by Janey Mack
“Who?”
“Tommy Narkinney. Oh my God! The guy. The Union guy I sapped at the photo shoot. The Ferret. He tried to kill me—with a Jeep!”
“Say again.”
“Ferret! Idiot Narkinney should’ve been here after I called him and—”
“Maisie.”
I looked down at my skinned knees peeking through the torn polyester-blend cargo pants. They were shaking.
“Cripes, Hank. A freaking Suzuki Samurai. He tried to kill me with a goddamn high-school shop project! He missed and hit the cart and Niecy’s hurt and they’re Jaws-of-Lifeing the Interceptor and—”
“It’s going to take me two hours to get to the police station.”
“Okay okay okay,” I said. “Jaysus! I’m gonna tear Narkinney’s goddamn head off—”
“Maisie!”
My spew of chatter ceased.
“Do not say a single word. No name, rank, and serial number bullshit. Nothing. Can you do that?”
I nodded furiously at the phone.
“Maisie? Say yes.”
“Yes.”
“Not another word.”
He hung up. I switched my phone off and put it away.
The driver’s door opened. Narkinney got in behind the wheel. He cracked his knuckles in that riffling fist-at-a-time way and caught my eye in the rearview. “Now would be a good time to call your daddy, Maisie-Daisy.”
You’d love that, wouldn’t you? I ducked my head and latched the seat belt. Hank’s Law Number Ten: Keep your mouth shut.
Peterson got in, smelling of onions, Afta, and dirty socks. “Where we takin’ her?”
“To the station,” Narkinney said. “Where else?”
Keeping your mouth shut is surprisingly hard to do. Especially when you’re trying to come down off a fight-or-flight adrenaline overload. Tommy knew it, and revved his sweet self up to moderate dick, laying out some easy lines that were hard to pass up.
I thought about what Hank told me. Nothing different from what anyone in my family would have said to anyone in the squeeze. Still, I wasn’t the one in the vise....
I sat for thirty-five minutes on a chilly metal folding chair in a squalid interrogation room. Two hours till Hank was starting to seem like a Waiting for Godot retrospective.
I hadn’t made a sound.
Narkinney was fuming. Thoroughly pissed. Peterson couldn’t quite figure it out, staring across the steel table at me like I was some sort of circus freak.
The courtesy knock at the door didn’t help.
A uniformed officer ushered in a slim, six-foot-four, redheaded, freckle-faced man-boy, with an “aw-shucks” smile and laser-bright blue eyes.
“Good day, y’all. I’m Beau Stadum. Miz McGrane’s legal representation.”
“Huh?” Peterson said. Which was pretty much what I was thinking.
“I’m her lawyer.” His molasses-sweet Southern drawl thickened. He set his briefcase on the table. “Now, I just moved on up here from Alapaha, Georgia, an’ I’m findin’ y’all do things a lil’ bit different ’round these parts.”
“Yeah.” Tommy sat back and put his hands behind his head. Using a fair bit of restraint not to prop his feet up on the table. “Here in Chicago, witnesses don’t lawyer up.”
Beau didn’t seem to hear Narkinney. “Miz McGrane? Gracious! Are you shiverin’?”
Before I could decide if I was, he’d slipped out of his suit coat and slung it around my shoulders. The jacket was warm and carried the faint scent of pine needles.
“One o’ them cultural differences, I s’pose,” he said. “Down South, we don’t normally take a witness’s statement in an interrogation room, neither.”
“She hasn’t said a fucking word,” Peterson spat.
Beau smiled and squinted across the table at his nameplate. “Officer Peterson, is it? I thought I spied a couple of vending machines down at the end of the hall. Do y’all think you’d mind fetchin’ Miz McGrane a Coca-Cola?” He sat down next to me, removed his billfold and took out a couple of five-dollar bills. He set it on the table in front of Peterson. “Maybe bring back a round for us all?”
Peterson looked at Narkinney, then snatched the money and lumbered out of the interrogation room.
“Miz McGrane.” Beau eyed my ripped cargo pants and scraped hands. “Why, you sure do look all tore up.” He nodded at me slowly. Hypnotically. “Am I right in thinking you took a knock to the head in whatever altercation it was you witnessed, ma’am?”
I nodded.
“And not even a Band-Aid.” Beau shook his head and shifted his attention back across the table. “Funny thing ’bout cultural differences, Officer Narkinney. Down in the Peach State, we don’t take a shiverin’, tore-up, head-banged victim into an interrogation room to make a statement until she’s been seen by a trained medical professional. Why, I’ll wager my client’s suffering from a concussion and non-progressive shock at the very least.”
Tommy looked away, tongue popping out his cheek.
“I think we all know we’re done here.” Beau rose and helped me from my chair. “I’ll be damned if this ain’t exactly the kind of tiddlywinks that would stir up a hornets’ nest of unwanted media attention back home.” He opened the door for me. “Miz McGrane will make a statement next week. Y’all have a nice day, now.”
Peterson met us in the hallway, four cans of soda in his arms.
“Thank you kindly, Officer, but I’m afraid we can’t stay. Y’all enjoy those.” Beau raised his briefcase, effectively blocking Peterson from comment, guiding me toward the exit. “This way, ma’am.”
We rounded the corner. Beau smiled at me. “Good golly and a gray cat, it’s one of life’s simple pleasures working with a client who takes direction.”
I took his suit coat from my shoulders and handed it to him. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Miz McGrane.”
Hank stood waiting in the lobby. Beau met him with a two-handed handshake. “Bannon, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
“Appreciate this, Beau.” Hank put an arm around my shoulders.
“Nothing doing. Happy to be of service. This here gal’s tough as whit leather.”
“I owe you,” Hank said and we started toward the door.
Beau chuckled. “Y’all don’t be strangers now.”
The Super Bee was double-parked in front of the police station. No ticket.
Hank opened the passenger door and tucked me into the car. “Your partner’s going to be fine,” he said. “Northwestern Memorial. Broken wrist, broken femur, concussion. They’re keeping her over the weekend.”
I closed my eyes, feeling as wrung out as a Cello Mop. When I opened them, we were on the freeway.
“You all right, Buttercup?” A tic pulsed at the base of his jaw.
Not by a long shot. “Yeah,” I said, my voice weirdly hoarse. I rubbed my forehead.
“Sure you are.” He sliced across four lanes of traffic and hit the exit. Anger rippled off him in waves.
Hank marched me into his office, hooked an additional chair around the corner of his desk—a glass-topped airplane wing of a B-25 bomber—and sat me down in it. He flipped on a couple computer monitors and after several clicks and password entries, a program titled Solomon EFIT-V v5.6 popped up. “Ready?”
I felt grubby and sick. “For what?”
“To show me the guy who tried to kill you.”
Talk about a little perspective. Game face back on. Check.
The program was a marvel, really, generating sets of faces that progressively evolved as I answered Hank’s questions. “Wow,” I said.
“Yeah. EFIT’s effectiveness is based on recognition versus recall. The program corrects from the rejected features as well as the ones you’ve chosen.”
Within an hour, a disturbingly accurate composite photograph of the hired gun spat out of the printer. Ferret definitely hadn’t attended Nawisko’s memorial service.
Hank slipped the picture into a manila enve
lope and pulled open a drawer from the credenza behind us. A dozen cell phones were jumbled together. He selected one.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a phone call.” His face was stony. “Stay or stay blind. Up to you.”
I don’t know how to answer that.
He took pity on me. “Why don’t you go get us a beer? Take your time.”
It took me all the way to the kitchen to realize I wanted to stay. I ran-walked back two Buds. Hank had moved to the couch across the room. I sat down next to him. He reached over, twisted the tops off both beers, and took one.
“Okay.” He pressed Call on the cell, hit Speaker, and set it on the coffee table. It rang three times.
“What?” whined a male voice.
“I want to talk to Eddie.”
“Yeah? So does the president and my old lady. Who the fuck are you?”
“A friend of Vi’s.”
The voice sneered, “How friendly are you?”
“Not very. I’m the electrician.”
The attitude evaporated instantly. “One moment, please.” The phone muted.
Hank took a swallow of beer.
A click, then, “This is Eddie.”
“You got a live wire,” Hank said. “Needs to be grounded. Or clipped.”
“I didn’t think you black-bag boys worked local. Are you bidding the job?”
“No. I’m sending over a schematic.”
“And if I don’t want to fix it?”
“Up to you,” Hank said, “but it’s the kind of thing that can burn a house down.”
There was a pause. “Thanks. I’ll let Vi know you called.”
Cripes. Did I just wake up in a 1940s detective novel?
Hank flipped the phone over, pulled the SIM card, and snapped it in half.
I took a swig of beer, choked, and rested my elbows on my knees, trying not to look like the complete rube I was.
He put his hands on my shoulders and massaged my shoulder blades with his thumbs. It felt so good I started to pass out.
I let my head loll forward. “Oh my God!” I snapped upright. “I gotta call my mom.”
My mother answered on the second ring. “While I understand the difficulties of your situation and I appreciate Mr. Bannon’s keeping me abreast of what’s happening, I expect to hear from my baby’s own mouth that she is okay.”
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry. And I’m okay. Perfectly fine.” I prattled on, cringing at my inability to stop. “Great, in fact.”
“That’s nice for you, honey,” she said in a flat voice that made my stomach clench. “You do realize the rest of us are choosing up sides in the McGrane Civil War.”
“What?”
“Your father and I expect you tomorrow night. Whether or not you bring Mr. Bannon is up to you.”
I squinted at the clock. 2:37 a.m. “Hank?”
He padded out of the closet in jeans and a T-shirt. “Shhh.”
I was too sleepy to stop myself from asking questions. “Why are you up?”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and laced up his boots. “A CUB needs rewiring.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll be back before you wake up.”
And before I could remember that CUB stood for completely useless bastard, he was gone.
Chapter 41
I hesitated in the foyer. “I’m ready,” I said and I was, clad in a scarlet Ella Moss tunic, black Alexander Wang cigarette pants, Prada mules, and a face full of Chanel war paint. When meeting the firing line, it’s best to present a confident target. “Are you?”
“Always,” Hank said and followed me into the kitchen.
Thierry was preparing a mise en place, yammering into the Bluetooth headset. “She is here, Cash. With Mr. Bannon. I send her upstairs.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Maisie! You are okay after your crash-up, yes?”
I flipped him a salute. “Tip-top.”
“’Allo, Mr. Bannon.”
“Hank,” he said. “Hello.”
Thierry pointed a knife at a giant bouquet of hot-pink roses at the far end of the bar. “The flowers, they come for you.” He returned to his conversation with my brother.
I walked over to the three dozen long-stemmed in a cut-crystal vase. The card in the holder was engraved with Dhu West. I flipped it over.
Maisie,
Take the week off. I want you looking your best when Coles gives you the award for best new recruit at the Gala.
Sterling
I flashed Hank the Dhu West side. “Work. I’ve got the week off.”
Thierry smiled at Hank. “You stay for dinner? I prepare pork with morel-calvados sauce.”
“Maybe.” Hank took a seat at the bar and said to me, “Go see your brother.”
I found Cash in his room, lounging on his beanbag, playing Xbox. “Finally smartened up and came home, huh?” he said, eyes on the screen. “Got any butt left? Or did Mom chew it off?”
“I don’t think she’s home yet. And anyway, what are you talking about?” I said. “She’s on my side.”
“Ha! The only thing Mom’s on your side about is being pissed off Da kept her in the dark, too.”
“Hardly.”
He hit the Pause button and craned his head way back so he was looking at me upside down. “The McGrane Civil War stacks up as follows. Your side—me and Daicen. Straddling the fence—Mom and Flynn. Against—Da, Rory, and Declan. Although I’m pretty sure Dec’s just bent out of shape you chose Daicen as your agent.”
“That’s not funny.”
He rolled over onto his stomach. “I didn’t say it was. All I know is that my slide into SWAT is gonna be so smooth it’s fluidic.”
“Yeah? I used to wanna be a cop, but then I took an arrow to the knee.”
“Aw, c’mon, Snap. Don’t be like that.”
Thierry’s voice sounded on the intercom on Cash’s phone. “Maisie? Your father is home.”
“Batter up.” Cash squirmed back into gamer position.
Wasn’t it Agamemnon who said delay isn’t avoidance? I’ll buy that for a dollar. I squared my shoulders.
“I’d wish you luck,” Cash said, clicking the controller, “but I don’t see the point.”
I stopped short on the stairs when I heard my mother’s voice. “Mr. Bannon, I find you to be a canny, intelligent, and perceptive man. But do not mistake my admiration of those qualities for acceptance.”
Jeez, Mom. I sat down on the steps and gritted my teeth to keep from screaming.
“Your relationship started while my daughter was in the midst of significant turmoil. Some might say you stepped up to the plate when she needed you most. Others, however, might interpret your highly romanticized actions as opportunistic. . . .”
“I’ve known Maisie for twenty-two months,” Hank said pleasantly.
“And after a single date she’s residing in your home?”
There was a long silence.
Good luck trying to sweat him, Mom. The man has the patience of a spider.
She broke first. “I don’t approve of this living arrangement—in either the short or long term.”
Who needs self-tanner when you can wear a permanent blush?
“She’s an adult,” Hank said.
My mom gave a patronizing little laugh-snort. “She’s a McGrane.”
I scooted down three steps and peeked around the wall into the living room.
Uh-oh. Mom had that wide-eyed doe-sweet expression on her face. The one she got just before she crucified a witness. “I have the distinct sensation that the attempt on my daughter’s life was more than a random hit-and-run.” She leaned forward. “Why don’t you enlighten me as to the other forces at play?”
He cleared his throat. “Not my place, ma’am.”
That’s it, Hank. Run what little goodwill your coolness banked right through the meat grinder.
I trotted down the rest of the stairs. He didn’t deserve to be on the fire just because I couldn’t take the
heat.
Hank stood when I entered the room, but it was long past the time when good manners scored points.
“Thank God, you’re all right.” Mom came over and hugged me. “You look tired, baby.”
More like sick with apprehension. “Yeah,” I said. “Da’s home.”
The three of us adjourned to the kitchen, Mom leading the way. “Thierry, could I have something to drink, please?”
He’d been ready with a chilled bottle of Diatom Hamon. “Of course, July.” He poured a glass and handed it to Mom. He flipped a white towel over his shoulder. “Maisie? Hank?”
“A tray of Jameson in my study,” Da said from behind us. “Two glasses.”
We watched as Thierry poured our whiskeys, placed the tray and bottle on the sideboard, and left, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.
My father ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. It seemed to have gotten grayer in the last few weeks. The lines at his eyes deeper, more defined. “I never wanted you to be a cop.”
Twenty-four years of right-between-the-eyes. Don’t know why it surprised me now. “I must have missed the memo.”
“You didn’t hear it because you didn’t want to.”
“I’m an adult,” I said, somehow managing to hold back “and I can do what I want.”
Da shook his head, and when he spoke his voice was tinged with brogue. “You’ll always be my wee gel.”
Not so fast, silver tongue.
He took a swallow of whiskey and tipped his glass, watching the amber liquid slosh back and forth. “You always believe the best possible version of yourself when you’re young,” he said. “Pride yourself that there are things you’d never do, lines you’d never cross. And then one day you do. Without a second thought or a twinge of conscience.” He looked up. “Reskor owed me. I called it in.”
My knee started bouncing. “Did he tell you I was at the top of the class? That I would be Top Cadet?”
“Yes.”
“And that meant nothing to you?”
“It meant I had to scotch you. You’d be the worst kind of up-and-comer. Taking every risk and opportunity to keep on proving it.”
