I was halfway there and got a call from Ian.
“Where the hell are you?” I snapped, annoyed and hungry and without coffee.
“I could say the same.”
“I’m starving, asshole; you were supposed to feed me.”
“Do you ever read your texts?”
“I don’t have a text from you.”
“Yes, you—oh shit.”
“Oh shit, what?”
“I e-mailed you, I didn’t text you. Fuck.”
“Just tell me where you are.”
“Oh crap, Kage is calling me on the other line. Hold on.”
“Ian—”
“Wait,” he barked, and then silence.
I had no idea where I was supposed to be driving, but not knowing where Ian was would make me crazy faster than anything. Knowing he was somewhere I should have been too, to back him up and keep him safe, would unravel my well-constructed façade. I needed to find him.
The line went dead, and then my phone rang right afterward from a number that wasn’t in my caller ID. Concerned that it might be my boss, I started hunting around for my earpiece. It rang five times before I gave up and answered.
“Jones.”
“What’s the rule?” The deep and gravelly voice of my boss, Supervisory Deputy US Marshal Sam Kage, rumbled in my ear
“Third ring,” I replied automatically.
“What’s your excuse, then?”
“I was talking to Ian.”
“No, I was actually talking to Doyle, so try again.”
“Well, I was talking to him before you were.”
“Why aren’t you with him?”
“That’s a really good question.”
“Pardon me?”
Fuck.
“Again I ask: why didn’t you pick up your phone?”
Lying to him, about anything, big or small, was a mistake. “I can’t find my earpiece.”
“I’m sorry?”
Double fuck.
“Where is it?” Kage growled.
“It’s here somewhere.”
“So since I’m not on speaker, may I assume that you’re holding your phone?”
No coffee and Kage first thing. FML. “Yessir.”
“Stop the car and find the earpiece, Jones.”
Procedure had to be followed. After pulling over before I got on the expressway, I retrieved the earpiece from the very back of the glove compartment, put it in, connected my phone, and told Kage he could go ahead and start talking.
“I’m sorry?” he asked irritably.
It was like throwing gasoline on a fire. As I banged my forehead on the steering wheel, I prayed he would just tell me what he wanted me to know.
“I need you to meet vice detectives out in the Washington Park area to take custody of Kemen Bentley, a missing witness who was supposed to have testified against Taylor Ledesma, his former lover, before he escaped protective police custody. He got caught in a task force run by vice, the FBI, and the state police. They were cracking down on underage girls and boys working as escorts, and he was there in one of the hotels they raided.”
“Yessir.”
“Doyle is on site.”
“Roger that.”
“Make sure he texts or calls you from here on out.” He hung up without another word, as was his way.
I called Ian.
“Shit.”
“That was fun,” I said, making sure he couldn’t miss the sarcasm.
“I fucked up.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I was tired.”
“He only calls you because Doyle is before Jones in his phone.”
“I know.”
“Use your phone correctly.”
“Fuck. Yes, fine. I will.”
I felt better. “Okay.”
“I didn’t have breakfast, you know,” he complained. “Or coffee.”
“Whose fault?”
“Stop being mad.”
“I’m not mad; I’m just annoyed. And I hate not knowing where you are. It’s like when you go off on your missions and… but you know that.”
“I do,” he husked.
“Yeah, so,” I began, realizing how miserable I sounded. “When you’re actually here and you disappear—that’s fucked up, Ian.”
Heavy sigh from him. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’m your partner. I should always know where you are.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I smiled into the phone. “Now, about food. We’ll get some after we take custody of the witness.”
“So you’re not gonna be pissed all day?”
“Who cares if I am? You don’t have to ride with me.”
“What? No. When we get back to the office, your car stays there.”
“Maybe I wanna drive today.”
“No.” He didn’t like me on the phone in the car, even on my earpiece, because he didn’t think I was a good driver. Having me even a bit distracted annoyed the hell out of him.
“You don’t get to just say no, Ian. Your word isn’t law.”
“It’s not?” He was baiting me.
“Fuck you.”
He snickered. “You want pizza for dinner? I really want pizza.”
“We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
“Yeah, but I like to plan, you know that.”
I did know that. “Maybe Emma wants to go out.”
“But no deep-dish,” he said, blithely ignoring me. “I want hand-tossed.”
“No one eats that in Chicago.”
“I do.”
“You don’t count.”
“I do too count.”
Yes, he did. He counted more than anyone to me.
“I’m your partner; you gotta take care of me.”
All the words that came out of his mouth that he didn’t actually hear? They were astounding.
“Beer or wine?” I asked, trying to restore normalcy on my end.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he groused. “Wine? With pizza?”
So much disdain in his voice. “Fine, beer it is.”
“How far out are you?”