“People talk. ‘I know where Queen Maud lives’ is big-time social currency. Get that list and we’ll start running it down. Chances are it was a friend of a friend after a peek into the lifestyles of the rich and famous.”
Conn looked around the house. Hawthorn had grown up on the Hill, so he doubted the house was all that different from what Hawthorn was accustomed to. “What if it’s not?”
“That’s what you’re here for.” Hawthorn studied him. “You kept my file on Jordy Bettis.”
Conn shot him a look that stopped just short of insubordination. “You knew I would.”
Hawthorn folded his arms. “Any ideas?”
“I’ve been thinking about Jordy’s known associates.”
“The Strykers.”
“They’re in a turf war with the Demons.”
“Go on.”
Conn tried not to feel like he was back in college, giving a presentation to his classmates. This wasn’t his comfort zone. This kind of thinking was one step above the typical patrol cop’s response to calls, normally reserved for detectives and officers well above his pay grade “Someone from the Demons would have access to him in jail.”
“Go on,” Hawthorn said.
“What’s strange is that I’m named in the complaint. When gang violence spills back into the prison system, usually no one saw nothing, including the guy who took a beating. Even when cops or COs do give a beatdown, nobody saw nothing. “
Hawthorn quirked an eyebrow.
“So,” Conn said slowly, working it out in his head, “either someone in the Strykers has it out for me, or one of the guys at the jail does.”
Hawthorn nodded. “Exactly. Start thinking about all the people you’ve pissed off, McCormick. Make that list. Then we’ll talk.”
“It’s going to be a long list, LT.”
“You got another idea?”
“Were there any cameras in the vicinity of where the beating went down?”
Hawthorn shook his head. “This was pretty carefully planned.”
After a long pause, Conn said, “Looks like I’m making that list.”
Except he did have another idea, one he’d keep to himself for the time being. His LT was still thinking by the book, like he always did. But Conn had other channels for information, and tomorrow, he’d follow up with Kenny.
*
He slept fully clothed and lightly, waking at the slightest scratching on the roof or a sharp crack of wood outside. When the sky turned gray, he got up, searched for coffee until he remembered she didn’t drink anything high octane, and settled for a diet soda, grimacing at the chemical aftertaste. The woods seemed less threatening this morning: bare trunks and branches stark against the thin winter sky. Mounds of leaves and fallen logs gave the hillside a rustic look, if you were into that sort of thing. He had a long time to stare at them while he ran on her treadmill and worked his way through a TRX routine, his attention split between listening for any signs of life upstairs and looking for movement outside.
Turning the TV on gave him something to do. Alternating between texting Shane to check on the fuel pump repair and starting the list of people who could carry a grudge against him filled the commercials. Around eleven Cady’s bedroom door opened. He looked up and did a double take. Her hair was a wild rat’s nest around her head, and not in a good, sexy-angel-just-out-of-bed way.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said through a huge yawn. “Welcome to reality.”
He watched her shuffle over to the counter and run water into the steamer, then drape a towel over her head and hunch over the machine. A few minutes later she emerged, red-faced and with some hair clinging to her damp face. She rummaged in the fridge and came up with two hard-boiled eggs, already peeled, and an English muffin.
“We’re due at Eye Candy at four,” he said as she shuffled back toward her bedroom, chewing a big bite of egg. “Yeah,” she said again, giving him a distracted wave of her hand. The door closed, the bedsprings creaked, and then silence.
This was more boring than the days he spent doing surveillance on Matt Dorchester’s house last summer. He channel-surfed until he found one of the Bourne movies, and settled down to pass the time.
Just after two he heard the shower turn on. Forty-five minutes later the blow dryer shut off and Cady Ward, singer-songwriter, celebrity, walked out of her bedroom, slipping the wide green bracelet she always wore onto her left arm. She wore skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and a soft V-neck gray sweater that exposed her sternum and throat. Her hair had been tamed and curled into thick waves, and she wore enough makeup to look slightly mysterious. He caught himself before he did a double take, because her boobs were noticeably bigger. She carried a guitar case she set down beside the door, then turned for the kitchen. A minute later she had a thick paste of honey in the bottom of the travel mug and water boiling in an electric kettle. A quick stir, then she was back in the foyer, digging in a huge, fancy-looking leather bag.
“I’m starving,” she said without looking up. “Lunch?”