Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  I glanced in the rearview. Ragnar was still tight on my tail. I dropped a few obvious tickets so he wouldn’t get suspicious, but as for tow trucks . . . Zip. Nada. Nil. And I had the niggling sensation that my new “hell on wheels” boss, Danny Kaplan, wouldn’t exactly be disappointed at my lack of results.

  I cycled around the block to kill some time before cruising Rise Sushi again. The back street was a combination of small offices, apartments, and nose-to-nose parallel parking. I crept past, looking for the tiny yellow resident permit stuck in the upper left corner of the windshield that allowed them to pay to park on the street where they lived.

  I passed a properly parked and stickered brand-new maroon Lexus E300H with a vinyl cling in the rear window—Stick it to your liberal parents. Become “The Man.” One of the few fish Leticia would ever cut a break. Heck, she would’ve taken a photo of the cling.

  I got to the end of the block, turned around, and parked in the fire lane. Ragnar pulled in behind me. My eager-beaver attitude was rapidly devolving into anxiety-beaver.

  How in the hell am I ever going to get the evidence Special Unit was looking for?

  A fluorescent pink tow truck, with Drag Queen in mirrored letters on the door, slowed at the Lexus. And drove on.

  Cripes. I hadn’t even pulled my super-spy iPhone from the damn cargo pocket. I took it out, lined up the camera, and took a couple shots of the Lexus for practice. Even through the spotted Interceptor windshield the photos were crystal crisp.

  This assignment was an exercise in futility. I tossed the phone on the dash, dug a warm sugar-free Red Bull out of my backpack, and popped the top. Definitely better cold.

  I glanced in the rearview. Ragnar’s head scanned from side to side, constantly checking the street. Maybe I should ask him if he wanted a PowerBar. I took another sip and straightened up in my seat.

  The Drag Queen was back.

  I slammed the can into the cup holder, the liquid splashing out over my hand. I grabbed the iPhone and started recording.

  The Drag Queen turned on its emergency lights and pulled in perpendicular to the Lexus. The tow truck driver wore a black blinged-out ball cap and black tank top with glittery lettering.

  The whine of hydraulics echoed inside my cart, as the blue winch—a T-shaped bar—lowered automatically. The crossbar of the T rotated around the rear of the tires. Another hiss of the hydraulics and the arms on each side of the T-bar closed securely around each tire. The boom raised the rear of the Lexus. The Drag Queen drove forward, pulling the Lexus neatly from the spot and off down the block.

  According to the video recorder on the iPhone, the entire operation had taken thirty-six seconds and the driver hadn’t even left the cab.

  Holy cat. This was going to be harder than finding common sense in Common Core.

  I got out of the cart and took a couple more shots to orient the crime scene for Ms. Kaplan.

  “Excuse me.”

  I turned.

  An East Indian man with liquid brown eyes, in blue scrubs, trotted up to me. “Did you just tow my car?”

  “No sir.”

  He frowned. “Then where is it?”

  I took a breath. “What I meant to say is that the City of Chicago did not tow your car.”

  “I have the current city parking permit.”

  “Yes sir. The City did not ticket or tow your car. It’s been privately towed. By either the neighborhood or the building organization. . .” No matter how crummy I felt about it, I couldn’t tip him off that his car had almost certainly been stolen.

  He stepped closer to me and bent his head so we were at eye level. “I’m improperly and illegally towed, while city employees feed like hogs at the trough of my taxes?”

  I flashed him the Don’t Tread on Me snake sticker on the bottom of my ticket gun. Leticia had put them on all the guns in our office. The majority of the parking agents believed it was a warning to parking offenders à la No, Chicago, we will not take your shit.

  The doctor winced and nodded. “I apologize. I am very upset.”

  “No problem. Good luck to you.”

  And as I left the poor bastard standing at the empty space, dialing his cell phone, I had a terribly marvelous idea.

  I knocked on Leticia’s open office door.

  “What?” she barked without looking up.

  “Have a minute?”

  Leticia looked up and eyed me speculatively. “McGrane.” She jerked her head at a chair in front of her desk. “Plant yourself.”

  I sat down in a wobbly chair with stained gold fabric and waited to exploit my brothers and my boss for the BOC’s gain. Next to an American flag in the corner was a giant framed poster of Ronald Reagan. On her desk, next to a giant jar of jelly beans, stood a picture of her and Sean Hannity.

  “I got a problem,” she said. “The PEAs be dropping like flies from a bug zapper. Lost three this month. Those goddamn Robin McHoodie bastards ain’t helping. You’re the touchy-feely kind, McGrane. You think maybe we need a motto or somethin’?”

  “Like what? Parking Enforcement: The toughest job you’ll never like?”

  “Now you’re talking.” She hooted. “We could get some T-shirts made an’ shit. So, what you want?”

  Once upon a time . . . “You know how some of my brothers are cops, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, one of them has been getting some complaints. Weird ones. People getting towed for no reason.”

  “Same ol’, same ol’.”

  “Except,” I set the trap, “there seems to be an unusually high percentage of these people who had stickers on their cars that lean to the right of the political spectrum.”

  The idea of conservative repression was irresistible bait.

  Leticia snapped it up faster than the last beer at a NASCAR race. She jabbed a finger at me. “I been tellin’ you. The struggle is real, girl.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded in agreement. “It got me thinking. What if we had a couple of PEAs taking cell phone pictures of tow trucks and cars towed? My brother could check those cars against the stolen car list and police impound.”

  She scooped a handful of jelly beans from the jar and chewed, considering. “How you planning on talking our crew into helping the Blues?”

  “Ten dollars cash for each set of pictures—one of the tow truck, one of the towed car. Gotta have readable license plates in both pictures, time and date stamped or no deal.”

  Leticia stroked the furrow between her brows with a sparkle-encrusted lemon yellow fingernail. “What happens afterwards?”

  “Huh?”

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “McGrane, this is prime TV shit. This story could blow the fuck up! You hearin’ what I’m thinking? I could be on The Kelly File.”

  Sweet Jesus on a saltine. The stars in her eyes were blinding.

  “Leticia,” I cautioned, “this is a cop’s hunch. And a secret one at that. He has to be able to prove it before anything can happen.”

  “True ’dat. True ’dat.” She puffed out her cheeks.

  “So?” I said. “What do you think?”

  “I think you solved my morale problem. I’m gonna go rile the PEAs about their new incentive opportunity.” Leticia leaned an elbow on the desk and put her other hand on her ample hip. “Then we let them get froggy and jump.”

  “What took so long in there?” Ragnar asked as he drove into the parking ramp that held my Accord.

  “My turn to get cussed out by the boss.”

  His blue eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

  “No. You have to dump the info from the ticket guns. It takes a while.”

  Ragnar drove past my car and stopped the pickup at the farthest corner away. “Stay in the truck.”

  “Okay.”

  He got out and grabbed a duffel from the aluminum truck box.

  I watched him pull out a sort of stick with a mirror and an up light. He made three slow passes beneath the car. Next, he rummaged in the bag and came
out with a needle-nose pliers. In under a minute, he had popped the hood. He raised it slowly and ran a flashlight over the engine.

  Ragnar went back to the duffel and removed a small black box with three nubby antennas on top. He set the device on the roof of the Accord.

  A cell phone jammer. Just in case Jeff Mant felt the need to blow me up remotely.

  After a cursory search of the interior, the blond giant set the cell phone jammer on the passenger seat and waved me over.

  “It’s clean,” he said. “Where we headed?”

  “Hank’s.”

  He waited until I got inside the car and closed the door. I waved and he started for the truck.

  My key jammed partway in the ignition. I pulled it out. A small piece of wire stuck out of the starter.

  My vision dimmed at the edges, hand shot to the door handle.

  Hank’s Law Number Three: Don’t let your lizard brain go rogue.

  I flared my fingers and slowly returned my left hand to the steering wheel. With my right, I thumbed the flashlight app on my phone and took a closer look.

  A piece of paper was wrapped around the wire protruding from the starter. A message on a semi-straightened paper clip. My chest inflated as I sucked in a deep breath of relief. If the Gap tee–wearing Jeff Mant wanted to kill me, he wouldn’t have left a note.

  I pressed my head against the headrest, wriggled the wire from the ignition, and unrolled the note. Handwritten on a scrap of newsprint with the day’s date was the warning, I don’t like women in black underwear.

  What the . . . what?

  Chapter 10

  Ragnar followed me out of the parking lot. I drove home, a patch of greasy fear-sweat slicking between my shoulder blades. “I don’t like women in black underwear,” I mimicked in a whiny voice. “Like that’s supposed to be scary? Choose a color every woman in America wears and say ‘don’t’? Why not nude? Why not white? Whatev.”

  It took two miles until I peeked inside my shirt to see what color bra I was wearing. Black. Great. The fear-sweat oozed down my spine.

  The longer I drove, the more I saw the brilliance of Mant’s threat. A poetic storm of pervy promise and violent undertones.

  I needed a shower. Desperately.

  No way was I going to mention this to Hank, who, I was certain, had already taken steps far beyond Ragnar to corral Jeff Mant. Even so, he’d put me under house arrest. And that couldn’t happen. I could just imagine the conversation: “Um, Ms. Kaplan? Mr. Sawyer? One of my mercenary boyfriend’s ex-partners is trying to kill me to screw with him, so I’m gonna take a few days off the case. Please promote me to field agent.”

  What was I really getting so wound and bound about, anyway? A note in my ignition? Mant had had all day to break into my car. Hell, you could score the Tribune at 4:00 a.m. from any newsstand. He probably got up early, planted it, and lay around watching soaps all day, letting his creep factor do all the heavy lifting.

  Unfortunately, true sociopaths were always jonesing for calculated violence. They thrive on premeditated crimes with controllable risks.

  Sometimes it sucks knowing what I know.

  I pulled into Hank’s driveway and stopped. A thick-muscled white guy held up a hand. Five-foot-nine, 185 pounds, he had fierce tatts, a pair of night vision goggles around his neck, side arm, and a black Belgian Malinois on a leash.

  I glanced back at Ragnar, who threw me a salute and drove off.

  Apparently Man-with-a-Dog was A-okay. I rolled down the window. “Hiya.”

  “Miss McGrane? I’m Chris Ledoux. This is Havoc. We came on duty before Mr. Bannon left this evening. If you have any . . . ah . . . trouble—”

  “Just part my lips and scream?”

  Chris frowned. “I was going to say flash the lights.” He scanned the area behind me. “But that’ll work. Close the garage door, please, before you get out of the car.”

  He and Havoc stepped out of the way. I pulled in the garage and breathed a sigh of relief as the door lowered behind me.

  Alone time.

  I went in the house. Stoli beckoned from the bar freezer. I threw a couple ice cubes into a lowball glass and didn’t stop pouring until it hit the rim. My first hefty slug went down like water. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and saw the note on the counter.

  M

  I’ll wake you.

  H

  I took another swallow, pulled out my juiced-up iPhone, and sent Danny Kaplan the video and stills of the Drag Queen stealing the Lexus.

  Vodka can do a lot of wonderful things, but erasing the stink of your own fear isn’t one of them. I finished my drink, stripped down, and took a shower.

  I spent twenty minutes under the stream trying not to think about Jeff Mant. Which was actually far more pleasant than thinking about all the things I wasn’t telling Hank.

  Afterward, wrapped up in a fluffy white bamboo-cotton towel, I went into my closet, put on one of Hank’s T-shirts and opened the dresser drawer for some underpants. A third of my underwear was black.

  “You sick fuck,” I said out loud, “it’s my underwear.” But my voice sounded scared to my own ears, and that set my freak off. In a spastic frenzy, I separated all my black underwear and buried it in the bottom drawer under a couple of Hank’s old sweatshirts.

  My BOC iPhone buzzed with an incoming text. I ran into the bedroom to answer it.

  Danny Kaplan: Is that all the evidence you collected today?

  Yes.

  Danny Kaplan: One tow truck?

  Yes. But I’m almost certain it was stolen.

  Danny Kaplan: I see. No need to send in piecemeal. Bring what you have to debrief Thursday 5:00 p.m. sharp.

  I shut off the phone. Gee, Danny. There’s this guy named Jeff I’d love to set you up with.

  The sound of the garage door woke me at 2:15 a.m. I listened further and heard nothing, which was normal. Hank moved with the stealth of a big cat. I rolled onto my stomach and dozed off.

  Hank slid in next to me and pulled me into his chest. I nestled into the hard warmth of him. “Mmm.”

  “Rough road ahead,” he said.

  “Oh? I’ll make sure to buckle up.”

  “Mant’s a killer, Maisie. He’s contacted a pal, looking for a fast money job. He knows I’m back now.” Hank tightened his hold. “I’m not taking any chances. You’ll have a shadow for the next few days.” He gently nipped my ear, his warm breath sending a shiver through me. “I’ll be working nights.”

  Hunting.

  Thursday after work I was as skittish as a toy poodle in the rain. Ragnar drove me to the BOC’s super-spy headquarters at Silverthorn Estates. At 4:59 p.m. I knocked twice on Kaplan’s office door. It clicked open and I entered the room.

  Walt Sawyer and Danny Kaplan sat across the sleek conference table, piles of files stacked between them and one open chair for me. “Maisie.” Sawyer stood and held out a hand. “How are you finding the BOC?”

  Uh-oh. I shook his hand and took a seat. “Very fine, sir.”

  As always, the pair of them were dressed to the nines. Which made my navy poly-blend uniform feel a little itchier. Kaplan picked up a folder and handed it across to him. “This is one of Ms. McGrane’s pieces of evidence.”

  “The Lexus was stolen?” he said.

  “Yes.” Kaplan nodded. “Have you any more to share with us, Maisie?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I pulled a black binder from my bag. “I’m afraid I didn’t realize the debrief was with you, as well, sir, so I only made one copy.” I handed the binder across to him. He flipped through the photos in plastic sleeves. “Of the thirty-seven photographed tows,” I said, “I think it’s safe to assume forty percent have been stolen.”

  Kaplan leaned back in her chair. “Assumption is the mother of all fuckups.” Sawyer handed her the binder. She flipped through it, set it down, and folded her thin arms across her chest. “How?”

  “How what?” I said.

  “How did you manage this? In three day
s?”

  I cleared my throat. Time to fly with the eagles or scratch with the chickens. “I told my supervisor that my police officer brother believed cars were being towed illegally.”

  “You did what?” Kaplan’s cheeks went taut. “On whose authority?”

  “Uh . . . my own?” I turned to Sawyer. His cognac-colored eyes gave away nothing. “She in turn offered it as an incentive program to the rest of the Parking Enforcement Agents.”

  “Go on,” Danny said.

  “Each PEA who turns in a time and date-stamped set of photos receives ten dollars cash. I figured we could pull the city impound records and immediately remove legal tows, and whatever is left is potentially part of the stolen car ring.”

  “How are you paying for this?” Kaplan snapped.

  “Mr. Dunne gave me fifteen hundred dollars of petty cash.”

  “You see, Danny?” Sawyer said. “She’s done what we’ve asked. And better and more efficiently than we could have wished.” A slow, sly smile spread across his face. “Maisie, you’ve shown the initiative of an A player. Maintain this level of intensity and you’ll be a field agent in no time.”

  I blushed in the glow of his praise. He had that charisma, the kind that gets someone twenty years younger wondering how he’d be in the sack. No wonder Mom liked him. And from the daggers my new boss was shooting at me, maybe Kaplan did, too.

  Her nostrils pinched white in irritation. “What happens when your supervisor confronts your brother? What then?”

  “He’ll cover for me.”

  “Allowing for that possibility, which is a stretch—”

  “Oh Danny.” Sawyer chuckled. “What you don’t know about the Irish!”

  “Allowing for that possibility,” she continued, “what do you plan on telling your brother when he confronts you?”

  “Since I can’t find a way onto the force, I’ve decided to become an investigative journalist.” I blinked in surprise. The lie came out of my mouth so smoothly it felt as though I’d planned it months in advance.