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When I got to the end, he put his arms around me. “Come on, Magnolia,” he said, pulling me close. “Plenty of time before you have to leave.”
“Time I could have spentsleeping,” I said, but he kissed my neck and then bit my earlobe gently and when I turned my head to yell at him, he found my mouth, and even though he was a rat bastard for waking me up, he has the greatest mouth in southern Ohio, so I kissed him back and one thing led to another and I was almost late for breakfast at the Pink House after all. It was absolutely worth it.
But Major Rogers can bite me.
On my way out the door, I went to the new addition and looked at the lovely open space where I could get into my bed from either side, and all the light flooding in, and the sky outside the end window, blue as a Disney bird, and thought about the future, as sunny as my soon-to-be bedroom.
This room has to be blue,I thought, just like the river (on a good day) and the open sky.
That’s when everything started to go wrong.
CHAPTER 2
I headed in to work at the police department on a warm, humid August Monday morning, expecting the same old, same old. The day had started very well. I’d gotten one section of the old drywall in the bathroom-to-be knocked out, bagged and tossed in the heap. I’d also had a wonderful liaison with my live-in, Liz Danger. Live-in wasn’t a good term, but girlfriend seemed too trivial, and fiancé was a word not dared uttered. We’d made it three months so far, one month live-in, and things seemed to be going all right. I was happy. She seemed happy. Don’t mess with success is my motto, even though it isn’t on Major Rogers’ Rangering List.
Being Chief of Detectives for the sprawling village of Burney, Ohio, meant I didn’t drive a marked cruiser wearing a uniform; I got to tool about in my Jeep Gladiator wearing civvies. That was probably why a big, black Suburban with tinted windows pulled out behind me from the construction site of the new development and blew by me on Route 52 without slowing, passing in a no-passing zone. Safety violations which could hurt someone justified a stop, so I flipped on the red and blue lights embedded in the grill and facing forward on the dash. I didn’t do the siren because it was too early; who likes loud noises early in the morning?
As I closed on the Suburban, I knew this stop was going to be a problem. It had a State Legislature license plate. The big SUV pulled off onto the shoulder, but I didn’t bother to call the plate in because my boss, Chief George Pens, already had enough crap to deal with. He didn’t need someone from the legislature on his case. I planned on issuing a warning and then getting an ass chewing from whomever was inside. Such is my lot in life.
I pulled in behind the Suburban, angling the Gladiator so it would take the hit if some idiot texting came flying down the road too close to the edge.
I walked up to the driver’s window as it powered down.
“Officer Cooper,” the burly, dark-haired man behind the wheel greeted me.
“Attorney at law, bodyguard, and all-around gofer Franco Sandusky,” I said in return. “You were speeding and passed in a no-passing zone.”
“Urgent business in Columbus,” Franco replied with no sense of urgency.
I leaned forward and looked to the back seat. As I had suspected and feared, Senator Amy Wilcox was staring at me from the far corner. Or she might have been napping. I couldn't see her eyes through the dark glasses she wore. She was what would be called petite, not to be confused with weak, and sported short dark hair in what I assumed was some stylish cut.
And next to her, my least favorite person in Burney, and Ohio, and the United States and perhaps the world, Cash Porter. Yeah, I don’t like him. He was dressed in black as if still mourning his murdered wife of four hours, Lavender Blue. I couldn’t quite make out the body language between the two of them, but Liz tells me I am not most astute judge of such things. He was definitely awake, glaring at me, apparently still upset that I was living with his ex-high-school-girlfriend. Which was fifteen years ago.
I mean, get a life, dude.
“You want to get the senator there safe, don’t you?” I asked Franco, whom Lavender Blue had dubbed Meathead when they first met, the name I was tempted to use. Except Meathead did have a law degree and, I suspected, was much smarter than he looked.
Apparently, Senator Wilcox was awake because she removed the sunglasses. “Detective Cooper.”
“Senator.”
“We’re not in that much of a rush,” she said, contradicting Franco. “We’ll slow down.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You did a good job catching Mickey Pitts,” Senator Wilcox added. “You’re owed a debt of gratitude.”
It wasn’t so dark inside the back that I missed Cash rolling his eyes.
“Liz Danger did the hard part,” I said, referring to my live-in, who’d gunned down arsonist and murderer Mickey Pitts six weeks ago. Pitts was still in an induced coma as doctors were waiting for for him to heal further before attempting to remove a bullet lodged against his spine, but he’d stopped setting Burney on fire and killing people, and that was good enough for me. And evidently the senator.
“Three in the back,” Franco was saying. “Classy.”
“It got the job done.”
“And we are grateful,” Senator Wilcox said. “I hear there’s a detective’s slot for you in the Cincinnati police. Much better pay. More suited to your extensive talents.”
Which I had not heard. I had a feeling she hadn’t either. She’d just invented it. Which raised all sorts of questions that I wasn’t going to ask.
