Shoot 'em Up

Book 3: Maisie McGrane Mystery

by Janey Mack

Genres: Women's Fiction; Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The mob’s running guns—and her family’s running wild. Meter maid turned undercover cop Maisie McGrane managed to survive her first sting operation with just a few minor stab wounds—and some lingering emotional scars. An assassination attempt on the mayor brings the ATF and DEA to Chicago, and they’re counting on Maisie’s underworld connections to help them infiltrate and cripple a cartel running guns and drugs into the city. But she won’t be going it alone. The DEA’s hand-selected charismatic hard-case Lee Sharpe as her partner and protector. And he’s taking his assignment seriously . . . in every way. But with her meddling Chicago PD family threatening to expose her true identity at any moment, Maisie will have to scramble to stay one step ahead of them, the cartel, and her new partner before her cover is shot. Praise for Time’s Up “Mack’s outstanding debut conjures equal parts Janet Evanovich and Michael Harvey… A fast and furious plot that expertly balances menace and laugh-out-loud hijinks.” — Publishers Weekly, Starred Review “Mystery buffs will not only be swept up in the ingenious and well-crafted plot but will love the irrepressible Maisie.” — Library Journal, Starred Review

Release date: September 27, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

The siren bawled as Lee Sharpe, eyes flashing, grinning like a demon, loomed over my gurney. “Who stabbed you, Maisie?”

Sweat trickled down the hard planes of his face. He was in full SWAT battle rattle—balaclava down around his neck, Pro-Tech Tac 6 full-coverage vest, combat shirt, tactical pants, and a Sig Sauer .45. Delta helmet and rifle handed off before he got in the ambulance.

I tried to look as pathetic as possible from beneath the oxygen non-rebreather strapped on my face. Which wasn’t too tough. The hilt of a five-inch SOG Seal Strike knife stuck out of my thigh, wrapped and packed courtesy of the newbie paramedic whom Lee had kicked to the front of the bus with the driver.

“Don’t . . . know,” I lied.

He looked away and ran a hand through his hair. “Christ.”

The heavy plastic gear cases and oxygen tanks clattered and shook as the ambulance took a tire-squealing turn. Even though I was strapped down, I slid beneath the canvas belts, sucking in a breath through my teeth. The blade in my leg seared like molten steel.

Hank’s Law Number Thirteen: Anyone can endure expected pain.

Frowning, Lee leaned in close. “Maisie?” He snapped his fingers in front of me. “Maisie? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah.” What’s wrong?

The heart monitor beeps started pinging double-time.

“Maisie?” He eased the mask off my face and bent low, eyes searching mine.

I swallowed. “Lee?”

He kissed me.

What the . . .

Not hard, not soft. Just bizarrely familiar.

Jaysus Criminey.

Before I could move my head away, he left me with a flick of his tongue across my upper lip.

Cinnamon.

“You kissed me!”

He replaced the oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. “You’re delirious, babe. You don’t even know who stabbed you.”

You opportunistic sonuva—

He leaned back on the squad bench. “Don’t remember, my ass.”

A metallic roar ripped through the ambulance. Lee went airborne, slamming into the front partition. Canisters of oxygen snapped from their moorings, clanging into the gurney and the doors. Tools and boxes shot out of the cabinets. A heavy plastic case jumped the security rail and landed, crushing my legs and smashing the knife.

The ambulance convulsed and stopped dead. The siren kept wailing. I ran out of breath and quit shrieking.

Warm wet spread across my thigh.

Oh Jaysus.

My arms and legs were strapped down. I couldn’t get the case off. “Lee!” I twisted my head frantically, trying to get a look at him.

He was slumped on the floor, equipment littered around him.

“Lee!”

He blinked awake, eyes unfocused.

I shivered. “Help me.”

He rolled onto all fours and used the wall to pull himself upright. He staggered over.

“Move it.” My voice was a whisper to my own ears.

Trying to keep his feet, he lifted the heavy plastic case off my leg. The knife had gone sideways, the packing around it soaked bright red with blood.

My body was ice cold. I panted from the chill.

Lee squinted and shook his head. Hand over hand, he applied pressure at my groin and yelled at the front of the ’bus. “Medic! Get back here!” He stared at me, pupils dilated with concussion. “Talk to me, Maisie.”

I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I felt floaty and light.

He swayed and yelled at the EMTs again.

A steady stream of blood trickled down Lee’s ear onto his shoulder.

I smiled.

Funny, really, him trying to stop my bleeding when he has his own to worry ab—

“Suffering Christ!” My brother Cash’s voice jackhammered my eardrums. “T-boned. What kind of asswipe EMT takes a live intersection at forty miles per hour?”

“Shhh,” Mom said.

“How’s Lee?” Da asked.

“Concussion, handful of stitches,” Cash said. “Nothin’.”

My eyes were glued shut. I raised my hand and set off a series of electronic beeps.

“Maisie?” Mom pressed my left arm down. I raised my right. “You’re okay, baby. You’re in the ICU at Rush University Medical Center. You were stabbed in the leg. The ambulance was in an accident. You’re out of surgery, and you’re going to be fine.”

“I know,” I croaked, rubbing my eyes. My throat hurt.

Da put his hand on the back of Cash’s neck. “Tell the lads she’s awake.”

Mom waited until the door closed behind my brother. She laid a hand on my cheek and leaned close, her voice low and serious. “You’re in a significant amount of legal trouble, darling. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Yes.” My mind was furry and my mouth tasted of chemicals and unspoken lies.

“I’ve called in a fixer. We’ll get you out of this.”

Da leaned over and stared me right in the eyes. Deep grooves of worry were etched at his eyes and mouth. “Keep your yap shut. Eh, a ghrá?”

Aww, shite.

I nodded.

He kissed my forehead. I turned my head toward Mom, but before I could tell her I was cold, I fell asleep again.

A hospital room is never completely dark. Maybe that’s so you don’t panic and think that you’ve died. I knew I wasn’t dead.

Yet.

My large private room—which felt more like a sterile Scandinavian hotel room—was filled to the gills with my family. Hospital rules were irrelevant to the McGranes. Cops and lawyers were above the laws of mere mortals.

The only man I wanted to see wasn’t there. Still, I couldn’t help but smile.

Da sat in the bedside chair, reading a case file. My brothers Flynn and Rory were at the built-in bureau, sifting through cards and flowers from my assumed “get well” wishers. Wedged together on the couch, Mom and the twins—Declan and Daicen—argued in hushed voices. Cash, on the other side of my bed, was setting up a portable electronic station complete with power strip and chargers.

My five older brothers were carbon copies of Da: dark-haired, dark-eyed, hard-muscled men imbued with the treacherous black-Irish combination of charm, piss, and vinegar and the blasphemously un-Irish ability to tan.

“Not while your sister’s in the middle of this,” Mom said. “Talk about an obvious conflict of interest.”

“Yeah? But for how long?” Declan put his hands behind his head. “Who’s the fixer?”

Daicen adjusted his wristwatch. “Let it lie, Dec.”

“Like hell. We’re taking the case.”

“Silly me,” Mom said. “I thought you aspired to make partner one—”

For a Few Dollars More flashed on the hospital’s flat screen, theme blaring. “Got it,” Cash said loudly, turning the volume down. “She’s set up. I need a chair. And a beer.”

“Get me one while you’re up,” I rasped.

“About time you’re awake,” Flynn said.

Mom came over and held a plastic cup and straw to my mouth. “How are you, honey?”

Kitten weak and toy-scissors sharp.

“A-okay,” I said, taking the cup from her hand.

Funny, it didn’t look like it weighed six pounds.

I took a sip. Flat 7UP never tasted so good. I drank half, then set it on the tray table with nary a tremor.

Flynn put his hands on the Formica footboard of my hospital bed. “So, Ginger Snap, what I want to know is, how in hell did you manage to get stabbed during a Class X Armed Robbery?”

“Not me,” Cash said. “I just want to know how you hooked up with a Serbian crime lord in the first place.”

Neat-o. Interrogation by torture committee.

The twins knew better than to ask a question without knowing the answer, and instead eyed me for tells like hawkish gamblers. Rory kept his back to me, messing with the flowers.

“I . . .”

“Leave her alone,” Rory said. “She’s safe as sleeved aces, now. That’s what matters.”

A rap sounded on the door.

“The fixer,” Cash said and answered it.

A lightly tanned man with flaxen hair in his early fifties wearing a slim-cut Kiton suit strode into the room. Walt Sawyer. The Bureau of Organized Crime’s Special Unit commander. He also ran an elite and secret squad of undercover police officers.

Mom’s fixer.

My boss.

Ah, the irony. Painfully delicious.

All my life I wanted to be a cop, like my da, like my brothers. And now that I was one, I couldn’t say a thing.

My father believed I was too reckless to be on the job. So much so, he’d had me expelled from the Police Academy on a technicality. For my own safety as well as my potential partner’s, of course.

He might have had a small, though insignificant point.

Walt Sawyer, however, saw me as a perfect recruit for deep-cover work—one with all the training and none of the acquired “tells” of a police officer. Stannislav Renko and his chop-shop operation had been my first assignment.

And my clan would never know. Could never know.

Da stood. Mom went to Sawyer, hands extended, and kissed him on both cheeks. “Thank you so much for coming, Walt.”

I could fairly hear Flynn, Rory, and Da’s teeth grinding together. Not much got homicide cops hotter under the collar than working cases only to have them yanked away at resolution. One of Sawyer’s specialties.

“You were right to call me, July.” Sawyer crossed the room to shake hands with Da over my bed. “Conn.”

Rory’s eyes flickered over Sawyer in disgust. He plucked the card from a vase of a dozen sun-gold roses. “Who’s Paul Renick?” he asked me.

Who?

“The news director at the Chicago Sentinel,” Sawyer answered. “Your sister’s freelance employer.”

My hastily assembled cover.

It’s coming back to me now.

I wasn’t up for this. Not by a long shot.

And Walt knew it, bless his deceptive heart. “As you know,” he said, “Maisie was injured in the midst of a Class X Armed Robbery. While Renick had assigned her to write a story on chop shops, he was ignorant of the relationship Maisie had cultivated with Serbian enforcer Stannislav ‘The Bull’ aka ‘The Butcher’ Renko.” Sawyer smiled winningly at Mom. “I’ve spoken with the state’s attorney. As long as Maisie voluntarily complies with a suppression order, he will forgo all interest in her as a witness, accessory, or accomplice.”

Da and the boys looked at me as though I’d turned scarlet and sprouted Hellboy horns.

“Seriously? You’re working at that goddamn rag?” Flynn said.

“Jaysus feck.” Rory shook his head.

Lovely, really, how they’re not bothered with the whole Serbian killer bit.

“As policeman and attorneys, you are not unfamiliar with those who bear grudges.” Sawyer passed a measured look over each McGrane before continuing. “Maisie cannot afford the faintest hint of impropriety, and frankly, neither can I. There will be no interference or reexamination. You are all going to let this sleeping dog lie. Agreed?”

Like that’s going to happen.

My five brothers reluctantly nodded. “Agreed.”

“May I speak with Maisie alone for a moment?” Sawyer asked.

“Yeah.” Da started toward the door, the rest of them following in his wake.

Mom paused to give Sawyer a squeeze on the forearm. “Thank you.”

“No trouble, July.” He smiled. “Truly.”

Mom’s lashes fanned her cheeks. I watched him watch her leave, still smiling.

Sawyer took Da’s chair next to the bed and put his hand over mine. “Congratulations are in order. Stannislav Renko’s chop-shop organization has been effectively dismantled, and we have four solved murders in the prosecution loop, as well as numerous arrests.”

“Stannis escaped,” I said.

“No matter.” Sawyer sat back in the chair. “This is Chicago. Renko’s illicit connection to the mayor would’ve trumped any charges. Not to mention, not a single worm has turned. His barbarous brutality seems to have left an indelible impression.”

“I failed, sir.”

“Hardly. Overall Operation Steal-Tow was a success. Your work garnered new insight for the Bureau of Organized Crime into both the New York syndicate as well as Chicago’s own mafioso Veteratti family. Special Unit now has a line into the Grieco cartel. A strong showing for a veteran, much less a rookie.”

He tipped his foxy, clever head to one side. “Did Renko stab you?”

No sir. Hank Bannon, the love of my life, did.

Walt pressed his fingertips together. “The two of you were emotionally intimate.”

“Yes.” Stannis was charismatic, handsome, and charming.

Until he put a gun to my head.

“Stannis wanted to take me back to Serbia.” I swallowed hard. “One of his . . . er . . . men disagreed and threw the knife in my leg.”

“Forcing Renko to leave you behind.”

Yes, thank God, Hank, and the baby Jesus.

I nodded.

A small smile played at the corner of his lips. “A providential and beneficent escape. The BOC would have been hard-pressed to get you back on American soil.”

Yeah, I’ve got more good fortune than a pack of Lucky Strikes.

“Any news of Renko, sir?” Or Hank? I raised the cup of 7UP to my lips. My hand shook.

“Gone to ground, I’m afraid. Don’t expect to see hide nor hair of him or his team for a month or two.” He smiled. “Your family would be proud of you, if they knew, Maisie.”

“Thank you, sir, but I think you’ve mistaken proud with punitive.”

Sawyer chuckled. “Take your time recovering. I prefer a formidable hundred percent to a lagging seventy-five.” He stood. “Special Unit’s erased all traces of your presence at Renko’s penthouse. Your clothes and incidentals were boxed and placed in the trunk of your car in his parking garage. Chicago Sentinel credentials in the glove box.”

He removed a black velvet bag from his suit coat pocket and placed it on the tray table. “Spoils of war.”

He opened the door, stepped into the mob of my brothers, and shut it behind him.

I shook the bag out into my lap. The Cartier diamond earrings and Tank wedding band Stannis had given me as well as all my own jewelry I’d brought to the penthouse. At the bottom of the bag were Stannislav’s stainless Aquanaut Patek Philippe watch, his thick John Hardy necklace, and a pair of platinum and diamond cuff links.

Spoils of war, indeed. A bit of a shocker they’re letting me keep the earrings and wedding band, but Stannis’s leftover loot?

I put the jewelry back in the bag and slipped it under my pillow. Stashing it was going to be another issue altogether, as I hadn’t yet gotten out of bed.

Cash came back in, Flynn behind him. They set up on either side of me.

“We’ve got first shift.” Flynn laid a hand on my head and mussed my hair. “No questions.”

Cash turned the spaghetti western on and up. “Until after you get outta here, maybe.”

“Knock it off,” Flynn said.

I closed my eyes. Bullets and bad thoughts swarmed in my head like cranked-up yellow jackets.

A nurse came in with a paper cup of pain pills and the world became a quiet and pleasant place again.

Day four. I couldn’t bear to lie around, but it hurt like a bitch to get up. The ten feet to the bathroom had me whistle-breathing through my teeth.

Mom took the rare vacation day from Corrigan, Douglas, and Pruitt and spent it with me, steering clear of any dangerous conversation by enlisting traveling-spa services, adhering to Grandma Pruitt’s adage: When in doubt, pretty it out.

In other words—fix yourself up so you don’t feel so damn pathetic.

By the time she left, I’d suffered through an awkward shower, blow-out, mani-pedi, and makeup application. And yes, I actually did feel better.

Talk about all dressed up and no place to go.

I’d be suffering the night with my most torturous of brothers, Cash.

He sat next to me, knees bouncing, knuckles cracking, chewing gum. Irritatingly mobile as we watched Fox News. He hit Mute. “You gotta tell me.”

“No questions.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about Hank.”

I closed my eyes. “Fire away.”

“Didja guys break up over Renko?”

“No.”

“Then where is he? No flowers, no visits, no calls?”

I felt an ever-expanding bubble the size of a yoga ball in my chest. I wanted to spill. Everything. To tell Cash I’d played Stannislav Renko’s beard to hide his sexual relationship with the mayor of Chicago from the NY syndicate, the Veteratti mob, and his Serbian crime lord uncle, Goran Slajic.

That Hank worked for Slajic as Stannis’s protector. And mine.

He’d installed his own men in Stannis’s operation to watch over me. He’d saved my life and my cover before smuggling Stannis back to Serbia.

Instead, I sighed. “He’s out of the country.”

“Hanging with The Butcher.” Cash shook his head. “Feck. If you had balls, Snap, they’d be titanium-plated.”

If you only knew.

His phone gave a series of sonar pings. “Cripes! Is it really six thirty?” He clicked it off, shoved it in his pocket, and stood up. “Okay. Peace out.”

“Really?” I said, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.

Oh, happy day! Alone time.

“Well, it’s not like you’re gonna die or anything. Check you.” And with a parting slug to the shoulder, he was gone. Leaving the door, naturally, wide open.

Didn’t matter. Some nurse would be in to bother me in thirty minutes or less. Sooner if I fell asleep. As if that would happen. I swiped through my phone and the two different message sites Hank had set up to contact me if things were dire.

Zip.

“Maisie?” Lee Sharpe knocked on the open door holding two paper bags. He was wearing blue jeans, black T-shirt, and a leather jacket. Clean-cut, clean-shaven, there was still something about him that screamed one hundred percent badass. “You decent?”

“Er . . . Rarely,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“Thanks, I’d love to come in.” He closed the door, walked over to the bed, and took a good long look at my face.

Which made me love my mother even more. Just because I was in love with Hank didn’t mean I wanted to look like dog hurl in front of anyone.

“Funny seeing you here, Mr. Sharpe. I thought you were waiting until . . . Hmm. How did you put it a week ago?” I tapped my finger against my cheek. “Oh yeah. Until I came to the realization that you’re the sexiest MF I’d ever met and called you.”

Lee shrugged. “I figured with your leg and all, you couldn’t reach the phone.”

I tucked my forearm tight to my chest T. rex–style and waved my fingers in mock futility at the iPhone less than a foot away from me on the wheeled table. “If only I could call Lee. . . .”

He gave a growly chuckle that would have made plenty of women weak in the knees.

“Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”

“Anytime.” He let his eyes drift down to stare at my raised leg. “What’s the prognosis?”

“Dr. Williams said I’m one of the unlucky-luckies.”

“Oh?”

“The stab wound was a gimme. It was the artery puncture from the ambulance accident that was the sonuvagun. Light duty for two weeks. Whatever I can stand after that.”

Lee dropped into the chair next to the bed. “Pretty painless lesson, when you think about it.”

“Tell that to the OxyContin.”

He reached into one of the paper bags and pulled out a couple of Coors. “I know you’re on painkillers and all, but it didn’t seem to hurt Amy Winehouse . . . Oh wait . . .”

I reached for it and he jerked it away in tease, then popped the top and handed it over.

“Saint Sharpe.” The bottle was still ice cold. “Mmm. Why is the first sip of beer so good?”

“Anticipation gratified.” Out of the other bag came two cardboard cartons from The Scout restaurant. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato basil dipping sauce.

“Wow. Talk about feeling comforted.”

Lee grinned at me and took a bite.

I held out through the beer, half the sandwich, and preseason football small talk before cracking. “What’s my lesson learned?”

He crumpled up his wrappers and opened another Coors before answering, “That you’re out of your league in Special Unit.”

I laughed. “I think I came out all right.”

“Renko’s not going to leave any loose ends hanging around.” Lee leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and casually tossed a brick of Black Cat firecrackers on the campfire. “Put in for an immediate and permanent transition to desk duty.”

“Or?”

Lee’s cheek twitched. His eyes went flat. “I’ll have your family do it for you.”

What the . . .

“Purposefully revealing an undercover field agent? A career-ending lawsuit will be the least of your worries.” I scoffed. “I’ll take you down so hard you’ll bounce.”

“Give it your best shot, Bae.”

Holy cat. He’s serious.

“Hold up, cowboy. Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“A goddamn Marine and a CPD SWAT squad leader.”

Well, that explains the chest-bursting, swinging-dick attitude.

I broke eye contact before I broke his nose with my beer bottle and glanced up at the TV. Right into the face of the only human being I truly loathed.

Talbott Cottle Coles, the mayor of Chicago. Six feet tall, he weighed in at a smoker-slim 165 pounds, with a Zoom! white smile, Botoxed forehead, and salt-and-pepper hair that seemed to grow darker at each appearance.

He was playing to a full house today on an outdoor stage set up in front of City Hall. The street, cordoned off, was packed with supporters. Blue nylon AFL-CIO jackets out in full force.

I don’t know if it was Lee throwing his weight around, the Oxy, the beer, or just the sight of that self-righteous bastard that kicked my ire up and disconnected my mouth from my brain. “I’m a hell of a lot harder than you think, Lee.”

He smirked. “Sure, Bae.”

Come a lil’ closer and let me wipe that smug smile off your face.

“Six days ago, I cut off Coles’s little finger with a cleaver while Stannislav Renko held him down.”

Lee squinted, trying to find the punch line. Only there wasn’t one.

Amazing, really, what you’re capable of when your life and someone else’s were on the line. If I hadn’t done it, Coles wouldn’t be alive today.

But Lee didn’t get to know that.

I tipped my head toward the television. Coles’s bandaged left hand hung at his side while he waved to the crowd from behind the podium.

Lee turned to me, eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”

“Ask Coles. Or Sawyer.”

“Bullshit,” he said, less certain.

“Heck, ask him.” I pointed at a massive black man in the center of the crowd in front of the stage. He was wearing, as always, the Coles-mandated, ridiculous 1920s-style chauffeur attire. “Poppa Dozen. Coles’s driver.”

Ignoring my confession, Lee got up and stepped to the TV. “That’s a class-A fuckup right there. His driver’s blocking the point bodyguard’s line of sight.” He outlined Coles’s protection detail in diamond formation from amidst the sea of citizens. Obvious from their black-suited, still bodies and swiveling heads. Lee shook his head. “One of the many reasons SWAT hates him.”

“Oh?”

“Coles’s private protective detail always changes on the fly—going places that haven’t been advanced. Extra people in the car, heading into the crowd to shake hands. Shit like that. Guy’s got a hard-on for screwing with the CPD.”

“But if he has a private detail—”

“CPD’s at the bottom of the food chain. SWAT recommends four snipers, Coles agrees to one. Then they hamstring him by demanding he follow Coles’s team lead’s directives. Asshole egomaniac won’t even wear a vest.”

“You sure?” I said. Coles seemed a bit meatier than normal. “Looks like he has one on today.”

“I’m guessing new team lead or viable death threat.”

I turned up the volume on the socialist pap Sean Hannity would be shredding in the following minutes. Coles stood at the podium, heiress wife, Zara, slightly behind his right side in a blush-colored Alexander McQueen pantsuit. The mayor raised his right fist, thumb tip up, gesturing for emphasis. “While my administration, in conjunction with the CPD, has made significant inroads into the criminal activity—”

Sure, you have.

“Golly,” I said, “you don’t think underreporting the number of homicides by incorrectly classifying sixteen percent as ‘death investigations’ had anything to do with it, do you?”

Lee opened another beer and handed it over. “Hard to build up momentum for a presidential run when you’re the mayor of Murder Capital, USA.”

Coles leaned over the podium in a sorrowful pose. “This weekend we witnessed yet another tragedy on our streets. The separate shooting deaths of not one, but two innocent teenagers and the wounding of a five-year-old boy in West Englewood. Our citizens deserve to live happy, healthy lives of opportunity. We must stop the lawless use of firearms!”

Blergehdy blerg blerg. I took a swig of beer.

“I’ve just signed a budget addendum,” the mayor said, “adding fifty badly needed patrol officers to impact zones on the South and West Side.”

The camera cut to a wide-angle crowd shot.

“But more than cops on the beat”—up came Coles’s fist for emphasis—“we need community action and stronger gun laws to take back our city.”

Yeah, because criminals really respond to stricter laws.

On-screen, a scrawny guy in a black polo shirt and khakis suddenly raised a fat black pistol. Coles stepped back from the podium, palms up.

Coles spun and dove on top of his wife, crashing them to the ground, covering her with his body a split second before the protective detail blanketed them.

The shooter landed two rounds into the podium as Poppa Dozen stepped behind the shooter, extended his arm, and blasted him in the back of the head with a shiny blue-black Taurus revolver.

The crowd erupted into an instant panic, scrambling and screaming.

Lee and I stared at each other. “Holy shit,” he said.

“Yeah.”

His phone was ringing and buzzing before the news crew synched up to replay the attempt.

“Lock it down,” Lee said into the phone. “I’ll be there in ten.” He turned to me. “Gotta go, Bae.”

Take me with you! “You do realize that Bae is Danish for ‘poop.’”

Lee shrugged a wide shoulder. “None of the other girls seem to mind.”

“Wow.” I nodded. “Now, that’s cute. Work pretty well for you?”

“It doesn’t hurt. . . .” Lee bent over and kissed me on the cheek. “Bless your little Irish heart, and every other Irish part.”

He chucked me under the chin and left.

The assassination attempt was on every website and television and radio station throughout the country and the world. Slo-mo of Coles protecting his wife. Over and over and over.

Uuuuuugh.

Karma wasn’t just lying down on the job; she was passed out on the floor letting Coles draw a permanent marker mustache on her face.

I couldn’t bear it a second longer and switched to Apple TV and Whitechapel on Prime.

Around eight forty-five, half-rock star, half-super-nerd Dr. Williams came in and gave me the less-than-stellar news that he was releasing me late that. . .