Chapter 3
THREE
Morrison
“ Seven-fourteen Sunrise Surprise West, Surprise, Arizona,” Ivan muttered to himself . “Well, that’s a fuckton of surprises.”
Ivan Morrison peered out of Big Blue’s windshield to scan the numbers tacked up next to the house doors or on utility poles where there were RVs parked instead of modular homes.
“Seven-ten, seven-twelve…” he read aloud. “Ah, there it is, seven-fourteen, the magic number.” Rolling to a stop, he set the parking brake and stared out the driver’s side window. There it was, Hatch’s forced vacation home.
“Not bad, not bad at all.”
Admittedly, it had to be torture for Hatch not to be hard at work behind his desk. There was only one other time Hatch unexpectedly hadn’t been in his office—that Morrison was aware of, at least. That time, Morrison had tracked him down at his home, where he’d been holed up with the flu and miserable as fuck—and still click-clacking away on his laptop. Luckily, the neighborhood ph? place agreed to deliver several gallons of five-alarm broth, and Hatch had been back at his desk by the following Monday.
Seven-fourteen was a well-kept single-wide mobile home that had mutant orange lava rocks substituting for a lawn and bright terracotta pots with prickly pear and other cacti planted in them. Where the yard met the street were several healthy-looking aloe and century plants and?—
He squinted at the yard art. Was that small statue a masturbating frog? Somebody in the house had a sense of humor.
Morrison sniggered. Everything he’d seen so far in Surprise was much too cheerful for Agent Christopher Hatch; the man tended to brood. Additionally, he chose only the deepest of blacks for his wardrobe most of the time—black suit, black tie. Add the black mood and voilà, Special Agent Hatch. It had to be hard for him to be gloomy when the sun was shining like it was today.
Yes, Morrison tended to wear black too, but that was because it hid the coffee stains. He was looking forward to lounging around in a t-shirt and shorts and getting some full-on vitamin D. He ran his fingers through his hair, still a little shocked at the current short haircut. It would grow back, he reminded himself.
The various lots in Sunrise had been developed along a semi serpentine-shaped road so they weren’t right next to or directly across from each other—almost like an artist’s rendering of the sun’s rays. He’d spotted a clubhouse and Olympic-sized pool near the entrance. Common areas at one end of each street were littered with white plastic loungers, and at this time of day, not many were occupied, but a few dedicated citizens appeared to be actually enjoying the March heat.
“You did good, Blue.” Morrison patted the dashboard of his car, a matte black souped-up sedan that no one suspected was owned by a law enforcement officer. And also, it was definitely not blue. Maybe didn’t get the greatest gas mileage, but he cared more about being able to catch bad guys.
Almost as soon as he’d gotten off the phone with Hatch, he’d told Radisson he had a family emergency and didn’t know when he’d be back. Radisson had tried to tell him to call Paulter instead, saying, “He’s the man in charge right now,” but Morrison had steamrolled right over that idea. He’d never liked Dennis Paulter much, and he certainly wasn’t going to start acting like the man was his boss.
Nope. Not gonna happen. Radisson would do just fine. And it wasn’t as if the FBI hadn’t tried to recruit Morrison on a regular basis; Morrison was more than happy to do the shift in his mind now. Besides, regardless of what he’d said to Hatch on the phone, Morrison respected Agent Radisson and his team.
Radisson had conceded, which, Morrison found, many people eventually did when it came to something he really wanted. Probably, it was easier to deny his requests when he wasn’t standing in front of them. But Morrison had been there for real and in person and not taking no for an answer. Besides, it turned out there was no case to work on; Paulter had just been offloading him.
After what turned out to be a pretty productive conversation, he’d headed back home much faster than the drive in, packed Blue, and hit the road.
Now, here he was in Arizona, the Grand Canyon State, and parked in front of Hatch’s temporary house.
What had he been thinking coming down here uninvited?
Yes, he was generally impulsive and one hundred percent an adrenaline junkie, but as he’d aged— like a fine fucking wine, thank you very much —he’d learned to… moderate his impulses. At least that’s what he told himself.
Anyway. What he’d been thinking was that Hatch had sounded depressed when he’d talked to him. And that Ivan didn’t like not being able to just Kramer into Hatch’s office when he wanted to and make him smile against his better judgment.
And he didn’t like that Hatch was alone.
In general, there was a lot he didn’t like about the current situation.
Sure, his parents lived around here somewhere. They’d invited their son to visit, after all. But what kind of people were they, really? In Morrison’s experience, bio family was just not all that. There were no guarantees. And over the years they’d worked together, Chris Hatch had become a sort of family to Morrison—even if Hatch had no idea. Even if Hatch had been fixated on Dante Castone. So here he was in Arizona, making sure Hatch was okay.
That’s what he’d told himself for twelve hundred plus miles, and that’s the story he was sticking with.
Not that he felt brotherly toward Chris Hatch. Nope, not at all.
A tap against the passenger-side window had the combined benefit of bringing him back to reality and scaring the living shit out of him.
Whipping his head around, he expected to see Hatch, but instead of his boss—who was decidedly not his boss at the moment—it was an older woman. She had a shock of thick gray hair and wore a bright tie-dye shirt with a Grateful Dead skull on the front. Probably harmless.
He rolled the window down.
“Um, can I help you?” he asked.
“Are you lost? It can get kind of confusing around here.”
The woman had kind eyes, a hazel brown that seemed familiar, and a kind smile too. He recognized that as well. Not that Hatch smiled a lot.
“I’m visiting my boyfriend.” No way was he saying boss to the woman he suspected was Hatch’s mother, even if it technically wasn’t currently true. The likeness was too close for them not to be related, though, and Morrison was an expert on Chris Hatch.
Expert sounded so much better than stalker. And boyfriend sounded better than scary boss-stalker dude. Yes, he nodded to himself, boyfriend covered just about everything in a non-creepy way.
Less creepy anyway.
“Chris said he was staying here on vacation. It’s kind of a surprise, but I was in the area.” If being in Portland, Oregon, one day and Arizona the next was being in the area . And once the words boy and friend had crossed his lips, he couldn’t take them back.
What the actual fuck?
Morrison, goddammit, Hatch is going to kill you.
The woman’s eyes widened, and a broad smile crossed her face.
“Christopher is my son!” she exclaimed. “He’s with his dad checking out the Yuma Swap Meet. I don’t know when they’ll be back though, it’s a few hours anyway.”
She motioned for him to get out of the car. “Come over to our place while you wait for him. We can visit,” she said with a great deal of excitement. “Would you like some iced tea or fresh lemonade? My name is Susie, by the way. Chris has never brought a boyfriend down here before. We’ve been so worried he was lonely back in Portland all by himself.”
Morrison was very impressed; he couldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise if he’d wanted to.
Susie Hatch moved purposefully around to the front of Blue, clearly expecting him to join her. Morrison noted the Grateful Dead shirt had the lightning-bolt skull on the back as well. A true Deadhead. He loved her already. Too bad he and Hatch weren’t really boyfriends, he’d definitely keep her for a mom.
Maybe he’d keep her anyway.
“I wouldn’t say no to some lemonade,” Morrison responded, smiling as he popped open the driver’s side door and extricated himself from Blue. “My name’s Ivan Morrison, by the way.”
She stuck out her hand. “Chris is so quiet about his life. Fair warning, I plan on interrogating you. I want to hear everything. Let’s be best friends before they get back,” she said mischievously. “Expect to be plied with lemonade and cookies.”
Morrison’s grin widened. Two could play this game, and Hatch wasn’t here to stop him or Hatch’s mother. He’d deal with the fallout later.
“I love cookies. I think we’re going to get along just fine,” he agreed, locking the car and following Susie to the front door of seven-sixteen. “I can’t imagine why Hatch hasn’t introduced us before now.”
Several hours later, Ivan and “Call me Susie” were comfortably ensconced on the Hatches’ backyard patio, chatting like they’d known each other forever. Morrison was on his third lemonade but only the first with alcohol—mostly alcohol if he was being honest.
But he wasn’t driving, was he? No, he was flipping through a photo album dedicated to Christopher Hatch as a teenager. There were several of them; he’d already been through Chris Hatch, the Early Years.
Hatch was going to kill him and Morrison didn’t care one iota. It wasn’t as if he’d begged Susie to break out the photo albums. She’d gone inside to refill the pitcher of lemonade—“Adding a little vodka this time!”—and brought them back outside with her.
Leaning closer, he peered at High School Hatch, who’d been on the debate team as well as track. Past Christopher Hatch seemed to be just as moody as current-day Hatch. Morrison wanted to travel back in time and give him a much-needed hug.
He flipped the page, and another, and another.
Toward the end of that album was a snapshot of Hatch with his parents. They stood on either side of him, their arms wrapped around his shoulders and huge smiles on their faces—Susie and Lance’s faces, at least. Chris was scowling and decked out in black jeans, a black sweater, and black shoes. His parents, on the other hand, were dressed in blindingly colorful tie-dye, one in a shirt that said Whirled Peas on the front and the other in one emblazoned with Grateful Peace. Susie also had on a bright purple skirt while Lance sported baggy cargo shorts. They both wore Birkenstocks. With socks.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Did you and Lance”—he hadn’t met the man yet and they were already on a first-name basis too—“purposefully torture Chris by wearing cheerful clothing?”
“Oh.” Susie giggled. “Sort of? Okay, yes. I can’t lie. Don’t tell him though. We’ve never admitted it to him. He’s just always so serious, and we have a bad habit of trying to make him laugh.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Not as often as we’d like. He’s a good boy though.”
Morrison liked to make Hatch laugh too. It didn’t happen nearly often enough.
He started to say something, but the rumble and roar of many motorcycles drowned him out. The noise was so deafening and close that it could only be coming from the street directly out front. Susie rolled her eyes.
“Those people,” was what Morrison thought she said.
It was too loud for conversation. Then the roaring ended abruptly, and the silence that followed was a relief.
“That might be Ray Walker and his”—she used air quotes—“motorcycle club. Ray and his friends are more annoying than anything. But.” She shook her head in a what can you do kind of way.
Morrison felt there might be a story he needed to know. “But what?”
Susie rolled her eyes. “Now you really sound like Chris. But nothing. Ray is just an old man who always wanted to be a tough guy. When he retired, he bought himself a badass motorcycle, gathered up a few friends, and now they ride together. Their motto is Ride or Die, which I find hilarious and ironic seeing as everyone living here is closer to death than we’d like. They’re all over seventy, and they’re going to die sooner rather than later.”
She laughed and Morrison laughed along with her, but he also made a mental note to ask Chris what his opinion was regardless of the riders’ ages. Not all MCs dabbled in the illegal unless you counted speeding—and Morrison could totally understand the need for speed—but being an almost-former DEA agent meant he’d been involved in more cases involving illegal MCs than he could count on two hands. A nervous shiver rolled down his spine.
“More lemonade?” Susie asked. “It’s happy hour after all, and we have plenty of vodka.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Morrison said agreeably.