My phone buzzes with a text message and I glance down to read: Call me if you need me —Jacob
Great. I’m officially in the most committed relationship of my adult life with a hot ex-Green Beret that I just met and probably don’t like. I grab my phone and dial Kendra. “How soon will the be merger done?” I ask after our greeting.
“Two months at the most, if we’re all lucky.”
Her line rings. “I need to grab that, but did you need to talk to your father?”
I could talk to my father and insist he fire Walker Security, but to what end? Jacob was right. Loving someone like us isn’t easy, and if my father needs this right now, he needs it. “I’ll call him later,” I say. “Take your call.”
We disconnect, and I accept the inevitable. Jacob King is here to stay, at least for a month or two. Fortunately, and unfortunately, I deal with pushy, ego-inflated men every single day of my life. I might not know how he managed to stay off my radar while following me, yet, though I will before this is over, but I do know how to set boundaries. And I will.
I open my uncle’s top drawer, and the realization that it’s mine now punches me in the gut. Setting aside the emotion that would appall my uncle, I start digging for any inspiration for a cold case that merits my attention. One drawer leads to another and I end up on the floor, digging through boxes, but nothing really grabs my attention.
I skip lunch to keep working right up until I head to the DA’s office to discuss the recent arrest of a man who killed his pregnant wife and really needs to burn in hell. With the growl in my stomach, I dig into the bag with my cookie in it from my briefcase to discover there are three cookies, not one. I approve. Jacob might be single and hard to love like me, but he knows how to make-up with a woman. I take a bite of my sugary delight and as always, memories of the ones my mom used to make flood my mind, and with that memory is motivation to do my job and do it well.
That leads me back to Jacob, and those boundaries I need to set. I don’t like how he taunted me this morning, which to me indicates a need to showboat. Showboating could place him in the center of my work, and that could jeopardize the integrity of my investigations, which would be unacceptable. Not only that, he pushed my buttons. I need to understand this man before I agree to let him shadow me for what could be two months.
I pull my MacBook from my briefcase and pull up Walker Security, which has nothing about Jacob on the site. Just lots of impressive data on their services, including a contract with the local police department. It doesn’t say in what capacity, therefore I can’t assume that means they’ll respect the integrity of my investigations, but it’s a small vote of confidence.
Trying another tactic, I shut my MacBook and pull the keyboard connected to the monster computer sitting in front of me closer, and search the database for Jacob King. He’s not in the criminal database. Of course. I knew he wouldn’t be, but it’s just automatic that I check. A few phone calls and I determine he is indeed a Major, thirty-five, and well-decorated, but most of his file is top secret. I’m not going to learn much about this man that I don’t learn from him. But maybe I can learn about men like him. I pull up the cold case records and type “Green Beret” and get one hit. I grab a pen and paper and write down the case number. A few minutes later I have that file in my hand and I’m intrigued. Jesse Marks killed his family and then disappeared.
The alarm on my phone goes off and I shut the file, stick it in my briefcase and grab another stack of files from my uncle’s desk—no. My desk. I hurry out of the file room, wave to my new co-inhabitant and when I would normally head upstairs, I smile and change my mind. Let’s see how good my new Green Beret shadow really is when he has a real opponent. If he’s good, he’ll anticipate my next move. I head to the garage, and walk through rows of cars, to exit to the street. I start the eight-block walk, and I’ve made it three when I feel him. I do. I feel Jacob nearby. I need to know how he does it. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial his number.
“Do you know where I am right now?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me,” I press.
“The corner of Fifth and Broadway.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“It’s my job to know,” he replies. “But then we both knew you were going to take the rear exit. We both knew you were going to test me.”
I don’t confirm nor deny that statement. “What if I’d gone out either the front or side door?”
“I’d have known,” he says without hesitation.
“How did you watch every door?”
“Cameras.”
Suddenly, I wonder how many people are watching me. People I don’t know, who will be following my case work. I can’t let that happen and not go to my boss and I’m not going to make a fool of myself over something this ridiculous. It’s time to set some rules. I end the call and walk toward the massive church to my right that draws tourists and me right now, I climb the steps, then turn to scan the streets but I don’t have to scan long. Jacob appears on the steps, wearing a thin, black leather jacket, and heads my direction, all loose-legged swagger, and hot, lethal man. Professional observations, of course, I tell myself.
He stops one step below me, and I still have to look up to look into his eyes, which are steely-gray and intelligent. “How many of you are following me?” I ask.
“There’s a rotating team.”
“How many?” I press.
“Two to four at any given time.”
“Oh no,” I say in instant rejection. “This set-up doesn’t work for me, or the integrity of my investigations, or those investigations that are being conducted near me. You have to see that. Walker is contracted with the NYPD.”
“We are,” he says. “And I hope that gives you confidence that you can trust our team.”
“I don’t even trust everyone who works for the NYPD. I don’t know you. I can’t begin to trust you. I can’t even check you out fully. Your military file is top secret.”
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
“That’s it? ‘Yes. It is.’”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“Then how am I supposed to get to know you?”
“Aside from the obvious premise of actually talking to me, I have references, which were provided to your father. I’ll ensure you get a copy. I can have them to your email within the hour.”
“Personal references?”
“Yes. People who have worked directly with me, one of whom is the owner of Riptide.”
I don’t have to ask what Riptide is. Everyone knows that they are one step up from Christie’s auction house these days.
“Do you have a card with an email?”
I slip my hand inside my jacket pocket, where I always keep a supply of business cards, snag one and offer it to Jacob. He reaches for it and our fingers brush, something that probably happens ten times a week to me, but this time is not one of those times. This time, heat rushes up my arm and my eyes jerk to his, the awareness between us instant, jolting.
I pull my hand back and cut my gaze just long enough to recover before I look at him, composed and focused again. “The cookies and the coffee,” I say.
“What about them?” he asks, sliding the card into his pocket.
“That was a cocky show-off move, meant to prove you’re better than me. Don’t do that again or we won’t find common ground. Without common ground, I’ll have no choice but to go to my father, and end this over-reaction.” I walk around him and start down the stairs.
“Your mother’s bakery that was sold when she died makes those cookies,” he says.
At those words, emotions I don’t let myself feel or even name slam into me and he successfully stops me dead in my tracks. I stand there for two beats before I turn to find him facing me. I don’t like anyone to occupy this private place he’s taken me, and I close the few steps between us. “What are you trying to prove?”
“I’m not big on proving myself with anything but knowledge and actions, which was my intent. I knew today was the last day they make those cookies until Easter. And since I understand more than most what that might mean to you, I didn’t want to start our relationship off by denying you something you have left of her.”
“Words on paper do not make you understand anything I feel or think.”
“Nor would I presume to understand the aftermath of death, if I didn’t know death quite intimately.”
Just like that, he’s torn down the wall that I’ve spent years building. And just like that, he’s seen to the other side, stirring emotions in me in the process that I don’t want to feel. That I quickly smash, right along with every question he’s made me want to ask him, about him, about death. “If you’re lying about your motives to bring me those cookies,” I say, my voice low, tight, “if you’re using this to manipulate me, I really will cuff you and I will shoot you.”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly, before he takes my bait, and asks, “You mean shoot me and then cuff me, right?”
“No,” I say, “because if I shoot you first, it’s over for you. You won’t have to wait, and anticipate, the pain of the bullet.”
“And I’d deserve that and more,” he says, with just a hint of lift at the corner of his mouth, that quickly fades as he adds, “but I’m not that guy, detective. I wouldn’t do that to you or anyone.”
I study him, the way I do everyone who tells me that they’re innocent. I read him the way I read everyone, the way I see beneath the surface of people others do not, and thus prosecute bad people that others would not. And I decide that he isn’t one of those bad people. I decide that I actually believe him. “I don’t like that you know this about me,” I say.
“If I don’t know you, I can’t protect you.”
“You don’t get to know me at all. I didn’t sign up for this and I didn’t invite you into my private space. You just barged into it.”
“I didn’t understand your motives to buy those cookies because it’s my job to understand you. I understood because of who life, or rather death, has made me.”
“But you only had that opportunity, because you researched me for a job that I didn’t ask you to do.”
“And I get that. I do. I understand that this isn’t what you signed up for, and that you don’t believe that you’re in danger.”
“Do you? And be honest. Don’t answer because it’s how Walker Security wants you to answer to keep this job.”
“We are the best at what we do. In many cases, the skill sets of our team allow us to do what no one else can, or will, do. In other words, as an asset, I could be making the company far more money than I am by following you around.”
“But yet here we are. Why?”
“Royce thinks a great deal of your father. He’s a good man in a sea of corporate monsters.”
“He is a good man, but you’ve talked circles around my question. Do you believe that I’m in danger?”
“I believe the Carpenter operation needed a major security update years ago and the very fact that it hasn’t been done leaves us with inadequate data to fully evaluate any threat to you, your father, or the staff and operations. So, in the context of caution, here’s my proposal to you. Work with me. You won’t have to think about the notes or look over your shoulder. You catch a killer. Let me cover your back.”
It’s more a question than a demand, and yet, everything about this man is a demand that I’m not used to experiencing. And I know a lot of demanding men. “We’ll talk later,” I say, leaving out any commitment of when and where. I start to turn and hesitate on unfinished business. “I don’t usually make assumptions. They cloud reality and investigations, but I made an assumption about you. For that, I’m sorry.”
“You weren’t completely wrong about me. If I have to be to be an asshole to protect you, I will be and I won’t be apologetic like you are now.”
“That statement assumes my stupidity at some point and that doesn’t say partnership at all.”
“That statement prefaces any action I might take by necessity, not choice.”
“If that necessity means that your team stakes out a police facility, that’s unacceptable and we have to talk about that and more. Just not now.”
“When?”
“I’ll be in touch. Until then, stay in the shadows and away from the precinct. I don’t need questions inside my department that lead to problems and neither do you and Walker Security.” I turn and actually start to walk this time, but damn it, I can’t leave yet. I rotate and face him. “Thank you for the cookies and the coffee. And I think I sound angry as I say that but I’m not. It’s sincere.”
“You’re welcome and they’re damn good cookies. I greedily kept one for myself.”
“They were better when my mother made them,” I say, and damn it, my voice hitches, and my response confirms he was right. The cookies matter to me. I turn away from him and this time I don’t stop walking. I have a meeting to get to, and damn it, what is this man doing to me? He just saw more of me than I’ve let any man see in years. And I let him, I opened the door he had only cracked, and I did so despite the fact that I still don’t even know if I like the man.