“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’s bullpen. His partner, Detective Joanna Sorenson, sat at her desk. Another detective, Andy Carlucci, loomed over her shoulder, a blatant invasion of personal space guaranteed to drive Sorenson 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 drilled in unemotional patience. Nineteen months in Iraq and eight years on Lancaster’s streets honed the wits and instincts.
Matt ignored Carlucci, sat down across from Sorenson, and powered up his laptop. Carlucci lingered at Sorenson’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 Sorenson. “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 lieutenant, but you’re working with this stiff. He’s got zero personality.”
“He gets the job done,” Sorenson said without looking up.
“Low standards, Sorenson,” Carlucci said.
At the stress on Sorenson’s last name Matt cut Andy a look, but Andy still focused on Sorenson, 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,” Sorenson 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,” Sorenson 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.