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  James took his first tour pretty hard. He was even hospitalized at one stage, damn near succeeded drugging himself to death.

  I can relate. Treatment for aplastic anemia is no cakewalk. I wanted to die myself at one point, probably would have had a go at it if my brother Colton hadn’t of been there, helping me through it, coaching me, pushing me to live on.

  I let myself slump to the floor, nodding along. “You ever want to talk, you let me know.”

  He smiles. “Will do, but how about we start with a beer first?”

  I smile back. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  *

  We head to a small bar around the corner from James’s apartment. It’s a cramped basement venue, the kind of claustrophobic haunt I always imagined you’d find on every corner in this city.

  It’s busy inside, even reminds me a little of The Lab back at Abbotsleigh.

  “It’s a cop bar, mostly,” says James, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “You get servicemen, too, New York’s Bravest… anyone with a uniform, really. Thought you’d feel at home.”

  “Thanks.”

  He points to the left, handing me a twenty. “Bar’s right there. Why don’t you order while I drain the lizard?”

  “Will do.”

  I snake my way to the bar while Tina Turner’s Private Dancer plays. The bartender puts down a glass and comes forward. I can’t tell whether it’s a girl or a guy.

  “What’ll it be?” he/she asks.

  “Two beers. Thanks.”

  She gestures to the taps. “Blonde, brown, light, oatmeal, oyster, wheat, amber, abbey, honey, Hefeweizen?”

  I stand there slightly dumbfounded. “Excuse me?”

  “Buds,” sounds a voice to my left.

  I turn to the girl at the bar beside me. She’s short, dark hair in a tight ponytail. She’s wearing a cherry-colored dress, a sort of ruffled tunic. Her legs are bare, surprisingly long. I can’t help consider the heated prize they lead to.

  “Sorry?”

  “What you want are two Budweisers. I can tell,” she says matter-of-factly, sipping on her own beer.

  I’m not used to girls being so forward, not in Wrightworth. LA? Sure. But it’s been a while since I was in the game. “How can you tell what beer I want?”

  She looks me up and down, frosted lips pressed out. “Simple guy like you, Bud for sure.”

  I lean against the bar trying my best to look amused. “What makes you think I’m simple?”

  She points. “How about that trucker cap, for one?”

  I forgot I was even wearing the thing. Kind of a college throwback.

  “Is that your shtick? Pretend you’re some small-town yokel out in the Big City, all ‘let me ride you all night long, darlin,’” she drawls. “Hate to tell you, bucko, but I’ve seen it all before.”

  Bucko?

  I take off the cap, placing it on the bar, inky tendrils of hair hanging beside my left eye. “I don’t have a ‘shtick,’ sorry.”

  “Bullshit. I’ve heard every line in this city.”

  “I don’t—”

  She stands, poking me in the chest, her beer sloshing over. “I’ve had a really shitty day, you know. The last thing I need is a steroid freak pretender trying to get into my pants.”

  I look down at her bare legs, smooth and creamy. “You’re not wearing p—”

  She pokes me again. “And another thing. If you think I’m going to sleep with you, just like that,” she clicks her fingers for emphasis, “you are fucking wrong, bozo.”

  It’s like she’s got an endless supply of B-laden insults at hand.

  She won’t let me get a word in. “I never said—”

  “Do I look like I give a crap about what you said?”

  She’s getting louder, walking forward and forcing me to step back away from the bar.

  I put my hands up, scanning for James. What’s he doing in there? Draining the god-damn Mississippi? “Look, I just want a drink.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say.

  “A drink!” she yells, tossing her arm wide, half her beer on the floor. “You think I’m that easy?”

  “You alright, Siddell?” A guy is walking over from a group in the corner, five o’clock shadow on his face. He pushes her behind him. “We got a problem here, pal?”

  I keep my hands up. “No problem.”

  This Siddell girl puts her fist up. “Let me throw him ’round a little, Bobby, just for fun.”

  ‘Bobby’ turns her back to the table, patting her lightly on the buttocks. The green-eyed monster flares inside me, god knows why. “Off you go.” He faces back to me. “And you, whoever the fuck you are, would be wise to get the fuck out of here.”

  “I just want a beer,” I repeat. “That’s all.”

  He gets up in my face, but I’m well used to his type. I stand my ground.

  “Get your beer somewhere else.”

  “Everything okay here?”

  It’s James, thank Christ.

  Bobby looks at him. “You know this guy, James?”

  James puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’s a cop. It’s cool.”

  The girl is still ranting and raving from the table up the back, a couple of guys holding her back.

  I’ve met firecrackers before, but that girl’s TNT: stand well clear. So what if she’s got curves in all the right places and a rack you could cry a river into. It’s not worth it.

  Bobby sucks on his lower lip. “Okay, bud. If you say so, but keep him on a leash, you hear?”

  “Will do,” replies James, saluting.

  He pulls me away. “Jesus, bro. Your first night and you’re already picking fights?”

  “Honestly, I was only trying to order a beer. I swear.”

  “Maybe I’ll handle the beers, hey?”

  I point back to the table in the corner. “Who’s the girl?”

  James squints. “Oh, her.”

  “Her?”

  “Another cop. They all are. Regulars. I’d stay away from her if you can.”

  I have every intention to, but there’s something about her I can’t shake, an intensity that’s strangely endearing, and she seemed immune to my inherent Beckett charm, which is a first. “Why’s that?” I question

  James leans in close. “Girl’s got more issues than National Geographic, trust me. If you enjoy that oversized cock of yours being attached to your body, I’d steer well clear.”

  *

  I’m amazed how different the city looks during the day. I fight a literal swarm of people trying to get to the precinct, eventually finding it wedged between two buildings like something straight out of Ghostbusters.

  It’s bustling inside, people shouting and screaming. A guy in a leather jacket is dragged across the floor in front of me, foaming at the mouth.

  What the hell have you gotten yourself into here, Hunter?

  LA was crazy, definitely, but this is another notch up again.

  I approach the desk. The girl behind it, a stick figure with blonde streaks, doesn’t even look up. “Yeah?”

  “Ah, I’m here to see the Captain. Hunter Beckett?”

  She points her pen to a door to the right. “Through there.”

  It doesn’t look like I’m getting any more out of her, so I walk through. In Wrightworth, we worked out of an old three-bedder. This place, with rows and rows of desks, people buzzing back and forth, is more like the Colosseum.

  I grab a guy’s attention on the way. “Excuse me. Do you know where I can find the Captain?” He points to the back of the room. “Last door on the left. Have fun.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, but he’s already walked off.

  No one pays me any attention as I make my way to the back. I could be anyone.

  I approach the last door on the left just as someone shouts, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  I look right. A guy steps from an office. It takes me a while to work it out, but it’s the same guy, Bobby, from the bar last night.
/>   You’ve got to be kidding me.

  “I’m just looking the Captain.”

  Bobby shoves me, imitating my voice. “’I just want a beer. I just want the Captain,’ and why the fuck would you be looking for the Captain?”

  “You!”

  I look left to find the girl from the bar, the one they were calling Siddell. She wears tight black pants that could well be painted on, a tank top that’s somehow even tighter and a thigh holster that screams Mission Impossible. I have a sneaking suspicion she’s an MMA fighter, a closet wrestler, a spy. Who knows? She doesn’t seem like the type to spend her Sundays with a box of tissues and the latest Nicholas Sparks.

  She’s wearing sunglasses inside, no doubt thanks to the hangover she’s nursing. The cherry dress-tunic thing is gone, but it’s her alright—cock-stiffening curves, fire-flecked eyes and all.

  “What are you doing here?” She seems as surprised as I am.

  Bobby shoves me again. “You got a death wish, pal? Because you’ve come to the right place. The morgue’s right downstairs.”

  I can’t keep my eyes off her.

  What are you doing?

  Bobby places a hand on my chest. “Are you fucking listening to me?”

  The door beside us opens. “What the hell is going on out here?”

  I recognize the man standing there immediately. It’s the Captain with his oblong face and receding hairline. His shirt doesn’t look like it’s ever seen an iron, more of a canvas for a stain collection. If there was a poster boy for hard living, he’d be right there front and center.

  I extend my hand. “Hunter Beckett, sir, here from California.”

  He leaves my hand hanging. “You’re late. You,” he points to me. “Siddell, you too, in here now.”

  Bobby looks bemused as the girl and I enter the Captain’s office. He closes the door behind us and retreats to his desk.

  I look to the girl, but she’s staring back with such fiery contempt I can practically feel my skin burning off.

  ‘Captain Lewis Johnson’ reads the plaque on his desk. He takes out a cigar, shuffling through his papers. If he’s trying to be J. Jonah Jameson, he’s doing a damn good impression.

  He finds what he’s looking for, opening a folder. “Hunter Jeffery Beckett. Here you are. Your brother’s a football player, right? Giants?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply, “Cayden.”

  “Hell of an arm.”

  “Sir?” queries Siddell, still confused as to why she’s here, as am I.

  The Captain places the folder down and smiles up to us. “Let’s get down to it, kiddies.”

  “Grace, this is Hunter Beckett from Wrightworth, your new partner.”

  She looks at me like I’m nuclear waste.

  “My fucking what now?”

  “You done?” says the Captain.

  Her attention turns to me.

  I realize I’ve been staring at her chest. “Oh, no. I wasn’t—”

  “Do I look like I give a shit?” she barks.

  “Enough, Siddell,” cuts in the Captain. “You’ve been without a partner now for, what, a year?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see—”

  “Can’t have you running around like a lone wolf out there anymore, not with all this PC crap coming in.”

  She looks at me. “But this fucking guy? From fucking where?”

  “Wrightworth,” I add, “California.”

  She ignores me, focusing on the Captain. “I don’t care if he’s from fucking Mars. I don’t need a partner.”

  The Captain puffs at his cigar. The grassy smell of it takes me back to my childhood, reminds me of my father. “It’s not up for discussion.”

  “It’s an honor,” I begin, but she cuts me off, holding a finger up. Even the Captain shifts back in his chair.

  “Shut the fuck up, Bear Grylls.” If this is going to happen, and it sure as shit doesn’t sound like I get a say in it, all I want to know is, are you going to have my back?”

  “Of course,” I reply.

  She places her hands on her hips. “Good, because the last dildo they assigned me couldn’t protect a cup of warm piss. Are you following me?”

  “Yes… ma’am.”

  I don’t know why I say it. I haven’t called anyone that since Ms. Beckham, the math teacher I had on crush on in junior high.

  Grace suddenly looks like Vesuvius. “What did you just call me?”

  The Captain stands and cuts between us, clapping his hands together. “Beckett, let me be blunt. The only reason you’re here is because we’re desperate. You passed the detective exam, good for you, but what I’m reading isn’t getting my dick hard. Your arrest history is… lacking.”

  “Actually, I just got—”

  He stands, the cigar dropping from his hand and burning through a report on his desk. “Do I look like I give a damn? Honestly?”

  “No, sir.”

  “As it stands, you’re useless until proven otherwise. The last thing we need around here is another country bumpkin getting his head blown off, regardless of your track record in LA, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.” And god damn it, I’m back in the Dean’s office all over again, but this time I don’t have my brothers to back me up.

  “We can’t have any fuck-ups around here,” continues the Captain. “My baby brother’s a city councilman, and it’s election season, which means I don’t want any messy stuff. Fuck around and I’ll fuck you back so hard you’ll be coughing cum out your earholes.

  So much for the PC element.

  “Do something,” he continues, “fucking anything. Just don’t stand around here with your cock in hand like you did out in there La-La Land.”

  I keep a stiff upper lip, remind myself this is how it’s done out here, baptism of fire and all. I’m still worried about my partner, though. I can’t tell if she’s trying to size me up or figure out where best to land an axe kick.

  “In fact,” says the Captain, finding a folder on the top of his pile and tossing it to me. “Here’s a fresh one, 187 came in just this morning, a total home run, completely unfuck-upable. Consider it a gift, but I want it done fast and efficiently. Grace here knows the area. Perfect way to get to know one another, don’t you think?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now,” continues the Captain, settling back into his chair. It gives an audible groan. “Fuck off.”

  “Yes, sir,” replies Grace, but it’s half-hearted. She evaporates, leaving me forced to tail her as she tears off into the thick of the precinct.

  I’m trying to peel my eyes from her perfect ass when I hear the Captain call out. “Oh, and Beckett.”

  I spin back. “Yes, sir?”

  “I mean it, son. Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up.”

  I was in charge of four officers, total, in Wrightworth. Here there’s more like four-hundred in this one room alone.

  Grace moves at blinding speed, yelling back instructions to me she no doubt expects me to understand, pointing and gesturing around the room.

  She stops, turns and, what do you know, catches me eyeing her ass again. “Yeah,” she says, serious as a heart attack, “it’s nice, isn’t it? Spin classes three times a week, Muay Thai on Mondays, aikido the rest and a hell of a lot of squats. But if you think I’m only here so you can stand around all day and jerk off staring at my backside, I’ve got news for you. Now, buckle up, cowboy. We’re going on a field trip.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  GRACE

  I knew it was going to happen eventually, especially now the investigation is over, but this guy? I have a feeling I gave him an earful at the bar last night, not that I remember much about it today. I woke up on Bobby’s couch—clothed, thank fuck, but with a head full of rocks all the same.

  I look across. Steel-cut jaw, broad shoulders, arms like anacondas…

  At least he’s nice to look at, I consider.

  I made damn sure I was driving, of course. The last thing I need is for Johnny Hicksville her
e to wrap us around a telephone pole because he’s never seen a set of traffic lights in his life. No, you’ve got to be a special breed to drive in New York. You’ve got to be fucking nuts.

  Five minutes in and he decides to break the silence. “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.”

  I keep up the routine. “You think?”

  “I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

  “Good, because these streets as are serious as a heart attack. You can’t hesitate. Too many good cops have died because of it, trying to be measured. If a perp’s pointing a gun at you, you take them down. Got it? Better to be buried in paperwork than a coffin.”

  He nods, absorbing it.

  I pull up to the police tape.

  What the hell?

  I check the monitor screen, that icy sliver of realization sliding between my ribs. Fuck.

  He senses something’s wrong. “Everything okay?”

  I look to the apartment, Rachel’s apartment. “I’ve been here before.”

  I step out and pull my badge, the newbie doing likewise as he follows me to the apartment, but the weird thing is no one seems to be paying it any attention. They’re all focused on the alley beside it.

  I recognize Pauly from the Coroner’s. I don’t want to ask, because I know the answer already, but I force myself to. I’m just praying it’s that asshole of a boyfriend. I swallow down the fist-sized lump in my throat. “What we got, Pauly?”

  “Siddell, nice to see you.” He sees Harry, Hugo—whatever his name is. “Who’s this?”

  Newbie puts his hand out. “Hunter Beckett. Nice to meet you.”

  Pauly leaves him hanging. I have to laugh. Poor guy must think the world hates him right now. “Through here.”

  We follow Pauly into the alley.

  I see feet poking out from behind a dumpster and I know immediately they’re hers. Push it aside. You’re on the job. “What happened?”

  “Stabbed, multiple times.”

  “Time?”

  “It’s cold out, you know. Tough to say, but I’d say late, maybe midnight?”

  “Weapon?” asks Hunter, snapping with surprising efficiency into work mode.

  “We’ve been through the dumpster, raked the apartment… Nothing yet.”

  “Anything else?”

  Pauly points to a line of red running from the feet down the alley. It could as well be wine if I didn’t know better. “Looks like she was killed elsewhere and dumped here, dragged down behind the dumpster. Shitty way to go.”