Time's Up by Janey Mack

the folder. “You pull and print everything and anything. I can’t shake the feeling these vics are connected.”
    He wasn’t throwing me a bone—this was an entire skeleton. “Really?”
    â€œIn return, I’ll show you the case jackets, walk through how I’m working them, and maybe write a letter for your reinstatement file.”
    I jumped up and hugged him. “You’re the best brother ever!”
    â€œJust make sure you say that in front of the rest of them.”

Chapter 11
    The logical detachment I had when I found the murdered Mr. Clark didn’t make it all the way to my subconscious. I shot up in bed seeing blood and bullet holes at 4 a.m. With no hope of going back to sleep, I went to Joe’s to clear my head.
    I grabbed a speed rope, warming up with side swings and singles. Today was going to be a great day. My last training day with Leticia. And in fifteen hours and twenty-five minutes I was going out. With Hank.
    My life rocks!
    I switched to double-unders, thinking about how I’d talk the scene with Hank. Maybe he’d help me surprise Flynn even more. Finishing with crisscrosses, I chanted in time as the rope snapped on the gym floor.
    â€œGame on. Game on. Game on . . .”
    Â 
    Friday was bagel breakfast day for Leticia. I sat in the Interceptor watching her eat while getting lectured.
    â€œI punched your insubordinate ass’s time card out yesterday and I don’t do that shit for nobody.” She wiped her mouth on a Bruegger’s napkin. “That was a one-timer.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am.”
    â€œStill. You pretty frosty, for a rook.” She flipped on the radio, dialed in AM 560, and swallowed the last bite of her second everything-bagel with lox and cream cheese. “I love me some Prager on a Friday. Especially that goddamn Happiness Hour .”
    She shot me a sideways look. “You know who I’m talking about?”
    â€œYeah. Sure,” I said. “Dennis Prager. Nice voice. Logical.”
    â€œAnd Jewish.”
    â€œAre you?” I asked, “Jewish, I mean?”
    â€œNo.” She looked at me like I was crazy. “But I sure do appreciate them on a Friday.”
    Ooo-kay. I tucked my hair behind my ear and looked out the window. “Where are we going?”
    â€œIt’s a surprise,” she said happily, and cranked the radio even louder. We turned onto a residential street, quiet except for the corner where it looked like a drunken car dealer had opened shop. Cars were parked helter-skelter—on the sidewalks, hanging out of driveways, double- and triple-parked, blocking hydrants. No residential stickers were the least of it.
    â€œOh yeah, baby.” Leticia gave a high-pitched girlish giggle. “I hope you’re ready to boot, McGrane, ’cause we’re carrying eight in the caboose and I’m sure as hell not bringing ’em back.”
    Leticia parked the cart, tossed me the trunk keys, and got out. Fingers flashing on the AutoCITE before I’d unbuckled my seat belt.
    â€œBoot.” She pointed at a ’79 Monte Carlo, and continued down the sidewalk ticketing with a speed and quickness that was truly a sight to behold. “Boot here,” she said and slid an orange violation beneath the windshield wiper of an Isuzu Rodeo.
    I had hit my stride by the fourth boot, barely registering annoyance at unlocking the trunk, pulling the boot, locking the trunk and lugging the boot down the block. Leticia’s enthusiasm was as contagious as a preschooler with the flu.
    â€œHeavy hitter, $750 in unpaids.” Leticia tipped her head at a maroon Oldsmobile.
    I lugged the boot down the curb, walking up into a yard to boot the car on the sidewalk.
    Lazy idiots. Parking on a city sidewalk instead of walking a half block.
    â€œStop right there, you motherfucking meter bitch!” shrieked a black man, late thirties, five-eleven, two-forty,