Time's Up

by Janey Mack

  Wow. That hurts so bad I can’t even feel it.

  My jaw slid forward. “I guess Flynn, Rory, and Cash are just natural Top Cadets? Born with some magical anti-risk-taking caul?”

  “This isn’t about your brothers. Just look at the shite you’ve rolled in with Coles. And you’re only a meter maid.”

  I felt that one.

  A sigh hissed from his lips like air from a knifed tire. He said softly, “You’re the spitting image of her. Of Moira.”

  I didn’t like it when he talked about her. I had no connection to her. And I didn’t want one. July was the only mother I’ve ever known. Ever had. Ever could want.

  “I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the night she was killed. The night you were born.” He finished his whiskey and closed his eyes. “But it did. Every time I looked in your face, in your brothers’ . . . Dear God, it got so much worse.”

  I flexed my fingers. They felt puffy and cold, but they didn’t look any different.

  “The night the bastard’s family settled, I brought July home. Christ, we were bloody wrecked,” he said, growing hoarse. “Sitting in the kitchen having a drink. Mrs. Shiely was keeping house back then. She’d laid you in a laundry basket of warm clothes from the dryer to calm you. But in those days nothing calmed you for long. You needed your ma. You started squalling. By the time I got to my feet, July’d scooped you up into her arms. You stopped mid-wail.”

  Dad’s dark eyes were unfocused, faraway. “July looked up at me, crying Moira’s tears for you, and I knew. Moira had sent her to me. To us. Only an angel could make July Pruitt fall for some dumb Mick with six kids.”

  My chest ached.

  “I don’t want you on the job, Maisie.”

  “Because you don’t think I can handle it?”

  “No. Because I know I can’t.” The pain etched around his eyes and mouth was unbearable to look at. “Losing you—” He ran a hand over his eyes and cleared his throat. “I’d wrap you up in cotton wool and bunting if I could.”

  “I’m going to be a cop.”

  Da got to his feet and laid a hand against my cheek. “Then I’m sorry, luv. Because I’m going to do everything in my power to stop that from happening.”

  He left.

  I couldn’t find my bearings. After a bit, Hank came in and closed the door. He looked at me. “You okay?”

  “I can’t tell. I’ve never had the glass-completely-empty feeling before.” The puffy feeling in my hands had spread to my head. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 42

  Hank drove us straight from my house to see Niecy at Northwestern Memorial. We stopped in the gift shop, where I charged an enormous and exorbitant arrangement of sunny orange and yellow flowers on my father’s credit card. When we got upstairs, Hank rapped on Room 412’s open door.

  “Come on in!” Niecy called.

  I felt a surge of relief at her normal-sounding voice. We stepped inside. The window ledge already held a bunch of daisies, Dhu West’s three dozen fuchsia roses, a balloon bouquet anchored to the neck of a large stuffed elephant, and a lacquered vase of white Chinese narcissus.

  “Well, look who’s here,” my partner said from behind a gray tray table laden with chocolates and every tabloid off the rack. A leopard-print satin robe was slung over her hospital-gowned shoulders, cast-free arm through one sleeve.

  “Hi, Niecy. This is Hank—”

  “C’mere.” She gestured him forward. Hank complied. “Let me get an eyeful.” After an uncomfortable ogle, she turned to me and wiggled her brows. “You got yourself a friggin’ piece of Grade A beefsteak, McGrane.”

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Fan-freaking-tastic.”

  My eyes blurred with tears. “I’m sorry, Niecy. So sorry. And I—”

  “Holy shrimp!” Niecy let out a scratchy belly laugh. “Are you friggin’ kidding me? Injured on the job means workman’s comp, disability, insurance—I hit the gol-dang jackpot!” She motioned toward the pale blue plastic pitcher and Styrofoam cups on the table next to me. I filled one with ice water, attached the lid, inserted the bendy straw, and gave it to her.

  She took a sip. “I’m not frickin’ retiring until I’m seventy.”

  Hank cocked a brow.

  “That’s the morphine talking,” I said.

  “Whooo no!” Niecy hooted. “Did the cops catch the friggin’ jag-off that did this?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Cuz when they do, I wanna send them a thank-you card.” She took a noisy slurp of water from the straw. “Holy crap! There’s gotta be a court case. Gotta be. I mean, the cops haven’t talked to me yet, but holy crap! I could be on TruTV, dontcha think?”

  “Um . . . maybe?”

  “Jeezey Creezey, I could be as big as Leticia! I’m telling you, kid, you’re the second best thing to come along since the AutoCITE.”

  As Hank drove us back to his place, the more irrationally angry I became. If I didn’t release a little heat, rage would spew from me like napalm from a flamethrower, obliterating everything around me. “Niecy could’ve been killed.”

  “No,” he said in an iron voice. “You were almost killed. Niecy Peat was collateral damage.”

  Talk about dumping diethyl ether on the fire. Color seared my cheeks. I stared out the window, trying to stay quiet.

  It didn’t take a behavioral scientist to recognize that focusing on Hank’s interference was an ego-protection measure. One that distracted me from dealing with the Union thugs as well as my da.

  By the time we got home, I didn’t like him.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  In response to that ridiculous question I got out of the car and stomped to the door. He beat me there and opened the door for me.

  “You planning on staying that way?”

  I hadn’t been until now.

  I stormed past him into the house. He caught my wrist and jerked me to him, backing me into the wall, his mouth hard on mine, kissing me until my hands fisted in his hair.

  Just because I don’t like you, doesn’t mean I don’t want you hell-bad.

  He lifted his head. The unrepentant spark still flashed in his eyes. He edged me back into the bedroom, picked me up, and tossed me onto the bed.

  Wow. I ought to get mad more often.

  Afterward, I lay across his chest listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat, his fingers grazing across my bare back. We stayed that way a long while. I floated, wondering exactly how long it takes to get mojo back, especially after it’s been surgically removed with a rusty ice-cream scoop.

  “Still mad?”

  “Not at you.” I nuzzled my face into the dark hair dusting his chest.

  “That’s good. Because you’re not going back to work.”

  I groaned. “Please don’t.”

  “I’m not asking.” Hank gripped me by the shoulders and lifted me off his chest so we were eye to eye. “Listen, sweetheart. You chose to go swimming with Coles. Now you’re underwater with a target on your back.”

  I tried to wrest from his grip. Impossible.

  “You’re going to play this my way,” he said. “No work.”

  “Fine.” I sagged into his chest. “Okay.”

  “Thank you.”

  After a bit, Hank got up, stepped into some jeans, and disappeared into the bathroom. I could hear the tub running. He leaned against the door frame and rubbed his hand on the back of his head. “Take a bath and I’ll make you a drink.” He said it sweet as pie, but it was an order all the same.

  Too tired to argue, I went into the bathroom, put my hair up in a twist, and got into the Neorest Toto bathtub. Five by seven feet of superb Japanese luxury. Pale blue LED lights cast a mellow glow. I sank chin-deep into the warm water.

  Hank’s words, “Take a bath. I’ll make you a drink,” bounced around in my head like a bowling ball in Crate and Barrel’s open glassware aisle.

  My whole life I’d searched for the guy who’d treat
me the way Da treated Mom. The man who’d know I was upset and instead of telling me everything would be fine, would offer me a bath, a drink, and alone time. And now that I’d finally found him, Da wasn’t the man I thought he was. At all.

  I cried a little in the tub.

  Hank knocked and I splashed some water on my face. He came in bearing gin and tonics, handed me one, and sat on the side of the tub. “Want to talk about it?”

  “No . . . Maybe. I don’t know.”

  He reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear. “Let me be your Atlas, Peaches.”

  Chapter 43

  Seven o’clock on Monday morning, the police station was a frenetic termite mound of activity.

  Hank was taking Atlas duty dead-serious. Before we left, I asked him for a copy of the EFIT composite photo IDs of the Union bus drivers to take to my interview.

  He looked at me like I was a puppy trying to climb the stairs. “You’re adorable.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The way you think all cops are as honorable as your clan.”

  My smile went as brittle as spun sugar.

  “They don’t need the EFIT.” Hank ruffled my hair. “I’ve got your six.”

  I sure hope so. I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  Lanky Beau Stadum waved and strode over. “The drums are gathering along the Mohawk,” he said with a handshake and a smile.

  A plainclothed female cop with a chic auburn bob waited until our greeting was finished and then approached.

  “Ms. McGrane? I’m Detective Barbara Pearse, traffic division. I’ll be interviewing you this morning.” She started toward the steel gray doors set in brick at the opposite end of the lobby. “This way please.”

  The three of us trailed along behind. Detective Pearse stopped at the gate and pointed at the upholstered benches in the lobby. “You gentlemen can wait right there. She’ll be out in a half hour or so.”

  “I think Miss McGrane would rather we come along, ma’am,” Beau said.

  Her eyebrows disappeared beneath her thick fringe of bangs. “And you are?”

  “Beau Stadum. Maisie’s attorney.” Beau stretched a hand forward, forcing her to shake.

  She did, briefly, with a polite smile. “While it’s nice to put a face to the name, Mr. Stadum, a witness has no need for an attorney. Your presence here is unnecessary.”

  “Well, I’m not here to jerk a knot in your tail, Detective, but Ms. McGrane’s a victim as well as a witness.” Beau raised his palms and turned to me. “Last time I checked, it’s up to her.”

  Hank gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “I’d like them to stay,” I said to Detective Pearse.

  The detective’s smile thinned to a knife’s blade. “If Ms. McGrane would feel more comfortable with you present, so be it.” She gave Hank the once-over. “And you are?”

  “My associate, Mr. Bannon,” Beau answered. “Shall we?”

  Detective Pearse led us into the gray and tan halls to a bland and frigid windowless conference room labeled Interview Room D. She gestured us to one side of a conference table and excused herself.

  “That was only slightly uncomfortable.” I slid into the seat. “You know her?”

  “Of.” Beau sat next to me, Hank on his left. “Hell on wheels. And too big to be sittin’ in on a lowly lil’ non-fatal hit-and-run.”

  “Looking forward to this?” I asked.

  “Like a house afire.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a little heat right now.” I rubbed my arms. “It’s freezing in here.”

  Hank started to take off his coat.

  “No,” Beau said, flipping through his notes. “Keep her shud-derin’. A heap more pathetic-looking.”

  The door swung open and Detective Pearse and Peterson entered, followed by Tommy Narkinney moving so slowly, it was painful to watch. He pulled out a chair and eased into it, face white and drawn, dark purple circles under his eyes. He looked like shit. And not the hungover kind.

  Detective Pearse gave him a sideways glance, then poured a glass of water and pushed it in front of him. “Are you sure you should be here, Officer Narkinney?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he croaked, hand shaking as he raised the glass to his lips.

  “Golly.” Beau scratched the back of his head. “This does seem a lil’ bit like a conflict of interest, don’t it? Seeing as these are the very officers who held my wounded client for hours after her near-death escape.”

  Peterson started to say something. Detective Pearse moved her hand slightly and he shut up. “I hardly think a pair of skinned knees qualify as wounded.”

  “I beg to differ, Detective,” Beau said. “Why, the poor thing was so shook she didn’t hardly know which end was up.”

  Pearse nodded sympathetically toward me. “And what hospital were you treated at, Miss McGrane?”

  Crap. She knew I hadn’t been seen. She’d clearly nosed around HR to see if I’d had any medical billing activity on the day of the accident. Not exactly legal, but a common enough technique.

  “Mr. Bannon treated her,” Beau said. “She was concussed and suffering mild shock.”

  Pearse’s eyes narrowed. “And your qualifications?”

  “Army 68 Whiskey,” Hank said.

  Pearse sucked her upper lip. She hadn’t seen that one coming. Neither had I, although Hank passing training as a combat medic wasn’t exactly a shocker. “And you dropped everything to come to her aid, Mr. Bannon?”

  Hank’s lips twitched in a hint of a smile, but his eyes never wavered from Narkinney. “I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble,” he said flatly.

  Tommy’s water glass exploded on the linoleum floor. He was on his feet, shoulders hunched, eyes panic-wide. “’Scuse me,” he mumbled and rushed out of the room.

  Hank turned his Sphinx-like gaze on Peterson.

  “These new recruits . . .” Pearse tried to play it off. “Can’t stand to take a sick day.”

  “I can understand that. So much to do, securing attempted murder as well as aggravated assault and battery charges against”—Beau paged through a legal pad gone almost black with cramped handwriting—“the unknown assailant driving the Suzuki Samurai.”

  Pearse took a settling inhale and said pleasantly, “After we have collected all the evidence, the ASA will decide what charges should and will be filed.”

  “Y’all have a ballpark on that timeline?”

  “Not long.” She opened a manila folder and set out eight police artist sketches. “Ms. McGrane, do you recognize the driver from these drawings?”

  I was surprised they weren’t in crayon. Stick figures with beards would have been equally useful. I tapped one with the barest resemblance. “This one’s closest.”

  “I told you she didn’t get a good look at him,” Peterson muttered.

  She collected the rest of the sketches and put them back in the folder, not asking me to sit with a sketch artist. I didn’t volunteer. “The Samurai was reported stolen that morning,” she said. “Evidence techs are examining it as we speak.”

  “They won’t find any fingerprints,” I said. “The guy wore gloves.”

  “Are you certain?” The detective turned to Peterson. “None of the witnesses mentioned that fact.”

  “Positive.”

  For the next fifteen minutes Detective Pearse, Beau, and I navigated the tedious minefield of interview questions. Masterful really, how fast Beau set her back on her heels.

  Peterson, under Hank’s still and watchful eye, began to squirm like he had sand in his shorts.

  “I’m chugged full of the basics.” Beau sat back from the table. “How ’bout we get down to brass tacks, Detective.”

  “Oh?”

  Beau spread out several photos of tire tracks. “Intent.”

  Her chin popped up. “Where did you get these?”

  “The sweetest lil’ gal from one of them insurance companies. She was more than happy to pass on her findings.” He frowned. “But this here les
s-than-aggressive pursuit of said murderin’ assailant sets me to wondering if maybe y’all aren’t trying to sweep this whole thing under the rug.”

  “And what possible reason would we have to do that?” Pearse said.

  “Because the CPD’s own designated liaisons failed in their responsibility to protect Ms. McGrane and Ms. Peat.” He laid down several sheets of paper in front of the detective. “Miss McGrane’s cell phone records and texts for the day in question.”

  Supplied by Hank, no doubt.

  Detective Pearse didn’t even glance at them. “As well-intentioned as you may be, Mr. Stadum, I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

  “Why, I’ll be damned if you ain’t wound up tighter than an eight-day clock, Detective.” He tapped a slender finger on the cell records. “Now, I’m not much of a gambler, but I’m betting when your computer experts triangulate the coordinates of where Officer Narkinney and Officer Peterson were at the time of the call and subsequent text, you’ll find they were only three blocks away at Fatburger.”

  The blood seemed to drain from Detective Pearse’s face into Peterson’s.

  “It’s only fair to warn y’all,” Beau said. “I’m preparing to file a negligence lawsuit on behalf of Miss McGrane and Miz Peat against the Chicago Police Department.”

  What the what?

  This interview is spinning out of control faster than a toddler trapped in a washing machine.

  Peterson looked at me with the kind of hatred I couldn’t imagine carrying for anyone and folded his arms across his chest. “How’s your father?”

  “Very well, thank you.” You prick.

  “Conn McGrane’s a Homicide captain.” His lip pulled back in a sneer. “She’s got three brothers on the force, too.”

  You deserve a high five, Peterson. In the face. With a chair.

  Detective Pearse saw daylight and cut for it. “You looked surprised, Maisie, when Mr. Stadum mentioned a lawsuit. Maybe you’d like to talk that over with your family before things are said that can’t be unsaid.”

  “What makes you think she hasn’t?” Beau chuckled in delight. “Half her kin are cops, sure enough, but the other half are lawyers.” A grin split his face. “Y’all can bet your bottom dollar there’s due cause.”