Time's Up (32 page)

And it had.

Hank and I spent the next morning sprawled on the couch, playing Ghost Recon on Xbox. I couldn't shake the sensation I was playing house with a pet tiger—carefree and wonderful as long as you ignored the dark danger lingering beneath the surface.

“I got a line on Sox tickets. Third base. Box seats. Friday afternoon. Sound good, Rally Monkey?” he asked without asking, knowing I live for the Nirvana of an afternoon baseball game.

He hit his controller and a fireball streaked across the screen. “You could take Pads. Or a brother.”

Talk about dodging a bullet. “
Oh?” I asked, careful not to sag in relief. “And where will you be?”

“Someplace . . . chilly,” he hedged. “I leave Wednesday. Yes for the game?”

My phone rang. I snatched it up off the coffee table. “Hello?”

“Maisie? Lee Sharpe.”

My life is a daily example of the bait and switch.
“Uh . . . Hey,” I said, my voice weirdly dropping an octave. “What's up?”

“Heard about what happened Friday. How you doing?”

“Great.”

Hank continued to slaughter man after man in purposeful nonchalance.

“You sound . . . different,” Lee said. “You cool to talk now?”

“Not so much.”

“We still on for Friday?”

“Yeah. You bet.”

“I'll call you later, then.” The tease was clear in Lee's voice. “Say hi to the guy. His time's almost up.”

Everybody's a comedian.
I hung up.

I picked up my remote and pressed Play.
Gah!
I was lost in the stupid lower level of the cargo ship.
Great. Dead in more ways than one
. “Um, Hank? I'm . . . I can't go to the ball game.”

He paused Ghost Recon and flipped his remote on the table.

I put my remote down too. “The, uh, Gala's on Friday.”

He squinted at me with a bemused smirk that turned me to Jell-O. “No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“It's the perfect place for a hit. Coles will be there. He may be the Local #56's prime directive, but you're running a tight second. You're not going.”

“What about your call to Eddie V?” I asked carefully. Now was not the time to go into the whole electrician thing.

“Eddie V's gonna do what's best for Eddie V. I want you safe.”

Me, too
. “If I don't go, I'll be fired.”

“Your father blackballed you, Sugar Pop. No job's gonna change that.” A stubborn glint showed in his eyes. “You're not going.”

“I told you I wouldn't go back to work.”
For a while.
I crossed my fingers behind my back. “And I meant it. This is a party. I'll be totally safe. Coles will have bodyguards and a TV crew. For God's sake, I'm going with Cash and the head of SWAT.”

Hank's face went perfectly blank.

“If you recall, you didn't exactly jump at the chance when I asked you.” The silence stretched and frayed. “Besides, I promised Cash I'd go. Not Lee.”

“And that makes it better?”

Well, yeah, actually, I thought it might.
I opted for the only correlation I could come up with. “Hank, it's like the prom.”

“Oh. So you're getting drunk in a limo and having sex in a hotel room?”

“What?” I said. “What are you saying?”

“That's what my proms were like.”

“For your information, Mister Dance-Party-in-Your-Pants, the
single
prom I attended was with Ernesto Padilla, who was furious he had to take me when he wanted to go with Polly Ringdahl. His mother drove us. There and back.”

The iron mask cracked and a single bark of laughter escaped. “
Pads
was your prom date?”

My cheeks were on fire.
Last stop: Loserville. Everybody off.

He covered his mouth with his hand, face serious, but his eyes were laughing too loud.

“Knock it off.” I punched him in the arm. “It's not funny.”

“Yes, it is.” A warm rumble came from his chest. “Nothing but funny.”

I went to sock him again and he caught my fist, pulled me in, and kissed me. Hard. Leaving me breathless and hazy.

“You're not going.”

“Hank . . .” I scrambled to pull my head together. “I don't have a choice.”

His eyes went opaque. “This feels like a game I'm not interested in playing.” He stood up.

“Get your gear,” he said.

He drove me home in the G-Wagen, eyes on the road, radio on a classic rock station. The Gala sat like the Gaza Strip between us.

Hank pulled smoothly up to the driveway gate, punched in the code, and we drove through. My knee started bouncing.

He put the car in Park and unlatched his seat belt.

“Hank.” My voice went thready. “This isn't a big deal. Really, it's not.”

“I can't be distracted. Not when I'm working.” His face, lit from the dashboard, was as tight as a fist. “You wanna play cops and robbers? I'm out.”

“You can't mean that.” I shook my head, desperate to say something else but terrified I'd make it worse.

He got out and opened the door for me.

I wanted to touch him—kiss him—something . . . but he was granite.

“I'll call you,” I said and went in the house.

Light glowed from beneath the door of Mom's office. I knocked and went in. Surrounded by case files and paper, she sat staring off into space.
The Kelly File
ran muted and close-captioned on TV.

“Mom?”

She blinked at me in mild surprise. “Hi, baby. When did you arrive?”

“Hank brought me home a few minutes ago.”

“Oh? How did that go?”

“Not so good.” Tears were dangerously close.

“Don't fret. There's something decidedly sexy about a hard case doing a slow burn. Revel in it.”

I would if I could.
“How?”

“I doubt Mr. Bannon is familiar with jealousy.” She tapped the tips of her fingers together. “Useful to see how he handles it.”

Except he isn't jealous. He's pissed off I'm taking chances.
“Hank's a serious guy. And what I'm doing is pretty much unredeemable.”

“You know best,” she said easily.

Yeah, right.
“How are things going for you?”

“No better. I could murder your father for withholding from me, much less for what he's done to you.” Mom sighed. “And if that wasn't enough, I'm relatively confident I'll get our complete and utter asshole defendant off scot-free. Every day I come home from work and see your father, I'm so happy to be around a decent man that I start to forget I'm furious with him. The constant re-amping up into righteous indignation is exhausting.”

“The stuff between Da and me is just that, Mom. Between us.”

“Don't be naïve. What happens to one McGrane affects us all.”

I slouched in my seat, waiting for the inevitable.

“Any thoughts about Loyola?”

“Actually, Mom, I'm just trying to make it to Saturday.”

“I heard Detective Pearse sat in to take your statement. The CPD's sending in the big guns.” She picked up a pen and tapped it against her palm. “I think it's time we had a little ‘come to Jesus,' baby.”

“Hank thinks the hit-and-run was the Local #56's way of sending a message to Coles.”

“My-my,” Mom said. “Your Mr. Bannon is a dark horse, isn't he?”

“What did he do?”

“Uh . . .”

Mom leaned forward. “If a girl can't tell her lawyer, who can she tell?”

“He called Eddie Veteratti.”

“The Mobster?” Mom blinked, sat back in her chair, and smiled. “Oooh. I like that.”

“There's more than one way to take up the gauntlet, Maisie.”

Mom laughed. “Don't look so surprised. One of the first things you learn at the state's attorney's office is that justice is served in a variety of ways. The Veterattis may be criminals, but they operate with a semblance of honor.” She moved her pen in a circle. “So, what happened at the station?”

I filled her in on the interview.

“How did it end?” she asked.

“I bought some time, but”—I sucked in my cheeks—“I don't know that I can screw Niecy over again by crushing her shot at a legitimate civil suit against the CPD.”

“Again?”

“The crash was my fault. I knew it was a hot spot, and I made the call to go ahead without backup. I should have never taken her there.”

“Aside from the fact that she is your very senior partner, criminals commit crimes, not their victims.” She frowned and shook her head. “A lawsuit against the CPD. From any angle, a vile and mirthless future lies ahead.”

 

My mother mandated a three-day respite of spa and shopping to get my head on straight. It hadn't been enough to stop my fingers from dialing Hank's number on my leg every twenty seconds or checking my phone minute to minute like an OCD.

My lower lip wobbled.
Snap out of it!

I stepped into my Halston Heritage halter cocktail dress in blackest black. The neckline crisscrossed to a plunging back and shirttail hem. I took a final look in the mirror. My hair was swept back into a sleek high ponytail, makeup—heavy, smoky eyes and nude-colored lips.

Ignoring everything my mother had ever taught me, I picked up the phone and called him.

“Good evening, Ms. McGrane.” The steamy lilt of his girl Friday scorched my ears. “Mr. Bannon is not available at this time.”

“He did, however, leave a message for you.”

I bit back a grin. “Go ahead.”

“Eddie's electrical problem unresolved. Don't be the blow-dryer in the bathtub.” She paused long enough for me to know he hadn't left a sweet send-off. “Would you care to leave a response?” she drawled, as long and sweet as warm taffy.

“No.” Unable to say anything else, I hung up.

I caught my reflection in the mirror.
As I don't look crushed to smithereens, I must be fine.

I hit the landing. Mom waited holding her Canon EOS Rebel, Da beside her, hand at her waist.

“Looking pretty biscuity, Snap.” Cash, wearing a black suit, flipped Jennifer's pink and black striped tie accusingly at me. “Almost as good as me.”

“Pictures.” Mom waved me over to stand by Cash with an overbright smile.

“No time,” Cash said. “Car's waiting.”

“It can wait another minute,” Da said with a sad smile at me.

I looked away. Forgiveness wasn't something I could muster right then. Maybe not ever.

Cash groaned and drag-marched me over to the stone entry wall.

“I'm having a memory overload. You two are so cute.” Mom hit the shutter and Cash and I played along.

“Enough. We gotta go, Mom. See you guys.” He jerked open the front door and I followed, stopping on the porch steps.

A white stretch limo waited in the driveway, courtesy of Dhu West.

“Sweet, huh?” Cash said as we climbed into the prom-mobile. “Know what's even sweeter?” He settled into the seat across from me. “Jennikins is already there.”

“Where?”

“At the Gala. Been there since early this afternoon. She's emceeing and had to practice. Why, I don't know. What's she gonna do? Hand out trophies for the most tickets?” Cash flipped his dark hair out of his eyes. “She's freaking out 'cause Coles is gonna be there.” He started laughing. “Maybe he'll give you an award for puking yourself.”

“Thanks.” I wondered if I had time to choke him unconscious with his hideous pink tie before we got to Lee's. “It's such a blessing to have such a supportive brother, said no younger sister ever.”

“Don't go all wah-wah–wet blanket tonight. You got us into this, and I for one am going to make the best of it and get totally obliterated. Party bus!” Cash cracked his knuckles, leaned over, and pulled a beer from the mini fridge. “Want one?”

“No thanks.”

He cracked it. “I'm warning you—those SWAT guys can party. After tonight, you'll be like ‘Hank who?'”

A half hour later, we pulled up in front of a tidy bungalow. The driver opened the door, and Lee Sharpe got in wearing a navy suit, white shirt, and red and navy rep tie.

He sat next to me and cracked a smile. “I feel like I should have brought you a giant carnation wrist-corsage.” He glanced at his watch. “There's still time to swing by a 7-Eleven.”

I laughed. “I think I'll pass.”

“You look terrific,” Lee said.

“Thanks, I think I do, too,” Cash said and handed him a beer as we drove off.