Choked Up

Book 2: Maisie McGrane Mystery

by Janey Mack

Genres: Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

She’s working undercover—and she’s in way over her head. Scrappy Traffic Enforcement agent Maisie McGrane has finally landed her dream job as a Chicago police officer. There’s just one catch. She must remain undercover as a meter maid to gather evidence against Stannislav Renko, a charismatic Serbian mobster running a brutal multi-million dollar mobile chop-shop operation. When Maisie is targeted by a killer who leaves a body slumped against her car, Renko comes to her rescue and takes her under his wing. From her perch inside the crime boss’s inner circle, Maisie sets up a daring sting operation to take down Renko once and for all. But can she pull it off before her family of overprotective Irish cops and her sexy ex-Army Ranger boyfriend blow her cover?

Release date: December 29, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 370

Sample

I punched out at the Traffic Enforcement Bureau, the ca-chunk of the time stamp putting a bullet in the brain of yet another workday. I started the five-block hike to my car, feeling lighter with each step. Only three days and a wake-up until Hank returned.

By the time I hit Marston Avenue’s squalid stretch of sidewalk, I was a heel away from skipping. Nothing makes a tomboy feel as deliciously girly as dating the ultimate alpha male. And with five older brothers carrying more machismo per square inch than The Wild Bunch, I’m pretty much an expert.

A teal Chevy Sonic swerved toward me, window down. “Fuck you, Meter Bitch!” A white ball flew out, bounced off the sidewalk, and nailed me in the shin.

The Sonic’s tires squealed and it tore off up the street.

Gee, thanks, guy.

Rubbing my leg, I looked down at the cement. A rolled-up disposable diaper.

Who does that?

I picked up the stale diaper rock with two fingers and threw it in a street can, feeling nothing but lucky it hadn’t hit me in the face. A typical Thursday.

Infatuation had me off my game. I was still wearing the “Loogie,” the neon phlegm yellow-green reflective vest of a Chicago Parking Enforcement Agent. Idiot. I took it off and shoved it in my backpack as I rounded the corner onto Fourth Street.

No raining on my parade—it’s Miller Time.

There may be blood, though, after I kick the ass of the bum sleeping on the hood of my—well, Hank’s—perfectly restored Dodge Coronet.

The guy leaned against the windshield, head lolled back onto the roof.

“Hey. Buddy!” I called in my best law and order voice from across the street. “Off the car.”

The guy didn’t flinch. A couple steps closer and I saw and smelled why.

Oh jeez.

His throat was a gaping maw of red. And pink and white gristle. Slashed from ear to ear. “Holy mother of . . .” I averted my eyes to the car’s grille. Thickening blood covered the air intakes while a slow trickle of red slid down the Coronet’s glossy black fender wing and dripped into a puddle on the pavement.

I fumbled my iPhone out of my pocket and sent a dozen crime scene snaps to the Cloud. “Call Hank’s office,” I slurred into the mic, talking too fast, Siri unable to understand. I started again, “Call—”

“Step away from the car, ma’am,” a man said over a loudspeaker.

I slipped my phone down the front of my shirt and glanced over my shoulder to see a blue and white CPD Tahoe, red lights flashing.

I raised my hands and backed up.

Officer Reynolds was about as nice as they came, but even with a blanket and a Hershey bar, the back of a police car was not a fun place to be. No amount of Febreze could eradicate the lingering stink of piss and puke that permeated the leather seats. Reynolds peered at me through silver-rimmed specs in the rearview mirror.

Please don’t.

“Where’d you go to high school, Maisie?”

I sighed inwardly. “St. Ignatius.”

“Nope. Not it.” He shook his head. “Where do I know you from?”

“I just have one of those faces.”

He kept staring. I rotated my fingers in a circle. “This is where you say I have the look of an Irish angel.”

“Ha!” Officer Reynolds twisted awkwardly in his seat and jabbed a finger at me. “You’re the meter maid. The one that threw up on Coles.”

They never remember the car bomb I saved the mayor from. Only the puking.

A Crime Scene van parked in front of us and a couple of techs got out. One, a pal of my brother Rory’s, spotted me in the back of the Tahoe and gave me the surprised-point-and-smile. I returned a halfhearted salute.

“How do you know—” The young cop’s voice trailed off as the penny dropped. “Wait. Maisie McGrane as in one of the McGrane McGranes?”

I nodded.

“Man, your whole family’s on the force.”

“Half. The other half’s defense attorneys, to keep it even.”

“So why are you a meter maid?”

“Ouch. Don’t pull any punches, do you?”

“I . . . erm.” Reynolds’s cheeks reddened. “Do you like it?”

About as much as teaching blind kids to use a band saw. “It’s okay.”

A couple of beat cops and a detective showed up and started working the scene. Reynolds drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Think your brothers’ll show?”

I sure as hell hope not. “Maybe.”

It was killing him to miss out on the action. And it was killing me to have him in the car. “Are you sure they don’t need you out there?”

“Well . . .” He puffed out his cheeks in a show of consideration while his hand went straight to the door handle. “I probably should let ’em know I gotcha in the car.”

I had my phone out of my shirt before he was all the way out of the Tahoe. He shut the door and I hit Call.

“Mr. Bannon’s office,” Hank’s secretary answered in a voice so smoky-sexy I wanted to wipe my ear off. “How may I help you, Ms. McGrane?”

“I need to get a message to him.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Mr. Bannon is currently in-country and unable to receive messages for the next twenty-two hours and eight minutes.”

“That’s, um . . .” Unfortunate. I ran a hand through my hair. “We have kind of a . . . situation.”

“Type?”

I blew out a slow breath. “I drove his car to work today. Now there’s a dead guy lying on the hood and I’m calling you from the back of a police car.”

“Will you be needing a ride home from the police station?”

Why the heck not? “Yes, please,” I said and hung up as Officer Reynolds got back behind the wheel.

“How you feeling, Maisie?” His voice was light, but he’d gone a little green around the gills. “That was a pretty tough thing to see.”

I suppose it would be if I hadn’t spent my childhood playing Concentration with crime scene photos. “I’m okay.”

Dispatch came in loud and clear over the Tahoe’s radio. “Car 261, call in, please.”

The young cop took his cell from the glove box and called in. “Officer Brian Reynolds reporting.”

There was a short silence.

Reynolds shot upright in his seat. “Yessir, Captain McGrane.”

Aww for cripes’ sake. Da.

“Yessir. She’s in the patrol car.” Officer Reynolds practically vibrated with excitement. “No sir. Detective Forman hasn’t interviewed her yet.”

A tiny window of hope opened before me.

“I’ll bring her in myself, sir. Thank you, sir.”

And slammed shut in my face.

Reynolds smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “You want me to light ’em up?”

Please don’t.

I spent the next half hour ignoring the urge to check the crime scene photos and playing Zombie Gunship on my phone, cooling my heels in the frigid gray-on-gray interrogation room.

I figured I’d waited long enough and raised my phone to the two-way mirror. I shut it off, stowed it in my pocket, then folded my arms on the gray Formica table and put my head down.

That worked.

Detective Alan Forman came into the room, all pleasantries and platitudes, thinking I didn’t know any better. He offered me a soda, which I declined, then took a seat, turned on a voice recorder and trolled through the usual questions.

No, I don’t know the victim. No, Hank has been out of town for the last ten days. Yes, I currently reside in his home. Yes, I drive his vehicle on a regular basis. Blah blah blah.

“Hang on.” The detective tapped his pen against his teeth. “I want to make sure I got this right. This Bannon guy restores a 1969 Dodge Super Bee 440 six-pack to cherry and says what—‘Hey girl, drive this to work instead of your Accord’?”

“Pretty much.”

He gave me a quick once-over and scratched a note on his pad. “I see.”

“What?” I was chilly, hungry, and getting tired. “You see what?”

The detective shrugged. “Golden handcuffs.”

“Hardly,” I said. “Hank believes material things are only that. Things.”

“You’d know.” He stifled a snort. “So what exactly is Mr. Bannon doing in Eastern Europe?”

I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. “About that soda . . .”

A female uniformed officer entered the room and whispered something into the detective’s ear. Whatever she said made my interrogator click off his recorder and close his notebook with a strained smile. “I think we’ve finished here, Miss McGrane. Officer Miller will show you out.”

Officer Miller, however, did not return me to the main lobby. Instead she turned right and led me down a series of beige hallways to a tiny nondescript conference room. “Take a seat,” she said and left.

I was moving up in the world. The room was warm, beige, and did not contain a two-way mirror. This would be Da or my brothers—Flynn and Rory or even Cash—jacking me around for the hell of it and, of course, for living in sin with my ex–Army Ranger boyfriend.

A soft knock at the door preceded a lightly tanned man in his early fifties wearing an expensive gray suit with a silver striped tie and brown John Lobb shoes. A heavy hitter. Good-looking in a polished, aristocratic way with a slim, foxy face and flaxen hair. “Do you have a moment, Miss McGrane?”

I straightened up. “Yes sir.”

No matter where he was or what he was doing, Hank always had my six.

Hank’s Law Number Twenty-One: Never confuse politeness with civility.

The man slid into the seat, folded his hands on the table, and took a good long look at me. His eyes, the color of cognac held to light, were fringed with thick gold lashes and left me feeling as exposed as a field mouse in a clearing. “My name is Walt Sawyer. I command the Bureau of Organized Crime’s Special Unit.”

Was the murder vic Mob connected? A thin layer of sweat broke out between my shoulder blades while my fingers turned to ice.

Easy now. Don’t spin out.

My mother, “Hang ’Em High July Pruitt,” was a former prosecutor. This wouldn’t be my first or worst interrogation. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m not sure what I’ll be able to add to what I told Detective Forman.”

“I have no interest in that case.”

“Oh?”

“I am, however, interested in you.”

This just kept getting better.

“May I ask why you turned down Mayor Coles’s personal appointment to join the Chicago Police Department, Miss McGrane?”

Hello, left field. “Yes sir.”

This was his dance. He could lead.

Sawyer’s lips twitched. “Yes, as in I may ask but you won’t tell?”

“I’m guessing as Special Unit commander, you have a pretty good idea already.” Coles was as dirty as they came. Not even being a cop was worth working his private security detail.

He unbuttoned the button of his suit coat. “Have you ever considered applying to the BOC?”

“No sir, I haven’t.” Gee, you’re cute. I can be cute, too. “I didn’t imagine the Bureau of Organized Crime would have much use for a police academy washout turned meter maid.”

“But you weren’t really a washout, were you, Miss McGrane? A BS in Criminal Justice. Top cadet at the Academy.” He gave me a vulpine smile and said lazily, “Until, of course, your father clipped your wings.”

I took a slow breath, unclenched my teeth, and lied. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, sir.”

“The pressure Homicide Captain Conn McGrane applied to the police academy psychologist to falsify your psych report, resulting in your subsequent expulsion.”

Jaysus crimeny, he’s been busy. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir.”

“No matter.” Sawyer leaned back in his chair and plucked invisible lint from his French cuff. “It’s my preference to develop inexperienced high fliers in Special Unit.” He reached inside his suit jacket, removed a tri-folded paper, and slid it across the table to me.

I opened it.

A letter. On Police Academy stationery.

The bullshit Benghazi-style lack of reason and responsibility certified its legitimacy. My fingers trembled, rattling the paper.

“Miss McGrane, I want you to work for me as an undercover officer in Special Unit.”

Blood pulsed in my ears. Me? An undercover cop?

“I find recruits infinitely more valuable without the indelible imprint of police work.”

The cop look. The stance, the stride, the indefinable big-dog attitude. Eyes continually scanning for weapons while assessing threat level. Half my family walked around with it. I’d been hoping I’d acquired it through osmosis, but apparently not.

“As you can imagine,” he said, “the least desirable action for an undercover officer is to react as a patrolman. My U.C.s aren’t merely police working in plainclothes. No short-stint Vice stings. True undercover agents are infiltrators, going native for months, even years at a time. Identity on a need-to-know basis only.”

I cleared my throat, trying hard to stay frosty in the face of serious Serpico action. I could keep my nerve and my mouth shut, sure. But a police spook? It wasn’t the way I wanted to be a cop.

“Covert work is highly stressful and extremely dangerous.” He held out his hand for the letter. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you were built for it.”

I folded it up and handed it back to him, unable to look away as he returned it to his inside jacket pocket.

Sawyer cocked his head. “Reservations?”

“Maybe.” It wasn’t the criminals I was afraid of. It was my family.

“Rather tortured, aren’t you?” His odd-colored eyes seemed lit from within. “Shielding the father who betrayed you and dreaming of becoming a cop while sleeping with a mercenary.”

My entire life summed up in one smooth sentence. It wasn’t enough to make me swoon. “I won’t go against Hank Bannon or my father. Not ever.”

A whisper of irritation crossed his face. “Special Unit has little interest in an ex–Army Ranger operating primarily outside of the United States. Even less for a decorated police captain exerting his influence, which I assume he’ll continue to do.”

Yes, he will, goddammit.

Sawyer leaned forward. “This is your shot. Are you going to take it?”

“Yes,” I said. Hell, yes!

He handed me a small white envelope.

“What’s this?”

Sawyer’s mouth quirked at the corner. “Your ticket to the show.” He rose and walked to the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

Tiny sparks danced in front of my eyes.

Holy cat.

Where’s a paper bag when you need one?

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:


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 chest. “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.

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 assault. . .