Choked Up (18 page)

Sunday afternoon, Hank still hadn't called or come by. And I was too chicken to call his office and talk to his sultry-voiced secretary.

Ragnar's blue pickup pulled into the driveway.

I leaned against the front door, took a couple of deep exhales, and went out to meet the Viking.

Lee Sharpe got out from behind the wheel. “Hey, baby.” He opened his arms for a hug.

I stepped in and gave him one. “Hiya. Where'd you get the wheels?”

He laughed. “Cash thought your pal Thor might want 'em back.”

“Ragnar.”

“Whatever.” He threw his arm around my shoulders. “Cash promised me beer and a ride home. How 'bout you take me?”

“Rain check.”

He put me in a mock headlock and mussed my hair. “You're killing me.”

We went into the great room. “What's your pleasure?”

“Anything American.”

I got a couple of Coors bottles from the wet bar. He reached over and took one from my hand. He clinked his bottle against mine, eyes dancing. “To rain checks.”

“How'd they stop the car, anyway?”

Lee leaned on the counter. “ESA S.Q.U.I.D. Blaster X-Net. Safe Quick Undercarriage Immobilization Device.” He mimed a 1.5-foot circle about six inches high with his hands. “I hit the remote and masses of webbed belts shoot up into the undercarriage, get twisted in the axles, and stop the wheels from turning.”

I frowned. “
You
hit the remote?”

“Well, sure.” He licked his top lip. “SWAT just got 'em in, so when Cash called and said he had a practical application opportunity, I said, why not?”

He crossed his muscular arms. “You're really not going to drive me home, are you?”

“Nope.” I smiled.

“What if I sweeten the deal with dinner at Everest?”

“Ooh. Swanky.” I pretended to think about it, then gave him the dead eye. “No dice.”

He liked that. A lot. In a player's perverse way where a “no” is more interesting than a “yes.”

Cash came in through the garage. “Hey, Lee, Maisie. Am I interrupting?”

Lee answered, “Yes.” At the same time I said, “No.”

Cash grabbed a beer. “Thanks for bringing the truck back, man.”

“No sweat. Took the grease monkeys a while to get the belts out, but damage free.” Lee shook his head. “Thirty mph and it locked him up before the end of the block. A winner.”

“Yeah.” Cash grinned at me. “Aw, man. You shoulda seen his face, Snap. Cripes, I never seen a guy so pissed.”

“Snap?” Lee gave me a quizzical look.

“As in
ginger
snap,” Cash supplied helpfully. “As in under all that blond she's a redhead.”

Lee pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

“What?” I said.

“You're hot as a blonde, but you'd
scorch
as a spitfire.”

Behind Lee's back, Cash pointed at him and gave me a thumbs-up.

 

Sunday night and everyone was out. The legal eagles stayed downtown, my parents were at another fund-raiser, Flynn and Rory were working, and Cash, Lee, and Koji opted for bar hopping. That left me, alone, watching
Once Upon a Time in the West,
unable to decide who I'd pick if I were Claudia Cardinale, Charles Bronson or Jason Robards.

The doorbell rang at 9:13 p.m.
Hank.

I turned off the TV, then went and opened the door.

He leaned against a post, not moving toward me, face a blank. “Wanna hit the cage?”

Batting cages?
“Uh . . . sure?”

“Hustle up.”

I trotted up the stairs to my bedroom, feeling like a whipped puppy.
No kiss, no hug, no smile, no nothing.

Hank was angry.

I swapped nude heels for black Keen tennis shoes and my Akris sleeveless leather tunic for an Angels jersey and hustled downstairs. Hank was waiting on the porch. He walked me to the G-Wagen and opened my door, closing it behind me.

No music. No talking.

No fun.

He merged onto the freeway and his phone chirped. He hit a button on the steering wheel. Speakerphone. “Yes?”

A heavy Italian accent asked, “Dis d'electrician?”

“Yes.”

“Eddie wants to know 'bout da problem.”

“No more destructive arcing,” Hank said.

“Whaddafuck you sayin'?”

“The choke coil. Tell him the choke's been clipped.” Hank disconnected.

I had so many questions that the different muscles in my face ticked independently.

He shot me a sideways glance. “Let it settle.”

“Fire away, Sport Shake.”

“You're not working for Eddie V.,” I said.

“No.” Hank adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “Notice anything?”

“Nooo,” I said slowly, once again proving I have the situational awareness of a dead bird.

“Your bodyguards retired this afternoon.”

Electric connections zapped through my synapses.
Mant is dead.

It was settled.

Hank took the job from Eddie at Constantino's bidding. To end Mant. Because Eddie couldn't control him. And the Don doesn't like loose cannons.

“Feel better?” Hank said.

My breath came out in a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Lots.” The innate cop in my DNA knew some mutts were meant to be put down. The only difference between me and my family? I honestly didn't care how it was done.

Hank drove the rest of the way to Scotty Jerome's Batting Cages. We listened to Cake while my mind kept spinning.

The parking lot was empty except for a single car. Hank parked in the far end, popped his seat belt, and turned in his seat. My mouth went dry.

“Wanna neck?” He grinned and pulled me to him.

He slid his hand up beneath my hair, fingers on the nape of my neck. He tugged me close and started kissing me. I went light-headed. The want, the black hot need for him, always just beneath the surface.

A lift and a jerk and I was in his lap, his hand sliding up my shirt, my back arching involuntarily. His fingers brushed across the devil's paper cut.

I sucked in my breath.

He lifted my shirt.

“What's this?”

“Jeff Mant's parting gift.”

He eased my shirt back down and cupped my face in his hands. “Let's go.”

 

“Can you still hit?” Hank asked, giving a nod to Scotty, who went and unlocked the door to the cages.

“My swing wasn't much before, so I doubt it'll be worse than usual.”

There are some sports you take to naturally, instinctively. And others, where no matter how long and hard you try, you'll never top mediocre. As far as baseball went, I was doomed to stat-geek—memorizing batting averages, RBIs, and box scores and eating hot dogs.

Hank went first. Swinging loose and easy, taking ten pitches at a time, ramping up from 50 to 85 in 5 mph increments.

I watched him from outside the fence, fingers twined in the chain link, forehead on the cool steel.

Over and over, his shoulders bunched, body tensed as he hit launch position, the millisecond just before the bat began to move forward.

His swing was smooth, consistent, powerful. The stride and rotation of his hips, the ultimate mastery of repeatable motion. Each ball seemed to warp on his bat as he hit the sweet spot again and again.

I could have watched him all night.

“Your turn.”

I entered the cage and took the bat. Hank set the articulated arm in motion at 45 mph and joined me. “Okay, Slugger. Eye on the ball.”

I
ting
-ed the first one up into the ceiling netting.
Damn.

It's all in the eyes. Almost all professional athletes have substantially better vision than the average population. They have a wider peripheral field, have better depth perception, can change focus faster, and have greater contrast sensitivity. Hank had the vision and the hand-eye coordination of a professional athlete.

Graced with the peepers of a mere mortal, I, however, whiffed and whiffed often. I choked up on the bat.

Hank said from behind the plate, “I want you to quit.”

“Quit what?” I said and actually connected, knocking out a second-rate line drive.

“Everything.”

I glanced back at him, then back to the pitching machine, just in time to
ting
the next pitch off the end of my bat into the ground three feet in front of me. “What?”

“Quit.”

I swung and missed. “And do what?”

“Nothing.”

I squared up my stance and took a good look at the machine. “Why?”

“Would a ring and a license help?”

Another ball whizzed past my shoulder. My mouth dropped open. The bat fell from my nerveless fingers as I spun to face him, stars in my eyes.

“Doesn't matter either way,” he said.

He bolted at me, shot his hand out, and caught the ball zooming toward the back of my head with a
smack
.

I goggled at him.

“Situational awareness, Peaches.” Hank tugged me by the front of my shirt across the plate.

“Thanks.” I tried to blink the haze away. “Does it sting?”

“No.” His mouth quirked up at the corner.

And as I looked up into the face of the man I loved beyond all reason, I realized he hadn't actually asked me to marry him. He'd asked if a ring and a license
would help
.

The fact that Hank would marry me to fulfill my need—that he didn't care one way or another—wasn't wonderful.

It was a baseball bat to the chest.

A ball smacked against the netting.

I needed him to
want
to marry me.

And he didn't.

I tucked my hair behind my ears. I was the only team member the BOC had in place with Stannislav Renko. And this was my shot. My chance to prove to my family, Hank, and most of all myself, that I had what it took to be a cop.

“Maisie?” Hank said.

I shook my head. “No. I don't think it'd help right now.”

 

Hank drove us home to his house, completely unaffected by the shooting down of his potential marriage vow.

The pain of telling him “no,” however, had turned my rib cage into a NuWave infrared oven, roasting my heart from the inside out.

We entered the house. “Drink?” he said. “Or Vanilla Swiss Almond?”

“Ice cream, definitely.”

He got a fork, a spoon, and a tub of Häagen-Dazs. But instead of heading toward me and the couch, he disappeared down the hallway toward his bedroom. “C'mere.”

I trotted after him into the bathroom. He started kissing me, backing me slowly into the cabinets. When I bumped up short, his hands slid to my waist and without stopping, set me up on the counter.

He broke away to hand me a fork—because the part I like best are the chocolate-covered almonds—and opened the ice cream.

In between bites and deliciously chilly kisses, I wound my legs around his hips. He slid my shirt up. I raised my arms and he tugged it over my head.

He undid my bra with one hand and eased it off. He ate another spoon of ice cream, twisting the spoon so it rested against the roof of his mouth, and bent his head to get a closer look at the stubborn monkey-blood dye that stained my skin. He set the spoon on the counter. “Is that . . . Mercurochrome?”

“Merthiolate,” I said.

“They quit selling that in the States, Angel Face, about the time you were born.”

“Oh?”

“Contains mercury.”

“Who's the doc?” His mouth turned in a wry smile. “Not many prefer merthiolate over bacitracin.”

I tried to smile but couldn't. He was so close, I couldn't think . . .

“Cat got your tongue?” Hank growled into my ear before nipping the shell. “Maybe I'll just suck the name right out of your mouth.”

He kissed me then. Expertly, ruthlessly, and I thought I might drown. I wanted him to want me with the same aching desperation. “Hank—”

“Shhh.” He laid a finger across my lips. “You're allowed a secret or two.”

His pale, almost colorless eyes had gone steely and cold. The faintest hint of gray-blue washed to nothing. I tried to swallow and couldn't.

“It was painful,” he said in a reassuring voice.

I cocked my head, face scrunched up in a squint.

Hank rasped his scruffy chin down my bare shoulder. Shivers cascaded down my spine. “He took a good long while to die.”

I woke up at five o'clock. Just because Leticia transferred me to desk duty didn't mean my body knew it. Hank was already out of bed. I took a shower, taking extra time getting ready for work. I put on my uniform. I'd rather trash it than my street clothes in the Mold Central file room. Not to mention I'd be a constant reminder to Leticia of her lost quota, as well as a not-so-subtle irritation to the PEAs that I was still one of them.

Three hours before I had to be at work. And I had plenty to do with the time.

I walked down the hall and heard him in his office, talking on the phone.

Opting for what military camouflage experts call “maximum disruptive contrast,” I unbuttoned the top three buttons of my uniform shirt. Underneath I was wearing a La Perla robin's egg–blue lace push-up bra and matching hi-rise bikini panties. Courtesy of Hank, as I myself would not shell out three bills for any two pieces of underwear that didn't actively transform me into a size 00, big-breasted Playmate.

I lounged provocatively against the door frame to the office.

His voice was discordant and deep. “
Devushka beda. I beda ne prikhodit odna.
”

Beda
was Russian for trouble. The only word I'd learned from our cleaning lady. Hank'd said it twice.

“
Da . . . khorosho.
” He hung up and winked at me. “C'mere, you.”

“Russian, huh?” I sidled around the desk. “What I don't know about you could fill a Kindle.”

I hiked a hip onto the desk. “Enlighten?”

“You know everything that matters, Peaches,” Hank translated. He put his hands on my thighs. “Sleep well?”

“Funny you should ask.” I picked up the sugar-free Amp on his desk and took a sip. “I was having the most amazing dream about unicorns and candy mountains and . . . suddenly I was being mauled by a bear.”

“Yeah?” His mouth quirked at the corner.

I grinned back. “Then it got really good.”

He pushed my left leg wide, opened the desk drawer, and removed a black binder–clipped sheaf of papers and handed them to me.

“What's this?”

Hank smiled, teeth optic white against his morning shadow. I went light-headed at the sight. “Wilhelm.”

Wilhelm was one of Hank's spoils of war. He'd found his butler chained up in a cellar during a cartel “cleaning” expedition in Colombia. Savaged by his imprisonment, Wilhelm had a pathological fear of human company. Hank was the only person he could bear.

And because Hank was cooler than liquid nitrogen at Ice Station Zebra, he gave Wilhelm the run of his property down to every last minute detail.

I'd never met him.

I flipped through ten pages of the single-spaced questionnaire. It started with food allergies, preferred vegetables, meats, styles of cuisine . . .

I paged through fill-in-the-blank personal preferences from soap to pens to makeup to political affiliations and sports teams. Investigative journalists had nothing on this guy.

It would take hours to fill it out.

Which meant . . . Hank was serious, in his own way.

My mouth went as dry as if I'd swallowed a handful of silica gel. I tipped my head and batted my eyelashes, trying to beat back the rising flood.
How exactly am I supposed to hide the fact that I'm an undercover cop from the dark horse love of my life?
“This is . . . wow.”

“I don't want a housewife. I want you at hand.”

I tapped the questionnaire against my palm. “Hank, I—I need to go home.”

“You live here,” he said, pleasantly.

“Darlin',” I said, feeling my voice twang into the McGrane brothers' patented “let you down easy” Western drawl. “I need to make things right with Da. I had less than two days when you were in Honduras. And I couldn't think straight with Mant on the loose. I need to suck it up and see what I can salvage, for my family's sake.”

“Okay.” Hank shrugged. “One month.”

“Huh?”
What the what?
“Wait—”

“One month to square things. Then you quit and live here.”

He glanced at his watch. “Still early. Stella's Diner?” He jerked me forward to the edge of the desk. “Or a good morning mauling?”

I opted for maul.

 

My new Challenger Hellcat sure pissed off Chen. “You think you
Breaking Bad,
now,
Sanlu?
With your fancy muscle car?”

“I'm one hundred percent bad
ass,
Chen.”

“Heh!” He spat out the window and hit the gate.

I clocked in and trotted down to Leticia's office. Her door was closed. Muffled but raucous laughter came from inside. I knocked.

“C'mon in.”

I opened the door. Leticia, squeezed into a blue mini-dress so tight it looked like a giant blood pressure cuff, sat behind her desk. Cozied up at one end was Stannis's head gorilla.

“Good morning?” I said cautiously.

“And a damn fine one it is, too, McGrane. Sit your lily white onion down.” She gestured toward me with a croissant. “Told you, Renko. Kid's always early.”

Stannis stepped from behind the door, closing it behind me. “Good morning,
mali anđeo.
” He kissed my cheek.

“Come.” We took the two seats opposite Leticia and Gorilla.

The three of them were eating chocolate croissants on thick white napkins and drinking coffee out of white cardboard cups with the distinctive dark brown and gold logo of HendrickX Belgian Bread Crafter.

Stannis handed me a cup.

“Oh no—” Before I could say I didn't drink coffee, he said, “Is chocolate.”

I took the cup, flattered and uneasy at the same time. “Thank you.”

“See? I told you.” Leticia gave a flirtatious shimmy to Gorilla.

“Girl don't drink coffee.” She waved an airbrushed rainbow nail in an S shape at me. “Show the man your brekkie, McGrane.”

Stannis set his cup down on the end table. I pulled a Quest protein bar from my cargo pants pocket and handed it to him. He turned it over in his hands. “This?”

“Yes.”

He opened the wrapper and took a bite. At the second chew he snapped his fingers. Gorilla picked up Leticia's trash can and held it in front of him. To Leticia's whoop of delight, Stannis spat the mouthful into the can. The rest of the bar followed. “No. This for animal.”

“Go on, now.” Leticia folded her arms beneath her breasts, giving Gorilla an eye-popping view. “I'm waitin'.”

“A woman in love does many things she say she will never do.” Stannis raised his chocolate-cherry croissant to my mouth.

I took a bite. It was, as I knew from experience, decadently delicious. Bready and dark with a tang of cherry. It was almost impossible not to inhale the rest of it out of his hand.

Leticia grunted in disgust. “You got it bad, kid.”

Stannis handed me a croissant and a napkin. Then he took two tickets to the Oriental Theatre out of his suit coat pocket and set them on the desk.

“No way, no how. A bet's a bet.” Leticia fanned herself with a napkin. “Can't take that.”

“But you win two. I win only one.” Stannis looked askance at me. “No opera for her.”

“Now that, I believe. McGrane wouldn't know music if it crawled up her shoulder and spat in her ear.” The tickets disappeared into the top drawer of her desk.

“You are desirable woman, Miss Jackson,” Stannis said. “You know love, yes?”

She leaned back in her chair, cast the Gorilla with an appraising once-over before half-closing her brown eyes in suspicion. “I've known some fine men.”

“I am not always in your country. I want Maisie all times when I am here.” He gave her a 150-watt smile.

Leticia nodded slowly, sucking in her cheeks. “You after vacay for McGrane.”

My brain felt like ice in a blender. If Stannis cut me from the herd of daily life, how could I report to the BOC, keep the parking enforcement agent evidence-gathering program going, and most importantly, maintain my cover story for Hank and the clan?

“I don't have any vacation time,” I chirped up.

“No. You don't.” Leticia carefully repositioned Rush Limbaugh's photograph on the corner of her desk. “You been shining me on all morning, Renko. And thass just a hundred kinds of wrong.”

“No.” Stannis gestured to me, rotated his fingers. “What is for not pay?”

“Unpaid leave of absence?” I said hoarsely.

“Yes.” Stannis straightened the crease on his suit pants. “That.”

A dark chortle burst from Leticia's bright red lips. “You're outta your goddamn mind.”

Gorilla reached over and put his hand over hers. “Miss Jackson, is far better to be friend of Mr. Renko than enemy.”

Leticia yanked her hand away. “Hands off the merchandise.”

Gorilla showed his hands, leaned back, and undid the button of his suit coat. It fell open, exposing the butt of the handgun in his shoulder holster.

“What the hell, McGrane?” Leticia scooted her desk chair forward and gestured at the men with her left hand. “Runnin' with these jaw-jappin' mofos.” With her right, she pulled her own piece from beneath her seat in one well-practiced motion. She pointed the S&W .38 Special at Stannis's chest.

“You surprise me, Miss Jackson.” His eyes crinkled in delight. “Lady John Wayne.”

“I'm goddamn Dirty Harriet, boy.”

Stannis was unperturbed. “Ivanović is bodyguard. Has conceal carry permit. You, I think, do not.”

Leticia's head and shoulders began a slow cobra sway. “You in my office, askin' a favor by threatening me?”

“No. That choice you make.” Stannis's promise was as crude as pig iron.

Her hand trembled ever so slightly.

Shite.
“Leticia?” I said, giving her an almost-imperceptible head shake and an out. “I'm sure Stannis has no idea what he's asking.”

“You think I click my heels and she's on unpaid leave?” She sniffed and set the gun down. “Hell no. Girl needs doctor's agreement and TEB authorization.”

Gorilla removed a paper from his jacket and set it in front of Leticia. “Medical excuse.”

“Best of luck with the authorization. Ain't no way, no how that's ever gonna happen. Kid's on office duty because she booted the mayor's car. Shit rolls downhill, my friend.”

Stannis was on his phone before she even finished. “Call Talbott,” he commanded his iPhone. He moved around behind my chair, leaned down, and put the phone between our ears.

Leticia's eyes narrowed. She couldn't hear it, but she trusted me.

A buzz, then, “Mayor Coles's office. How may I help you?”

“Stannislav Renko.”

The polite voice stiffened into immediate deference. “One moment please, sir.”

“Stannis!” Talbott Cottle Coles's voice boomed through the phone. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“Are you alone?” Stannis said.

“No. Hang on.” The muffled sound of a hand over the receiver, followed by Coles's shout, “All of you, get the fuck outta my office. Yesterday!” Commotion. Then, in an oozing throb, he was back on. “Hey there, guy.”

“I need favor.”

“Name it.”

“I was getting parking tick—”

“Those fucking meter maids! I swear to Christ—Just have one of your boys drop it off at City Hall.”

“No.” Stannis's mouth tipped in a clever smirk. “I call because I'm getting ticket and woman in uniform stops the ticket. You know why?”

Coles laughed. “Absolutely not.”

“She knows my car from outside City Hall.”

“It's not there as often as I'd like it,” Coles said.

I gave a slight shudder.

“The midnight blue, she says.” Stannis tipped his head against mine. “You are right. Is more distinctive than black.”

“Goes better with your eyes, too.”

I had no beef with Stannis's lifestyle. Just who he was life-styling it with—the Slime King of Corruption.

“So,” Coles said, “what kind of favor would you like?”

Stannis ignored the flirt. “Letter for woman and supervisor. To show you appreciate public worker using mind.”

“Sure, whatever you want. Are we still on for tonight? Atlantis at eleven o'clock?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I'll send you back to Julie. She'll type up whatever you like.”