Chapter 1
“This place makes the Bates Motel look like a freakin’ spa resort.” My sarcastic quip wasn’t intended for my partner, Officer Stan Stubbs. It was for me. Because I was shaking so badly from the cold and fear that I was afraid the gun in my holster would fire on its own. I longed for the cozy fire and protective embrace of my boyfriend that I’d felt as we’d exchanged Christmas presents just hours before.
“Folks, you need to go back to your rooms immediately,” Stan announced to the crowd of curious motel guests.
The onlookers began to disperse, and the woman in room six moaned again. According to 911 dispatch, she had been in distress for at least half an hour.
I shivered and wondered what kind of psycho had harmed the woman.
Stan drew his gun. “Something about this doesn’t feel like a regular domestic abuse situation. We need urgent backup, Franki.”
I nodded and grabbed the radio from my belt. “I have a 10-39 at the Twilight Motel on Manor Road. Request backup.”
Stan began his approach to room six.
I put the device away and drew my gun. I took my place on the opposite side of the door from Stan.
“I’m goin’ in on the count of three.” He used his dire tone to match the circumstances. “I need to get to the john, and quick like.”
I gasped. “Now, Stan?”
Stan was my partner on the Austin PD. As a rookie on the force, I’d been paired with a seasoned veteran of the department. Even though we’d spent the past six months together, I’d learned little from Stan except that he had a “wifey” named Juanita who worshipped the ground he walked on, he valued his handgun collection more than he did his adult children, and he suffered from acute, chronic gastrointestinal distress. And despite his self-proclaimed “legendary instinct” for cracking cases, he was perpetually baffled by his stomach issues even though the culprit was clear—a steady diet of jelly donuts and chorizo-bean-and-cheese breakfast tacos that he washed down with a gallon or so of coffee and Gatorade because he was also chronically dehydrated from the diarrhea. Needless to say, he spent the better part of every shift visiting the nearest men’s room.
Ignoring my concern, Stan grasped his gun with both hands and slammed his right shoulder into the door. It flew open, and he stormed into the room. “Police! Hands in the air!”
I rushed in behind him, my gun drawn, and the woman let out a hair-raising scream.
“What in the hell?” Stan shouted.
I followed his gaze to the bed, and a chill went through my body.
Stan snorted. “Why, it’s just a couple goin’ at it.”
I blinked hard. Was it my imagination playing tricks on me at 4:30 a.m., or was one member of that couple horribly familiar? As in, exchanging-gifts-by-a-cozy-fire familiar?
“Vince?” My voice was barely above a whisper as I stared at my boyfriend of over two years.
He looked at me like a deer caught in the headlights. “Franki?”
Make that, like a cheating rat caught in the act.
Stan looked from Vince to me. “You two know each other?”
I nodded, unable to speak. The chill that I’d felt had turned to a dull aching pain, and all I wanted to do was run from the room and cry. But I couldn’t because I was on duty.
“I’ll let you take it from here.” Stan rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
No sooner had he left than the woman leapt from the bed—all 6’ 5” or so of her—wearing nothing but her outrage. “Zis invazion iz illegal in Deutschland.”
“All right, Franki.” Vince’s tone was patronizing. “No crime has been committed, so why don’t you put the gun down? Then we can all talk about this like rational adults.”
No crime? Rational adults? The dull pain turned to red-hot anger. Before I could think it through, I shouted, “If you think for one minute that I’m going to sit down to chat with you and your German whore here—”
The furious fräulein kicked the gun from my hand, and I watched in what seemed like slow motion as it flew under the bed.
“Be careful, Franki,” Vince warned. “She’s here from Munich on a semi-pro wrestling tour.”
“Oh, so now you’re worried about my well-being?” I backed away from the German giantess. Now that I’d mentioned it, I was a little worried about me too. She was squatting down low with her hands raised, like she was going to make mincemeat of me.
“For you, ze ‘tilt-a-whirl slam.’“ She lunged for my waist.
From over her shoulder, I saw Vince leap from the bed to tackle her. Without even so much as a glance over her shoulder, she laid him out cold with an elbow to the jaw.
“Ze ‘discus elbow shmash,’“ she explained, raising her chin and jutting out her King Kong-like chest.
It was clear that the crazed Kraut was a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately for me, she was refusing to recognize that I was a force to be reckoned with too—a member of the police force. Before I knew what was happening, she had heaved all 5’ 10” and 170 pounds of me over her right shoulder and begun to spin. Then she let go.
I landed on the floor with a thud and desperately tried to remember what the police academy had taught me to do in such situations. But the truth was that the trainers hadn’t covered how to extricate oneself from a female German wrestler with a serious case of roid rage.
“Und now ze ‘fist drop.’“ She fell onto me while driving her fist into my belly.
I writhed on the ground in agony, gasping for breath. Then I saw the Munich Monster rise up from the floor like Godzilla from the sea. Clutching my stomach, I scrambled to my feet and did my best to mimic her sparring moves.
I dodged another lunge and glanced in the direction of the bathroom. “I really need you out here, Stan.”
“Just another minute.” I heard the toilet flush.
I had to reason with the raging wrestler. “Listen, Greta or Helga or whatever your name is—”
“Mein name is Petra. Petra ze Pretzelmaker.” Her face contorted with rage as the veins bulged from her thick, manly neck. “It iz not whore.”
“Well, whoever you are,” I wheezed, “you’re under arrest.”
“Nein. You are under arrest. Prepare for ze ‘body avalanche.’“ She flew through the air, knocked me flat on my back, and pinned me beneath her hulking frame.
Trying to protect my stomach from another fist drop, I rolled over just as she introduced a “hair pull” move that jerked me backward into an upward facing dog position.
With my gaze locked on the ceiling, I frantically tried to visualize what a good cop would do in a situation she hadn’t been trained for when her partner’s in the bathroom and she’d already called for backup, but nothing was coming to me. In the meantime, Petra, as her wrestling named implied, was twisting me into a pretzel. I had to buy time until backup arrived, or she was going to turn me into spaetzle.
“Petra, you need to release me. In the U.S., assaulting a police officer is a felony offense. You could go to prison for a long time.”
To my relief, she abruptly let go of my hair. But as I fell forward, she used her brawn to lift me into the air by my belt loops and sling me over her shoulder yet again. I heard the distinct sound of the seat of my uniform pants splitting.
Wunderbar, I thought as I remembered that I’d gone commando that day for lack of clean underwear.
“Und now I shpank.”
“Don’t you dare.”
The full force of her giant paw came down on my bare behind.
I mentally swore at the backup team for taking so long to arrive, and I cursed my pants for splitting. I’d spent years avoiding my large butt, both visually and mentally. Since it was behind me, I’d never had to look at it or think about it. Ever. And that had been my strategy—until then.
I heard a wet smacking sound as her palm struck my bottom for the second time. My eyes filled with angry tears.
The toilet flushed again.
“I’m coming, Franki.” Stan rushed from the bathroom, fumbling with the buckle on his oversized pants. He drew his gun and aimed it at Petra. “Freeze! You’re under arrest!”
Petra stopped in mid-spank, leaving my bare bottom directly under the glow of the only light in the dim room.
“Drop the officer, boy,” Stan commanded.
To my chagrin, Petra promptly did as she was told, and I hit the floor with the full force of my weight on my right knee. I was almost positive that it was either dislocated or broken.
Stan waved the gun at Petra. “Now lie down on your belly real slow-like, son, and put your hands behind your back.”
I rolled onto my back and clutched my knee. “She’s the female, Stan. Vince is unconscious on the other side of the bed.”
He sauntered over to Petra and squinted at her in the soft light. “Well I’ll be damned.”
After he cuffed the then astonishingly docile Deutschländer and pulled her to her feet, he whistled in amazement. “You’re a real nutcracker, aren’t ya?”
Despite my loathing for the woman, I rolled my eyes at Stan’s remark. The guy had no filter.
I looked on angrily as he led the placid Petra out the door to the squad car, protecting her head with his right hand as he helped her into the backseat with the other.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed that Vince was regaining consciousness across the room. If I could have walked or even crawled to his side, I would’ve knocked him out again.
Vince sat up and rubbed his jaw where he’d been elbowed. “Are you okay, babe?”
I stared at him in disbelief. “You mean after finding you in bed with a woman who just tried to kill me? Yeah, Vince. Doin’ great.”
“I can explain…”
“That’s classic.” I turned my head to hide my tears. “Do us both a favor and shut your mouth.”
Stan popped his head into the room. “Uh, Vince, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
Vince nodded and followed Stan out the door. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I would have sworn that I heard them chuckle. I watched furious as they solidified their male bonding moment over a handshake before Vince got into his car and drove away.
Stan reentered the room, and he nonchalantly pulled out his report pad and started to write.
I looked at him from my supine position on the floor. “Um, Stan? Do you think maybe you could help me up? Since I’m injured?”
“Huh? Oh sure. One sec.” He finished writing his sentence and ambled over to me. He put his hands on his hips. “You looked pretty funny hanging upside down over Suzy Schwarzenegger’s shoulder. Did you know your butt was showin’?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I replied through clenched teeth. I was forever on the receiving end of his asinine comments.
“Sure, Franki. That’s what partners are for.”
I snorted. Since starting this job, Stan had been about as helpful to me as a ball and chain around my ankle and a noose around my neck. I had watched in frustration as the other rookies flourished under the watchful eyes of their respective partners while I had languished under the disinterested gaze of mine. And when I’d finally gotten up the nerve to privately request a new partner, I’d been publicly branded as a troublemaker and earned the nickname “Finicky Franki,” as though I were a petulant child or, even worse, a cat.
Stan helped me off the ground, and he let out a loud, greasy fart. “Hooo! That felt goooood.”
I closed my eyes—and my nostrils—and promised myself that I would learn how to meditate.
“You know, I’ve really got to see somebody about my stomach,” he said for what must have been the hundredth time since I had met him. “I think I might have some kind of problem, but I don’t know why. Hell, I’m in the best shape of my life.”
Stan patted his spare tire belly as he walked—and I hopped, unassisted—to the squad car.
As soon as he climbed into the seat, he emitted three resounding sausage-scented belches. “Ugh, this heartburn is a killer. I feel like Old Faithful’s eruptin’ in my gut. Hey, could you hand me my antacids? They’re in the glove box.”
By this time, I knew very well where he kept his antacids, anti-diarrheals, and anti-gas tablets, all of which I regularly replenished out of my own pocket unbeknownst to Stan. I opened the glove compartment and handed him the box of antacids. Then I rolled down my window for life-sustaining oxygen. He’d already left me to die a violent slamming death. I’d be damned if I was going to let him suffocate me too.
“You okay, Franki?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, you rolled down your window like you needed some air. You feelin’ dizzy?”
Oh indeed I am, but not because you let the Teutonic Titan spin me around the motel room for half a freakin’ hour. He had absolutely no concept that his bodily functions might present a problem for me, both in terms of my physical safety on calls and my ability to breathe.
We arrived at the station and took Petra to booking. After she was processed and taken to her cell, Stan turned to me for his customary end-of-the-shift lecture. “You know, you’ve really got to pay attention when you’re out there on the street. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to come to your rescue.”
“Stan, I—”
“I mean, I’m not bragging or anything,” he interrupted, “but I’m the best of the best. If you can’t learn from me, then I don’t know if you’re gonna make it on the force.”
“Stan, you—”
“You know I have to write this in my report, Franki. You put me in real danger out there. I had no backup. I could’ve been killed.”
That did it. Although I was mostly mad at Vince, Stan was about to find out what it was like when I lost my filter. And it’s not like he didn’t have it coming. “Let me get this straight. I put you in danger? Are you freakin’ kidding me? You put me in danger when you left me alone with the Deutsch Destroyer. And this was hardly the first time. I mean, I’m always covering my ass while yours is parked on a toilet seat.”
Stan smirked. “Well, you didn’t do such a good job of covering your ass tonight, now did you?”
Why did I have to mention my ass? I’d practically handed it to him on a platter with that remark.
“And that’s the problem.” He gestured toward a window overlooking the street. “You can’t protect yourself out there, and you can’t be relied on to protect your partner from loonies like Schotsie the Sausagestuffer, either.”
“Petra the Pretzelmaker.”
“And if you really want to know something,” he said in an offended tone, “it’s inappropriate for you to discuss my bathroom habits.”
Me? I’d had to endure play-by-play reenactments of the ins and outs of his bowels—make that the outs—on a daily basis since the first day of our partnership. But Stan was too self-absorbed to ever be able to realize that, much less admit it. Our conversation hadn’t amounted to anything, just like my career. There was nothing more to say. Actually, there was one thing.
“I quit.”
* * *
I shoved the crutch that the emergency room doctor had given me into the backseat of my 1965 cherry red Mustang convertible and winced as I climbed into the front seat. The pain in my sprained knee was intense, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my heart. I reached into my bag for my car keys but pulled out my phone instead. I glanced at the time on the display—seven thirty a.m. If I knew my workaholic best friend Veronica Maggio, she was already toiling away at her new detective agency. I debated waiting to call her until after I’d had some time to sleep on the painful events of the night shift, but I decided that I’d rest a whole lot easier knowing how she was going to react to my news. I scrolled through my contacts, tapped her name, and held my breath.
“Private Chicks, Incorporated.” Veronica’s phone voice was clipped and professional. “If you give us the time, we’ll solve your crime. What can I help you with?”
I tried to pretend she was next door instead of five hundred lonely miles away in New Orleans. “Do you always answer the phone that way?”
“In this economic climate, you have to be aggressive. So I answer with my phone version of the thirty-second elevator pitch.” Unlike me, Veronica was extremely practical and all business. Though, no one could tell that about her at first glance because she looked and acted a lot like Elle Woods in Legally Blonde—petite, blonde, perky and perfectly put together—only she had a cream Pomeranian named Hercules instead of a tan Chihuahua named Bruiser. Veronica was everything I wasn’t, and that was putting it mildly.
“I guess that’s a good idea,” I said. “But I don’t know about the ‘If you give us the time’ part. It makes it sound like it could take you a while to solve a case.”
“It’s an expression, Franki. It means that if you hire us, we’ll solve your case.”
“I suppose.”
An awkward pause ensued.
“So?” Veronica prodded. “What’s wrong?”
I did my utmost to feign surprise. “Why would you think something’s wrong?”
“Because you’re doing everything you can to avoid telling me why you called.”
I straightened in my seat. “I called because I’ve decided to take you up on your offer to join your PI firm. I’m moving to New Orleans.”
“Really? What about Vince? And your job?”
“Vince and I aren’t together anymore.” There. I said it. And it had hurt.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Her tone had softened, prompting self-pity to prick at my eyelids. “Let’s just say that I was in a committed relationship, but he wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Franki.”
“Me too.” I leaned my head against the headrest and wiped away tears with the back of my hand.
“But I hope you’re not leaving your job because of Vince.”
“He’s got nothing to do with it.” It was a fib, but if I had told her that I discovered Vince’s betrayal thanks to a 911 call, she would’ve never believed that I was leaving the force because it was the right thing to do. “The hard truth is that I’m not cut out for the police force. I gave my two weeks’ notice this morning.”
“Are you kidding?” Her pitch rose with each syllable. “You’re a born cop. I mean, you still need some experience and all, but you come from a Sicilian family, and you grew up in Houston. If you don’t know crime, who does?”
“Verrrry funny. Need I remind you that you’re half Sicilian too?” I asked, half-heartedly playing along.
“Yeah, but I’m also half Swedish, which tempers the Italian-ness considerably. You’ve got it on both sides, so you’re screwed.”
“You’re a laugh a minute, you know that? I tell you what, let’s leave ethnicity out of this,” I said, as though I believed that were possible. Veronica and I had bonded as pre-law students at the University of Texas, and not over our criminology classes but over all things Italian—our Italian language courses, our families, endless bottles of Chianti and, of course, Gucci, Prada, Armani, and Dolce and Gabbana (in Cosmopolitan and Vogue, that is). “I might have the makings of a good cop, but that doesn’t mean I belong on the police force.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with your trusty partner, does it? What happened this time? Did the diarrhea king leave you high and dry again?”
“Something like that.” I looked out the driver window and thought of Petra heaving me repeatedly into the air and rubbed my wounded knee. “But Stan’s not really the issue. I need to get off the night shift and return to the world of the living. And I want a job that’s a little more predictable. As a private investigator, I’d have some say in the cases I take.” And the situations I find myself in.
“Do you regret going to the police academy after UT?”
“You know I had no choice. I wanted to prove to my family that women could do more than make pasta and birth babies.”
“I know,” Veronica said. “But I still say that becoming a cop was taking rebellion to the extreme.”
“It was the best way I could think of to show them that I was as tough and capable as any man. Besides,” I said, eager to change the subject from my family, “you weren’t happy as an attorney, and I knew that I wouldn’t have been either, especially not as a criminal defense attorney. I want to catch criminals, not defend or prosecute them. If I work for you, I can still do that but in a less restrictive environment. I can be my own boss. You know, call my own shots and that sort of thing.”
“I certainly understand wanting to be your own boss. But aren’t you going to feel like you’ve proven your family right by leaving the force?”
“They’ll probably see it that way. But I’m just going to have to figure out a way to prove them wrong.”
“O-kay.” She drew the word out, unconvinced. “As long as you’re sure that you’re leaving Austin for the right reasons, then I could really use your help down here.”
“I’m sure, Veronica.” I gripped the gear shift and gathered my resolve. “Austin was a great place to go to school, but now I need to move on. And with the New Year just two weeks away, it’s the perfect time to start a new life.”
“And just in time for Mardi Gras. Laissez les bons temps rouler!”
“Oui, chère,” I cheered in the Cajun custom—but with a joie de vivre that I definitely didn’t feel.
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