Sixteen

AT WORK THE following morning, Ford met with his managing editor, Marty, to discuss a possible idea for a new story.

As was his ritual, he’d watched the local news on TV before falling asleep the previous night, and had seen something that had gotten his journalistic fires going. “The kid is only nine years old. Apparently, his father had come home from a bar and started a fight with the boy’s mother. The boy jumped in to help, so his father put him in the hospital instead.”

Marty shook his head. “It’s terrible, I know. Martinez covered the father’s arrest yesterday,” he said, referring to one of their criminal courts reporters. “But how is this a story for you?”

“They said DCFS previously had been out to the family’s house twice because of claims of abuse, but decided both times that there wasn’t enough evidence to support the allegations. I’d like to know what was in those DCFS reports. And I’d also like to know how many other kids in this city have been victims of abuse or neglect after their families were already involved with child protective services.”

Marty leaned back in his desk chair. “Sounds very similar to your story on Darryl Moore and the probation department.”

Ford met with Marty on almost a daily basis to discuss potential stories. That was part of the job; a good investigative journalist always had a lot of ideas. But this story, in particular, had struck a chord with him, and he was eager to run with it. “I think that’s a good thing, given the interest in the probation department piece. Maybe we make it a series. A whole exposé on negligence in government agencies that are responsible for protecting the innocent. That kind of thing.”

Marty considered that and nodded. “Well, as long as you’re pissing off government bureaucrats, you might as well add DCFS, too.”

Later that morning, there was a development on another front: Vaughn e-mailed over Peter Sutter Number One’s mug shot and Ford immediately forwarded it along to his sister.

“It’s not him. No way would I leave the bar with this guy,” she said, calling him during a short break she had at work. “Look at that blank stare. Seriously, you take this dude home and you’ll wake up strapped to a table wrapped in cellophane.”

“It’s a mug shot, Nicole. You’re not supposed to smile and play pouty for the camera. Try to picture him looking more approachable.”

“It’s not him. The Peter Sutter I met looked normal.”

“‘Normal.’ Truly, it’s great how much you’re giving me to work with.”

She chuckled. “But the good news is, I’m more confident than ever that I’ll be able to ID the right guy from a photo.”

The next morning, Ford woke up at the crack of dawn and hit the road for some light espionage. He wanted to scope out the home addresses of the ten remaining Peter Sutters, just to see what they were dealing with.

Three addresses in, he had to agree with Vaughn—sitting outside these places and hoping to get shots of the various baby-daddy candidates coming out their front doors would be extremely inefficient. First, it was going to be tough to find a place to park his car in several of the neighborhoods. Street parking in many areas of Chicago was at a premium, and often the neighborhoods were zoned for residents only. All he needed was for some nosy neighbor to call the cops on him because he didn’t have the right permit, or because someone decided that a lone man sitting for hours in a car while staring at a house was, in fact, pretty suspicious and creepy. It’s cool, Officer, really. I’m just waiting to see if the guy living here is cute and normal. Why yes, that is a camera with a zoom lens in my messenger bag. Funny story.

Probably not the best strategy.

On top of that, there was also the problem of alleys. In the city, the garage of virtually every house, two-flat, and multi-unit condo building was located in the back of the property, not the front. Which meant that even if he was lucky enough to score a parking spot in front of the home, and no one called the cops on his creepy-looking ass, there still remained the very real possibility that Peter Sutter Number Whatever would exit his home through a garage and alley in the back.

All of which led him to conclude that Plan B was the way to go.

Later that day, he stopped at an office supply store on his way home from work. He carried the bag of materials down the fourth-floor hallway of his building, and made a pit stop at Victoria’s front door.

He held up the bag in his hand when she answered. “I come bearing gifts.”

She checked it out. “Office supplies? Ooh, you really do know how to charm a girl, Dixon.”

Cute. “These aren’t ordinary office supplies. They’re props.”

“Props for what?”

“Our next mission.”

She laughed at that. “‘Mission’? I’m not going on any mission with you. I have work . . . a life . . . things to do other than play amateur sleuth with you.”

“But you’re so good at it. Watching you in action on Sunday at Public House, that was seriously quality stuff. Hell, I was there with you, and even I forgot you weren’t actually there for a blind date.”

“This is your plan? To flatter me until I say yes?”

Actually, yes. But he also had other tactics in his arsenal. “Remember, it’s for your client. The struggling single mom with the adorable four-month-old baby who really would like to meet her dad one day.”

“You are shameless.”

He’d prefer to call it persistent. And right then, standing on Victoria’s doorstep and looking at her in that sexy black skirt suit and with the memory of their hot-as-hell kiss burned into his brain, he was beginning to suspect there was more than one thing he wanted out of this mission. “It’ll only take a couple hours.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Look, I can’t today. I have a hearing in the morning that I need to prep for tonight.” She paused, making a big show of trying to sound begrudging. “But I suppose I could be free tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow. Okay.” He held her gaze. “Thank you.”

She caught his look and pointed, getting all huffy. “You say one word about some alleged ‘soft spot’ and I’ll dry my hair at five thirty in the morning for a month. ”

He bit back a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Slade.”

*   *   *

WHEN SHE DROPPED by his place the following evening, Ford had just finished preparing the last of their props.

“You didn’t say what the plan is. Is this casual enough?” she asked as she walked into his loft. She’d sent him a text message earlier in the day asking what kind of attire was required for their “mission.”

He looked over her sleeveless white top and summery skirt, and then his eyes held on her strappy sandals. “As long as you can run in those.”

“Ha, ha.” As they headed into the kitchen, she shot him a sideways glance. “You are joking, right?”

“Sure. Mostly.” He grinned when she poked him in the shoulder.

She followed him to the island in the center of his kitchen, where he’d put together large padded envelopes addressed to five of the Peter Sutters. “So, these are the guys who live in single-family homes, townhomes, or two-flats with a front door that’s visible from the street,” he explained. “Here’s the plan: you knock on the door and ask for Peter Sutter. Tell him you live a block over and that a package addressed to him was mistakenly delivered to your place. Meanwhile, I’ll be waiting somewhere close by, ready to snap his photo as soon as he comes to the door.”

She considered that. “All right, that could work. But what if someone else answers the door, and Peter Sutter isn’t home?”

“Depends. If it’s another guy, say that you’re a neighbor, that you have a package for Peter, and try to find out when he’ll be back. You’re cute. A male roommate—at least a straight, single one—will be happy to have you drop by again. But if a woman answers the door and she offers to take the package, just give it to her to avoid suspicion. We’ll move on to Plan C for that particular candidate.”

“What’s Plan C?”

“All questions about Plan C will be answered after the conclusion of Plan B.”

“Meaning, you don’t actually have a Plan C yet.”

“This is true. But when I do, it’ll be genius.”

Shaking her head, she picked up one of the packages addressed to Peter Sutter. “There’s actually something in here. What are you sending these guys?”

It didn’t matter, he’d just needed something to fill the envelope and make it look legitimate. “Pens.”

She laughed. “Pens? Aren’t they going to wonder why they’re randomly getting pens from someone named—” She checked out the return address on the envelope, then raised an eyebrow at him. “N. Drew?”

So he was having a little fun with this amateur detective mission. “It doesn’t matter what these guys think. By the time they open the package, we’ll be long gone.”

She looked at the spread on the counter before them, then took a deep breath and nodded.

“All right. Let’s go deliver some pens.”