Choked Up (4 page)

Stannis's blue eyes were electric on mine. “So am I.”

After Stannis and his gorillas drove away, I got in the Interceptor, locked the doors, and forced myself to take two full minutes of deep breaths, trying to get the rusty gears of rational thought to mesh together for a tactical response.

On the plus side, I now knew what the killer looked like. Minus side, he was using me as leverage against Hank. And he was as brazen as a devil in the Delta.

I realized I wasn't going to get any calmer and called in.

“Mr. Bannon's office,” the secretary answered in her languorous drawl. “How may I help you, Ms. McGrane?”

“I need to speak with him.”

“I apologize. That's not possible. Mr. Bannon is still in-country. Two hours and three minutes until he's able to receive messages.”

A bark of laughter escaped my throat. “Great.”

“Level of urgency?”

For me? Off the freaking charts. For Hank? I was, after all, fine.
“Low to moderate.”

“Ms. McGrane, the vocal imprint system is detecting a significant amount of stress in your speech. Mr. Bannon has several assets on retainer I can make immediately available to you at this time.”

Assets? More like associates. Cripes. This was getting worse by the second.
“Um, no thanks.”

“Your message?” Her soft lilt turned metallic. I'd be leaving one or else.

“Please tell Mr. Ba—er, Hank, I met the guy who left the message yesterday and I'm staying at my parents.” I hung up before she smooth-talked me into more trouble.

 

I drove all the way back to the Traffic Enforcement Bureau lot, surfing the panic wave, head swiveling like an owl on Adderall. Inside the barbed-wire, camera-laden, armed-guarded parking enforcement lot, I started to relax. Slightly.

I hosed down the Interceptor, so the cart dogs wouldn't be scrubbing egg adhesive all night, then went inside the office, got a Coke from the vending machine, and sat down to write up my reports.

The pink Interceptor accident form was first. I wrote it up, tucked it in my pocket, and started on the incident report. But Gap Tee getting the jump on me was pretty much all I could think about. It took forever and an hour to fill in the short worksheet and describe the idiotic band of feathered hoodie wearers' egging.

A hand slapped down on the table across from me. “You wanna 'splain that Code Blue recall, McGrane?” I looked up. Leticia Jackson's four-eleven bulk loomed over me, an open sack of Cheetos clutched in her hand.

“I panicked.”

“Bullshit.” My stubby supervisor rolled her eyes in disbelief. “A Code Blue's a three-day mandatory leave. Why you go mess up an all-paid vaycay?”

“Because taking a ration of shit from my brothers for the rest of my life is definitely not worth it.”

Leticia gave a musical titter and in a surprisingly deft motion pulled the chair back with her foot as she swept her hand across the table, snagged the report, and sat down. She tipped her head back and poured in a mouthful of Cheetos. Crunching, she scanned the form. “Don't see no mention of the B-A-D, McGrane.”

“The what?”

“Big ass dent in the hood o' your Interceptor.”

“Yeah. That's on me.”
When my spin kick missed Gap Tee by a country mile.
I removed the pink accident form from my pocket and handed it across. “Dock me. It wasn't part of the egging. I did it.”

She snickered. “With what? Your imagination? Your tiny white onion couldn't make a dent in a cardboard box.”

“I . . . uh, kicked it.”

“What, you take a ka-rah-tay class after work and now you think you some kinda Bruce Lee ninja?” Before I could answer she tore the pink form in half, took a pen from her shirt pocket and clicked it three times. “Get me a Kit Kat. Those hoodie motherfuckers are gonna take the heat on this.”

I returned with a candy bar and a Dr Pepper. Leticia stood up and gathered the snacks and the incident report to her chest. “Go on home and rub a lil' Vaseline on your behind, McGrane.”

“Huh?”

She laughed. “Must be chappin' your ass not to pay for that dent.”

I watched her strut to the locker room, wondering where the hell she got the idea that I was some kind of saint, seeing as I was about to lie like a legless dog to my entire family.

Still, $150 not docked from my soon-to-be final paycheck. Not everything about the day sucked monkey balls.

The iPhone chirped. A text from Hank's office.

 

 

An overwhelming sense of relief washed over me, leaving me loose-limbed and determined to prove to Hank I could play it smart and take care of myself. Which meant I had to leave the Accord, arm up, and never be alone.

I got my gear and called my youngest older brother Cash for a ride home. Because if a girl isn't safe in a house full of cops and lawyers with semiautomatic weapons, where is she really?

A bright yellow Ford Mustang pulled up in front of the Parking Enforcement office. Subterranean Ska blasted through the stereo, the bass shaking the windows. A younger, rowdier carbon copy of Flynn and Rory leaned out the window. “Cash's Taxi Service.”

I got in. “Thanks.”

“What's wrong with the wheels?”

“Something wasn't quite right!” I yelled, knowing better than to ask him to turn it down. “I didn't want to risk driving it!”
Mostly true.

Cash lowered the volume. “Why? Was there a body on it, too?”

“Funny.”

“ 'Fess up. You wanted an armed escort.”

“What can I say?” I fastened my seat belt. “I think security guard and you're the first one to come to mind.”

“Ba-da-bum.
Chshhh
.” He hit my head at his cymbal clash. “So was it bad or really bad?”

“Moderate blood. Above-average gore. It wouldn't make the Top Twenty or anything.”

“Didja recognize him?”

“No.” I sighed and lied, “Neither would Hank. Just another random Chicago snuff that keeps us America's Murder Capital.”

“I hear that's what Detective Forman thinks, anyway. So—” He tagged me in the shoulder with a playful punch. “Where to? James Bond's super-secret hideout?”

“Home, Jeeves.”

He nodded, a self-satisfied look on his face. “About time.”

“Don't.”

“Don't what?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Start on Hank.”

“Christ, I wasn't about to. Last time I looked in the mirror I wasn't Da or Flynn or Rory pissing on your leg just because you got a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, well—”

“Bannon's a stand-up guy. I'm cool with him.”

Whoa.
“Sorry.”

“You should be.” Cash's jaw edged forward. “You're killing Da, Maisie.”

“Hardly.”

He shook his head. “You gonna nurse this grudge into the ground or what?”

Great. Cash, once firmly on my side, was now sliding traitorously toward Team Family Unity.
“I wouldn't get too cocky if I were you. Da waited until the last minute to stick the knife in my back. You're not wearing a SWAT uniform yet, cowboy.”

“Wanna bet?” He grinned. “My transfer's official next week. The delay was all on Vice's end. They begged SWAT for one more month of Cash McGrane's patented mayhem arrest magic.”

“That's terrific. I'm really happy for you.”

He glanced at me, waiting for a punch line that didn't come. “Uh . . . thanks.”

“You bet.” I closed my eyes and chewed the insides of my cheeks.
My God, if he knew—hell, if they all knew—I was BOC, they'd explode like Roman candles dipped in kerosene.

Cash, hoping I was considering forgiving Da, decided to keep his mouth shut. We drove the rest of the way home thinking our own thoughts.

He hit the clicker for our security gate and drove in.

No cars in the driveway. Which didn't mean much. With five older brothers, there were always a couple malingering about. Cash pulled into his stall. Mom's Jag, and Da's Mercedes were there, but their date-night Aston Martin was gone. The other stalls were empty.

My shoulders sagged in relief. For once, no one was home.

“You wanna put on a headset, knock back some beers, and play a lil'
Halo
or
MOH Warfighter
?”

“Rain check?”

Cash snorted in disgust. “Wuss. Whatevs.”

We got out of the car. I left him monkeying with his gear and went inside. Mom had left a note on the kitchen counter.

I bypassed dinner, snagged a tub of Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond from the freezer, and went directly to bed.

 

The iPhone buzzed under my pillow. Instantly awake, I swiped the screen. Hank was two hours and thirty-three minutes early.

“Did he hurt you?” His voice was barely audible over the
whump-whump-whump
of helicopter blades.

“No.” My heart started pumping double-time at the sound of his voice. “But he was going to.”

“Appearance?”

“White, brown and brown, six feet, one-eighty. Fit, fast. No identifying marks.”

“Exact words?”

“ ‘Hank and I used to share everything.' ” My airway narrowed. “And . . . ‘I'll leave you recognizable.' ”

“Stay in the house until I come for you.”

“I can't.”

The rhythmic drone of the helicopter filled the silence. Hank and I were walking the wire. Always. Da and my brothers were just waiting for a slipup. Me staying home for no apparent reason was raw meat in the tiger's cage.

He cursed under his breath. “Two men will arrive within the hour. One you'll see.”

And one I won't.
“Okay.”

“And, Peaches? Wear your Glock.”

3:02 a.m., a faded blue, janky Ford pickup covered in duct tape parked under a streetlight across from our gated driveway.

I pulled on some sweats and snuck downstairs into the kitchen. Nothing garners goodwill like a bribe. Into a paper grocery sack went a couple of Red Bulls, a Coke, a Gatorade, three PowerBars, a big bag of Fritos, and a turkey sandwich. I turned off the alarm and slipped outside to meet my new shadow.

I knocked on the bed of the pickup before approaching the driver's side.

An enormous man with shoulder-length blond hair cranked down the window. “Maisie McGrane.”

“Yep.”

He leaned his shaggy head out the window. A ragged scar ran down his cheek into a neck of shiny, puckered skin. “What's up?”

“Nothing.” I held out the grocery bag. “I appreciate you being here.”

He took it and threw me a two-finger salute. “Randolph Acrey. Everyone calls me—”

“Ragnar.”

He looked inside the bag and nodded. “Fuck me,” he breathed. “Thanks!”

“How would you feel about giving me a ride around oh-five-thirty? I'll buy you brekkie.”

Ragnar nodded. “Cool.”

“Great. Thanks.” With a wave, I scooted back into the house, reset the alarm, and went back to bed, patting myself on the back over the first step toward keeping my family as deep in the dark as a Russian sub in the Bering Strait.

 

Ragnar liked 7-Eleven breakfast burritos, country music, Descartes, lutefisk, Dana Perino, and dropping the f-bomb every third word. “You get up this early every fuckin' day?”

“Nope.” I chugged down a third of my second sugar-free Amp. “Do you?”

He unwrapped another breakfast burrito. “Only for Bannon.”

“Very often?”

Ragnar shook his finger. “Off-limits,” he said around another mouthful of burrito.

My Viking companion had the wily skill set of a back-alley lawyer. Mom would adore him. In the hour we'd been sitting in the 7-Eleven parking lot, the only useful information I'd been able to glean was that he had no idea who Gap Tee was.

He gave me an appreciative glance. “You two pretty serious, huh?”

Forget flowers and candy. Nothing says I love you like a double tap.
“What makes you say that?”

“I don't work cheap.” Ragnar put the last of the burrito in his mouth. “You ready?”

“Sure.”

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, turned up Lynda Kay's “Jack & Coke,” and started the truck.

The energy drinks had all the impact of warm milk. I closed my eyes, leaned back against the headrest, and dozed off.

“Hey.” Ragnar shook my shoulder with a massive paw. “We're here.” He put the truck in Park. I sat up, flipped down the passenger-side vanity mirror, daubed on some lip gloss, reached for the door, and stopped short. We were in the circular drive of an industrial building. A beige and white sign read
Silverthorn Estates Assisted Living. A Celebration of Senior Life
.

What the—?
I snuck a peek at the back of Sawyer's business card. This was the place, all right.

“You carrying?” he said.

“Yeah.” The Kimber Solo in my FlashBang bra holster, while undetectable beneath my navy Tahari suit coat, felt like it weighed thirty pounds. The holster was a birthday present from my brothers, who thought it was hilarious. They wouldn't be laughing now.

I hopped out. “My friend . . .” I jerked a thumb at the building and raised a shoulder. “I'm not sure how long I'll be.”

“Fuck, kid.” Ragnar ran a hand through his tangled blond hair. “I got nothing but time.”

 

The inside of Silverthorn Estates was just like any other upscale Swedish-style medical facility. Light and airy with blond wood, stainless-steel railings, and terrazzo floors. Six thirty a.m. and the place was a bustling hive of activity. Staff members in solid jewel-tone scrubs with silver name badges wove in and out of groups of cheerful, well-coiffed seniors in various stages of decrepitude.

I waited in line at the reception desk. A woman in a bureaucratic gray suit greeted me. “Good morning.”

“I have a six forty-five with Danny Kaplan.”

“Yes.” She gave me a practiced smile. “Welcome to Silverthorn Estates, Ms. McGrane.” She typed rapidly into the computer. “I see the Kaplan estate has granted you unlimited family access. Please step this way.”

I walked around the arc of the desk to a small alcove where a tan
X
had been painted on the floor. “Stand on the
X
please. Look up and smile.”

I did. She snapped a picture and then spun the monitor in my direction. “Is this satisfactory?”

I nodded.

She returned to the computer and typed, talking nonstop. “Here at Silverthorn Estates, we strive to provide a high-security concierge experience for our guests. Our facility consists of five floors of ten wings of guests and a state-of-the-art in-house emergency operating room with helipad. Aside from providing a full physical rehabilitation center, we have a pool, spa, various outdoor courts, and we sponsor an ever-changing variety of off-campus activities.”

I yawned discreetly into my fist.

She ran a plastic card through a couple of machines, continuing her recitation. “Each floor has its own recreational and dining facilities. Each wing is named after a precious stone and is color-coded both by door, floor tile, and staff uniform for ease of recognition. Ruby, sapphire, emerald, and so on. Each wing, as well as individual apartments, are accessible only by key card.” She affixed my ID card to a lanyard, handed it to me, and smiled. “Danny Kaplan resides on the fifth floor in our Onyx wing.”

I put the lanyard over my head.

“As today is your first day, floor nurse Erickson will arrive shortly and give you a tour of the facility. From then on, as long as the estate agrees, you may come and go as you please.”

“Okay. Thanks very much.”

“Our cappuccino coffee bar is complimentary.” She pointed across the lobby with one hand and waved the next guest forward with the other. “You look a bit peaked, Ms. McGrane.”

Gee, thanks.
I stepped out of the way. More caffeine was the last thing I needed. My face was already itching from too many energy drinks. I snagged one of the few empty armchairs in a sunshine yellow grouping and waited.

And waited. Knee bouncing, fingers drumming.

This had to be one of the smartest “drops” ever. The perfect place for regular or sporadic visitors. Checking on an elderly relative was definitely low on the list of suspicious behaviors.

A well-dressed older woman sitting next to me gave me a sympathetic smile, reached over, and patted my arm. “Relax, dear. Remember them as they were, but accept them as they are today.”

Is she on the game?
“I beg your pardon?”

“Onyx.” She pointed at the black square on my ID card. “The Alzheimer's and Dementia wing.” She shook her head and
tsked
. “Black. Such an unfortunate choice of color.”

“It certainly is.” I picked up a pamphlet, putting an end to chatter. A new pal wasn't part of my cover. Not yet, at least.

I watched the rainbow of nurses and aides and tried to fall asleep. A petite, curvy, Italian-looking woman in solid black scrubs stopped next to my chair. “McGrane? You're up.” She spun on her little rubberized clogs and took off.

I trotted after her into the southern elevator bay. “Onyx, huh? A little somber.”

“It's all subliminal, you know? We chose it because the last color old bones want to be around is black. Reminds them of funeral homes and last rites.” She walked to the farthest elevator. “This is ours.” She waved her card past the elevator button. It opened instantly. “Move it.”

I hustled after her, the doors closing almost before I was inside.

“Silverthorn general staff and patrons are unaware of our existence. Your ID has a microchip that activates this elevator and this one only.” The nurse put a fist on her hip. “Every elevator car will get you to the fifth floor with your ID, but use only this one.”

“Okay.”

“You paying attention? This is important.”

I nodded.

“Swipe your ID card and press the 4 and 5 buttons together. That means your car is not compromised and you go straight to the fifth floor. If you swipe and press only 5, we receive a message that your car is compromised and prepare accordingly. Understand?”

“Got it,” I said.

“Yeah? 'Cause it's a real pain in the ass when you forget.” She pointed to a tiny strip of lights in the corner. “See that blinking light?”

A tiny light near the ceiling blinked twice, then paused, then twice again. I nodded.

“The scanners picked up two weapons.” She stared at me. “I know I'm carrying.”

“Me, too.”

“What and where?”

“Kimber. Bra holster.”

“Yeah?” She squinted at my chest. “How do you like it?”

“Okay.” I flipped my hand back and forth. “I haven't had a reason to justify getting my jackets recut.”
Until now.
“You?”

“Ankle holster. Out of reach of the old bones. God knows the boobs aren't.” She laughed and held out her hand. “Detective Anita Erickson, RN. Welcome to the BOC.”

I shook it and the doors opened.

“Got your wits about you?” Anita waved her ID at the sensor in front of a pair of black steel doors and hit the round Door Open button with a hip. “Let's go see the Scorpion.”

An elderly woman scooted past us, zipping for the door, propelling her wheelchair with fancy velvet-slippered feet. Anita caught one of the wheelchair handles just as the woman jammed her cane between the steel doors. “Not so fast, Lady Elaine.” She jerked the chair around and gave Elaine, her cane, and her chair a shove toward the nurses' station.

“C'mon.” Anita's clogs squeaked on the industrial flecked high-gloss linoleum. An old man in pajamas scolded an invisible truant.

Special Unit clearly preferred live window dressing.

We stopped at the end of the hall. She knocked and we waited a five-count until a small red light above the door turned white. She slid her card through the sensor and pushed open the door. “Look sharp, Grims! New blood walking.”