Under the Surface (22 page)

He cut her a look across the hood of the Jeep, already hot to the touch. “I like smart. Her father, mother, and grandfather were all LPD. I've learned more in the year I've worked with her than most detectives learn in a career. If I hit on her, which, for the record, I've never considered, I'd be dead to her. I'm not going to screw up a good working relationship by treating her like anything other than a law enforcement professional.” He opened the door. “It's cooled down. Get in.”

She buckled up and slipped on her sunglasses while he reversed out of the driveway. “So what would you call this, when people work as a team on something?” Halfway down the shady street they passed a nondescript sedan. Eve recognized the big, scary-looking cop, McCormick, in the driver's seat. “Was that…?”

“Surveillance to make sure no one's tracked you down through me.”

Paranoid much
trembled on the tip of her tongue, but when he turned toward Eve's parents' neighborhood without prompting, a new light bulb went on. “You know where my parents live,” she said. “You know where Caleb lives, what we drive, my dad's criminal record, all kinds of stuff about me and my family, things I'd have to tell a guy I was dating but I don't have to tell you.”

“If you were another cop, we'd be partners within the chain of command,” he said, ignoring her comment. “But you're not another cop. There is no partnership here. When we go back to the bar on the surface it will look like Eve Webber, Eye Candy's owner, getting hot and heavy with Chad Henderson, her newest employee. But you're now involved in an ongoing undercover operation run by the Lancaster Police Department. That means you do exactly what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Understand?”

“Don't forget who sat at your dining room table and gave you a lifetime's worth of information on the East Side players,” she said, hackles lifting. “We're coming at this differently, and I may handle situations based on personal knowledge, not suspicion.”

“Just be careful,” he said as he turned off Thirteenth Street and back into the neighborhood.

Being careful meant she'd stop sleeping with him. She'd had her share of long-term relationships and hookups. This indefinable thing felt nothing like either of those, but that horse was out of the barn and in the next county. Out of curiosity she turned on the radio. “I'll do my best, but it's not my typical method of living life.”

“Try,” he said bluntly, and switched off static.

Her parents lived in a neighborhood comprised of elderly residents on fixed incomes and young couples building equity in starter homes. The cars lining the streets and driveways were solid, American brands. Her mother had been a member of the Lancaster Garden Club for thirty years, and her garden dominated the fenced front yard, a wisteria vine climbing the post holding the mailbox. Two Adirondack chairs sat on the front porch, and Caleb's Mercedes lounged in the driveway, the car somehow embodying his
fuck all y'all
attitude despite its luxury status.

He waited for her to join him in front of the Jeep. When they started to walk across the street she slipped her hand into his, gripped it, and gave it a flirty little swing. His eyebrows lifted as they crossed the street together.

“Hey, handsome,” she said, putting a little extra show in her walk as she waved at the neighbors' grandkids.

“Don't overdo it,” he said. “There's acting and then there's melodrama.”

She batted her eyes at him as she led him through the impatiens and fleabane and up the front walk. “Who says I'm acting? Hello,” Eve called as she opened the front door. “We're here.”

She set her bag on the formal love seat in front of the picture window; behind her, Matt shoved his car keys into his pocket and looked around. To Eve's eye the most noticeable thing was that the living room furniture clustered around a piano, not a television. A trumpet rested on top of the piano, and sheet music was neatly arranged in the bookshelf between the love seat and the piano. A small curio cabinet held a few figurines and pictures.

“You play?” he asked with a glance at the piano.

“Caleb and Mom play the piano, and Caleb also plays the bass. I play tenor sax and clarinet. Dad plays the trumpet.”

“A whole jazz band,” he said.

“A long-time parishioner is our drummer, but yeah. Dad loves jazz.”

Movement in her peripheral vision. Caleb stood in the doorway to the dining room, one shoulder braced against the opening, his arms folded across his chest. Her father, a head shorter yet no less arresting than Caleb, filled the rest of the doorframe.

Best to get this over with. “Hello, Dad,” Eve said as she went to kiss his cheek, then Caleb's. “This is Detective Matt Dorchester from the Lancaster Police Department.”

Her father stepped forward, hand extended. “Detective Dorchester,” he said, his voice calm. Her father had learned control the hard way, in prison, and honed equanimity during thirty years as a pastor. It would take more than Eve bringing a cop to Monday dinner to faze him.

Her mother would be a different story, but she was nowhere in sight at the moment.

“It's Matt,” he said as they shook hands.

Caleb said nothing. Judging from the look on his face, he knew something Eve didn't, but before she could pull him into the kitchen, her father spoke.

“Welcome. Supper's just about ready,” he said, and stood back to let Matt and Eve precede him into the dining room.

She watched Matt take in the room's details—the polished mahogany furniture, the table covered with a lace cloth but set with everyday stoneware, a linen napkin wrapped around homemade biscuits, the open bottle of wine, a glass pitcher of water—and wondered what it was like to record details of your surroundings against a possible threat. Then the door to the kitchen opened and her mother came in with a covered casserole dish held between two oven-mitt-clad hands.

“What's that, Mom?” Caleb asked, eyeing the dish.

“Shepherd's pie,” she said and set the CorningWare on a trivet.

“It doesn't smell like shepherd's pie,” Caleb said. Eve shot him a glare as they arranged themselves around the table, her father in his customary place at the head, while Caleb staked claim to the seat at the foot, neatly trapping Matt and Eve along the side by the hutch.

“That's because it's made with lentils, not beef,” her mother said, then whisked the lid off the dish. “Welcome, Detective Dorchester,” she said in a harried voice.

“It's Matt,” he said again, but her mother was out of earshot, clattering dishes in the kitchen.

“Dad had a heart attack last year,” Eve said in a low voice as her mother reappeared to fuss with the arrangement of serving dishes, then take her seat. “Mom thinks a vegetarian diet will help lower his cholesterol.”

He said nothing, just shifted the basket of rolls to make room for the asparagus, bowed his head through grace, declined the offer of wine in favor of cold water, and accepted generous helpings of everything available.

When her mother was distracted with spreading margarine on a roll, Eve leaned toward Matt and murmured, “You really don't have to eat that.”

He glanced at his plate. “Why wouldn't I eat it?” he asked.

“I'd like to hear your perspective on what Lyle's return to Lancaster means to the East Side,” her father said. The question, directed at Matt, ended Eve's warnings about the meal.

“FBI information indicates that Murphy's the leading edge of an expansion effort for the Strykers out of Philly,” Matt said. “He's using his connections with the Strykers to take control of the meth and crack cocaine market on the East Side, possibly with an eye toward using this as a distribution base for the Midwest. They make more money here, and the local gangs aren't as organized. They've got a better product, a relatively open market, and weak competition in the local gangs.”

From a purely disinterested business perspective, the strategy made sense, Eve thought, but kept her mouth shut.

“And his interest in my daughter's business?”

“Murphy identified Eye Candy as a possible front.”

Her father's attention shifted to her, but he didn't say
I told you your club was bad for you, and the East Side
. “You're assisting the police department with this … investigation?”

She wasn't the only one struggling for a name to call what was happening. “Yes,” she said.

“For how long?”

The only sound in the room was the clink of silverware against china. “A couple of months now.”

“You didn't tell us.”

“No,” Eve said. “I didn't want to involve you in something this risky. Any surge in violence or drug sales on the East Side and the business park plans collapse, which will have a huge impact on the neighborhood's economy. I could help, so I did.”

Silence around the table. Eve squished peas and carrots into the mashed potatoes, hoping that would help with the flavor. It didn't. The potatoes weren't her mother's home-cooked, whole-milk-and-butter-drenched version, but instead had the texture and taste of paste.

Her mother leapt into the lengthening silence. “How long have you been a police officer?”

“Six years,” Matt said.

“And what led you to choose that particular career?”

She should have warned him about her mother's obsession with careers, but Matt seemed unruffled. Maybe cops were asked that question fairly frequently.

“I enlisted in the Army but my parents were killed in a car accident and my younger brother was paralyzed in the crash. I was discharged to take care of him. The best civilian option that would allow me to raise Luke and use the skills I'd learned in the service was the police department.”

That was interesting. More than she knew. She should start asking questions of her own. Caleb had been quiet far too long, so Eve glanced past Matt at her brother. While his knife and fork were active, he'd taken fewer bites than she had. Her brother gave her a small smile she couldn't read, then said, “Detective Dorchester's being rather modest about his military career.”

Matt went still for just a second before swallowing his mouthful of mashed potatoes. Eve glanced at him, but his face gave her no cue to work from, so she turned to her brother. “What do you mean?”

“You didn't put his name in a search engine?”

She'd put Chad Henderson's name into a search engine and come up with a bland Facebook page. “I've had a lot on my mind the last two days,” Eve said.

Caleb slouched down in his chair, a sure sign he was about to get very serious about something. “Remember the pawn shop robbery six years ago when the police caught the thieves in the act?”

“I think so,” Eve said slowly. “One officer was shot, and the two robbers were too. No one died, though.”

“Then-Officer Dorchester was three weeks out of the Academy when he and his training officer responded to the silent alarm. The robbers came out shooting. His partner took a bullet through the neck. Officer Dorchester pulled him behind a case and managed to hit both of the robbers while calling in the officer down. He received the Medal of Valor before he was out of his probationary period as a Lancaster police officer.”

Matt set his knife and fork on his plate, then said in an even voice, “It's not relevant to this situation.”

“So neither is the Bronze Star for rescuing two wounded soldiers while under fire in Ramadi,” Caleb said clinically.

Water plunked into the sink in the kitchen. Outside, the neighbors' grandkids squealed and splashed in a wading pool. Eve turned and looked at Matt.
Not my first time at that rodeo …
“It's not relevant,” Matt repeated without a hint of emotion. “In both situations I was doing my job, nothing more or less than anyone else with my training would have done.”

Caleb looked up, his gaze intent. “It's relevant. It means I trust you to keep my sister safe. It also goes toward character.”

Silence. Her brother and her lover were doing that male stare-down thing.

“Eve, I saw Lee McCullough yesterday,” her father said. Matt went back to the nearly inedible shepherd's pie. Caleb continued to push vegetables around on his plate. Eve made a noncommittal noise, and her father continued. “He said he'd be happy to talk to you about any of the open positions at Lancaster Life.”

Nothing, not rain nor sleet nor expansionist gang leaders shooting at Eve under dark of night would keep her parents from finding her another job. “Dad, please tell Lee thanks, but I'm not interested.”

“After what happened Saturday night surely you'll reconsider, Eve,” her mother said.

“No, I won't, Mom. After what happened on Saturday night I'm less likely to close down Eye Candy and disappear into a corporate cube farm. As long as my customers keep coming back, then I'm going to stay open. If small businesses take a stand, then maybe the larger ones like Mobile Media will step up to the plate too.”

“Eve, the East Side's issues are a question of values and choices,” her mother said.

“It's a question of jobs, Mom,” she replied, but she felt heat climb in her cheeks as she said it. Normally her parents wouldn't air family dissent in front of a stranger, but apparently the threat of physical violence changed the rules. “Crime drops in strong economies because people are employed, not desperate. People with jobs have somewhere to go and something to do. They have paychecks to spend, and they buy houses and cars. They get vested in a life and a community. Since when do we cut and run at the first sign of trouble? Everything I know about community and family and faith I learned at this dinner table. What message do we send to the rest of the neighborhood if we back down when it gets personal?”

“Detective Dorchester, surely you have a professional opinion about all of this,” Eve's mother said.