Chapter 19
The north precinct is always quiet. Not a lot of crime happening around golf courses, resorts and gated communities, at least, not the kinds of crimes beat cops handle.
Nope. These crimes are for officers like Steve-Mike, who has the conference room set up for our Thursday meeting as if it’s just another average Thursday.
“Donut holes. How predictable.” I snag one of the powdered ones from the plate at the center of the table.
“People act like cops are the only ones who eat donuts. Maybe it’s just a conference table thing, though. I mean, how many of your dad’s boardrooms have you been in that had snacks?” He grabs a powdered hole and pops it in his mouth, the sugar dusting the mustache hairs that hang over his top lip.
I snag a cinnamon one and shrug.
“Meh, I don’t know,” I say while chewing. “Those meetings are more of the charcuterie and brie variety.”
We both chuckle and nod.
“Fair,” Steve-Mike says.
I clap my hands together a few times to brush off the sugar remnants, then lean back in the wheeled leather chair.
“What are we doing here now? I mean, do you still want to hear about my work week, how I’m looking for places to volunteer, my handle on my supposed anger issues? Or . . .”
His grimace cuts to the point.
“We’re on a team now. We can talk about your father. I think you made some good progress; it seems like he’s letting you in. Bad news, though.”
My gut twists as my mouth straightens and my shoulders drop.
“Not sure how this pickle I’m in gets worse, but please, tell me.” I hold my breath, expecting him to tell me I need to go into hiding or some shit.
“That investment he pulled out for you . . . it’s legit. We scoped it out based on the few clues you got for us, and it’s not the one we’re interested in.”
“Fuck,” I sigh out.
I look out the glass window that separates this room from the front lobby. The officer working the intake desk is playing one of those games on her phone where she has to stack jewels for points. I wish I could trade places with her right now, as stupid and banal as that game seems.
“It’s still an in with your father, so don’t get dejected.
You’ll just need to get him to talk about some other options.
See if you spot any clues the next time you’re in the office.
Maybe linger around a cluttered desk near his office.
I’m sure your dad isn’t putting together these schemes on his own.
We know a lot of the members of his team are profiting a little more than they should. Anyone come to mind?”
I breathe in slowly through my nose. Allison is the only person my dad would trust. I still think he’s using her, though, giving her just enough to do his dirty work and get to claim she didn’t know any better when the cards fall.
Unless, of course, he’s putting her name on things the way he is mine.
“You watching Allison Kelly?” I ask him point blank because I need to know how fucked up my situation is. His long, silent stare tells me enough.
I shake my head and hold his gaze.
“She’s a pawn, if anything,” I defend.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I bet her desk or computer has the key to what investment you need to try to horn in on. So, my advice?”
I lift my chin, not really wanting advice but bracing for it.
“Get in good with Allison Kelly.”
I nod slowly and manage to keep my mouth shut despite the words flashing behind my eyes on a mental billboard. So, don’t sleep with her daughter?
“Anything else I should know before being redeployed?” I snicker at my light joke, but Steve-Mike is unamused. I clear my throat and utter, “Sorry.”
“He’s going to burn you. Your dad. At some point, things are going to get too big for him to contain, and he’s going to set you or your brother, or both of you, up to take the fall.
I think you should focus on getting in on his next inside trade and make sure that mic is on anytime you’re close to him. ”
His serious expression is punctuated by the straight line of his mouth.
I can’t even make fun of his sugar stache anymore because he’s right.
I’m fucked. Even if my dad sells me out, I can’t count on the feds to bail me out and blow what’s probably been years of investigative work. They’ll cut me loose too.
“Understood.” I get to my feet, and Mike-Steve does the same. We shake hands, our firm grip on one another holding for an extra second, a little non-verbal acknowledgement that we are both on board.
I cleared most of my morning for this, not expecting our meeting to be so short.
Normally, I’d head right back to the garage to drown my worries in motor oil and filters, but I’m not real hip on hanging out with Mig and Jersey on my own today.
Jersey’s having relationship trouble, and he’s the kind of guy who likes advice, and then to kick that same advice around like a soccer ball for hours on end while I’m trapped underneath a vehicle.
What’s one more bad idea?
ME: Need a ride anywhere?
I sit in my car while I wait to find out if I’ll be turning left or right out of this place. When my phone buzzes with Saylor’s response, my arms and legs are instantly fueled by nerve zaps and eager energy.
SAYLOR: I’m at Cami’s and would love not to be.
ME: On my way.
I grin through the short drive, and I’m excited to see Saylor waiting for me by the curb and still wearing that white tank top and flowy shorts she was in at the bar last night when I went out with Jersey. I didn’t get enough time to fully study her, and the way that shirt hugs her body.
“Where to, princess?”
Her brow bunches at my pet name, and I feel a little embarrassed suddenly. Fucking princess? What is going on with me?
“Just trying it out,” I say, clearing my throat and shifting into drive.
“I like it. Just . . . didn’t expect it,” she says.
Yeah. Me neither.
“Do you need to go home for anything? Swim club for work? Shopping? Please don’t say shopping.”
Saylor giggles as she buckles up, instantly kicking her sandals off and folding her legs up in her seat. I love how comfortable she is in my space.
“I don’t need to be at the pool for a few hours. You need a hand at the garage?” She hikes up a shoulder, and there’s a sparkle in her eyes that makes it seem like she’s truly interested in crawling under a car with me.
My eyes crinkle and I grimace, but she’s so damn cute that I exhale and give in a second later.
“Yeah, I could use a hand. But one rule—no asking Jersey about his girlfriend.” I slice through the air with my flat palm.
“Got it. Jersey and the word girlfriend are a hard no.”
“HARD no,” I echo.
I rest my turned-up palm on the console, and Saylor folds her hand into mine.
Everything about being with her feels easy.
At least the physical things. It’s the part where her mom tangles with my father and the fucking pack of wires and microphone under my seat that’s a challenge.
But for now, I choose to ignore that part.
No red flags to see here. Just a guy who’s starting to really enjoy spending time with a girl.
It’s something I didn’t think was for me, given the shitty example my parents set.
But so far, being with Saylor does nothing but feel right.
The latest Deftones album blasts through the shop’s open bay doors as Saylor and I roll up.
I park just close enough to the workspace for Mig to notice my car pull up.
He’s bad at masking his expression, though, first flinching when he spots Saylor stepping out of the car, then covering his mouth to barely hide his laughter.
He’s acting like an eighth grader who walked in on his best friend’s first kiss.
“Hey, man.” I nod to my best friend, then tap the toe of my shoe into Jersey’s as he lies under a sixty-four Chevy pickup.
“Oh, hey. Company.” He rolls out on his board, then pushes up to a sitting position, his gaze bobbing from Saylor to me, then to Mig.
“Relax, she’s not here expecting her car to be ready. She’s here because—” Mig stops his words the second I hold up a hand.
“She’s here to learn her way around an engine since she’ll be heading up north in a few months.” My eyes lock onto Mig’s for a few seconds, and I do my best with my flexed jaw and tight lips to express how much I’d prefer he keep his mouth shut about Saylor and me.
“Hey, yeah. That’s a really good idea, actually. You wanna slide under here and take a look? I’m about to change the oil.” Jersey isn’t being creepy by trying to hit on Saylor. That’s not his style. Just mine, apparently.
She glances at me and nods.
“You should learn how to do this,” I encourage.
She grins, then immediately kicks the spare roller board toward Jersey.
I grab a clean towel from the bin and toss it to him, and he covers the board before Saylor lies back on it.
Wearing all white is a bad idea in a place like this, but my creepy side is rooting for her to get just gritty enough to need a shower.
After close. When these dickheads go home.
I drop my phone and keys on the counter and slide up next to Mig while I look on at Saylor’s long, golden legs stretched out next to Jersey’s oil-stained cargo pants.
I think the only thing more jarring to her mom would be if she came home with a guy like him.
He’s shaggy, with a full bear beard and a head of hair that looks like the straw of a scarecrow.
His mustache is spotty, and his cheeks always seem to be red.
He’s one of the kindest dudes I’ve ever met, but he’s a bit chaotic at life.
He’s been on-again, off-again with his girlfriend for two years, and there’s a reason we keep him far away from handling the finances and bills.
The guts of a car, though? He’s like a walking encyclopedia.
And he’s a decent teacher, so I don’t mind so much that Saylor’s knees are inches from his right now. Well, I mind a bit.
“How long you give it before he asks her for advice?” Mig whispers.
I chuckle.