Lethal Rage (5 page)

“We missed you at church this morning, Jack. I thought you weren't working this weekend.”

Jack swallowed his bite of salmon and wiped his lips before answering. Manners were very important at these Sunday dinners with Karen's parents. “I had a paid duty this morning, Mrs. Hawthorn.”

“A paid duty? What in the world is that? And, please, call me Evelyn. How many more times will I have to tell you?”

“Sorry. Force of habit.”
A habit you drilled into me while I was dating your daughter.
“A paid duty is extra work you can do on your time off. Companies hire police officers —” not
cops
, not with the Hawthorns “— when they need security or traffic control. Not exactly exciting stuff, but this morning's was six hours, so it was a nice piece of cash.”

“Missing church for money. That's not very Christian of you, Jack.” Leaning back in her chair, Evelyn Hawthorn sipped her wine and managed to look both reprimanding and disappointed. But the look wasn't wholly for Jack. A good piece of it was directed at Karen, who pretended not to notice.

Both women had had lots of practice with “the look” when Karen and Jack were dating. Karen's mother never bothered to hide her belief that Jack was far beneath her daughter's status. After two years of marriage with no signs the union was weakening, Evelyn only tolerated Jack. Her manner was chilly rather than civil.

“Oh, lay off the boy, Evie. With his salary, I'm sure he can't afford to turn down any opportunities to raise some additional income.” While Evelyn tolerated Jack, her husband,
Doctor
George Hawthorn Senior, thank you, had no use for his son-in-law and rarely missed an opportunity to highlight Jack's failings. And at the top of that list was Jack's profession.

Karen's father — Jack had no doubt the only reason he named his son George was so he could add that pretentious “senior” after his name — taught political science to open, impressionable minds at the University of Toronto. George Senior was a famous educator, lecturer and author; Evelyn was a retired social worker turned social activist, well known among the anti-poverty groups and at City Hall.

These idealistic and connected parents would have expected Karen to pursue a career in education or politics.
How disappointed they must have been when she chose to be a grade-school teacher in the public education system,
Jack thought with a touch of perverse pleasure. But a teacher, even a grade-school teacher, was still an educator, and a police officer was just a civil servant. A job that didn't require much academic achievement.

Jack admitted his in-laws made a good-looking couple. Karen's mother had a mature beauty that embraced her age, flaunted it, in fact. And George. . . . Well, slip a tweed jacket on him and hand him a pipe and he'd be the stereotype of a professor from the 1960s. Full black hair with just a touch of grey at the temples — very distinguished — probably made him the object of first-year-student fantasies.

“What does a first-class constable pull down these days, Jack? Seventy, seventy-five?”

“Around that.”
You arrogant prick. You probably know to the penny what I make.
“But now that I'm downtown, I hope to make an extra ten or fifteen on top of that with court and overtime.” Jack pushed his plate away, leaving his dinner, his very expensive dinner, half finished.

The Hawthorns were done with their entrees; it was time for the post-dinner Let's Bash the Son-in-Law.

After a long and busy week, the last thing he wanted, or needed, was another bout of character assassination at the hands of his in-laws. Why couldn't he and Karen have ordered in? Because family is important, she'd say.

And we wouldn't want to deprive the parents of the evening's entertainment.

“I can imagine so, what with the crime rate and all.” Hawthorn motioned for the waiter to clear the table. At least he had waited for Jack to indicate he was finished. Karen had ordered a salad and had been the first to finish. She knew the rules of the game all too well.

“When Karen told us you were transferring down to 51 Division, I did some checking.” George crossed his legs and brushed at his jacket. He cradled his wineglass, an almost exact imitation of his wife's pose.

Jack snagged the waiter for a refill of his coffee. The restaurant might be out of his comfort zone and the meals on the small size, but the coffee was excellent. Damned if he was going to be abused with an empty coffee cup.

“I must say, Jack, what I learned about your new precinct was far from encouraging. It has an extremely high crime rate and an equally high number of complaints lodged against the officers.” George sipped his wine, looking satisfied. “It seems you'll be surrounded by criminals wherever you turn.”

“Well, first of all, Mr. Hawthorn —” Hawthorn never insisted Jack call him by his given name and there was no way Jack was going to call him
Doctor Hawthorn
“— it isn't a precinct, it's a division. Precinct is an American term.”

Hawthorn's lips twitched ever so slightly on his wineglass. He hated to be corrected. Score one for Jack. A small one, but Jack had learned to enjoy any victory, however small, against his father-in-law.

“And, yes, there are a fair number of complaints against officers.”

“I imagine,” Hawthorn slid in, not giving Jack a chance to elaborate, “that is an indication of the quality of officers in the . . . division.” There was a pause. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Jack didn't miss the jab and neither did Karen. “Dad, that wasn't nice.”

Hawthorn gave his daughter a disarming smile. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. Jack knows I didn't mean anything by it. Don't you, Jack?”

“Of course.” Jack met Hawthorn's eyes over the rim of his coffee cup.

Two natural enemies eyeing one another over disputed territory. In this case, Hawthorn's daughter and Jack's wife. When it had become apparent that their relationship was progressing beyond casual dating, Karen's parents had started playing Let's Bash the Boyfriend. Karen had defended Jack, but she hadn't confronted her father head-on. Jack sometimes thought her choice of career and husband were unconscious acts of defiance.

Jack knew he would never be accepted by his in-laws and really didn't give a flying fuck. But he did care about Karen and how the game, the constant slams, affected her. Nothing about him was right or good enough for the Hawthorns' daughter: his job, his education — he had gone to university but hadn't graduated — his upbringing, his taste in clothes and music, and his house. Karen had paid half of the down payment and was paying half of the mortgage, but to George and Evelyn it was Jack's house, probably because it was in a middle-class commuter community.

Jack always told Karen not to worry about it, that he could endure their petty snipes. He could gain a small measure of revenge by doing their prim and polite daughter on the back deck, where neighbours might see, or in the bathroom when they were forced to attend one of the Hawthorns' snooty parties.

For now, all he had to do was endure the game and hope no one ordered dessert.

“There's a saying down in 51: if you don't get complaints, then you're not doing your job. Since so many of the criminals down there are repeat offenders, a lot of them lodge complaints when they're arrested so they can use the complaint as a bargaining chip later on in court.”

“I can see how that might explain some of the complaints,” Hawthorn admitted. There was another deliberate pause. “But not all of them.”

“What I don't understand,” Evelyn said, “is why you would want to go to work there. From what George told me, it sounds perfectly horrible.” Her perfectly painted lips puckered in distaste.

Jack nodded. “It can be. But it can also be very interesting and educational. I'm learning a lot.” It was his turn for a deliberate pause. “I'm surprised you're not familiar with the area, Mrs. Hawthorn. A lot of the people you fight for live there.”

Evelyn smiled and twirled her wineglass between perfectly manicured fingers. “I don't get out of the office too much these days, Jack. The government is determined to drown our efforts in paperwork.”

“What I'm worried about is Jack's safety,” Karen put in, taking his hand. “He hardly ever mentioned guns or knives in 32 and now he runs into them almost every day.”

Hawthorn wasn't worrying about Jack's safety. “Learning? What could you possibly be learning there? As I understand it, the policing is relatively straightforward. The drug trafficking is out in the open, so you simply go and arrest the . . . perps, is it? Or is that another American term?”

“It is. We say suspects.” Jack took a sip of coffee and again hoped no one ordered dessert.

“So what are you learning in such a . . . challenge-free environment?”

Challenge-free?
Jack almost gagged on his coffee. “I'm learning to be a cop,” he said, almost snapping.

Karen squeezed his hand and he forced his anger down for her. Hawthorn gazed at him calmly, a small, sly smile playing across his lips. He knew Jack had almost lost his temper and he wanted Jack to know it.

“If I want to get into a squad like Holdup or Drugs, I need the street-level experience 51 can give me.”

“But I thought being a police officer was only a temporary occupation until you finished your degree and found a bet . . . new job.”

“No, Mrs. Hawthorn, that was never the plan. I don't want a different job and I can't honestly imagine a
better
job either.” Just a slight emphasis to let her know he had caught her slip and what he thought of it.

No one wanted dessert, thankfully, and when the bill came Jack reached for it, but Hawthorn beat him to it. “It's on me, Jack.” He plunked down his credit card without looking at the bill. “Evie and I chose the restaurant and I know this isn't exactly your normal dining experience. It would be unrealistic of me to expect you to pay for the meal.” His smile was as smug as it was gracious.

Along with his professor's salary, Hawthorn banked a nice amount from his lectures and book sales. Add in that he came from a family of old money and Jack could never even hope to compete with Hawthorn's credit limit.

“Thank you, sir. It certainly was an . . . experience.”

Hawthorn waved away Jack's gratitude. “Don't mention it, Jack.”

Especially now that I already have.
Jack hid his grimace behind his coffee cup. It was their wedding all over again. He and Karen had planned a nice, intimate ceremony with close friends and family. Then Hawthorn had opened his chequebook. Jack wanted to tell his future father-in-law where he could shove his money, but he saw the longing in Karen's eyes. She denied it, but Jack knew he could never give her the fairy-tale wedding she really wanted. So, with a flourish of a pen, Karen's parents seized control of the wedding and two hundred additional guests, a horse-drawn carriage, a string quartet and an eleven-course dinner later Jack was indebted to his father-in-law. To be fair, Hawthorn rarely mentioned the cost. Just when there were people around to hear.

The humidity had finally broken and after the stuffiness of the restaurant the warm night air was a relief. Everyone said their goodbyes — strained on Jack's part, condescending on Hawthorn's — and then Jack and Karen started the long walk to the car. She hugged his arm as he loosened his tie and popped the top button on his shirt.
Who in hell enjoys wearing a suit and tie to dinner?

“Thank you, Jack. I know these dinners are hard for you.”

“When we have kids, I'm going to teach the babies to splash food on him. Accidentally, of course.”

He felt her shake her head against his shoulder. “I don't understand why he picks on you so much. I thought he would stop when we got married.”

“Face it, hon. Your dad doesn't like me and he doesn't like his only daughter being married to a cop. I'm sure he wanted you to marry the son of one of his colleagues. Probably still does.”

She giggled. “Or someone I met at a political rally.”

“Rally sounds too radical for your father. Maybe a political convention or a lecture.”

“That's where he and Mom met.”

Jack had heard a glorified and detailed version of the story at his wedding reception, when Hawthorn had given a half-hour toast. Hawthorn, the ambitious doctoral student, and Evelyn, the freshly graduated social crusader, had met and fallen instantly in love at a political demonstration on the hills of the nation's capital.

“Love and political upheaval. Who could ask for a more romantic beginning?”

“Oh? And our meeting was more romantic?”

They had reached the car and Karen leaned against the passenger door. She took Jack by the hips and pulled him close.

“What's wrong with meeting at the gym?” He leaned in to kiss her nose. “Okay, so we weren't expressing social ideologies, but that doesn't mean I wasn't impressed by your . . .”

“My what?” she asked with a smile.

“Your discipline and dedication to a healthy lifestyle.”

“Really?”

“Well, that and the way your ass looked in Spandex.”

“Speaking of my ass, I think it's wasting away. I don't know about you, but I'm still hungry.”

“What my lady wants, my lady gets,” Jack declared, opening the door for her.

Before he could close the door, she snagged his tie and pulled his head level with hers. The kiss she gave him made the night air cool by comparison. “Thank you, Jack, for putting up with my parents.”

“I'm used to it.” He freed his tie and darted around the car. “Besides,” he added as he dropped into the driver's seat, “whenever you speak up for me, your mom starts quoting scripture.”

“And you're such a naughty sinner.”