. Ivy made him want to behave like a gentleman and become a tender, yet still passionate lover.

  She smelled fresh and flowery, reminding him of a wild blackcap patch in summer that he used to frequent as a kid. He had to smile to himself as she could be about as prickery. When they went to her office on Friday night, she put on a soft cashmere muffler hanging behind her office door and lent him one in a navy plaid. He still had it and wore it that morning. It smelled deliciously of Ivy. Silly of him to have kept it, but it made him feel closer to her. How sweetly Ivy had melted into his arms. How yielding she was to kiss and yet she was not passive. Steve realized he was becoming aroused thinking about her. She . . .

  Right Nielsen, compartmentalize. You want to know her better. Be realistic. You are on the east coast nearly 3,000 miles away. You need to keep your wandering mind on this case. Besides, nothing worse than an old man in the office pitching a tent. Focus. He shook his head at himself and turned his attention back to his laptop.

  Abruptly his thoughts jerked to an image that his mind had captured last night when he and his three senior agents were walking back from dinner at an Italian place a few blocks off Dupont Circle, not far from his condo. They had met up on Sunday night to exchange information on their work over the weekend. The three younger men had fallen behind him, engrossed in a conversation about baseball. Steve strolled ahead enjoying the mild October evening, walking through the first of the rustling leaves of the tree-lined street, past the little front gardens where some window boxes sported chrysanthemums in the bright yellows, burnished bronzes and deep burgundies of autumn.

  They were about three blocks from the Circle when he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows just behind and to the left of him on the other side of the street. He cocked his head, saw no one, then turned back to peer fully behind him. It might have been a dancing shadow from a breeze in the trees. He slowed to a saunter, kept his head pointed forward, with his eyes focused to the left, walking more leisurely as if waiting for the three agents to catch up. A block later he caught a movement that might have been a person sliding through the shadows. At the Circle he stopped, turned around and scanned the area -- no sign of anyone on the far side of the street.

  He waited for the three agents to reach him and then crossed the Circle. On the other side he checked again, saw nothing out of place, and then suggested they go into the nearby Kimpton hotel for a brandy. As they entered the hotel, he glanced back and saw no one lurking. Maybe it had been nothing. However his sixth sense had alerted him and it served him well over
the years. While he had never had a perp come after him, it could and did happen to FBI agents. It made him wonder who might want him followed. Perhaps that drug lord they went after in Mexico.

  The whole operation down in Manzanillo had been odd. How had the perpetrator known they were after him? Why had he baited them into boarding the yacht to catch an actor he had planted there? Was the same perp having him followed? Did someone want to make the DEA, the FBI or himself look ridiculous? Was some mole feeding the perp confidential case information so that he could anticipate the FBI's next move? The very thought went against the ideals to which Steve was committed. Was someone trying to make him appear incompetent to take pressure off themselves? If that were true, the perp would find he had picked the wrong adversary. These questions had been buzzing in and out of his mind since the operation in Mexico. The possible shadow in D.C. the night before brought them into focus. He would keep a sharp watch and see what played out next.

  ***

  Ivy found her mind wandering while she sat at her sleek modern desk between meetings on Monday afternoon. No word from the Big Guy – she noticed that she now capitalized that nickname in her mind. She also said his name to herself repeatedly, as young girls do with first crushes. Steve. Steve Nielsen. After so many years of chastity, she felt that dating could be as it was in her college days, with all those silly flutterings from this man whose masculinity lit her up. That height of his came from his Nordic roots, in the same way that hers came from her half-Finnish father. Steve’s hair was dark and silver with a hint of curl and nicely trimmed. His eyes were the deep gray blue of a Norwegian fiord, the way she pictured one in her mind's eye. His eyes alone fascinated her -- he had intense, watchful eyes that became softer, more wanting eyes when he looked at her. In his arms, she felt feminine, secure and desirable.