by Janey Mack
“Arrgh!” He jerked his shoulders, shimmying to get the sodden T-shirt off.
Turnabout, baby.
My smug smile faded to sickly. Turnabout, indeed. Narkinney would hold me the rest of the day, under the guise of taking my statement as a witness to Screaming Guy’s indecent exposure, public urination, disorderly conduct, domestic violence, and Jenna’s attempted assault against a police officer.
We couldn’t afford a day of failed quota because he wanted to bust my chops. “C’mon, Niecy,” I said, itching to leave. “Let’s get out of here.”
She started toward the cart and stopped. “Hell. I can’t leave him like that.”
“Are you kidding me?” I said.
Screaming Guy gave a braying laugh. “The ole lady’s got a heart, unlike you!”
Niecy walked over to Screaming Guy, pulled out her cell phone, and took a couple snaps of his exposed unit. “Danged if you don’t got yourself a crooked little pisser,” she said.
Screaming Guy’s face twisted in outrage. “What kind of sick bitch are you?”
Niecy smirked as she walked back to the Interceptor. “The gals in the break room are gonna love this.”
Chapter 16
In a relatively good mood after work, I gave Joe a salute as I passed by the zebra-patterned reception desk, not even asking if he’d seen Hank.
“Eeghhh,” he said, chewing on a Little Debbie Apple Flip. He held up a finger for me to wait, and took a chug of Yoo-hoo. He pulled a remote out of the drawer and slid it across the counter. “New Supers. TiVo’d.”
“Wow, thanks! You’re the man, Joe.”
He grunted and went back to the Apple Flips.
The treadmills were full, as were the ellipticals, which left . . .
Ancient stair stepper, prepare to feel my Supernatural-ized wrath.
I hopped on, set the TV input to Joe’s TiVo signal, the stepper to eleven, and watched Sam and Dean battle demons to eighties music, chasing away any thoughts about anything. Near the end of the third episode, my towel damp with sweat, I stepped off and ran smack into Flynn’s chest.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said with a mean smile. “Home. Now.”
“Let me grab my gear.” I trotted to the locker room. Flynn’s smile was even meaner by the time I met him in the lobby. He shoved open the front door and grabbed my bruised collarbone with a vise-like grip that put Spock to shame.
“Ow!” I squirmed, trying to duck away. Bastard Peterson. Who hits another person with a beer bottle anyway? “Jeez, what is your problem?”
Flynn grunted and frog-marched me down the sidewalk to where he’d parked next to my car. He peeled out of the parking lot, and I followed him home and into Da’s study.
“Sit,” he commanded, his posture a study in barely leashed bad cop.
I rubbed my gritty arms as the chill of a real bad feeling settled in.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Huh?”
“Leaving the scene? Of multiple offenses directed at police officers?”
Oh shit.
“Come on, Flynn.” I tried to laugh it off. “A domestic gone awry. Cripes, it was my cart that got peed on. My eyes scarred by the peenie.”
“You’re not funny,” he said. “First Hud’s, now this? For God’s sake, Maisie. That woman threw a frying pan with enough force to crack a windshield. She could have killed someone.”
“Nark’s been gunning for me since the Academy and Peterson. . .” My self-righteous complaints dissolved in my throat as I remembered the mile of lies Cash had paved over the incident at Hud’s.
“This is not about your SWAT Gone Wild fabrication. Nor is it about the ludicrous grudge you have with Narkinney, you selfish, spoiled little—” Flynn broke off and dragged a hand over his face.
A slow exhale and he began again. “This is about respect for the uniform. For those who protect and serve. Someone I thought you aspired to be.”
That hurt. A lot worse than the Spock grip.
“You have no idea how lucky you are,” he said. “I caught the tail of it from some rookie running his mouth. Three hours of damage control later and now I’m working Thanksgiving. Thanks a whole helluva lot.”
“I’m sorry.”
Please don’t shut me out of the case.
“Oh, it gets worse. Much worse.” His dark glare had me squirming. “While I was saving your ass, the BOC stopped by and swiped the Clark case.”
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. “I’m so very sorry.”
“And you’re going to be more so.”
He let me wait for it. Knowing the suspense itself was an additional punishment.
I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from pleading. Anything I said would be used against me. I glanced ceiling-ward, waiting for the Wile E. Coyote safe to fall on my head.
The corner of his mouth curled. “You’re going to call Narkinney and Peterson and apologize for leaving the scene.”
“But—”
“And you’re going to offer to do whatever it takes to repair the situation.” He took his iPhone from his pocket and set it on the coffee table in front of me. “Right now.”
Hank’s Law Number Thirteen: Anyone can endure expected pain.
I picked up the phone.
“Just hit Call.” Flynn said helpfully. “And leave it on speaker.” The bastard.
I tapped Call on the screen and set the phone on the table between us.
It rang three times. “Narkinney here,” he answered in a voice so pleasant I wondered if I’d called his father by mistake.
“Um, this is Maisie McGrane.”
“Why, hello there, Maisie. I’m so glad to hear your voice. I was worried something happened to you.”
“Oh really?” I said, acid burning a hole through my tongue.
Flynn held up a finger in warning.
“Yeah,” Narkinney said. “You tell me. Why would a Police Academy cadet who could not shut up about scoring a ninety-five on procedure ignore said procedure and leave the scene?”
Jerkwad. “My partner and I were certain that with two such accomplished officers as you and Mr. Peterson on top of the situation, the public would be better served by us returning to traffic management.”
He chuckled. “Mmm-hmm. I guess it’s a good thing you washed out, your memory being so short.”
Blood pulsed behind my eyes.
Suck it up.
“At any rate, I’d like to apologize,” I said, forcing the words out like a guy having to ask for directions. “If you’d like me to come in and make a statement, I’ll do so immediately.”
“No need,” Tommy said in a lecherous voice that he wouldn’t have dared use face-to-face. “I’ll just take it in trade, Maisie-Daisy.”
My brother’s lip curled in revulsion. He grabbed the phone and turned the speaker function off. “Narkinney?” He sat back in his chair, a wide smile on his face making him sound friendly while his eyes were as empty as a shark’s. “Flynn McGrane. Impressive, volunteering alongside Peterson to become a liaison for the Traffic Enforcement Bureau.” He nodded. “A big commitment from a rookie.” He turned his flat gaze on me. “Maisie will be submitting a letter to her supervisor commending you and your partner’s quick response to the situation, as well as copying your CO.”
For crying out loud.
“Yeah . . . Sure . . . Appreciate that.” He put the phone back on speaker and set it on the table. “Is Peterson there? Maisie would like to speak to him, as well.”
“As a matter of fact, he is.”
There was a slight scuffling sound. “Peterson.”
“Officer Peterson, this is Maisie McGrane.” You remember, the girl you assaulted with a beer bottle last Friday night, you son of a bitch.
Walking Flynn’s way, I pasted a cheerleader’s Vaseline smile on my face. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused you and your partner.”
Peterson grunted. “Pull this shit again and I’ll t
hrow your ass in jail.”
“Okayee,” I said perkily. “’Bye.” I clicked off the phone.
“This stays between us,” Flynn said. “Only because Mom and Da don’t need the aggravation right now.”
“Thank you.”
“Go write the letters.” He picked up the TV remote. “And for chrissakes, Snap, shape up.” He clicked the TV on. Talk over.
I went upstairs to my room, belly full of crow casserole and skin coated in a combination of dried sweat and humiliation ooze. At least I hadn’t showered before fake-apologizing.
I had to hand it to Flynn. Rocking the guilt almost as well as our Irish grandmother. He really ought to get married, have a baby, and make its life hell.
Chapter 17
Daicen, the saint, didn’t become the family mediator by accident. Cunning and wise and surprisingly candid, he had a theory on groveling. “When you’re forced to crawl on your belly, facedown in the muck, it’s best to inhale great heaping gasps of it, letting it fill your nose, mouth, and lungs. Not because it gets any easier, but because you sure as hell don’t want to do it again.”
I addressed and printed out three copies of my letter of muck-suck. One for Narkinney and Peterson’s CO, one for Jennifer Lince, and one for Jennifer’s supreme supervisor, Dhu West’s PR manager Sterling Black. Might as well bank a little goodwill.
Friday morning, I swung by Dhu West’s office in the Paxton Tower before work and rid myself of my elephantine burden of shame. Two letters of false praise secured with the reception desk’s early morning guard and the dreaded muck-suck into the outgoing mail slot.
Equal parts relieved and ticked off, I went to work.
Niecy and I spent the morning poaching Kay Moody’s route. At least my partner wasn’t smoking. With all the Aqua Net and Jean Naté fuming off her, one match and whooomph! The Interceptor would erupt in flames like something out of a cheap Chinese action movie.
“Eh!” Niecy said. “Where the effin’ hell you taking us?”
I kept my eyes on the road. “The route we were assigned.”
“Puck it. The strip in front of City Hall’s a dead zone.” Niecy snorted. “Swing by Butch’s instead. Early lunch.”
I didn’t bother responding, just kept driving.
“Crap, you’re a hardheaded little bastard.”
“Me?” I turned onto the strip. There he was again. Mr. Lincoln. Begging for a throw-down.
“Take a gander at that holier-than-heck piece of crap,” Niecy said.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath and squared my shoulders. “Uh, Niecy? We ran him a $575 ticket a couple days ago.”
She smiled big enough to reveal some serious dental work and slapped her hand on her thigh in applause. “And we’re gonna do it again.”
“Yeah, about that . . . It’s the mayor’s limo.”
“So? I didn’t vote for that lil’ pink monkey boner. His office has to file forgiveness paperwork and we still get credit. Nail him.”
“Roll down the window.” I hopped out. “You’re gonna love this.”
I approached the limo and knocked on the illegally tinted driver’s-side window. It slid down whisper-quiet to reveal the uniformed chauffeur leering at me. “You back to boss me up?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but my answer was an emphatic no. “Not today, sir. You’re standing in a fire lane, blocking a hydrant, with a rear tire on the curb. $310.” I smiled at my reflection in his mirrored shades.
“Don’t you give a shit about the environment, girl?”
“As much as the next third-world nation.”
“Then why you want me rolling these rims all over town burning up the fossil fuels?”
“Actually, idling for hours does more harm to the environment,” I said, lying like a salesgirl in a plus-size shop. “It puts greater wear on the engine, which will need to be replaced sooner, and idling still burns gas.”
A good bluster backs down plenty of bullies. He seemed to like it. “You got a name?”
“Agent McGrane.”
“Whoot! Agent.” He chortled.
“How’d the mayor like his present?” I asked.
He stopped laughing. “What you talkin’ ’bout?”
“The chicken shitting.”
He sucked his teeth, reassessing me. “You cattin’ off, girl. Coming at me like that.”
“Am I?”
“You is.”
Perhaps baiting him had been a bit hasty. I held up my AutoCITE. “Gonna move?”
“No. Go on and write it, girl. It’s your neck in the noose.”
I held out the ticket. He grabbed my wrist. “They call me Poppa Dozen.” He ran a thick tongue over his tea-colored teeth. “I’ll show you why anytime you wanna take a look.” He twisted my forearm, forcing me in closer, my head now inside the car. “You best watch yo self, bluebird. When I need to handle someone, I do it up close and personal–like. You dig?”
I yanked my arm free, ticket fluttering to his lap, and staggered back from the car. “Have a nice day,” I said, proud the shake in my knees wasn’t in my voice.
“Yo! McGrane!” He ripped the ticket in half, then in half again, and tossed the pieces to the ground. “You gonna ticket me for that?”
“Not my department, Poppa Environmentalist.” I turned and walked back to the cart.
Niecy’s face was screwed-up bitter-beer tight. We took off. She made it to the end of the block before folding over with laughter.
Butch’s was starting to seem like a great idea.
“Agent McGrane.” The radio on my reflective neon vest crackled. “This is Dispatch, over.”
I clicked it. “Go ahead, Obi.”
“Orders from Ms. Lince. You’re to report to Dhu West immediately.”
Jennifer Lince, in a dark pink Donna Karan suit, put a finger to her lips, pressed a button, and let me listen in on speakerphone. “Yes, Mr. Black. A perfect example of how efficiently Dhu West can work together with regular city employees.”
“That’s exactly the kind of forward thinking that drives the positive press we need. Great work, Jennifer. And keep an eye on this McGrane character. Unbelievable. A PEA who can write in complete sentences.”
Jennifer trilled a girlish giggle. “Will do, Mr. Black.”
He disconnected and Jennifer punched the phone off. She turned to me, hands clasped to her breast. “The mayor’s PR director called Sterling Black today.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “It seems Officer Narkinney’s lieutenant is the brother of the mayor’s chief of staff.”
“Neat,” I said, getting that sinking feeling. Poppa Dozen’s tickets haven’t hit yet.
She tossed her head, her pale-blond french twist remained motionless, shellacked in place with hair spray. “Why, I’m so happy I can’t even think!” Closing her eyes, she blew out a long breath, placed her fingertips on the edge of the desk and turned her full focus on me. “While that was a complimentary letter you penned, it was very naughty to send it out without the proper supervisory approval.”
Really? You’re having a conniption of joy like some dingo on a baby and I’m getting the scold?
I had a sudden urge to crack my knuckles. “It won’t happen again, Ms. Lince.”
“Jennifer. No need for us to be so formal.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I prefer formality, it keeps me alert. Ready for when someone is going to come up behind me, carve out my kidney, and sell it on the black market to some wealthy second-rate foreign national saddled with socialized medicine.
“Maisie, Maisie, Maisie.”
There was just something about the way she said my name—like two pieces of Styrofoam rubbing together. She picked an invisible lint speck from her skirt. “Do you remember the conversation we had when I assigned you your badge?”
I nodded. Sweat broke out between my shoulder blades. Here it comes. The shrapnel from Jennifer Lince’s “Bust Niecy’s Hump” land mine.
She lifted the l
id of her laptop and clicked a few keys. An Excel spreadsheet opened onscreen. “Surprisingly, you and your partner’s numbers are dead-center average.” She gave me a withering smile. “I’d hate to have to rethink this assignment.”
What do you want me to do? Take a tire iron to her hip?
Jennifer folded her hands on the desk and said wistfully, “Eunice Peat is the PEA’s misfortune.”
Silly me. It wasn’t the crappy poly-blend uniform, the ostracism of everyday citizens, or even the random bits of horror propagated by lunatics when we’ve no recourse at hand.
The misfortune was Niecy.
“A ticking time bomb, I’m afraid. Have you taken note of any improprieties?”
It was a challenge not to shudder. “No, ma’am.”
Jennifer rolled her chair back from the desk and crossed her thin legs. “Who are you wearing?”
“Huh?” Last time I checked it was Kale Uniforms for the PEA.
“To the Gala, of course. I’ve just had the final tailoring done to the most gorgeous Mark + James shell-pink gown.” She smiled.
Oh goody. Girly chat. Just the thing after trying to coerce me into betraying a coworker.
“It’s black-tie optional and while obviously Caiseal would suit perfectly in a tuxedo, I believe that when one is in a position of authority it’s best not to wear black tie, as it keeps one more relatable to the rest of the employees.”
How can she say that without puckering?
“Caiseal has been absolutely impossible to get in touch with the last few days. I cannot understand what drives someone to work in such a dangerous profession, with terrible hours and barely adequate pay.”
Funny, I could think of a million reasons.
She gave a tremulous little shake, like a dove after coming out of a magician’s sleeve. “Do you know which color suit he’s going to wear? Black or navy?”
I coughed to keep from laughing. “I’m not sure.”
“Black, probably. He wears enough blue during the day.”
Wrong. There’s no such thing as enough blue.
Jennifer held up two black ties, one with pale pink flecks in a black-on-black paisley print and the other with subdued pale-pink stripes. “Which would he prefer?”