Free Under the Surface by Anne Calhoun

paused just outside the bright lights illuminating the crowded lot and watched Lyle get into the passenger seat of a Cadillac Escalade. The engine turned over and the SUV moved smoothly into traffic.
    Avoiding Cesar’s eye wasn’t easy, but fortunately a party of scantily dressed women was fishing IDs out of tiny purses and bras. Matt scanned the parking lot until he saw Sorenson’s pale hair and rhinestone combs winking in the lights at the back of the lot, then jogged over.
    Sorenson sat on the trunk of Lieutenant Hawthorn’s car, knees primly together, her bare feet resting on the bumper, her spike heels neatly lined up beside her. Hawthorn stood off to the side, elbows braced on the roof as he spoke into his cell phone: “… left the parking lot in a black Escalade.” He rattled off the plate, waited a second, then disconnected the call. “McCormick just picked them up at the corner. He’ll follow them, see where they go next. What happened?”
    â€œShe sent them out the back door,” Matt said, his heart pounding. “There’s a door from her office to her apartment that leads to the alley.”
    â€œI remember,” Hawthorn said. “Did you hear them?”
    â€œThrough a crack in the storeroom door,” Matt confirmed. “She handled it like a boss, LT. Ice in her veins. We need to tell her what’s going on. She can handle it.”
    â€œAbsolutely not,” Hawthorn said, “because the more involved Murphy gets with Eye Candy, the better our case is. It’s best for her if she doesn’t know. The less she knows, the less she can accidentally give away, and the less danger she’s in. Just do your job.”
    â€œWe can’t keep her in the dark,” Matt objected.
    â€œThe hell we can’t, Detective,” Hawthorn said. “We do it all the time. You do it all the time. Sorenson’s going back in. Get some sleep, get your head screwed on straight. I don’t want to see you before noon.”
    Shoes in hand, Sorenson slid off the trunk of the car. They waited while Hawthorn left, then Sorenson looked at him. “I hate these shoes,” she said conversationally, turning over the heels so the jeweled straps glittered in the lights. “My feet hurt, my back hurts, and my toes feel like they’ve been crammed in a sardine can. Next time you go undercover, do it at an old folks’ home so I can wear comfortable shoes.”
    â€œI’m going back in through the storeroom,” he said in response.
    Matt jogged around the back of the bar and through the storeroom door, struggling to remain calm. Objective. Inside the bar the DJ was leading everyone in some arm-waving, swaying chant, the atmosphere was back to rockin’ and rollin’. He needed to find Eve. Size and strength, not finesse, powered his progress through the room.
    He found her down a short hallway, in front of the small alcove housing a relic from the twentieth century, a pay phone. Hands on her hips, her pursed lips and frown better suited a librarian, not the sexy woman dressed like a high-class call girl. A quick glance in the circular mirror high in the corner of the alcove revealed a brunette alternately shoving her skirt down her thighs and buttoning up her blouse behind a red-faced, tight-lipped man with his hands on his hips.
    Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to shake the cop’s sense of humor, so he smiled as he came to parade rest behind Eve and folded his arms over his chest, giving Eve some consequence in case the guy got belligerent. “Need any help?”
    â€œNo, thank you, Chad,” Eve replied, decorum dripping from her voice. “Our friends are either going to get another drink and enjoy the music, or continue their conversation outside.”
    The man nodded, taut frustration evident on his face, and the girl finally got her blouse buttoned. With the same gesture she’d used to send Lyle