CHAPTER TWO

O’Shea watched the airport carousel go round and round, and still her suitcase didn’t show up.

What the fuck ?

Luckily, she’d tossed all her “must-haves” in her backpack, which lay between her feet, so her teeth weren’t in danger of getting fuzzy. But still it sucked. Her best baggy mom-jeans and her favorite raggedy sweatshirt were in her luggage, and she’d been looking forward to getting to her hotel, putting on her comfy shit and chilling out after her flight.

She tapped her foot and looked around.

There were only two other people standing around the belt; one looking as frustrated as she was, and one looking…cocky?

Cocky ? What the hell was up with that?

She’d just about given up on her belongings, and was looking around for someone who could point her in the direction of a place where she could make a complaint, when two bags slid onto the conveyor.

Yes ! It was about fucking time. She waited while her coveted possessions made the trip down the chute, then around, until—

A commotion started up several yards behind her. She pivoted to see a young man coughing. After a few seconds, he bent over at the waist, clutching at his throat. A woman stood next to him looking panicked.

“He’s choking,” she cried, frantically grabbing at the guy’s shoulder, but… The man’s color looked good, and if O’Shea wasn’t mistaken, his back rose and fell with shallow breaths.

She narrowed her eyes. Something smelled funky.

It had to be a set-up.

She astutely turned her gaze back to the luggage roundabout, where— goddammit —the cocky dude had grabbed her suitcase and the other from the moving belt before swiftly turning away with the purloined goods.

Oh, hell no .

“Security!” she yelled at the top of her lungs, hoping there was an airport cop nearby. “Security!” she cried out again, frustration setting in.

Her perp turned momentarily, looking…smug.

Fuck it.

After a few seconds with no one responding, O’Shea had to take action.

Not stopping to remind herself that she was no longer in her hometown Opeloosa jurisdiction, O’Shea leapt over the one rope barricade that separated her from the perp, and raced after him as he began to pick up speed.

Not fast enough, prick .

One flying leap and she tackled him, full-on, stopping him mid-stride and taking him down.

The asshole hit the floor, hard, and the two pieces of luggage went flying, but O’Shea would deal with those later. She had things under control. She’d surprised the hell out of the guy, and already his hands behind his back, securing him with the zip-ties she always carried in her fanny-pack. Yeah , she’d had to leave her gun behind, but luckily, the TSA never had a problem with plastic.

The thief gave a piss-poor, half-assed struggle to rise, but once he realized how tenacious O’Shea was, he smartly gave up. From her position astride his back, O’Shea looked behind her and saw that the man’s two cohorts had fled the scene. Typical. There really was no honor among thieves.

A small, pointing, and picture-taking crowd had gathered by this time, and it was starting to look like she was the entertainment of the day. Great. She was about to become a YouTube sensation.

Groaning to herself, she glanced around to see if anyone had alerted the proper authorities, when she spotted a cop headed toward the commotion.

O’Shea let out a shrill, practiced whistle.

“Over here,” she yelled.

The officer glanced her way, then hotfooted it to her position before standing stony-faced over her, showing…annoyance?

“Well?” O’Shea prompted.

“Ma’am. I’m going to have to ask you to get up. Slowly.” The cop’s hand was on his service weapon, so… What? He was going to shoot her?

Huffing and giving him her best eyeroll, O’Shea complied, easing off the perp and rising to her feet. “Good afternoon to you, too, officer. But just to let you know, this isn’t exactly the Boston welcome I was imagining,” she drawled, letting her southern accent come out in full force. “Y’all need to serve up some better hospitality around here.”

“ID please,” the cop ignored her greeting, and delivered his demand, stony-faced.

O’Shea raised a brow. Seriously ? This is how he was going to play it? Well, hell. She had to give him a little lip for his attitude. “Uh, I’m not the bad guy here, officer,” she snorted. “This man was making off with two bags: one belonging to the passenger with the Red Sox hat, and the other to me. It was in my best interest to stop him.”

“I can corroborate.” The Sox fan who’d also been waiting for his late-ass luggage, spoke up. “Our bags were delayed and they were last to come down the conveyor, but before we could get them, this man,” he pointed to the now interested perp on the floor, “grabbed them and started to take off.”

The grounded jerk had the audacity to whine. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I thought they were mine.”

“Oh really?” O’Shea glowered at him. “If that’s the case, give me the info on either of the luggage tags.”

Before the wanna-be thief could answer, the cop spoke up again. “That’s enough. I’ll be the one asking the questions around here,” he barked. “Now you,” he spoke to O’Shea again, “let me see that ID.”

O’Shea’s gut urge was to lash out with sarcasm, but she sucked it up, deciding to play nice. Wouldn’t her colleagues back home be proud?

As she bit her tongue, she dug in her fanny-pack for her license, which just so happened to be in the same leather, windowed-folder as her Opeloosa shield. She opened it up with a flourish, not letting any emotions show on her face as the officer took a look from a few feet away before making a “gimme” motion with his fingers.

Moving closer and handing it over, O’Shea watched him study it up close for a few seconds before a woman in the crowd yelled out. “Hey! Miss! Your thief is trying to get away.”

Right. On his belly .

Without thinking, O’Shea took a few quick steps in the man’s direction and put a booted foot on his back.

“Owww!” the asshole cried out. “You’re hurting me. This is assault.”

“Nope,” O’Shea stated with a smirk. “If it was, you’d know it. I simply had some shite on my footwear and needed a place to wipe it off.” Thank you, Brigid, for the Irish version of the word, “shit”, which should go over well with a Boston crowd.

“That’s enough,” the taciturn cop growled. “Step away.”

What? He didn’t like her cute excuse? O’Shea thought it had been a pretty good one. She sighed. Clearly, the cop wasn’t going to make this easy.

Maybe it was time to call Brigid .

O’Shea would get a ration of shit, because, yeah , she should have told her friend she was coming. But she’d had some time off on the books that her superiors had been urging her to take, and this trip had been a spur of the moment decision.

The trip had been, she reminded herself, but not the reason behind it.

Still, there wouldn’t have been any of this over-the-top fuss if she’d had Brigid meet her here. The problem of the dick-officer would already have been solved, and they’d be happily sucking down two extra-large lattes by now, swapping hugs and stories.

The thought of seeing Brigid again made her smile. O’Shea’s once-upon-a time fellow officer from Louisiana had met the love of her life—her now-husband, Sarge—back in Opeloosa, and was currently a Boston cop. Maybe…

O’Shea knew the BPD was large with many precincts, but perhaps the cop on duty would know Brigid?

Turning to the officer and using her best smile, she attempted to be friendly. “I’m here to visit my bestie, uh…” Which last name did Brig use now? O’Shea wasn’t sure, so she went with a hyphenated version. “Officer Brigid Fitzdunne-Montverra, who is currently employed by your fine city as a detective.” Yup . Brig had passed that exam.

The cop soured even more. “Nice try. But if you think knowing someone on the BPD is going to get you out of this, you can think again.”

“Wait. Out of what?” O’Shea asked, scrunching her brows together.

“Assault and battery.” He pointed to the now-grinning perp. “Excessive use of force…”

“Excessive…?”

O’Shea took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. If this is how law enforcement worked in the big city, she might have to rethink the plans she’d been unofficially making. “Officer, this is not a case of assault. I was simply protecting my belongings.”

He looked unimpressed. “And the zip-ties?”

She tried her ineffective smile again. “Those were because he wanted to get away, and if he’d managed to take a few more steps, I would have had to beat the shit out of him,” she stated calmly. “This way, restraining him peacefully ,” she emphasized that word, “nobody got hurt, and there was no prolonged chase that might have compromised public safety. You’ll find from all the video being taken,” she nodded appreciatively at all the people in the crowd who had their phones up, “that I never once used an… excessive amount of force.” O’Shea threw the officer’s word back at him.

Two additional cops, O’Shea noticed, were currently walking their way, which could mean that things might get better for her—if the pair weren’t sour-pusses—or worse. Since that judgement was as yet inconclusive, she sweetly asked. “May I make one phone call and perhaps clear things up that I’m not a loose cannon?”

Before Officer Stick-up-his-ass could answer, one of the approaching cops called out.

“What’s going on, Murphy?”

Murphy tossed her credentials to the newcomer when he got close enough. “We have a situation, Grady. This woman, Karen O’Shea, purportedly an officer with the Opeloosa PD…”

She wanted to growl. He’d called her by her first name, which nobody without a death-wish ever dared, and on top of that, he was questioning her cred?

“…thinks she’s still in Louisiana,” he huffed. “She had this guy down and zip-tied without calling for help.”

“Uh, if I may?” She raised her hand.

“Go ahead,” Grady assented.

“I actually did call for security before I made my running tackle.”

“She did,” put in one of the bystanders. “I have it on video.”

“And?” skeptical-cop asked.

O’Shea shrugged. “And nobody showed up, so I had to act fast or he would have gotten away with my shit.” Yes , she’d sworn, because she’d just about had it. Crossing her arms over her chest, she waited to see what else the cynical prick had to say.

“Again. This is not your city. It’s not even your state. You can’t just run around willy-nilly taking the law into your own hands. I—”

“Murphy?” The cop who’d remained silent so far, spoke up, and if his face was any indication, there was no love lost between him and good-ol’ Murph.

Murphy’s jaw tensed. “Yeah, Hanlon?”

“I think we might be making a mountain out of a molehill here. This guy,” he pointed to the thief, “is obviously not hurt, so how about we take everyone’s statements and sort things out?”

Finally. Somebody with some brains.

“Thank you, Officer Hanlon,” O’Shea let her appreciation show in her face. “And in order to verify my identity and good character, might I make one phone call?”

She knew Brigid was probably on duty and perhaps unavailable, but there was always someone answering the phone at the SOS office. She wanted to snicker at the thought of Officer Tight-ass going up against Mizzay.

“Of course,” Hanlon replied, handing her back the ID folder he’d taken from Grady. “Your credentials look to be in order.” He sent a look to Murphy as if daring him to disagree, but he must have held seniority or something, because Murphy backed down.

“Thanks.” O’Shea stuffed her folder in her pouch, then took out her phone.

She hit the number for SOS.

“Songen Operational Systems, how may I help you.” Mizzay’s chirpy voice came over the line, and O’Shea grinned. She loved this feisty woman.

“Hey, Mizzay. It’s O’Shea, Brigid’s—”

“I know who you are, doll,” Mizzay cut her off with a squeal. “It’s good to hear from you. I was just talkin’ to Brigid about taking a trip to Louisiana sometime soon to see youze. I was hoping we could go hit some bahs, listen to music, and pound a few back.”

That’s right. Mizzay might be a hair short of five feet, but she’d proven she could drink everyone under the table. Most of her friends hadn’t been walking straight when they’d celebrated Brigid’s rescue and the incarceration of the rotten cops, judge, and town officials who’d made her life hell, but Mizzay had been sober as a judge, and had taken charge to see that they all got home okay.

Brigid filled Mizzay in. “Well, we might just do that right here in Boston if you’re up for it,” O’Shea informed her. “I, uh, came in for a surprise visit, but I’ve run into a little snafu at the airport.”

She could almost hear Mizzay’s backbone snapping straight. “Snafu?” she bit out. “Whatz the problem, doll?”

Right to the point. Another thing to love about Mizzay.

“Well, I was waiting for my luggage to come around on the carousel, when some asshole tried to grab it.” She looked at the officers who were listening. “I called for security, but when no one arrived, I took matters into my own hands and, uh, caught up with the suspect, who might have ended up on the floor with his wrists zipped behind his back.”

There was a chortle. “Good fa you,” Mizzay replied heartily. “Soze you didn’t lose your stuff?”

“Nope.”

O’Shea loved Mizzay’s Bronx accent. It made itself known sporadically, when Mizzay felt it appropriate. Regardless, she was always a ball-buster.

O’Shea continued. “But I have some of Boston’s finest here with me now, and they are, umm, questioning my actions. So I thought—”

“Youze put them on the phone right now,” Mizzay demanded, not letting O’Shea finish. “I’ll take care of those guyz.”

O’Shea somehow managed to keep a straight face as she proffered her phone to Murphy. “My, uh, friend wants to talk to you.”

Murphy took the phone. “Officer Theodore Murphy here. Who am I speaking to?”

Of course, the asshole would dangle a preposition.

O’Shea watched the cop’s face as he nodded, and nodded again, then saw the color leach from his cheeks. She had no idea what Mizzay was saying, but Murphy’s Adam’s Apple bobbed convulsively several times before he eventually cleared his throat.

“Of course. I understand,” he choked out. Another twenty seconds passed, after which he seemed to agree with whatever else Mizzay was telling him. “We’ll get things cleared up here so that Ms. O’Shea can be on her way.”

O’Shea wanted to crow, but held in her glee. There was no need to get the guy all faché’d

now that he’d been verbally emasculated by the inimitable Mizzay.

Without saying goodbye, he held the phone out, and O’Shea took it.

“We all set?” she asked Mizzay.

“We better be,” the woman growled, “or Officah Murphy is gonna find himself working Internal Affayahs.”

O’Shea coughed. Internal Affairs was the shittiest assignment a cop could pull. It was solitary, it was boring, and higher ups could assign the job to an officer for however long they wanted. Murphy clearly did not want to go there.

“Thanks, Mizzay.” Relief flooded her system. “I’ll see you soon. Once things wrap up here, I’m headed to my hotel, then I’ll eventually connect with Brigid. Maybe I’ll take you up on that night on the town in Boston instead of on my home turf in case anybody else might like to join us. I’ll bet you know some great places.”

“Youze better believe it, doll. I know all the spots,” Mizzay answered drolly, but unfortunately, she didn’t take the hint about others in the SOS office tagging along.

Damn. A girl could hope.

O’Shea had already admitted to herself that the draw she felt to Boston wasn’t just because of Brigid.

There was one frustrating but intriguing member of the SOS team who had caught her eye last year, and hadn’t left her brain, since.

Sure, nothing—at that time—had come of her attraction to Billboard. He’d seemed almost…clueless that she was interested. But at the time, she’d cut him some slack. He’d been completely focused on the job at hand. She understood that, and had loved his dedication to duty, however…

Was it too much to hope that she might draw his attention now that she was in his city?