Spencer ground his teeth, stomped out of his office, and went into the break room. Maybe a shot of java would cure what was ailing him. The look on his face must have deterred his employees from asking any questions, because the two men didn’t attempt any conversation. Instead, they hastily finished their coffee, rose to their feet, grabbed their equipment, and headed out the door muttering about making their rounds.
As Spencer started to fill his cup, he stopped midpour. Breakfast. That was what he needed. A good old-fashioned breakfast with his friend Hiram. If anyone could advise him on the best way to handle the situation with Mikeloff, it was Hiram Heller.
Hiram had been Spencer’s mentor since the academy. He wondered what his adviser would have to say about both the detective’s behavior and Spencer’s sudden urge to stick his nose into police business after years of steering clear of the local law enforcement officers. The old man usually had an opinion and wasn’t shy about sharing it.
A quick text and twenty-five minutes later, Spencer arrived at the Downs Diner. The familiar double doors with their cloudy glass and fading red paint welcomed him. And the notices taped to the window informed him of an upcoming community garage sale as well as a lost bicycle.
As Spencer inhaled the wonderful scents of pancakes and bacon and coffee, he greeted Uriah, the café’s owner. Then, marching to the back booth, Spencer slid into the bench across from his mentor. Before he was fully seated, Uriah approached the table and thumped a dish containing half a dozen slices of bacon, three eggs, and a generous portion of hash browns in front of Hiram. Wordlessly, the café owner cocked a brow at Spencer, who ignored the laminated menu and instead nodded that he would have the same. Uriah grunted and headed back to the kitchen.
The owner of the diner was a big, barrel-chested man in his sixties wearing his usual uniform of white cotton pants, T-shirt, and apron. Spencer wasn’t sure of his ethnicity, but no matter the season, his complexion was always bronzed and his eyes were an unusual shade of light green. He never had much to say and he handled the cooking and serving without any hired help. His only employee was a cleaning lady he spoke to in something other than English.
Hiram glanced up from his newspaper, skewered Spencer with a sharp stare, and asked, “What’s got your boxers in such a twist?”
His mentor had the rough voice of a heavy smoker, but Spencer knew Hiram had never lit up a cigarette. He was a compact man, barely able to claim five foot eight and 140 pounds. But his small stature hadn’t kept him from being one of the best agents his unit had ever produced.
Grinning, Spencer said, “Hello to you too.”
“Recruit,” Hiram growled.
The old man didn’t tolerate a lot of small talk. Not out of disinterest, but from years of getting to the point. Hiram had guided Spencer’s career since he was twenty-two and had never given him a bad piece of advice—including the suggestion a year ago to get out from undercover and have a life.
Hiram was the one who had taught Spencer how to navigate the politics of the law enforcement profession and how to be a good officer. He was also the one with whom Spencer had shared his hopes, dreams, and troubles. And the one who, knowing Spencer would never be happy completely out of the protect-and-serve business, had recommended that he apply for the head of security job at Normalton University.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Spencer said to Hiram, then thanked Uriah who had returned with his plate of food.
“Uh-huh.” Hiram set aside his newspaper, took off his glasses, and said, “Just a sudden urge to drive ten miles for breakfast?”
“Why not? I was up early and we haven’t talked in a while.” Spencer rose and walked to the coffee machine on the counter. “Want a refill?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Hiram rubbed his hands together. “Uriah keeps this place too dang cold. It’s icier than a whore’s heart in here.”
“You might be wishing for the AC this afternoon.” Spencer grabbed the carafe, poured a cup for himself, and topped off Hiram’s white crockery mug. “It’s supposed to be a sizzler today.”
“Thanks.” Hiram leaned back and took a long sip. “So what’s this really about?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Something is on your mind and you might as well spill it.”
“It’s kind of complicated.” Spencer stared over Hiram’s shoulder. “Did I tell you that my niece got into trouble and her parents made her move out of that apartment she was sharing with her friends?”
“You mentioned it.” Hiram folded his glasses and put them in his shirt pocket. “She’s living in some mansion with the woman who had been her neighbor. Something like a boardinghouse situation, right?”
“Yeah. Ivy’s landlady has got herself a whopper of a serious problem.” Spencer removed the napkin from around his silverware and put it in his lap. “And it could turn into something worse.”
“That’s a damn shame.” Hiram’s expression was mournful. “You said she’d been real good to Ivy and the other girls.” He quirked his mouth. “Still. I don’t see that as any of your concern.”
“The thing is”—Spencer focused on spreading jelly on his toast—“it’s entirely possible her troubles could also become Ivy’s.”
“Is that a fact?” Hiram tilted his head and examined his protégé. “So you’re only worried about your niece’s possible involvement?”
“Not entirely,” Spencer admitted. “I don’t want Dani hurt either.”
“Dani, huh?” Hiram’s lips quirked. “She isn’t the frumpy neighbor lady you thought she was after all. Just how good looking is she?”
“She’s real pretty.” Spencer squirmed on the uncomfortable wooden bench, uneasy
