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.
Same shit, different day. Matt dropped Carlucci from his awareness, started a new case file, and began composing the report describing his interview with Eve Webber.
At fifteen thirty hours I approached Ms. Webber in her place of business. Subject is female, Caucasian, approximately five feet six inches—
… mostly slim, toned legs.…
—green eyes, black hair—
… that kept falling in her eyes …
That memory halted his fingers on the keyboard. Touching hair was often a subconscious gesture expressing interest in a man. Eve Webber’s just wouldn’t stay out of her face, sliding free from its mooring behind her ear, shadowing an eye, but he didn’t think she was coming on to him. A woman prepared to tell a potential bartender to keep his hands off the customers or face retribution akin to the wrath of God wouldn’t bother to flirt. She’d name a time and place, and bring her best game.
And flirting didn’t explain that strange, humming connection that revved into the red zone when their fingers met.
“What’s this all about, anyway?” Carlucci asked.
The informant offered the job contingent on satisfactory performance tonight.
Delete.
Matt reached for the distancing language of a police report to describe the bar’s interior, the possibility of alternate exits upstairs or in the back.
“The operation with the FBI and the DEA to get Lyle Murphy. He’s moving home and bringing bad news with him,” Jo said when it became apparent Matt wasn’t going to bother answering Carlucci.
“What kind of bad news?”
“The Strykers.”
As he reread the report Matt heard Carlucci’s faint whistle. Much better. Calm, logical, focused on the case at hand. No mention of hair or legs or eyes, as if describing features could sum up the sheer femininity radiating from Eve Webber during a simple job interview. Ten minutes with her and he’d felt something. Still felt it thirty minutes later. Not desire. He understood desire, dealt with it. This was different, more visceral, deeply buried, long-forgotten, and leading him to make two mistakes when the acceptable error rate was zero point zero.
Lieutenant Ian Hawthorn walked down the aisle between the detectives’ desks. “Well?” he said to Matt.
“I’ve got a trial shift tonight,” Matt said. “If she’s happy at the end of it, I’ve got the job.”
Hawthorn folded his arms. “The FBI’s been running this operation for over a year, and getting nowhere until a couple of weeks ago, when Ms. Webber walked in off the street and said Murphy approached her about using her bar to launder the money they’re making in the region. She agreed to be an informant and help us get him. She’s the connection the Feds need to get the whole chain, from the buy-and-busts on street corners right up to the top guys.”
Carlucci whistled again.
“That’s the good news. The bad news is that somehow word got back to Murphy. McCormick was booking a Stryker when she walked in. Maybe he saw her, and reported back to Lyle Murphy. It doesn’t matter,” Hawthorn said. “She managed to talk her way out of it, but people who inform on the Strykers have a nasty habit of dying in a drive-by, or worse, disappearing off the face of the earth. So Detective Dorchester just got himself a job as Eye Candy’s newest bartender.”