Free Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant (Cassidy Jones Adventures, Book Three) by Elise Stokes Page A

nodded to myself. Mickey, Marky, and Marty. Of course they’re brothers .
    “Bringing in Rusty. I rescheduled his court date.”
    Riley growled, “That one has caused me nothing but grief. He’ll make that court date if I have to drag him there by the hair.” Riley and Emery went into her office. He closed the door behind them.
    Mickey grinned at me. “She would, you know,” he said.
    “I wouldn’t cross her,” I admitted.
    Mickey busted up. “Very few have and lived to tell the tale,” he said with a wink. “Take a load off, and I’ll get you that pop, unless you’d prefer something else?”
    “Do you have bottled water?” I asked, sitting down in the chair in front of his desk.
    “We shall see.”
    As Mickey crossed the office to a refrigerator, I took the opportunity to look around. Marky and Marty’s desks were behind me, piled with files. Alongside the door we had entered, there was a vinyl sofa and a coffee table with magazines fanned across the top, and pictures hanging on the walls of a green landscape that I guessed to be Ireland. I assumed this was Riley’s decorative touch. The wall behind Mickey’s desk was devoted to police-wanted bulletins. Inspecting the mean faces of fugitives, I listened in on Emery and Riley.
    “I received a tip that an exhibit at the Denny is somehow connected to a top-secret military project my mom headed,” Emery explained. “I need to examine the exhibit more closely—”
    “You want me to get you in,” Riley interrupted.
    “I want to pick your brain about the security system the museum uses. I’ll get myself in—”
    “Here you are, Cassidy.” A water bottle appeared before my face. The distraction resulted in an auditory disconnect with the next room.
    “Thank you.” I took the water.
    Mickey swung his leg over his chair and sat down. He caught me eyeballing the long, thin scar under his right eye. “A souvenir from my rough and tumble days,” he explained, relaxing in the chair. “Before my mom forced us boys to reform and become respectable bounty hunters.”
    “A knife fight?”
    “He had a knife. I had these.” Mickey made fists.
    I chuckled, surprisingly at ease. It almost felt like I had known Mickey my entire life. Because he reminds me of Nate , I realized. Both were good-natured and rascally.
    “Your tattoos are cool,” I said, examining the dragon blowing fire at the knotwork circle. “They look symbolic.”
    “Indeed.” Mickey pointed to the knotwork circle on his freckled bicep. “Brotherhood, friendship, loyalty,” he explained. “The fire represents indestructibility.”
    “Your brothers have the circle, too?”
    “They do.”
    “So does Emery?”
    “Emery is like our little brother. He surprised us with the tat about a year ago.” Mickey smiled at the memory. “Surprised his little Irish mama, too.”
    “Serena’s Irish?”
    “Through and through. Her maiden name is Connolly. From bloodline to character, Emery has every right to bear that tat. You’ll never meet a more loyal person.”
    “No one could ask for a better friend,” I agreed, thinking of Emery’s father. I’m keeping the truth about his dad from him, I thought, watching the water swirl in the water bottle. What kind of friend does that make me?
    I looked at Mickey. Elbows on the desk, he nestled his chin on folded hands and stared at me intently. “I can see how much you care about Emery,” he observed. “I like that.”
    “Thank you,” I whispered, feeling the threat of tears. Suddenly it occurred to me that I was being rude. Mickey had a hand in finding out who had kidnapped my dad and Serena. “By the way, thank you for helping Emery stake out Selma Heart and find my dad.” Selma Heart was Junior’s right-hand man—er, woman.
    “I’m amazed.” Mickey leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Emery told you about that? That’s not like him.”
    “I saw you pick him up at my house that night,” I explained, pressing a finger