Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense)(2)

The second cop is a woman. She stands over me, glaring and holding her hand on her sidearm while the first cop opens the trunk lid and doors and begins going through the car. He pulls up the carpeting in the trunk, gets on his knees to look under the seats, shoves his hand between them, throws the contents of the glove box on the ground, and even pulls on the f*cking sun visors.

There’s nothing to find, but he makes sure.

When the K-9 unit shows up I get nervous and keep an eye on the handler. He could make the dog give a false indication, I’m sure of it. The big German Shepard circles the car and looks at me once, big tongue lolling out of his mouth in a sloppy doggy grin, like he’s saying, Sorry bro, just doing my job.

By the time half an hour of this f*cking farce is over, my shoulders are starting to ache from being cuffed behind my back. I look up at the lady cop.

“You know, usually I make a woman buy me dinner before I let her cuff me.”

“Shut up,” she replies.

It must be forty-five minutes since I was pulled over by the time I finally get back on my feet and the cuffs come off.

“Well?”

The first cop, Taylor, hands back my license and registration. I slip them in my pocket and rub my wrists.

“Well?” I repeat.

“Wait here.”

All three cops sit there with their lights spinning while Taylor writes my ticket. As long as he’s taking, you’d think he was cutting down the trees and making the wood pulp to make the paper it’s printed on. I remain very still and keep my hands out, just in case. At least one of these creeps is carrying a drop gun, I can feel it.

Finally Taylor steps out and hands me two tickets.

“I’m citing you for failure to obey a traffic control and failure to wear a seat belt. Have a nice night.”

“You too,” I say as cheerily as I can.

Once he’s out of earshot I mutter, Fuck you, under my breath. If this were any other day I’d tell it to his face, but I’m on a time frame here.

After carefully scooping up the manual and papers from the glove box to make sure they don’t pull me over and do the whole thing again and use littering as an excuse, I make sure I buckle up before I start the car and slowly pull off.

They did their job. That little shit show cost me an hour. I let the chill October air wash over me and rein in my impatience every time a light has the audacity to turn yellow in front of me. The same cop pulls up next to me at the light.

I put my blinker on and he slows down to match me then speeds up when I do. Fucker keeps glancing over at me. Finally I take a right and circle around, and he doesn’t follow. It takes an extra five minutes to get back on to Market, then I turn toward the hotel.

The Marshall Plaza. Funny how it has my name on it in twenty-foot-tall red letters. That’s a branding thing. They’re always red. If every building my father owned in this town actually had the red letters on top, the whole city would glow with them, or near enough.

They stop me when I drive into the garage.

A heavyset, powerfully built man a sharp suit walks down the ramp toward me. His arms are so thick they make me think his sleeves are about to split like sausages left on the griddle too long, as much as his belly jiggles under a perpetually askew tie.

“Sir, you’re going to have to turn around. The hotel is booked, private party.”

I lean out the window. “For f*ck’s sake, Frank.”

His eyes bulge and he flinches like he’s been hit.

“Jack? Jesus Christ, what the f*ck are you doing here? Are you crazy?”

“I’m certified. You going to let me in or not?”

“You’re not on the guest list.”

“I’m the groom’s son. There’s got to be a rule somewhere. I wore a tux.”

Big Frank combs his fingers through his hair. It was gray and thin the last time I saw him. Now it’s more of both and there are deeper lines on his face, and his jowls sag. He still wears a wedding ring.

“Maybe I should let your dad handle this.”

“Yeah, maybe you should.”

I wait and let him think. Frank isn’t a dumb guy?before I left we used to play chess and I never came close to beating him. He’s a thoughtful man and with his size, people are quick to think he’s slow. Underestimating someone like Frank can be dangerous. He furrows his brows.

“Yeah. You’ll make a scene if I don’t take you up, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna be quiet? Behave yourself?”

“Yeah, Frank. Come on, it’s me.”

For a bare second he gives me a kind of aw-shucks look, like, I know you, kid, but then it’s gone and his face goes neutral.

“Yeah. I’ll take you up. Don’t make a mess of this. Here, pull around and park in the valet section.”

I nod, slowly swing the car around under the gate and park. When I step out I’m a little surprised by how big Frank is. I thought, you know, I remembered him towering over me because I was a half-grown kid the last time I saw him. No, he’s still enormous, and the open jacket he wears over a waistcoat only accentuates his width. Guy is as big across as two people, yet he moves with an alarming grace, with surprising subtlety for such a bulky man.

I’ve seen him spar. Big doesn’t equal slow.

When we step into the elevator and the doors close, he sighs. I catch a twitching glance toward the sign on the elevator wall, warning us that the elevator is monitored by listening devices.