Most men know how to steer out of a skid. It’s not a tell for months of training in handling a Crown Vic with the Interceptor package. Most important, you’re not clinging to your honor with your fingertips.
The sun hung low in the sky, the mid-afternoon heat index just over a hundred degrees. The humidity-saturated air lay thick and damp against his skin as he scrupulously obeyed the speed limit all the way from Eye Candy to the Eastern precinct. Storefronts’ glass windows and chrome bumpers reflected the sun’s glare as heat and shimmer, much like the thick layers of Eve Webber’s black hair fell in her face as she talked, glinting against her jaw, her cheekbone. Intellectually he knew it would be cool to the touch, but that didn’t stop his hand from tingling with the desire to slide through the strands.
Get a grip, Dorchester. That wasn’t a job interview, let alone a date. You’re a cop. She’s an informant in danger.
At the stoplight before the turn into the Eastern precinct he flexed his hand to short-circuit the sensation in his fingers, felt the scabs covering his knuckles tug at the healing skin. He’d stop tonight, get another bottle of ibuprofen for his brother, and pick up a tube of antibacterial ointment while he was at it. Battered knuckles wouldn’t go over well in a bar like Eye Candy. Once inside the building, he sidestepped Connor McCormick bringing in a handcuffed, viciously swearing man.
“Busy night?” Matt asked, taking in his arrest’s prison-honed muscles and ink. Conn was a couple of inches shorter than Matt but built like a tank. Matt knew him as a solid cop, never last to a scene, always pushing the edge to get the job done.
“Never a dull moment,” Conn said, grinning.
“What’d he do?” Matt asked, nodding at Conn’s detainee.
“Breaking and entering, assault, resisting arrest,” Conn said. “For starters. Pattern matches a string of similar incidents.”
“You got nothing, motherfucker,” the guy snarled.
“What I’ve got is DNA from when you spit on me,” Conn said, almost cheerful as the guy tried to wrench free. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re handcuffed and in the middle of a police station,” he said, tightening his grip on the pressure point in the guy’s elbow. “This dance is just getting started.”
The guy snarled out a string of profanity describing his night with Conn’s mother.
“Sounds about right,” Conn said, but Matt didn’t miss the glint in Conn’s eye. “She’s been dead for twenty years, but dead’s probably the only way you get laid.”
The guy checked for a second. “Respects, man,” he said, “but you’re still a pig motherfucker. Get your fucking hand off my fucking elbow! I can’t feel my fucking fingers!”
“Need a hand?” Matt asked.
“Nah,” Conn said. “He’s a pussy … cat. Besides, Hawthorn’s looking for you.”
Great. Matt left him to it, and took the stairs two at a time to the undercover unit.
His partner, Detective Jo Sorenson, sat at her desk. Another detective, Andy Carlucci, loomed over her shoulder, a blatant invasion of personal space guaranteed to drive Jo nuts.
“Jesus Christ, Dorchester, you’re going undercover in a strip club? Who’d you piss off?” Carlucci said, mock-astonished. “No neo-Nazis? No domestic terrorists stockpiling explosives?”
Jealousy rode the edges of the words. Carlucci routinely petitioned Lieutenant Hawthorn for undercover assignments, and was just as routinely turned down. Volatile and far too quick to make assumptions or rush a situation, Carlucci lacked the qualities crucial for successful undercover work: an unflappable demeanor, bone-deep patience, wits, and finely tuned instincts. Matt’s father had drilled him in unemotional patience. Nineteen months in Iraq and eight years on Lancaster’s streets had honed the wits and instincts.
Matt ignored Carlucci, sat down across from Jo, and powered up his laptop. Carlucci lingered at Jo’s shoulder for a moment, then straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “Watch your back with the owner,” he said. “A guy hiring all male bartenders…” He let the end of the sentence hang in the air. When he didn’t get the expected protest, or any response at all, he linked his fingers across his belly and spoke to Jo. “Your last name’s Sorenson. You’re third-generation LPD and your father shit gold bricks so you can write your own ticket with the brass, but you’re working with this stiff. He’s got zero personality.”
“He gets the job done,” Jo said without looking up.
“Low standards, Sorenson,” Carlucci said.
At the stress on Jo’s last name Matt cut Andy a look, but Andy still focused on Jo, who was proofreading an arrest report. “Getting the job done is the only standard that matters, Carlucci,” she replied with a lack of interest that would successfully drive Carlucci nuts. “How’s your clearance rate?”
Carlucci turned back to his own desk. “Fuck you both.”
“Black, two sugars, thanks,” Jo said absently.