Robin Hardy Online

Book 3 of the Sammy Series

From the back cover:
It's Just a Job, Right? With a wife and baby to support, Sammy Kidman decides that it's time to grow up and get a safe, reliable job for a change. Sure, he loves his work as a detective in the Dallas Police Department, but it does get hazardous. So, in a fit of maturity, he decides to put his family's security first.

Too bad his good intentions count for squat. When Sammy gets unexpectedly fired, he tries a number of questionable jobs—security guard, "Rent-a-Boyfriend," even modeling—to put food on the table. However, when Sammy is finally drawn back to his true calling, he's faced with an assignment so daunting that his survival depends on nothing less than supernatural Backup.

Chapter One

Sammy lay on his back in the middle of the floor listening to his wife, Marni, talk to her mother on the telephone. Six-month-old Sam crawled busily over him, slapping him in the face and drooling. Sammy prevented him from pitching head first off his chest once or twice, but otherwise let him have free run of Gulliver here.

 Twenty-two-year-old Marni tucked her legs underneath her on the leather sofa. "He's got that same black hair as Sammy, for sure. And the pediatrician said that if his eyes are still blue at six months, that's their permanent color. Now I'm waiting to see if he inherited that Kidman charisma, as well. I don't know what I'm going to do with two men that attract women like flies."

 She winked at her husband, who tilted his head back to eye her. "You got nothing to worry about, baby," he murmured. Sammy had relied on that charisma and his drop-dead good looks to get him through some pretty hazardous undercover assignments as a police detective. That charisma was what first attracted Marni to him when she had moved into the apartment next door to his.

 But she had found that his smooth exterior covered a manipulative, disturbed personality. Traumatized by the way he wound up using her, she distanced herself from him. For his part, Sammy was perturbed to discover that her childlike faith had touched him far deeper than he would have liked. He went way past falling in love, clear down to obsession, and began stalking her. So it wasn't until God hauled him back from the edge of hell that he became suitable for marriage.

 And baby Sam? Sammy lowered his chin to watch the baby intently try to pluck out chest hairs from under the t-shirt. Sam was just tangible evidence of God's restorative goodness. As much as Sammy loved children, he had been told not to expect any of his own, not since his first child had died some twelve years before. Yet here was Samuel James Kidman, Jr., a flesh-and-blood miracle. Sammy cradled the perfect little head in fresh wonder and looked back at Sam's mother.

 She was a pretty girl, with full brown hair and almond-shaped eyes that gave her a mischievous look. Sammy liked Dallas' long, hot summers because Marni looked so good in shorts. And she had recaptured her prepregnant form quickly.

 "Mom, stop whining," Marni said in mock exasperation. "You keep him all the time--I'm afraid he's not going to know which one of us is his mother. . . . Overnight? I don't know about that. Sammy wants him all to himself when he gets home. Yeah, Mike has let him continue to work auto theft, but Sammy says he never knows when he'll get called back for a special assignment." For Sammy answered to Mike, who was the sergeant in charge of the Targeted Activity Section of the Special Investigations Bureau of the Dallas, Texas, Police Department.

 Sammy got up and she glanced over. "Ask Pam to let me talk to Clayton," he said.

 "Uh, Mom, Sammy wants to talk to Daddy. Okay. Love you, too," Marni said, giving her a smack over the phone before extending it to Sammy.

 He put Sam on one arm and took the receiver. "Hi, Clayton. No kidding. I don't know how Marni keeps up with him--he's got four-wheel drive. Listen, who is that woman you said wanted to talk to me when I was ready to retire from police work? Yeah, I'm ready. Yeah, if you would, call me back after you talk to her. Thanks."

 Marni stared at him as he hung up. Sammy had entered the police academy immediately after college twelve years ago, never considering any other type of work. "Sammy?" she asked bemusedly.

 He bounced Sam on his arm. "I remember too well what it was like growing up without a father, Marni. It's time I put Sam's security first--time I finished growing up."

 "I can't see you happy doing anything else, Sammy," she observed dubiously.

 "Give me some credit, Marni," he said, piqued. "I can be flexible."

 She held her peace and he answered the telephone when it rang a few minutes later. "Yo. Hi, Clayton. Did you? Good." He handed Sam off to Marni so he could write down a name and address. "Nine o'clock tomorrow? Okay, great. Thanks."

 He hung up and folded the sheet with the address, then glanced at her troubled expression. "I thought you would be glad for me to get out of undercover work," he remarked.

 "Sammy." She put a gently persuasive hand to his chest. "I wish you would think about this a while. Why don't you talk to Mike about letting you transfer permanently to auto theft?"

 "I don't want to stay in auto theft all the time--not for what they're paying me," he declared.

 "Oh, Sammy--then you'd never last in a nine-to-five job," she breathed.

 Sammy reached out to caress her thick hair. "Let me just go check it out. That's the least I can do."

 "What's the job?" she asked cautiously.

 "Head of security for FirstPlace Bank Tower," he said levelly.

 Her mouth dropped open. "A security guard?"

 "Head of security," he clarified.

 "Sammy, those are the guys you make fun of!" she said, pained.

 He took on his mature tone. "Now, Marni. This is for you and Sam." She shrugged and he added with a gleam, "Call Pam back. We'll let her keep Sam for us tonight." The other member of their family, Marni's cat Smoky, was still in residence at the Taylor household.

 By the time Sammy had returned from dropping off Sam at his grandparents' house, Marni was dressed and ready. They took off in Sammy's prized '66 Mustang, with the top down, and headed for one of Sammy's old haunts for dinner and dancing. He liked the small, out-of-the-way places that were the antithesis of trendy in serving up plain, homestyle food and earthy blues. Usually, they were in the poorer parts of town.

 The place they went tonight, Mama's Restaurant, looked plenty small and out of the way from the outside. The parking lot comprised weeds interspersed with broken asphalt. Inside, the air was close and smoky, the dim light halved again by layers of grease on the globes. As Marni and Sammy slipped into a booth with torn vinyl on the seats, she watched the sax player on the tiny stage rip with the most heart-rending version of "Rainy Night in Georgia" she'd ever heard. Sammy was asking the gum-chewing waitress, "What's good tonight?"

 "Mama Perkins's cookin' up chicken-fried steak," she replied languidly.

 "Mama Perkins is still here?" Sammy exclaimed. "Yeah, get us two, and tell her Sammy says hi."

 Marni turned with a half-smile as the waitress left, and Sammy earnestly explained, "I know you don't like heavy food, but you haven't lived till you've tasted Mama Perkins' chicken-fried steak."

 "Okay," she smiled in the dim yellow light. Sammy, forever disdainful of dressing up, wore an old favorite tweed sports coat over his jeans--he always wore a jacket, even in summer, to cover the Sig Sauer 226 he always carried. Marni, by contrast, was definitely overdressed in a short halter dress, and Sammy wouldn't have it any other way.

 An elderly black woman came out from the back and peered around the room from behind her thick glasses. "Mama Perkins!" Sammy called, rising from the booth. He went over to embrace her with a gentle bear hug. She held his face and patted his shoulder.

 Sammy turned to gesture for Marni, who got up and joined them. "Mama Perkins, this is my wife Marni," he said in her ear over the music.

 "Oh, Sammy, you done went and got married. The girls is gonna cry," she said sorrowfully.

 "So?" he laughed. "I've still got you."

 "Go 'way. What do you need me for?" she pooh-poohed.

 "Mama, nobody on earth can cook like you," he declared.

 "Go on, now. You get that pretty girl to dance and let me back at my stove," she said severely, greatly pleased.

 Sammy turned Marni around to the ten-by-twelve-foot dance floor. "Did you used to come here as Sax?" she asked, referring to the undercover alias he was using when they first met.

 "No," he said, snuggling her close. "Long before Sax. It was my first undercover assignment. I got in trouble right away because a coupla guys didn't like how I looked. I was so green," he shook his head in pity. "They woulda sliced me up for lunch meat but Mama Perkins rescued me. It was the most humiliating experience of my life. I've loved her ever since," he grinned.

 Marni sighed as Sammy squeezed her and buried his face in her hair. Like he said, she should be glad that he was getting out of such dangerous work. But this was one fish she couldn't imagine thriving on safe, dry land.

 They returned to the booth when the waitress brought out their plates. As Sammy had promised, the chicken-fried steak was so good that Marni ate almost half of it. But better still was the music. There was just that one sax player--a graying black man named Rosie--but his songs sank in her heart and stayed there. After dinner, Marni and Sammy spent an hour slow dancing, oblivious to everything but each other and the music.

 When he finally breathed in her ear that it was time to go home, Marni laid her head on his chest for one last dance. Afterwards, Sammy paid their tab and included a large tip, winking to the waitress, "We'll be back."

 She shook her head. "Mama's may not. Ol' Mama Perkins lost the boy who helped her, and she gettin' so blind she can't see good enough to clean. The health department'll be coming 'round in a few days, and if she ain't got this place spic 'n' span, they'll shut her down."

 Dismayed, Sammy pulled out his wallet again. "Tell her to--"

 The waitress shoved his hand away. "She won't take that. It won't do no good anyway. G'wan."

 Reluctantly, they went out to the car. Marni murmured, "What a shame."

 "There must be something I can do," Sammy mused. "Well, God, since you're the God of widows and orphans, I guess I'll let You handle this." He started the car and Marni stretched lazily, arching her back. Watching her, he promptly forgot all about Mama Perkins.

 The next morning Sammy parked his Mustang in front of the gleaming FirstPlace Bank Tower downtown and glanced up at its imposing sixty stories. He entered a first-floor office and introduced himself to the building manager's secretary. She showed him a chair, and in a few moments took him to a large interior office.

 He extended his hand to the stiffly suited woman sitting behind a massive desk. "Ms. Bancroft? I'm Sammy Kidman."

 "Mr. Kidman." She stood to shake his hand politely. "Clayton spoke very highly of you. You're fortunate to have such a well-connected father-in-law."

 Sammy paused. "I'd like to think I earned some of those connections, Ms. Bancroft."

 "Of course. Well, let me show you around." She took him out to walk around the ground floor and perimeter of the building before showing him the master controls in the security room. She explained, "Besides FirstPlace Bank, we have Pencor Publishing, DataTree Services, InfoTel, and a number of smaller tenants. There was an attempted robbery three months ago, which led to the installation of the security system you see now. As head of security, you will see that the system is properly operated."

 Sammy shook his head slightly, observing the master panel. "This is state-of-the-art. You don't need anything more than someone to turn it on and off--a button-pusher."

 "Perhaps, but management is concerned that this 'button-pusher' be qualified to oversee such a system," she observed carefully.

 "Qualified?" Sammy's expressive black brows shot up. "Ms. Bancroft, I was awarded the Medal of Honor."

 "That's nice. Does that make you competent to operate a million-dollar system?" she wondered.

 "Ma'am," Sammy said, stroking his forehead, "it's the highest award the Dallas Police Department gives. Any lamebrain can learn which buttons to push. In hiring security, you have to first assure yourself that the person you choose won't deliberately shut off your million-dollar system for a cut of the take. It's a question of character."

 "I see," she murmured, studying him. He was a character, all right--too casual, too self-assured, too good-looking.

 Sammy began, "Look, I appreciate your time, but I think I'm overqualified for what you need--"

 "We will pay you an annual salary of ninety thousand, with full benefits," she said.

 "Ninety thousand?" Sammy gasped. "You'll pay me ninety thousand dollars a year for throwing switches?"

 "Ninety-two thousand. That's my final offer," she said firmly.

 "Ninety-two--!" Sammy stared at her. With a salary of $92,000, he could get Marni out of that apartment and buy her a house almost as nice as Pam and Clayton's. "Taken," he said.

 "Good. When can you start?" she asked.

 "You need to give me at least two weeks to clean up my paperwork," he murmured.

 "Today is the seventeenth," she said, looking toward a wall calendar, "so we'll expect you to start on July first."

 "Okay. Great," Sammy said, confirming it with a handshake.

 He left calculating what his monthly take-home pay would be starting August first. But as he drove toward the Big Building Downtown (the Police and Courts Building), he felt a knot form in his throat. And it wasn't because the department's move to the new, $60-million police complex had been postponed again—this time due to a mysterious outcropping of black mold along the walls. Those poor schmucks working on the construction of the new facility were ripping out huge sections of sheetrock that they had just installed a few months before.

 Sammy parked his conspicuous, light green Mustang in the crumbling lot next to the Big Building, lifting his chin to acknowledge the greetings of Officers Brickett and Pierce: "Hey, Sambo!"

 Ambling in a side door, he received his lapel ID from Corporal Collins and put it on. This was an unnecessary exercise, as just about everyone there knew him, but one he never failed to perform. "Hi, Dreamboat," winked the pudgy Collins. Sammy pretended to glare at her to maintain their little game. For some unfathomable reason, it tickled her to think that she was irritating him. Then he went on up to the Targeted Activity office on the third floor and sat at his cluttered, dented, canary-yellow metal desk. He looked up at square-jawed, sandy-haired Dave Pruett on the telephone--Sammy had been Pruett's best man at his wedding.

 Sammy's gaze shifted to Garrett. Black, ultra cool, street-smart Garrett, who brought Sammy a hundred solid tips and all his paperwork to go with them. Garrett's wife had brought over a home-smoked ham the week after Sam's birth.

 Sammy's heart sank at the thought of leaving all these people--and for what? To be a security guard for a rich corporation. But $92,000 was an inducement he couldn't afford to ignore. Dismally, Sammy inserted a sheet of paper into his old typewriter (on which he had completed a hundred thousand forms, conservatively) and began typing out his resignation letter. The much newer computer sat a few feet away, but he could not bring himself to use it for this letter--not with a printer shared by several sections.

 As Sammy typed, Pruett hung up the phone and turned. "Mike called, Sambo. He wants you in his office."

 "Will do," Sammy murmured, typing. Sergeant Mike Masterson, Sammy's boss. Who had sheltered him during those dark days of his mental breakdown. Who had been best man at Sammy and Marni's wedding. Who had flown down to San Antonio to keep vigil at Sammy's bedside after that near-fatal shooting. Sammy was now preparing to turn in his resignation to Mike, and he felt lower than a flea on the underside of a dachshund.

 Sammy completed the letter, jerked it out of the typewriter and signed it. Rising, he folded it and stuffed it in his coat pocket. On his way out the door, he paused and looked back at Pruett.

 Seeing his serious look, Pruett eyed him, then observed, "Sambo, what women see in you when you won't cough up ten bucks for a decent haircut defies all explanation." Sammy turned in sudden pain from the ritual banter. He'd just have to tell Pruett later. 

 He went down the hall to Mike's office with a sinking feeling. Mike, an African-American, was head of the newly formed Targeted Activity Section. His office should have been closer to the TAS room, preferably in it, but a rookie sergeant got put where there was room for him. He and his section were theoretically supposed to be relocated to an inconspicuous building elsewhere in downtown which already housed Narcotics, Vice, and Criminal Investigations--that is, until the new police offices were made fit for human habitation. But Sammy's gut told him he'd never see the inside of that building. Not as a cop, anyway.

 As Sammy appeared at the open door, Mike looked up. "Sammy! Step in. Shut the door, please." Sammy did, so preoccupied with his own stinging conscience that he did not notice Mike's strained manner.

 Sammy pulled the letter from his coat pocket as Mike said, "Sit down." He pointed to the chair beside the desk, not the one across from it. Sammy dropped into the chair, formulating the best opening for the bomb he had to drop on his friend and mentor.

 "I've got a special assignment for you--no, I can't even call it an assignment. A personal favor. You're the only one I trust enough to ask, and nobody can know about this, Sambo," Mike said.

 Sticking the letter back into his pocket without a second thought, Sammy asked, "What is it?"

 "We've got a--a situation at First Metropolitan Church," Mike said.

 Sammy stared at him, then started laughing. "The big church downtown here? What are those pesky old ladies up to now?"

 "I'm serious, Kidman." At Mike's unamused expression, Sammy wiped the smile off his face.

 "Okay, Mike, you wanna tell me about it?" Sammy asked, all professional.

 "Here it is. The church wants to buy the historical building next door to turn it into a gym. The city planners nix it. The church fathers demand a meeting with the mayor and things get heated. Ends up, what the mayor heard in the meeting was a threat that if clearance wasn't granted, the church would release certain documents to the press which reflect poorly on Hizzoner," Mike said.

 "Blackmail? You must be joking," Sammy said.

 "I wish I were, but I can't say for sure. It was a closed-door meeting and no one other than the Metro people and the mayor heard what was said. This was how he interpreted it, and it worried him enough to go to the chief about it. Obviously, they want it investigated very quietly. You need to get into that church and find out what, if anything, they have on Hizzoner," Mike instructed.

 "Oh, man," Sammy muttered, sinking back in his chair.

 "Look, Sambo, if we can get this cleared up quietly, the department won't have to fight for any budget requests as long as Hizzoner is in office. I don't need to tell you what that would mean to the chief," Mike advised.

 Sammy eyed him dolefully. "Must be nice to have a patsy on the string you can jerk around whenever you need something done."

 "I knew I could count on you. Thanks, Sammy," Mike said.

 Grousing, Sammy got up and departed. For this job he needed to do several things, one of which was to splurge on a really good haircut--which he didn't bother to do before his interview with Ms. Bancroft.

 He walked out of the salon an hour later, eyeing the manicure the girl had insisted he needed while he was insisting he didn't. She had prevailed, and Sammy had to sit there hoping that nobody he knew came in while he was being primped like a Miss America contestant.

 He returned to the apartment as Marni was about to feed Sam lunch. She turned in surprise and Sam banged his high chair tray excitedly. "Sammy! You got a haircut. It looks great," Marni said, rising to run her fingers through the feathery layers.

 "Thanks," he murmured, bending for a leisurely ice-cream kiss. (That is, he relished ice cream in much the same manner as kisses.)

 "You must have been real serious about this interview, to get your hair cut for it," she observed. "So how did it go?"

 "Okay," he said. "Actually, I didn't get my hair cut until after the interview. But she made me an offer." Marni watched him and he said, "I'll have to think about it."

 "I see. Um, do they have offices in Houston?" Marni asked.

 "Houston? I don't know. Why?" he asked, taking off his coat.

 "Well, a woman just called and asked for you. I started to tell her you weren't here, and . . . she hung up on me. Caller ID showed a Houston number," Marni said casually.

 "I don't know anybody from Houston who would be calling me and hanging up on you," Sammy avowed. Sam, meanwhile, continued to bang the tray and chortle until Sammy came over and sat down. "Hi, guy. What's this? Yum, pulverized carrots. And regurgitated chicken."

 Sammy tasted both and grimaced. "Oh boy, this is great stuff. Tell you what. You eat this, and I'll take you out for a junior burger. Deal?" he said, spooning a bite of chicken to Sam, who took it, then slowly pushed it out until it cascaded down his chin.

 Marni laughed, "What would you like to eat?"

 "Just a sandwich," Sammy murmured. "Look, Sam, I know this is noxious stuff, but your momma won't let me give you ice cream unless you eat it. Be a man, okay?" Sam accepted a few bites of carrots, so Sammy got sneaky and mixed a little chicken in with the carrots. Sam got wise to that after the second spoonful and rejected it.

 Marni fixed Sammy's sandwich and set it before him with a cola. "So why did you get the haircut?" she casually asked.

 "Could I get a few tomato slices and pickles on the side?" Sammy asked, and Marni nodded. She looked back over her shoulder, waiting for an answer, and he said, "Tell me what you know about First Metro. You took me there when we first met--were you a member?"

 "Yes, but only for a while. Then I started going to Grace," Marni replied. This was the little Bible church they now attended, sporadically.

 She put a small plate of tomatoes and pickles on the table, and Sammy gave a tomato slice to Sam. He dismantled it with eager, inquisitive fingers, then studiously stuffed all the pieces in his mouth. Sammy gave him another. "What exactly did you want to know?" she asked.

 "Give me a rundown of their organizational chart," Sammy said. Sitting with an apple and granola bar for herself, Marni told him what she knew about the Metro church structure while he ate and fed Sam bites of this and that.

 "What's this about?" she finally asked.

 He sighed, "I gotta go see if I can get on down there somewhere."

 She eyed him. "You thinking of leaving police work for church work?" she asked falteringly.

 He looked up quickly. "Now that's a good idea. Yeah," he mused. At her expression, he added, "It's an assignment, baby. Hizzoner the mayor thinks somebody at the church is trying to blackmail him."

 "Oh." She stood up to rinse off his plate at the sink.

 "Don't die of shock, now," he said with gentle sarcasm.

 She looked back. "Well, you know, they're just people, and sometimes they can get off track, like anyone can. . . ." She bent to wipe Sam and chair with a dishrag, and Sammy studied her.

 "Well," he said, standing, "I'll let you know how it goes."

 "Okay," she said distantly. She came out of her preoccupation when he took her in his arms to kiss her goodbye. But after he left, she sank back to the chair, staring off with hollow eyes.

 Deliberating, Sammy drove to the downtown conglomerate of buildings from which First Metro ran operations. "Okay, Lord," he muttered. "I respect this as Your territory, but I've been given an assignment. I'd appreciate it if You could help me get this accomplished with a minimum of deception and sneakiness. You're a God of truth, and all I'm after here is the truth."

 He parked and entered the administration building. In the outer office, he paused at a bulletin board that listed job openings at the church. He saw openings for a secretary, a janitor, and parking lot security. "Ah," he said at this last possibility.

 A secretary came out from a back office. "May I help you?" she smiled.

 "Yes," he said hesitantly, approaching her desk. "My name is--Sammy Kidman. I'm a cop. Currently, that is. But I've got a new baby, and I've been thinking that, for his sake, I need to get out of police work into something less dangerous. I was looking at--"

 He started to turn to the bulletin board when a man stepped out from the doorway at which he had been standing and listening. "Sammy," the man said, extending his hand. "I'm Kent Frazier, Director of Youth Programs." Sammy shook his hand. He was about Sammy's age, mid-thirties, with pleasant features and dark brown hair in a trendy cut. He wore a dress shirt and tie. "So you're thinking of church work. Has the Lord called you to preach?" Kent asked.

 "Oh no. Nothing so ambitious as that," Sammy said quickly.

 "Are you a Christian?" Kent asked.

 "Yes," Sammy replied.

 "Where do you go to church?" Kent asked.

 "Grace Bible Church," Sammy replied.

 "I see. Well, what area were you interested in working? Do you like kids?" Kent asked.

 "Sure. I like kids a lot," Sammy said.

 "Let me tell you what I'm thinking, Sam," Kent said, gesturing, "Come on into my office." Sammy stepped inside the doorway and Kent continued, "I need part-time help with the youth groups--we've got a massive program, you know. The pay isn't much, but it will help you decide if this is the kind of work you want to pursue. What do you think?"

 "Sure," Sammy said. "When can I start?"

 "Well, today's Wednesday--you can start today. We'll need you to fill out an application and get all the paperwork signed. And, you'll need to apply for church membership here, you know," Kent said.

 "Okay," Sammy agreed. Kent took him out to get the forms from Anna, the secretary.

 Sammy paused over her desk. "Since the position is only part-time . . . would you consider my wife for the secretarial position you have open? She has a lot of computer experience," he told Kent.

 "Sure thing," Kent said. "Let me talk to our Director of Educational Programs. What's her name?"

 "Marni," Sammy replied. "Marni Kidman."

 So while Sammy filled out a completely truthful application, Kent went to a back office. In a few minutes he came out and said, "Curtis says he can interview her today. How soon can she get out here?"

 "Within the hour, I imagine," Sammy said.

 "Okay, let's set her an appointment for three o'clock. How's that?" Kent asked.

 "May I use your phone?" Sammy asked the secretary. (Since the department did not issue TAS phones, Sammy would certainly never pay for one himself, except the ten-year-old car phone in his Mustang.)

 "Certainly," she said, turning the base toward him.

 Sammy picked up the receiver to dial home. He couldn't believe how smoothly everything was falling into place here--a position for him and for his partner, as well. Marni was an additional set of eyes and ears, an invaluable resource in his undercover assignments. He consistently discouraged her from getting a regular job mainly so that she could be available to help him.

 "Hello?" Marni answered.

 "Hi, baby. I'm down at First Metro, where they're going to let me intern part-time in youth work. They have an opening for a secretary, as well. I need you to drop Sam off with Pam and come down here for a three o'clock interview," Sammy told her.

 There was a long silence. Finally Marni said, "I don't want to."

copyright 2004 Robin Hardy

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