Free Time's Up by Janey Mack

lingering in the corner of my mind, although Leticia’s disgust was real enough.
    The driver was slumped low down in the seat, napping, Sox cap low on his face. I stepped around a large oil spot that was still live enough to leave a partial shoe print and rapped on the window. Nothing. The guy didn’t even flinch.
    Uh-oh.
    I knocked again, then leaned over the side mirror to peer through the windshield. I jerked backwards in surprise, not fear. I’d been surrounded by crime scene photos my entire life. Full color and grotesque.
    The driver had two bullet holes in the chest of his very bloody white dress shirt. A brown-red syrupy puddle pooled in his lap. His face looked as if it had been carved from gray wax and his eyes were cloudy marbles.
    Poor bastard.
    Moving in as close as possible without touching the car, I examined the victim. White, early thirties, slim, light brown hair. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone. Folded neatly on the seat next to him were a yellow plaid necktie and a lanyard with his Mayoral Staffer ID. His name was Thorne Clark.
    My first McGrane table club stiff and I didn’t even own the case.
    I had a BS in criminal justice, but it was the lifetime of listening and looking at my parents and brothers’ cases that had my brain processing and synthesizing details as easily as if I’d been at a thousand crime scenes.
    The amount of blood in his lap was unusual. When a person dies, the heart stops pumping. The holes in Mr. Clark had done enough damage to immobilize him while he bled out. Hollow point?
    I circled the car and looked in from the rear window. The camel leather back of the driver’s seat was intact. Hollow points would have ended up in the backseat or even the trunk.
    Wadcutters.
    Revolver rounds made for paper target practice. When used on live targets, the bullets made nice holes going in and didn’t come out.
    Holy cat. I sprinted back to the cart. “Call Dispatch. The guy’s been murdered.”
    â€œGet in the cart, McGrane.” Leticia put the Interceptor in gear. “Not our bidness.”
    â€œYou’re kidding, right?”
    She swiveled to face me head-on. “Do you have any idea what kind of paperwork you have to fill out on a stiff? Supervisors have to take a three-day PTSD half-pay leave for counseling.” She wagged a blinged-out nail at me. “Nuh-uh.”
    â€œIt’s a crime scene.”
    â€œYou wanna be a Girl Scout? Get your own ride home.” Leticia pressed a button in the console. The passenger window slid closed and away she went.
    Â 
    It took me half a minute to fumble my iPhone out of my cargo pocket. I thought I was calm but the adrenaline was kicking in, my fine motor skills decreasing.
    Stay chilly.
    â€œCall Flynn,” I voice-dialed.
    â€œWhat’s up, Snap?” His voice was short, still ticked off about the bus driver case.
    â€œI got a body for you and Rory.”
    â€œWhat?”
    My voice went all squeaky. “I think I’m standing in front of a contract hit on a mayoral staffer in the warehouse district. Do you want it or should I call it in?”
    â€œAre you safe? Secure enough on your own to wait?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIs he fresh?”
    â€œNot too. At least I don’t think so.”
    â€œText me your GPS co-ords. We’ll be there in ten. You know the drill.”

    My brothers arrived like rock stars in an unmarked black Dodge Charger. I walked over to their car and waited as Rory called it in on the regular channels, watching as they examined and video-recorded the scene with their phones.
    Time ticked by slower than a one-legged dog on tranquilizers, as I figured I’d pretty much cracked it and couldn’t wait to spill.
    â€œNice find, Snap.” Flynn came over wearing a huge grin. “This one’s a peach.”
    All at once, the scene was deluged in a flash flood of evidence techs, beat cops, the ME crew, impound