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“I could eat,” Morrison agreed with enthusiasm. “But we need to have a conversation.” The big man shot an inquiring glance toward André. “What happened to your face?”
Instinctively, André lifted his hand, touching the bandage stuck to his cheek. He’d managed to forget he’d been shot at for several seconds. It wasn’t something he could ignore forever though.
Who the hell had it in for him? Had the shots been meant only to scare him, or did the shooter have terrible aim? André wasn’t sure which answer he preferred.
“Let’s talk in the kitchen. First, you can tell me why Hatch didn’t warn me you were coming,” said Dante.
Morrison shot André a skeptical look. “André’s good,” Dante added. “I vouch for him. To answer your question, somebody took a shot at him earlier tonight.”
Without waiting for Morrison to voice an objection, Dante turned and headed into the kitchen. Glancing at André again, Morrison shrugged and followed Dante. André paused and allowed himself to briefly contemplate the fact that Dante would vouch for him before joining them.
Huh.
“André, this is Ivan Morrison,” Dante said when André stepped into the kitchen. “Morrison, this is André Dear, Cooper Spring’s chief of police.”
Morrison’s dark eyebrows rose in surprise—or appreciation? André wasn’t sure which—and stuck his hand out toward André.
“It’s a pleasure,” Ivan said. “Please, just call me Morrison.”
“I’m going to throw some pasta sauce together while you tell me what the fuck brought you here, so get talking.” Dante started rummaging through pots and pans and grabbing ingredients out of his refrigerator.
“Ivan Morrison,” André repeated slowly before Morrison could speak. He rolled the name around in his head. Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “As in Van Morrison, the musician?”
Groaning and shaking his head in disgust, Morrison sucked a long breath in through his nose at André’s question. Dante turned away from the cupboard he’d opened, waiting expectantly.
“Years!” he finally exclaimed, throwing his hands up dramatically. “Years, it’s been since the last time someone figured out thatmy own mothernamed me after Van Morrison. I thought I was finally safe.”
Dante snickered and started filling a large pot with water before setting it on the stove.
“It’s not the worst superstar to be named after,” André pointed out.
“Meh.” Morrison’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “I feel like I’m more Chris Hemsworth than moldy old Irish folk singer. I mean, look at me.” He swept his hands down the bulk of himself.
André had to admit he had a point. Dante’s biceps looked like twigs compared to what André suspected was hidden underneath Morrison’s jacket.
“Especially since you can’t sing,” Dante said. “Ivan’s been banned from karaoke night. I think the exact words were,never again.”
“Did I tell you to fuck off already? I haven’t? Fuck off. Do you want to know why Hatch sent me here or not? And don’t call me Ivan.”
Suppressing a grin, André took a seat at the round kitchen table, noting that the kitchen appliances were indeed Harvest Gold. Grumbling about his mother and traitorous friends, Morrison peeled off his black leather motorcycle jacket—confirming André’s suspicion about the size of his arms—and hung it over the back of a well-used chair. Before setting his full weight on it, he gingerly tested the piece of furniture to see if it would hold. When he didn’t end up sitting in a pile of toothpicks, he shot a triumphant grin at André.
“So, Hatch?” Dante said while he peeled and minced onions.
“Right. It’s not good. He suspects the office is compromised. Information that shouldn’t be is getting out to people who have no business learning it. He didn’t even want to email you. In person only.”
“Example,” Dante demanded as he tossed a handful of the chopped onions into a saucepan with a dollop of olive oil. The pungent scent of the cooking vegetables had André’s insides complaining again.
“Can you tell your damn stomach I’m cooking as fast as I can?”
A second rumble came from Morrison’s direction.
“Do neither of you eat?” he asked.
This was a question André wasn’t bothering to answer and Morrison just shot him a toothy grin.
“The job you were on this summer,” Morrison said, returning to the matter at hand. “Someone got wind of the operation. We were able to sweep up a few guys, but no one of any importance. Not one of them had any useful information about where their funding was coming from or where the inventory went once it was out of their hands. Human trafficking scum-fuckers of the earth.”
There was no arguing with that assessment.
