Her first album had come out over a year ago, and featured songs cowritten by some of the industry’s biggest names, none of which Conn recognized. The Personal Life section mentioned rumors of a relationship with Harry, never confirmed, and now over. Conn scrolled back and forth through the entry, committing sections of it to memory.
Then he shut it off and reached for the other folder, the one he’d swiped from Hawthorn on his way out of the conference room. He opened it and stared at the pictures. Someone had given Jordy Bettis a thorough beatdown. Two black eyes, broken nose, split lip. Missing teeth. Stitches on his forehead and cheekbone closing gashes. Bruising down his ribs and stomach, again on his back. Avoided the kidneys, though. They were going for maximum pain without permanent damage.
Conn flipped through the pictures, then focused on the arrest reports and information behind the pictures. Jordy was a known, repeat offender, his arrest reports escalating from petty theft to possession to possession with intent to distribute to assault as he aged. He was making his way up in the Strykers, a gang that controlled a significant amount of territory on the East Side. There were a dozen reasons why someone would beat the hell out of him, but why blame it on Conn? He looked at Jordy’s various mug shots. He looked familiar, but for the life of him, Conn couldn’t remember an incident out of the ordinary.
A quick scan of the arrest reports confirmed this. He’d arrested Jordy once before when he pulled over an SUV, ran the licenses of everyone inside, and found Jordy was wanted on outstanding warrants.
Conn frowned and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Normally he’d handle something like this on the job, ask around, both at the Block and on the street. But no way was he taking the Queen of the Maud Squad to the East Side, no matter how familiar she was with the neighborhood. His next best option was Kenny Wilcox, his training officer and mentor.
The shower shut off. He looked up, but her door remained closed. She was so strong, so human when stripped of the sleek hair and clothes, the contoured makeup that made her almost alien. He’d thought she was an airheaded twink.
He was wrong.
Hawthorn told him to stay out of it, but his family had literally written the police department’s rules and regs. He had a reputation for thinking of the department first, his officers second. Kenny had also been with the department for twenty years, which meant he knew his way through all the hidden power channels and secret societies. Either way, Conn had to be careful. He had legitimate reasons for contacting Kenny, but his phone could be confiscated any time. All contacts would be examined, and he wouldn’t drag Kenny into this. Not yet.
He got to his feet and swung his arms, pacing the length of the house from the mudroom to the bedrooms, using breathing techniques he’d learned in anger management classes to siphon off some of the emotion seething inside him.
Someone had set him up to take a big, big fall. He’d left guys in that kind of shape before, after a fight, but never on the job, and never handcuffed. That was a coward’s way out, or worse, torture. Someone thought he was the kind of person they could pin that on and get away with it.
The pressure in his chest tightened. Cady was asleep, or getting there. He needed to get some sleep himself, but no way was that happening without some kind of workout first. He spun on his heel, heading for his bedroom, where his duffle sat beside the impersonal bed. He came up short at the sight of it, yanked into a past where he’d packed in a hurry or had an aunt or his grandma pack his bag for him, shoving things in randomly, eager to get him out of her life for a few months. He was always leaving things behind, kind of like his dad. In the beginning his dad would forget clothes, shoes, sometimes an entire bag of worthless salesman junk, but he always came back for it, reclaiming his car and his son. Eventually, he left everything behind, including his Camaro. Including his son.
Cady’s bedroom door opened. Startled, he whirled around, dropping the duffle from his hand, reaching for his gun. Backlit by the lamp from her bedroom, she was just an outline, all vulnerable shoulder joints and the soft scent of her soap rising from her skin. She folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe.
“Are you sure we can’t?”
CHAPTER FIVE