She nodded, barely perceptibly. Ben could see she was trying to be brave, but the strain was too much. Tears came unbidden, tumbling forth from those vivid blue eyes.
“Ben … I’m so scared.”
“I know you are.”
“Please—hold me.”
Ben drew her in and hugged her tight. The smell of her hair, her skin, overwhelmed him. There was no denying that he found her extremely attractive. Who wouldn’t? But it wouldn’t be right, not now, not when she was scared and vulnerable. Not while she was still his client.
But when she was so close, when her warm soft body pressed against his, it was impossible not to think about it.
“Don’t let go,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t ever let go.”
And had it been left entirely up to Ben, he never would have.
14
WHEN LOVING PARKED HIS pickup in the back lot behind Scene of the Crime, he saw two middle-aged men leaning against a lamppost, arms linked around one another’s shoulders, obviously experiencing the elevated state of bliss denied to those who choose to remain sober all their lives. One of them was singing an Irish ditty, not especially well, and the other was sloshing lager all over his spiffy blue sport shirt. Both were mercifully ignorant of the existence of a world beyond themselves.
Definitely cops. Loving couldn’t be too critical of them, though, even if they were making total asses of themselves. They had a hell of a hard job, in this wonderful world of drug pushers with 1-800 numbers and pimply teenagers bearing submachine guns. They were underpaid and little respected. No, Loving made a point of supporting the police whenever he could. Except, that is, when they were going after the Skipper.
He and Ben might be worlds apart, but that didn’t in any way diminish the respect he had for the man. He’d never had so good a job, never been treated so well by a boss, and never felt like the work he was doing was so important. With Ben, every case was a holy crusade, and they were on the side of the angels. But this time, he suspected, he would have a hard time convincing anyone inside the bar of that.
Scene of the Crime was not just a cop bar—it was the cop bar. It was the numero uno watering hole for law-enforcement officers throughout the city, and most of the suburbs, for that matter. The top hangout used to be Harry’s Squad Room, a place opened by a retired cop at Forty-first and Peoria, but since it shut down, Scene of the Crime got all the action. Anytime you wanted to find a cop who wasn’t at home or on duty, Scene of the Crime was your best bet.
Loving understood why. Anyplace else the cops went, there was always a chance of being hassled by some sorry lowlife, the last thing on earth they wanted during their off-hours. Or they could be put in an awkward, uncomfortable position—i.e., when the guy at the next table decides to light up a joint.
Loving stepped inside. The decor was predictably black-and-white, like a cop car. Instead of pictures and paintings, the walls displayed handcuffs and billy clubs and truncheons and other such police accoutrements. Somehow, the owner had managed to get a full-length section of the grille from a patrol car behind the bar, where the mirror should have been. The placards on the tables offered mixed drinks with cute names like Police Blotter Punch and Book ‘Em Banana Brandy, though Loving noticed almost everyone in the joint appeared to be drinking tap beer.
Truth was, Loving liked it here, and he came often, even when he wasn’t fishing for information. Cops and private eyes shared a lot of the same interests and concerns. And no one had opened a private-eye bar yet.
Hey, Loving thought to himself. Maybe there’s an idea for my retirement.
It was easy to see around. Whatever other vices these boys might have, smoking wasn’t one of them. Presumably they had the intelligence not to ingest anything that would kill them that surely, or cut the speed that might be critical in a chase.
Loving spotted a familiar face and sidled up beside him. “Come here often, big boy?”
The face next-door went through a series of rapid-fire changes: first, puzzlement, then understanding, then horror. “Loving! What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Gettin’ a drink.” He asked the bartender for a beer. “How ’bout you, Dodds?”
The paunchy man beside him did not seem to appreciate the joke. “But—I mean—why are you here?”
“I come here all the time. I like to swap stories.”
“Maybe you used to. But no one’s going to swap anything with you today.”
Loving was unperturbed. “What’d I do, forget my underarm deodorant?”
The other man leaned close. “Everyone in here knows who you work with. You need to get out while you can still walk.”
“Dodds, Dodds, Dodds. We’re all friends. Nothing’s gonna happen to me.” He looked around. “See, no one cares about me.”
“No one’s noticed you’re here. But as soon as they do, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Ya think?” Loving pondered a moment. “Then I guess we should talk fast. I wanna know what’s goin’ down, Barry. I wanna know everythin’. And you’re the one who’s gonna tell me.”
If Dodds could’ve segued into an alternate universe and disappeared, he surely would have. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t.”
“Barry, how long have we known each other?”
Dodds shrugged. “Since back when you drove a truck and were married to that piece of—”
Loving raised his hand. “Good enough. Now don’t you think I’ve been around long enough to know when something’s up?”
“Loving, one more time, I’m—”
“It’s the Blue Squeeze, isn’t it?”
Dodds’s eyes diverted to his drink. “You’re imagining things.”
“I gave up my imagination when I was twelve.” He grabbed Dodds and turned him around on his bar stool. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? The boys are puttin’ the blue squeeze on my man Kincaid.”
Dodds’s voice dropped. “Could be.”
“Why?”
“You know why. He helped that—that—”
“He did his job.”
“Call it what you like. It’s not going to go down any better.”
“Ben has gotten perps acquitted lots of times—”
“This is different, Loving. Joe was a cop. We protect our own.”
“So what have they done, Barry? Did they plant that knife in Ben’s office? Is there more yet to come?”
“Who the hell are you talkin’ to, Barry-boy?”
Loving did a slow pivot and found himself face-to-face with a stubble-faced, middle-aged man. He was tall and lean and had a practiced mean look that probably worked well with petty hoodlums. “He’s talkin’ to me. And it’s a private conversation, if you catch my drift.”
The other man didn’t flinch. “We don’t allow private conversations in here, sonny. If you catch my drift.”
Loving made a point of being unimpressed. “You’re Matthews, right?”
“Yup. Arlen Matthews, that’s me. You can call me—Detective Sergeant Matthews.”
“How ’bout I just don’t call you?” Loving turned back toward the front of the bar.
Matthews grabbed Loving’s arm and spun him around. A crowd began to gather.
“Let go of my arm,” Loving said, in a low voice that bordered on a growl. Personally, all this macho gamesmanship bored him to tears, but he knew if he didn’t go through the motions no one here would ever talk to him.
Matthews let go of the arm, although as he did he let out a little sneer designed to let everyone know he wasn’t intimidated.
A shorter man with a rounder face stepped forward. “I’m Mark Callery. And I know who you are.”