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Sure enough, he arrived at his gym not much later. She waved to him from her perch across the street. He threw her a glare, and she responded with the peace sign. Barmy, not dangerous. He stalked into the building.
For the rest of the afternoon, she followed him. She gave him plenty of room so he wouldn’t get too uptight. He stayed away from the rougher parts of the city where she’d twice seen him in intimate conversations with street corner drug dealers. Hard to believe he’d have to buy his drugs off the street, but she’d jotted down each encounter in her log for her client to see.
Late in the afternoon, he disappeared into a mirrored-glass building on North Wacker that housed a major investment group. She knew Graham was looking for financing to start a national franchise of high-end nightclubs with other famous athletes at the helm. Since he had more money than the Illinois treasury, he could probably finance a big chunk of it himself, but Graham wanted buy-in from the business community. She wished she knew more about what made him tick. Why didn’t he take over an island somewhere and live the rest of his life smoking dope on the beach?
Eventually, he emerged. As he walked toward the parking lot, the sunlight played in his hair, and the building’s mirrored surface reflected his long, sure stride. She didn’t like noticing those things about a man with so many objectionable qualities: his smug self-confidence, his air of entitlement . . . his outrageous net worth.
Afternoon rush hour had picked up. He knew Chicago’s shortcuts nearly as well as she did, and he took the side streets on his way back to Lakeview. For no apparent reason, his Tesla slowed to a crawl on a one-way street a few blocks from Ashland. His arm shot out through the driver’s side window, and he hooked what looked like a small grenade over the roof of the car. It landed in a barren patch of land between a nail salon and a bail bonds office. Three more of the missiles followed, and then the Tesla drove on.
It had happened so quickly she might have imagined it if this weren’t a repeat performance. She’d seen him do the same thing two days ago in Roscoe Village. She’d noted the incident in her log but hadn’t known what to call it. Those pseudogrenades would go unnoticed unless someone was actively looking for them. What was he doing?
Just as she decided to drive back to investigate, she heard a siren behind her. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a squad car approaching. She moved over to let it pass. Instead, it settled behind her, lights flashing. The cop was after her.
Cursing under her breath, she swung into a strip mall. That bastard! He’d been playing cat and mouse with her. From the beginning, he’d intended to call in the police.
The squad car followed her into the parking lot, its flashing red lights smearing a path across the front windows of a Subway and a dentist’s office. The reality of the situation hit home. It was over. Graham was going to file charges against her. Every penny of her savings was gone, and she had no safety net, no other wealthy client
waiting in the wings to take the place of the one she was about to lose.
Using all the curses she’d learned at her father’s knee, she retrieved her driver’s license—her real one—from her wallet. Her fake IDs were safely stashed in her underwear drawer. Not her Glock, though. Concealed carry was legal in Illinois, but she still kicked it as far under the driver’s seat as it would go, praying for a miracle.
While the cop ran her plates, she extracted her registration and insurance card from the glove box. When he finally approached, she saw that he was about her age, early thirties, one of those super buff guys who should have been Mr. January on a Naked Cops of Chicago calendar. She put down her window and worked on her friendliest, most innocent smile. “Is there a problem, officer?”
“Could I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, ma’am?”
She handed over the papers. As he examined her license, the smell of his cologne drifted through the open window. She was clearly coming unhinged because “It’s Raining Men” buzzed through her head. She wondered if his uniform was being held together with strips of Velcro.
“Are you aware that it’s illegal to tape up a broken taillight?”
This was about her taillight? Graham hadn’t turned her in? She went weak with relief.
“I saw you were cited with a defective equipment violation in August,” he said, “but you didn’t get it properly fixed.”
The swishy-haired nightclub blondes at Spiral could probably talk their way out of this, but Piper was so grateful for the reprieve that she didn’t even try. “I couldn’t afford it, but I know that’s no excuse. It’s not my habit to ignore traffic safety.” Except when it came to speed limits, but since he’d checked her plates, he’d already discovered her old transgressions, along with the fact that she had a Concealed Pistol License.
“Driving an unsafe vehicle is dangerous,” he said, “not only to you but to . . .”
She didn’t hear the rest of his lecture because a one-hundred-thousand-dollar metallic-blue Tesla had whipped into the strip mall. As the car parked in front of the dentist’s office, fresh dread swept through her. The officer knew her real name, and what had turned out to be a simple traffic stop had escalated into a major disaster.
She wasn’t the only one who noticed the ex-quarterback unfolding from the driver’s seat like some kind of urban panther. The officer stopped talking. His chest expanded and his cop cool evaporated as Cooper approached, extending his arm, and introduced himself, as if such a thing were necessary. “Cooper Graham.”
“Sure! I’m one of your biggest fans.” The hunky cop pumped Graham’s hand as if it were a backyard oil rig. “I can’t believe you’re not playing for the Stars this year.”
“All good things come to an end.” Cooper’s drawl was straight out of the Oklahoma prairie. She half expected to see him poke a blade of switchgrass in the corner of his mouth to maintain the illusion that he was harmless.
“That was some game you played against the Patriots last year.”
“Thanks. It was a good day.”
The two of them talked blitzes and pass rushes as if she weren’t there. For someone who was such a stickler about the rules of the road, Officer Hottie wasn’t nearly as exacting when it came to following proper police procedure for a traffic stop.
Graham had his own agenda. He took in her short hair, which had been hidden by last night’s wig. “What’d she do?”
“Didn’t get a broken taillamp fixed. You know this lady?”
Graham nodded. “Sure do. She’s my stalker.”
The cop shot to attention. “Your stalker?”
