by Janey Mack
Tiny sparks danced in front of my eyes.
Holy cat.
Where’s a paper bag when you need one?
Chapter 2
I opened the envelope. Inside was a thick ivory business card engraved with navy ink and a small silver star, the words Walt Sawyer, Commander, B.O.C. Special Unit and a phone number. Definitely not standard issue. I had the feeling not much about Walt Sawyer was.
On the back were three lines in an elegant scrawl:
DANNY KAPLAN
SATURDAY, 6:45 A.M.
41466 W. 43RD AVE.
I put the card in my pocket, the envelope in the trash can, and wandered out into the lobby of the Chicago Police Department. Sawyer’s words bounced around in my brain like a Super Ball dropped from a skyscraper.
I’m on the job. I’m finally on the goddamn job.
I floated past the reception desk, trying to find my feet. Two dark-eyed, dark-haired, square-jawed tough guys in jeans and sport coats loitered at the plate-glass entrance.
Da let slip the dogs of war.
My brothers, Flynn and Rory. Six-feet-one-inch and six feet of pure black-Irish charm, piss and vinegar. I walked toward them, praying my ride was already there.
“You find a body and you don’t call?” Flynn said. “You don’t write?”
Aww. Hurt feelings on top of everything. “I didn’t want you to get your hopes up. You’d have to recuse yourself anyway.”
Flynn’s lip curled. “Sweet.”
“Let’s go, Snap.” Rory grabbed me by the arm, none too gently.
“Thanks.” I resisted the urge to pull away. “I have a ride.”
“Yeah. Us.”
Flynn half-closed his eyes in confirmation. “We sent your town car back.” He pushed open the door for Rory and me. “What kind of brothers would we be, leaving you all on your own?”
Nice ones?
Rory frog-marched me to his Cadillac CTS sedan. Flynn stepped ahead and opened the back passenger door with a flourish.
“Gee, thanks.” At least he didn’t give me the perp head-duck as I got in and buckled up. “You guys need directions to Hank’s?”
Rory glowered at me in the rearview mirror. “You feckin’ kidding?” He started the car and pulled out.
“We know the way,” Flynn said.
Since when?
Before I could press him, Rory tagged in. “How’d you know the vic?”
“I didn’t,” I said.
“You sure?” Rory juiced the car, weaving in and out of traffic at a sedate 20 mph over the city speed limit.
“She’s too small-fry for that level of depravity.” Flynn rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a message for Bannon. Or someone he works for.”
Rory grabbed his phone off the dash and tossed it to Flynn. “Nancy’s e-mailing the crime scene photos.”
Flynn scrolled through the messages. “When did the ‘Matchstick’ become Nancy?”
“How the feck you think I’m getting the pictures?”
“Matchstick?” I said.
“Skinny redhead CSI tech,” Flynn answered over his shoulder. “Has the shivering fits every time Rory walks by.”
“Shut it.” Rory merged onto the freeway and shifted into high gear.
“If you go any faster, I’m lighting it up,” Flynn warned.
I curled toward the window. City lights streaked by in a blur as I traced the outline of Sawyer’s business card in my cargo pants pocket. My heart thrummed.
Oh my god oh my god oh my god.
Not only am I going to be a cop, I’m going undercover. Squee!
This must be what Ecstasy feels like.
Built into the bluffs, Hank’s house was a high-tech fortress of midcentury modern meets bomb shelter. Rory pulled into the driveway, igniting a stadium’s worth of motion lights. I popped my seat belt before he put the car in Park.
“Thanks for the ride, guys.” I grabbed the door handle. It didn’t open.
Stupid child safety locks.
Rory smirked in the rearview mirror. “Let me get that for you.”
“The least we can do is walk you to the door.” Flynn got out, too.
Super.
They followed me into the portico tighter than ticks on a hound. The massive front door was surrounded by square opaque black glass tiles. I laid my hand on one and leaned into the one above it, right eye open. After the retinal and palm scan, an illuminated keypad appeared where I’d put my hand.
Rory spat on the sidewalk. “Fancy.”
I typed in the ten-digit security code. The screen blinked green twice. No one had entered the premises since I’d left. The door unlocked with a soft click. I turned around. “Thanks again, guys. Have a safe trip home.”
“Wouldn’t send us off without a beer, now, would you?” Flynn said as they jostled past me, throwing open the heavy door.
“As a matter of fact—” I hustled after them.
“Jaysus.” Rory whistled. “Get a load of this feckin’ place. All cement and steel.”
And sex appeal. It was a perfect extension of Hank: lean, rugged sophistication.
“An airplane hangar hijacked by Restoration Hardware.” Flynn took in the spectacular view of city lights with a skeptical eye. “This didn’t come cheap.” He leaned on the granite bar counter. “Want to tell me again what your boyfriend does for a living?”
Ah, the joy of having brothers who run in-depth background checks. “Not especially.”
Rory went behind the wet bar like he owned it, opened the fridge, and took out three Budweisers. He twisted off the tops and set two on the bar. “Get your goddamn head on straight and come home, Snap.”
“Well, since you’re asking so sweet . . .”
Flynn took his beer off the counter, left the living room, and started walking down the hallway toward the east wing.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” I said, as he disappeared at the end of the hall.
Dammit. I started after him, feeling Rory move behind me in the opposite direction. The old split ’em up. “Knock it off, you guys.” I rounded the corner after Flynn.
“What’s this?” My brother smacked his hand against the heavy steel door that led to the basement. It, too, was inset with a black glass square. “The Batcave or the kill room?”
“Not my business.” I stepped between Flynn and the door. “Not yours, either.”
“What’s in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. Just because you’re not going to be a cop doesn’t mean you’d turn a blind eye to criminal activity.”
Not a cop, eh? “Oh, you’d be surprised at what I can ignore.” I put my right hand and right eye to the scanner. A small red light flashed with the words Access Denied. “See?”
The scan required my right eye, left hand, and a different ten-digit code. Even though I had access, I’d never used it. Hank asked me not to, and that was good enough for me.
Flynn spun on his heel and opened the door to the four-car garage. Black Craftsman cabinets and toolboxes rode the rear wall, the floor a spotless tan epoxy. The first two bays were empty. Hank’s G-Wagen was at the airport and the Super Bee in the police impound lot. My unused Honda Accord rested in the third stall while the fourth held an Indian motorcycle, a couple dirt bikes, and an ATV.
The garage made Flynn even angrier than the locked door.
Shaking his head, he returned to the main hall and entered the remaining room. The master bedroom. He glanced in the teak and white tile bathroom, purposely ignored the bed, and strode into the walk-in closet. Hank’s things were on the right, mine on the left.
Most of the clothes on my side were brand-new. Flynn swiped his hand across a bunch of shirts and dresses, setting tags from Saks and Neiman Marcus fluttering.
“You let him buy you . . .” he asked haltingly, wanting it to sting, “all this?”
“Yeah. That’s something boyfriends do. Buy presents for their girlfriends.” I patted his che
st. “You get one someday, you’ll understand.”
It wasn’t the clothes that had Flynn grinding his teeth. Not really. As July Pruitt’s—of the Georgia Pruitts—adopted children, we were each endowed with a trust fund. It was Da who’d tainted our brood with Irish-Catholic guilt and the ideal of the self-made man.
“Maybe I’ll ask the Matchstick out,” Flynn said.
Oh God . . . Rory.
I ran down the hall. The west wing held two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a home gym, and Hank’s office.
Rory lounged behind Hank’s airplane-wing desk, boots on the credenza, drinking his second beer, as evidenced by the empty bottle next to the keyboard.
“Nickel tour’s over.” I jerked my thumb toward the door. “Beat it.”
Rory raised his palms. “Just wanted to check my e-mail.”
“You can do that on your phone.”
“I am.”
Flynn came in with another beer and dropped down onto the charcoal leather couch. “Let’s take a look.”
I picked up the remote and turned on the giant LCD TV across from Hank’s desk. “He’s got AirPlay. Send your signal.”
Rory tapped his phone, and the dead guy on Hank’s car appeared on the monitor in all his macabre glory. “Like a lamb to the slaughter.” He swiped through the photos.
“Weird,” I squeaked and cleared my throat. “How’d the perp keep him on the car while he sliced him?”
“Go back one.” Flynn squinted at the screen. “Close in on his hands.”
Rory magnified the vic’s hands. Clear plastic cable ties secured his wrists to his own belt loops. He zoomed out. “Not much arterial spray.”
I sank down next to Flynn.
“See it yet?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Take your time,” Flynn said patiently. “How would you do it?”
I took a long swallow, the cold beer going directly to my temples. The answer appeared when I set the bottle down and saw what I should have seen from the start. The giant pool of blood between the vic’s black denim–clad legs.
“I’m guessing the perp put the vic up onto the car, sliced his femoral artery, and waited a couple minutes until he was too weak to struggle against the final slash.”
Flynn nodded. “That’s my take, too.”
“Perp’s a feckin’ asshole,” Rory said. “Helluva message.”
“Yeah?” I said. “How so?”
He chuckle-scoffed. “Snap, yeh do realize what he’s done to the car. Piss and shite and blood in the vents and air intakes. Sludge coating half the engine by now.” An unpleasant smile split his face. “Your lad’s gonna have to have it rebuilt.”
Cripes.
I wanted to tell them so very badly about Walt Sawyer and going undercover. I opened my mouth and a giant yawn of adrenaline release came out of nowhere, saving me from myself. I barely covered it with my hand. “Sorry,” I said and yawned again.
What is wrong with me?
I stood up and clicked off the monitor. “That ol’ highway’s a callin’, boys.”
Flynn folded his arms across his chest. “You can’t stay here, Maisie.”
“I’m perfectly safe.”
Flynn stood and laid his hand on my shoulder. “When he’s around, maybe.”
“And that’s a big feckin’ maybe.” Rory got up.
Hank’s Law Number Seventeen: De-escalate. The true fight is won without fighting.
I nodded. “I’m wrecked, guys. Meter maid duty and a dead body are pretty much all I can handle in one day.” And, of course, that tiny little life-changer—joining the BOC.
A long look passed between them. “Okay,” Flynn said. “We’re gone.”
They walked out, not liking it, but taking it just the same. I locked the door behind them and slumped against it, feeling like a bear with my head stuck in a hive.
A five-mile run, followed by a bath and a bag of Sour Patch Kids might induce a little Zen.
I changed, hopped on the tread, and put on my pink wireless Beats. In minutes I was sweating, running a straight and steady eight-minute mile, listening to Toby Stephens reading From Russia with Love, feeling about as secret-agenty as I could get. Seven miles later I turned off the treadmill.
Look out Special Unit. Here I come.
At 3:00 in the morning, I shot up in bed, chest aching, unable to breathe, blood thundering in my ears. When I quit shaking, I went into the closet and dug one of Hank’s dress shirts out of the dirty clothes bin.
I slipped it on, inhaling the faint smell of laundry soap, Paco Rabanne, and the indefinable pheromone magic that was Hank. Armoring up in his discipline and calm with each button I fastened, I let my thoughts drift.
I’d trained with Hank for over a year, flashing him the googly heart–eyes the entire time. He’d never shown me a flicker of interest until the worst day of my life, the day the Academy gave me the ax.
That night, he took me to Blackie’s, a swanky private club.
Over martinis, the sharp humiliation dulled to a manageable haze as I gazed at him, mesmerized. It wasn’t his eyes—so pale they were almost colorless—that held me immobile, it was his mouth. A thin, cruel upper lip with a full lower one. The same shaped mouth I’d seen in every Batman and Captain America comic book I’ve ever read.
He’d smiled at me then. An intimate, sexy superhero smile.
“You seem real broken up about my news,” I said.
“I’m not.” Hank put his hand over mine. “I don’t date cops.”
Whoa.
Even now, months later, just thinking about it gave me a happy shiver.
I climbed back in bed—his side this time—closed my eyes, and tried to cycle down. But I couldn’t. Those four little words niggled and burrowed in my brain. “I don’t date cops.”
I rolled over and mashed the pillow into shape. That was months ago.
He couldn’t possibly mean it now.
Chapter 3
I sprang out of bed like a kid with one more day until summer vacation. Tomorrow I’d meet Sawyer’s mysterious Mr. Kaplan and finally get the iron albatross aka Parking Enforcement, off my back.
Sugar-free Amp in hand, I sped to work, the windows of my Accord down, heat cranked, singing along to songs I didn’t know the words to.
I parked in the pay lot close to work, cheerfully taking the thirty-six-dollar scalp. It was entirely possible today could be my last day meter-maiding. Forever. Fingers crossed.
I swiped my key card through the security lock of the Traffic Enforcement Bureau’s satellite office and traversed the gray hallway to the break room. I rounded the corner and was assaulted by the smell of old Chobani yogurt, maple syrup, and mildew. A couple dozen uniformed parking enforcement agents milled around the time card punch.
I got the walleye from a select few and was ignored by the rest.
Golly, how will I ever be able to leave such a friendly workplace?
“Hi there, Maisie,” hummed Sylvia Owen’s unmistakable Midwestern drone. “Can ya spare a minute?”
I nodded.
She glanced around the room. Naturally, not a soul was paying attention. “There’s this group of, well . . .” She leaned forward and whispered, “. . . vandals. And they’re not normal.”
“Oh?” I couldn’t give a flying squirrel. “What are they doing?”
“They’re feeding the meters and washing off my chalk marks. I’m so far off quota, I’ll be on probation faster ’n you can say Velveeta.”
“And?”
Sylvia held up crossed fingers on both sides of her face. “Could we swap routes for a day?”
“Sure.” I’d be undercover in a matter of hours. I could afford to be generous.
Thwack-pop!
It hit the windshield in a small explosion. I stomped on the brakes. The rear of the cart fishtailed left. I cycled the wheel to the right, counter-steering. “No. No!” The LTI gauge hit the red zone and I was on two wheels. Frozen in a split second of slomo eter
nity. “Nonono!”
The Interceptor wobbled and dropped its third wheel back on the unforgiving asphalt with a reverberating thunk. I goosed the gas. The cart shuddered and stalled.
In the middle of LaSalle.
I dropped my head onto the steering wheel, laugh-panting in relief. “Whoo-hoo!”
Nothing is as schadenfreudeily delicious to a Chicagoan as a meter maid tipping her cart.
Denied! Suck it, haters!
I looked at the windshield to see what had me panicking like a meth-head in a dentist’s chair.
An egg.
Nice reflexes, Tex. Cripes. I almost deserved to tip over.
Thwack-pop!
Three men, each wearing green hoodies with a single long feather attached, surrounded my cart.
I guess Sylvia wasn’t kidding about the “not normal” part.
One shouted, “Huzzah!” and the twentysomething basement dwellers opened fire. Eggs pinged the thin steel doors and windows of the cart. From the sound and coverage, I was guessing about three-dozen worth.
Jaysus. If Walt Sawyer could see me now . . . He’d rescind his offer faster than fur off a PETA model.
The Interceptor needed a minute to restart, so I sat there and took it, ignoring the itch to turn on the windshield wipers. Of course this had to happen here. Because the gods of comeuppance agreed that only one place in the entire city qualified for my maximum humiliation.
City Hall.
Ammo expended, the vandals ambled off, exchanging fist bumps with the few scattered pedestrians. I started the Interceptor and hit the wipers. Smear city. A Lava Lamp display of yolk, albumen, and wiper fluid, hardening with every squelch.
I wouldn’t make it to the end of the block.
Wyckoff’s Car Wash taunted me from a half mile away, even though the odds of me not getting stuck in the soap cycle for an hour were lower than a dyslexic winning a spelling bee.
With a groan, I crossed LaSalle to the City Hall side. Flexing his executive muscle, the illustrious Mayor Coles had rezoned the fire lane to a “special permit” standing zone. So now there was plenty of space for his select few. I pulled into the empty curb a good ten yards ahead of a gleaming navy Range Rover, popped my seat belt, and got out.