Time's Up (30 page)

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.

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.

She broke first. “I don't approve of this living arrangement—in either the short or long term.”

“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.”

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.”

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.”

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.”

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 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.

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.

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.”