by Janey Mack
Peterson huffed short, bullish breaths through his nose.
I shivered. The room was so cold I couldn’t think straight. “I’m . . . er, not feeling well.” My voice went convincingly hoarse. “Could we continue this at a later date?”
Pearse slumped in relief. She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t much care, either. “Absolutely.”
“Sure this is how you want to play it, Slim?” Hank said.
“Yeah.”
Everyone got to their feet. I walked toward the door. Peterson got there first and yanked it open. “See you around, meter maid.”
Hank’s cement-colored eyes met Peterson’s and I saw in that look that Hank could kill him, would kill him with as little effort and afterthought as it took to slap a mosquito.
Peterson saw it, too, and stepped backwards into the door, bouncing it noisily against the rubber stop. The alarm in his eyes exactly like Narkinney’s only minutes before.
Hank had done something to Tommy.
A true Southern gentleman, Beau gestured for Pearse to walk ahead of him. “Detective, would you care to partake of a little bourbon and branch with me this evening?”
She blinked in surprise. Beau was a good fifteen years younger than Pearse. She held up her left hand, wedding ring glinting in the light, and wiggled her finger.
“Must be those years of training that allowed you to see my impure intentions,” Beau said.
In spite of herself, Detective Pearse’s lips twisted in a wry smile.
“Your husband’s a lucky man.” Beau pressed his palm over his heart. “I sure do hope he’s treating you right.”
Criminey.
The rest of the day passed in a whirligig of activity. We had lunch at Blackie’s with Beau, hit Joe’s, and swung by the shooting range before heading home.
I followed Hank into the great room, wanting to ask what happened to Tommy in a neck-and-neck with not really wanting to know.
“You’re thinking hard,” he said. “What about?”
“It’s not important.”
“I think it is, Angel Face.”
“You put Tommy Narkinney in the box, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“When?” I asked.
“A couple days ago.”
“Show me.”
He cocked his head, and considered for a long while.
“Close your eyes.” Hank moved in tight behind me and laid the chilly steel barrel of a gun alongside the edge of my jaw, muzzle pointed away.
I hadn’t even heard him pull it.
He lifted the gun, the sight digging into the soft tissue beneath my jaw, forcing my head back. I rocked back on my heels, straining to remain motionless and keep my balance, imagining what I thought it must have been like for Narkinney.
Blindfolded, off balance, physically stressed, enveloped in loud pulsing noise. Basic disorientation techniques. I felt a vague sense of pity for Tommy-the-gutless-wonder.
It didn’t last.
Hank’s Law Number Thirteen: Anyone can endure expected pain.
The trick—he’d told me once—the skill the very best ones cultivated, was to make each action meted out unexpected by type, frequency, and intensity.
He gripped my elbow above the pressure point and jerked it partway up my back, giving me the feel of it without the pain. Hank’s voice turned guttural and cruel. “I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble. I prefer not to kill children and policemen.” He paused and I could hear my own breathing, short and shallow. “But they pay me because I do.”
He let go and returned the gun to his shoulder holster.
Asked and answered. I stood there, trembling. “Effective.”
“Narkinney thought so.”
“I’m sure,” I said, completely disconcerted by the primitive, mad-sexy awareness that Hank had done something bad—very bad—to Tommy Narkinney to please me.
And it had.
Chapter 44
Hank and I spent the next morning sprawled on the couch, playing Ghost Recon on Xbox. I couldn’t shake the sensation I was playing house with a pet tiger—carefree and wonderful as long as you ignored the dark danger lingering beneath the surface.
“I got a line on Sox tickets. Third base. Box seats. Friday afternoon. Sound good, Rally Monkey?” he asked without asking, knowing I live for the Nirvana of an afternoon baseball game.
Aiiigh. Friday.
The Gala.
He hit his controller and a fireball streaked across the screen. “You could take Pads. Or a brother.”
Talk about dodging a bullet. “Oh?” I asked, careful not to sag in relief. “And where will you be?”
“Someplace . . . chilly,” he hedged. “I leave Wednesday. Yes for the game?”
Bullet undodged.
My phone rang. I snatched it up off the coffee table. “Hello?”
“Maisie? Lee Sharpe.”
My life is a daily example of the bait and switch. “Uh . . . Hey,” I said, my voice weirdly dropping an octave. “What’s up?”
“Heard about what happened Friday. How you doing?”
“Great.”
Hank continued to slaughter man after man in purposeful nonchalance.
“You sound . . . different,” Lee said. “You cool to talk now?”
“Not so much.”
“We still on for Friday?”
“Yeah. You bet.”
“I’ll call you later, then.” The tease was clear in Lee’s voice. “Say hi to the guy. His time’s almost up.”
Everybody’s a comedian. I hung up.
I picked up my remote and pressed Play. Gah! I was lost in the stupid lower level of the cargo ship. Great. Dead in more ways than one. “Um, Hank? I’m . . . I can’t go to the ball game.”
He paused Ghost Recon and flipped his remote on the table.
I put my remote down too. “The, uh, Gala’s on Friday.”
He squinted at me with a bemused smirk that turned me to Jell-O. “No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“It’s the perfect place for a hit. Coles will be there. He may be the Local #56’s prime directive, but you’re running a tight second. You’re not going.”
“What about your call to Eddie V?” I asked carefully. Now was not the time to go into the whole electrician thing.
“Eddie V’s gonna do what’s best for Eddie V. I want you safe.”
Me, too. “If I don’t go, I’ll be fired.”
“Your father blackballed you, Sugar Pop. No job’s gonna change that.” A stubborn glint showed in his eyes. “You’re not going.”
“I told you I wouldn’t go back to work.” For a while. I crossed my fingers behind my back. “And I meant it. This is a party. I’ll be totally safe. Coles will have bodyguards and a TV crew. For God’s sake, I’m going with Cash and the head of SWAT.”
Hank’s face went perfectly blank.
“If you recall, you didn’t exactly jump at the chance when I asked you.” The silence stretched and frayed. “Besides, I promised Cash I’d go. Not Lee.”
“And that makes it better?”
Well, yeah, actually, I thought it might. I opted for the only correlation I could come up with. “Hank, it’s like the prom.”
“Oh. So you’re getting drunk in a limo and having sex in a hotel room?”
“What?” I said. “What are you saying?”
“That’s what my proms were like.”
“For your information, Mister Dance-Party-in-Your-Pants, the single prom I attended was with Ernesto Padilla, who was furious he had to take me when he wanted to go with Polly Ringdahl. His mother drove us. There and back.”
The iron mask cracked and a single bark of laughter escaped. “Pads was your prom date?”
My cheeks were on fire. Last stop: Loserville. Everybody off.
He covered his mouth with his hand, face serious, but his eyes were laughing too loud.
“Knock it off.” I punched him in the arm. “It’s not funny.”
<
br /> “Yes, it is.” A warm rumble came from his chest. “Nothing but funny.”
I went to sock him again and he caught my fist, pulled me in, and kissed me. Hard. Leaving me breathless and hazy.
“You’re not going.”
“Hank . . .” I scrambled to pull my head together. “I don’t have a choice.”
His eyes went opaque. “This feels like a game I’m not interested in playing.” He stood up.
What?
“Get your gear,” he said.
May I have a paper bag for the road, please? I’m starting to hyperventilate.
He drove me home in the G-Wagen, eyes on the road, radio on a classic rock station. The Gala sat like the Gaza Strip between us.
He can’t actually be breaking up with me over this. Not over my stupid job. And a date that’s not a date. Not possible. No way.
Hank pulled smoothly up to the driveway gate, punched in the code, and we drove through. My knee started bouncing.
He put the car in Park and unlatched his seat belt.
“Hank.” My voice went thready. “This isn’t a big deal. Really, it’s not.”
“I can’t be distracted. Not when I’m working.” His face, lit from the dashboard, was as tight as a fist. “You wanna play cops and robbers? I’m out.”
“You can’t mean that.” I shook my head, desperate to say something else but terrified I’d make it worse.
He got out and opened the door for me.
I wanted to touch him—kiss him—something . . . but he was granite.
July McGrane’s Rules of Engagement Number Thirteen: Take it in stride, act like it was your idea, then go home and regroup.
“I’ll call you,” I said and went in the house.
Chapter 45
Light glowed from beneath the door of Mom’s office. I knocked and went in. Surrounded by case files and paper, she sat staring off into space. The Kelly File ran muted and close-captioned on TV.
“Mom?”
She blinked at me in mild surprise. “Hi, baby. When did you arrive?”
“Hank brought me home a few minutes ago.”
“Oh? How did that go?”
“Not so good.” Tears were dangerously close.
“Don’t fret. There’s something decidedly sexy about a hard case doing a slow burn. Revel in it.”
I would if I could. “How?”
“I doubt Mr. Bannon is familiar with jealousy.” She tapped the tips of her fingers together. “Useful to see how he handles it.”
Except he isn’t jealous. He’s pissed off I’m taking chances. “Hank’s a serious guy. And what I’m doing is pretty much unredeemable.”
“You know best,” she said easily.
Yeah, right. “How are things going for you?”
“No better. I could murder your father for withholding from me, much less for what he’s done to you.” Mom sighed. “And if that wasn’t enough, I’m relatively confident I’ll get our complete and utter asshole defendant off scot-free. Every day I come home from work and see your father, I’m so happy to be around a decent man that I start to forget I’m furious with him. The constant re-amping up into righteous indignation is exhausting.”
“The stuff between Da and me is just that, Mom. Between us.”
“Don’t be naïve. What happens to one McGrane affects us all.”
I slouched in my seat, waiting for the inevitable.
“Any thoughts about Loyola?”
“Actually, Mom, I’m just trying to make it to Saturday.”
“I heard Detective Pearse sat in to take your statement. The CPD’s sending in the big guns.” She picked up a pen and tapped it against her palm. “I think it’s time we had a little ‘come to Jesus,’ baby.”
“Hank thinks the hit-and-run was the Local #56’s way of sending a message to Coles.”
“My-my,” Mom said. “Your Mr. Bannon is a dark horse, isn’t he?”
That’s one way to put it.
“What did he do?”
“Uh . . .”
Mom leaned forward. “If a girl can’t tell her lawyer, who can she tell?”
“He called Eddie Veteratti.”
“The Mobster?” Mom blinked, sat back in her chair, and smiled. “Oooh. I like that.”
Not the response I was expecting. At all.
“There’s more than one way to take up the gauntlet, Maisie.”
Wow.
Mom laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. One of the first things you learn at the state’s attorney’s office is that justice is served in a variety of ways. The Veterattis may be criminals, but they operate with a semblance of honor.” She moved her pen in a circle. “So, what happened at the station?”
I filled her in on the interview.
“How did it end?” she asked.
“I bought some time, but”—I sucked in my cheeks—“I don’t know that I can screw Niecy over again by crushing her shot at a legitimate civil suit against the CPD.”
“Again?”
“The crash was my fault. I knew it was a hot spot, and I made the call to go ahead without backup. I should have never taken her there.”
“Aside from the fact that she is your very senior partner, criminals commit crimes, not their victims.” She frowned and shook her head. “A lawsuit against the CPD. From any angle, a vile and mirthless future lies ahead.”
My mother mandated a three-day respite of spa and shopping to get my head on straight. It hadn’t been enough to stop my fingers from dialing Hank’s number on my leg every twenty seconds or checking my phone minute to minute like an OCD.
Zip. Zed. Zero.
My lower lip wobbled. Snap out of it!
I stepped into my Halston Heritage halter cocktail dress in blackest black. The neckline crisscrossed to a plunging back and shirttail hem. I took a final look in the mirror. My hair was swept back into a sleek high ponytail, makeup—heavy, smoky eyes and nude-colored lips.
About as cat’s pajama-y as I can get.
Hank. Hank. Hank. If only . . .
Ignoring everything my mother had ever taught me, I picked up the phone and called him.
“Good evening, Ms. McGrane.” The steamy lilt of his girl Friday scorched my ears. “Mr. Bannon is not available at this time.”
Big surprise.
“He did, however, leave a message for you.”
I bit back a grin. “Go ahead.”
“Eddie’s electrical problem unresolved. Don’t be the blow-dryer in the bathtub.” She paused long enough for me to know he hadn’t left a sweet send-off. “Would you care to leave a response?” she drawled, as long and sweet as warm taffy.
“No.” Unable to say anything else, I hung up.
I caught my reflection in the mirror. As I don’t look crushed to smithereens, I must be fine.
I hit the landing. Mom waited holding her Canon EOS Rebel, Da beside her, hand at her waist.
“Looking pretty biscuity, Snap.” Cash, wearing a black suit, flipped Jennifer’s pink and black striped tie accusingly at me. “Almost as good as me.”
“Pictures.” Mom waved me over to stand by Cash with an overbright smile.
“No time,” Cash said. “Car’s waiting.”
“It can wait another minute,” Da said with a sad smile at me.
I looked away. Forgiveness wasn’t something I could muster right then. Maybe not ever.
Cash groaned and drag-marched me over to the stone entry wall.
“I’m having a memory overload. You two are so cute.” Mom hit the shutter and Cash and I played along.
“Enough. We gotta go, Mom. See you guys.” He jerked open the front door and I followed, stopping on the porch steps.
You gotta be kidding me.
A white stretch limo waited in the driveway, courtesy of Dhu West.
“Sweet, huh?” Cash said as we climbed into the prom-mobile. “Know what’s even sweeter?” He settled into the seat across from me. “Jennikins is already there.”
“Where?”
“At the Gala. Been there since early this afternoon. She’s emceeing and had to practice. Why, I don’t know. What’s she gonna do? Hand out trophies for the most tickets?” Cash flipped his dark hair out of his eyes. “She’s freaking out ’cause Coles is gonna be there.” He started laughing. “Maybe he’ll give you an award for puking yourself.”
“Thanks.” I wondered if I had time to choke him unconscious with his hideous pink tie before we got to Lee’s. “It’s such a blessing to have such a supportive brother, said no younger sister ever.”
“Don’t go all wah-wah–wet blanket tonight. You got us into this, and I for one am going to make the best of it and get totally obliterated. Party bus!” Cash cracked his knuckles, leaned over, and pulled a beer from the mini fridge. “Want one?”
“No thanks.”
He cracked it. “I’m warning you—those SWAT guys can party. After tonight, you’ll be like ‘Hank who?’”
A half hour later, we pulled up in front of a tidy bungalow. The driver opened the door, and Lee Sharpe got in wearing a navy suit, white shirt, and red and navy rep tie.
He sat next to me and cracked a smile. “I feel like I should have brought you a giant carnation wrist-corsage.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s still time to swing by a 7-Eleven.”
I laughed. “I think I’ll pass.”
“You look terrific,” Lee said.
“Thanks, I think I do, too,” Cash said and handed him a beer as we drove off.
Chapter 46
The Jake was a swanky downtown hotel from the 1920s. Its name was Prohibition slang for excellent. And it was—a gorgeous brown brick château secreted away in its own private park.
Lee whistled long and low as we were waved through the wrought-iron gates and driven up the narrow, winding cobblestone drive. “A lot of property for downtown.”
The limo stopped. Cash groaned. “We’re here.”
We entered through the massive wood entry doors. A tuxedoed staff member escorted us into the cocktail room, apparently carved from a mahogany forest.
Jennifer Lince, prim and officious in her tailored pale pink dress, fingertip-clapped, scurried over to Cash in mincing steps and gave a tiny squeal of delight. “Darling, you look perfect.” Frigid librarian meets God-Squad cheerleader. Oblivious to us, she adjusted Cash’s tie and began murmuring directives into his ear. The look he shot me was murderous.