Free Time's Up by Janey Mack Page A

tow truck, and the ever-present public notification team.
    â€œAbout the scene—” I started.
    Feeling magnanimous, Flynn sat down on the hood of the car, all encouragement. “Lay it out for me.”
    â€œDid you see the print at the edge of the oil?”
    He nodded, with barely a hint of superiority. Rory came over to listen as he supervised the activity surrounding the Lexus.
    â€œIt’s a Haix boot. Most cops wear Haix boots. I’m thinking the perp—either someone impersonating a cop or even a cop—gets the vic to pull over and roll his window down, pops him twice in the chest with a wadcutter-loaded revolver. After, the perp opens the door, closes the window, and turns off the car.”
    â€œExpelled from the Academy and your first drop is a dirty cop.” Flynn folded his arms across his chest. “Sweet.”
    â€œWhat’s your read?” I said, throwing down the gauntlet.
    His hand came up. “Aside from the fact that the oil, as well as the print, may have been here for days, you’re wearing Haix boots. So do paramedics, firemen, and security guards, to name a few.”
    â€œTech!” Rory snapped his fingers at a woman in white coveralls.
    The evidence tech jogged over. “Yes sir?”
    Rory pointed at my feet. “Bag her boots.”
    â€œYes sir.” She withdrew a permanent marker and a couple of large plastic bags from one of the pockets in her coveralls.
    â€œNo. No way,” I said, backing up. “You’re kidding, right?”
    Rory shook his head, straight-faced.
    The tech scribbled across the labels while I struggled to undo my boots. “But there’s no oil on these.” I stepped out of them, gingerly planting my pure white athletic-socked feet on the grimy asphalt. “Besides, my boots have a crosshatched toe tread. And that print is way too big to be mine.”
    Flynn’s mouth contorted as he tried to keep a straight face. “SOP, Snap.”
    â€œYeah.” Rory snorted with laugher. “Watch your socks, kid.”
    The tech opened each bag for me to drop my work boots into, closed them, and trotted off with the bags to the evidence van.
    â€œIs this you guys thanking me for calling you instead of calling it in?” Heat burned up my throat. “Mom’s gonna love this.”
    â€œJaysus,” Rory said. “Still can’t take a joke, can yeh?” He walked away and started talking to a uniform who’d just finished cordoning off the area.
    â€œTech!” Flynn shouted. The woman turned around. “Bring her some booties.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Eighty-twenty you’re right about the wadcutters.”
    Even though he’d taken my shoes, I couldn’t help the smile. “Can I stay and watch you guys work the scene?”
    The uniform came over. “Excuse me, miss? Detective McGrane asked me to give you a ride home.”
    Flynn shook his head. “Scram. I’ll fill you in at dinner.”
    Â 
    The scent of sugar and eggs and flour filled the early afternoon air. Thierry was at the stove, whisking Genoise cake batter over a bain-marie. Petite madeleines. He took the batter off the water bath and folded it into a pastry bag.
    â€œHi, Thierry.” I slumped on the stool and watched him layer in row after row of tiny scallop-shaped pastries. “Pistachio?”
    â€œOui.”
    Da’s favorite. A manila folder lay on the counter. I flipped it open, idly. Inside were obituaries from the Sun Times and the Tribune .

    Keith Nawisko, Chicago bus driver and officer of the Amalgamated Transit Union Local #56, died Friday after a brutal attack near N. Milwaukee Blvd.

    â€œI find for Flynn.” Thierry clicked his tongue against his teeth. The buzzer dinged. He removed a batch from the oven and flipped the tiny cakes nimbly from the pan onto the cooling rack. “Is sad, no?”
    â€œYeah.” There wasn’t any