Paranoid much trembled on the tip of her tongue, but when he turned toward Eve’s parents’ neighborhood without prompting, a new light bulb went on. “You know where my parents live,” she said. “You know where Caleb lives, what we drive, my dad’s criminal record, all kinds of stuff about me and my family, things I’d have to tell a guy I was dating but I don’t have to tell you.”
“If you were another cop, we’d be partners within the chain of command,” he said, ignoring her comment. “But you’re not another cop. There is no partnership here. When we go back to the bar on the surface it will look like Eve Webber, Eye Candy’s owner, getting hot and heavy with Chad Henderson, her newest employee. But you’re now involved in an ongoing undercover operation run by the Lancaster Police Department. That means you do exactly what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Understand?”
“Don’t forget who sat at your dining room table and gave you a lifetime’s worth of information on the East Side players,” she said, hackles lifting. “We’re coming at this differently, and I may handle situations based on personal knowledge, not suspicion.”
“Just be careful,” he said as he turned off Thirteenth Street and back into the neighborhood.
Being careful meant she’d stop sleeping with him. She’d had her share of long-term relationships and hookups. This indefinable thing felt nothing like either of those, but that horse was out of the barn and in the next county. Out of curiosity she turned on the radio. “I’ll do my best, but it’s not my typical method of living life.”
“Try,” he said bluntly, and switched off static.
Her parents lived in a neighborhood comprised of elderly residents on fixed incomes and young couples building equity in starter homes. The cars lining the streets and driveways were solid, American brands. Her mother had been a member of the Lancaster Garden Club for thirty years, and her garden dominated the fenced front yard, a wisteria vine climbing the post holding the mailbox. Two Adirondack chairs sat on the front porch, and Caleb’s Mercedes lounged in the driveway, the car somehow embodying his fuck all y’all attitude despite its luxury status.
He waited for her to join him in front of the Jeep. When they started to walk across the street she slipped her hand into his, gripped it, and gave it a flirty little swing. His eyebrows lifted as they crossed the street together.
“Hey, handsome,” she said, putting a little extra show in her walk as she waved at the neighbors’ grandkids.
“Don’t overdo it,” he said. “There’s acting and then there’s melodrama.”
She batted her eyes at him as she led him through the impatiens and fleabane and up the front walk. “Who says I’m acting? Hello,” Eve called as she opened the front door. “We’re here.”
She set her bag on the formal love seat in front of the picture window; behind her, Matt shoved his car keys into his pocket and looked around. To Eve’s eye the most noticeable thing was that the living room furniture clustered around a piano, not a television. A trumpet rested on top of the piano, and sheet music was neatly arranged in the bookshelf between the love seat and the piano. A small curio cabinet held a few figurines and pictures.
“You play?” he asked with a glance at the piano.
“Caleb and Mom play the piano, and Caleb also plays the bass. I play tenor sax and clarinet. Dad plays the trumpet.”
“A whole jazz band,” he said.
“A long-time parishioner is our drummer, but yeah. Dad loves jazz.”
Movement in her peripheral vision. Caleb stood in the doorway to the dining room, one shoulder braced against the opening, his arms folded across his chest. Her father, a head shorter yet no less arresting than Caleb, filled the rest of the doorframe.
Best to get this over with. “Hello, Dad,” Eve said as she went to kiss his cheek, then Caleb’s. “This is Detective Matt Dorchester from the Lancaster Police Department.”
Her father stepped forward, hand extended. “Detective Dorchester,” he said, his voice calm. Her father had learned control the hard way, in prison, and honed equanimity during thirty years as a pastor. It would take more than Eve bringing a cop to Monday dinner to faze him.
Her mother would be a different story, but she was nowhere in sight at the moment.
“It’s Matt,” he said as they shook hands.
Caleb said nothing. Judging from the look on his face, he knew something Eve didn’t, but before she could pull him into the kitchen, her father spoke.
“Welcome. Supper’s just about ready,” he said, and stood back to let Matt and Eve precede him into the dining room.
She watched Matt take in the room’s details—the polished mahogany furniture, the table covered with a lace cloth but set with everyday stoneware, a linen napkin wrapped around homemade biscuits, the open bottle of wine, a glass pitcher of water—and wondered what it was like to record details of your surroundings against a possible threat. Then the door to the kitchen opened and her mother came in with a covered casserole dish held between two oven-mitt-clad hands.
“What’s that, Mom?” Caleb asked, eyeing the dish.