Another Big Bust

by Diane Kelly

  I surreptitiously shook my head and sent her a soft smile.

  #

  Two hours later, I was back at my apartment, my police bike in its usual spot on the runner next to my Harley. I’d cleaned myself up and slipped into a flirty blue dress and heels. I’d curled my hair and put on a full face of makeup. Zane had never seen this girly side of me. I was curious how he’d react.

  When a knock sounded at my door, I opened it to find him wearing dress loafers, navy slacks, and a neatly pressed striped button-down. He held a bouquet of pink and white roses in his hands. His eyes flashed with appreciation and surprise before he leaned in to look past me. “I’m here for Shae. She around here somewhere?”

  I twirled once and raised my palms. “You didn’t think I’d clean up this good, did you?”

  He handed me the flowers, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not taking that bait. There’s no response to that question that won’t get me in trouble.”

  I carried the bouquet to the kitchen. Oscar jumped up onto the counter to inspect the blooms while I arranged the flowers in a glass vase with water.

  Zane wagged a finger at the cat, who playfully swiped back at it. “Don’t go knocking that vase off the counter.”

  We drove to my favorite Italian restaurant, where we enjoyed a three-course meal, topped off with a delicious tiramisu. We wrapped up the dinner with glasses of champagne.

  Zane raised his glass flute in toast. “To the best law enforcement officers in the bi-county area.”

  I clinked my glass against his. “Hear, hear!”

  Back at my apartment, Zane and I discovered that Oscar had torn several leaves off one of the roses before apparently being pricked by a thorn and deciding to let the flowers be. We also discovered ourselves face-to-face at my door as Zane prepared to go.

  He cocked his head. “You know I won’t settle for just one date with you, right?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I’m irresistible.”

  “Then it won’t surprise you if I do this.”

  He lowered his head and put his lips to mine, treating me to a warm and wonderful kiss. I hoped it would be the first of many to come. We’d not only captured a car thief together, but we’d captured each other’s hearts.

  *** The End ***

  About the Author

  Photo credit Kyle Cavener

  Diane Kelly is a former assistant state attorney general and tax advisor who spent much of her career fighting, or inadvertently working for, white-collar criminals. When she realized her experiences made great fodder for novels, her fingers hit the keyboard and thus began her Death & Taxes white-collar crime series. A proud graduate of her hometown’s Citizens Police Academy, Diane is also the author of the Paw Enforcement K-9 series and the Busted motorcycle cop series. Her other series include the House Flipper cozy mystery series. She also writes romance and light contemporary fantasy stories. You can find Diane online at www.dianekelly.com, on her author page on Facebook, and on Twitter and Instagram at @DianeKellyBooks.

  ***

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it for you!

  What did you think of this book? Posting reviews online are a great way to share your thoughts with fellow readers and help each other find stories best suited to your individual tastes.

  Be the first to hear about upcoming releases, special discounts, and subscriber-only perks by signing up for my newsletter at my website.

  Find me online at www.DianeKelly.com and on my author page on Facebook. I’d love to connect with you on Twitter and Instagram, too! Look for me at @dianekellybooks.

  I love to Skype with book clubs! Contact me via my website if you’d like to arrange a virtual visit with your group.

  See below for a list of my other books, then read on for fun excerpts.

  Happy reading! See you in the next story.

  Diane

  BOOKS BY DIANE KELLY

  The Busted series:

  Busted

  Another Big Bust

  The House Flipper series:

  Dead as a Door Knocker

  Dead in the Doorway

  Murder with a View (coming Feb. 2, 2021)

  The Paw Enforcement series:

  Paw Enforcement

  Paw and Order

  Laying Down the Paw

  Against the Paw

  Above the Paw

  Enforcing the Paw

  The Long Paw of the Law

  Paw of the Jungle

  Bending the Paw (coming Oct. 27, 2020)

  The Tara Holloway Death & Taxes series:

  Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure

  Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte

  Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

  Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria

  Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers

  Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream

  Death, Taxes, and Silver Spurs

  Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses

  Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli

  Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter

  Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries

  Death, Taxes, and a Shotgun Wedding

  Other Mysteries and Romances:

  Love, Luck, and Little Green Men

  EXCERPTS

  Love, Luck, and Little Green Men - Excerpt

  CHAPTER ONE - MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14TH

  MIXED BOUQUETS, MIXED MESSAGES

  Another Valentine’s Day and here I was again. Lonely. Loveless. Lover-less.

  Yep, I’m unlucky in love. Unlucky in just about everything else, too. Life tried, and time again, to kick my ass. But, you know what? Life could piss off. I, Erin Flaherty, would not go down without a fight.

  ***

  For the third time in as many months, I sat at the counter of my shoe repair shop screwing a new tap on the heel of a men’s size thirteen tap shoe. Part of me wanted to scold my son for abusing his dance shoes, but another part knew the broken tap was a sign of his passion for dance. With his enormous feet, athletic style, and unbridled enthusiasm, Riley could stomp a stage into splinters. Heck, I’d broken a tap or two myself over the years. Might as well cut the kid some slack.

  My shop wasn’t much to brag about, just a small foyer and stockroom with walls painted a soft sage green and dark wood floors that, judging from the multitude of scars, were likely original. Two wooden chairs flanked the front door. Not that I was ever so busy customers needed a place to sit while they waited their turn, but best to be prepared just in case, right? A brass coat tree nestled in one corner, an oval standing mirror in the other. The white Formica countertop supported an outdated but functional cash register and one of the world’s last remaining black-and-white portable TV’s. A full-color map of County Cork, Ireland and a poster of Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral, a County Cork historical landmark, graced the walls, giving the shop a touch of Irish kitsch.

  The bells hanging from the front door tinkled and a blast of brisk winter wind blew into my shop, carrying a sweet, flowery scent with it. I looked up to see an enormous bouquet of long-stem roses, six red and six yellow, making its way inside. My heart performed a pirouette in my chest and I emitted an involuntary squeal. “Flowers? For me?”

  Dumb question, really. I was the only one in the shop. But you can’t blame me for being surprised. The last time anyone had given me flowers was when Riley’s father had shown up in the delivery room with a tiny bouquet of carnations and an even tinier engagement ring. That was fourteen years—and what seemed like a lifetime—ago. I’d kept the flowers but refused the ring. The right choice, obviously, given the look of relief on Matthew’s face when I’d handed the small velvet-covered box back to him. But who could blame him? Like me, he’d been only nineteen, much too young to deal with a new baby and a wife, though not too young to knock me up, the knucklehead. He’d promised to pull out. Never trust a guy with a hard on.

  Of course it takes two to tango, and I’ve
accepted my share of the blame. Or should I say credit? When I think of my son, of what a clever and caring kid he’s turned out to be, it’s impossible to consider him as a mistake.

  The roses made their way toward me, bringing their lovely smell along with them, coming to rest on the countertop next to the cash register. Their courier stepped aside to reveal himself. I knew the face in an instant. Strong-jawed, with the ruddy complexion of a man who’d spent a decade toiling at the dockyards of Dublin. Dark hair worn closely cropped in a no-fuss style. Intelligent, soulful eyes under thick brows. The roguish smile that revealed an upper bicuspid chipped in a life-changing moment the tooth would never let him forget.

  Brendan.

  “Happy Saint Valentine’s Day, Erin.”

  Would I ever tire of that deep Irish brogue?

  Busted – Excerpt

  Chapter One – Ready, Aim, Fire.

  He’s coming.

  The far-off drone of a high-performance motorcycle engine drifted up the two-lane highway on the warm, early September north Texas breeze, the volume and pitch escalating as the bike grew closer. I had no idea who rode the Ninja, but I’d had my eye on him for weeks.

  Today I’m going to nail him.

  Sitting on my Harley-Davidson, I dug the heels of my knee-high black leather boots into the loose mix of dirt, gravel, and cigarette butts edging the highway. I eased the machine back from the shoulder until I was fully obscured by the faded yellow sign that read “Welcome to Jacksburg—Population 8,476 Friendly People,” under which “and a couple of assholes” had been added in thick red marker, probably by last year’s senior class from the rival high school in Hockerville.

  Dressed head-to-toe in dark colors, I’d be difficult to spot. A couple of overgrown oleander bushes with pink flowers flanked the sign, providing extra cover. The guy would never see me lying in wait, gun in hand. He wouldn’t know what hit him until it was too late. Heh-heh. I grasped the gun tightly, resting the grip across my right thigh, grown noticeably thicker over the last few months. Gah. Time to hit the treadmill. Craning my neck, I peeked between the swaying limbs of the bush, my gaze locked on the small rise a half mile up the road. A few strands of my dark hair pulled free from my long braid and blew in the breeze, tickling my freckled cheeks. Some might refer to the reddish streaks in my hair as highlights, but the coppery tones were unintentional, the result of wind and sun damage. Mother Nature was my hairdresser now. She was much less expensive than the stylist who’d coiffed my hair when I’d lived in Dallas.

  The motor grew louder and my breathing ceased, every muscle in my body locked in place. I was a sniper, waiting for my target. Waiting . . . Waiting . . .

  And there he was.

  The golden-yellow and black Ninja ZX-14R popped up over the hill, the noise from its powerful engine now a full-blown primal scream, its rider hunched forward over the sport bike like a jockey over a racehorse to maximize aerodynamics. I raised the gun with two shaky hands, resting my forearms on the platform of my double-D breasts. Leveling the barrel, I sighted, squinting through my tinted goggles, and whispered, “One . . . two . . . three.”

  I pulled the trigger. Crud. The display on the ancient radar gun read 729 miles per hour. A Ninja can haul ass, but it wasn’t a frickin’ rocket. I yanked the gun’s power plug out of the bike’s cigarette lighter, reinserted it, and tried again. By this time, the Ninja was right on me. I took aim, squeezed the trigger a second time, and checked the readout. 56 mph. Nine miles under the speed limit. Damn. Looked like I’d never find out who rode that kick-ass bike.

  The motorcycle roared past, kicking up a dusty, warm wind, its rider decked out in a sporty jumpsuit of yellow and black coordinated to match the bike. A quarter mile down the road, the bike turned left onto Main Street, disappearing into the distance and into my dreams.

  Dead as a Door Knocker – Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Deadbeats

  Whitney Whitaker

  I grabbed my purse, my tool belt, and the bright yellow hardhat I’d adorned with a chain of daisy decals. I gave my cat a kiss on the head. “Bye-bye, Sawdust.” Looking into his baby blue eyes, I pointed a finger at him. “Be a good boy while mommy’s at work, okay?”

  The cat swiped at my finger with a paw the color of pine shavings. Given that my eyes and hair were the same shade as his, I could be taken for his mother if not for the fact that we were entirely different species. I’d adopted the furry runt after his mother, a stray, had given birth to him and two siblings in my uncle’s barn. My cousins, Buck and Owen, had taken in the other two kittens, and my aunt and uncle gave the wayward mama cat a comfy home in their hilltop cabin on the Kentucky border.

  After stepping outside, I turned around to lock the French doors that served as the entrance to my humble home. The place sat in my parents’ backyard, on the far side of their kidney-shaped pool. In its former life, it had served as a combination pool house and garden shed. With the help of the contractors I’d befriended on my jobs, I’d converted the structure into a cozy guest house—the guest being yours truly. It had already been outfitted with a small three-quarter bath, so all we’d had to do was add a closet and kitchenette.

  Furnishing a hundred and fifty square feet had been easy. There was room for only the bare essentials—a couple of bar stools at the kitchen counter, a twin bed and dresser, and a recliner that served as both a comfortable reading chair and a scratching post for Sawdust. Heaven forbid my sweet-but-spoiled cat sharpen his claws on the sisal post I’d bought him at the pet supply store. At least he enjoyed his carpet-covered cat tree. I’d positioned it by one of the windows that flanked the French doors. He passed his days on the highest perch, watching birds flitter about the birdhouses and feeders situated about the backyard.

  At twenty-eight, I probably should’ve ventured farther from my parents’ home by now. But the arrangement suited me and my parents just fine. They were constantly jetting off to Paris or Rome or some exotic locale I couldn’t pronounce or find on a map if my life depended on it. Living here allowed me to keep an eye on their house and dog while they traveled, but the fact that we shared no walls gave us all some privacy. The arrangement also allowed me to sock away quite a bit of my earnings in savings. Soon, I’d be able to buy a house of my own. Not here in the Green Hills neighborhood, where real estate garnered a pretty penny. But maybe in one of the more affordable Nashville suburbs. While many young girls dreamed of beaded wedding gowns or palomino ponies, I’d dreamed of custom cabinets and and built-in bookshelves.

  After locking the door, I turned to find my mother and her black-and-white Boston terrier, Yin-Yang, puttering around the backyard. Like me, Mom was blond, though she now needed the help of her hairdresser to keep the stray grays at bay. Like Yin-Yang, Mom was petite, standing only five feet three inches. Mom was still in her pink bathrobe, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. While she helped with billing at my dad’s otolaryngology practice, she normally went in late and left early. Her part-time schedule allowed her to avoid traffic, gave her time take care of things around the house and spend time with her precious pooch.

  “Good morning!” I called.

  My mother returned the sentiment, while Yin-Yang raised her two-tone head and replied with a cheerful Arf-arf! The bark scared off a trio of finches who’d been indulging in a breakfast of assorted seeds at a nearby feeder.

  Mom stepped over, the dog trotting along with her, staring up at me with its adorable little bug eyes. “You’re off early,” Mom said, a hint of question in her voice.

  No sense telling her I was on my way to an eviction. She already thought my job was beneath me. She assumed working as a property manager involved constantly dealing with deadbeats and clogged toilets. Truth be told, much of my job did involve delinquent tenants or backed-up plumbing. But there was much more to it than that. Helping landlords turn rundown real estate into attractive residences, helping hopeful tenants locate the perfect place for their particular needs, making sure
everything ran smoothly for everyone involved. I considered myself to be in the homemaking business. But rather than try, for the umpteenth time, to explain myself, I simply said, “I’ve got a busy day.”

  Mom tilted her head. “Too busy to study for your real estate exam?”

  I fought the urge to groan. As irritating as my mother could be, she only wanted the best for me. Problem was, we didn’t agree on what the best was. Instead of starting an argument I said, “Don’t worry. The test isn’t for another couple of weeks. I’ve still got plenty of time.”