Free Pieces of Ivy by Dean Covin

navy denim, she pulled on her fitted white blouse and buttoned it to only just the right side of improper, finishing with the sassy angle of her stylish belt. Satisfied, she snatched up her bag, jacket and weapon.
    Her Corvette woke with an enthusiastic growl as it winked a bright 6:45 a.m. on the dash. The blessed christening of the cool air on her hot, wet body had vaporized her terrors. She felt so much better now.
    Her respite was short as Hank rose to the surface of her mind. Her gut pulled inward. She shook her head and drew a deep breath—then saw the sign. She grabbed two large coffees from the drive-through—one with copious amounts of cream—and geared the Corvette down into a playful roar as she sped her car toward Hank’s motel.
    † † †
    She jumped when the door swung open before her knuckle could rap a second time. “Look, I’m sorry about last night,” she said but had to look twice to make sure she was addressing the right man.
    The eyes and nose were right, but a strong, clean-shaven jaw—no longer softened by long stubble—had replaced the scruffy overgrowth. The usual tousled crop atop his head was now tamed by product and held an edgy, swept-back style. The tailored cut of his dark sport jacket provided clean lines to his untucked button-down shirt, and his coarse deep-blue designer jeans met freshly polished boots at the hem.
    “For me?” he asked, shamefaced.
    “What? Oh, yeah.” She nodded, handing him the extra-creamy.
    “Come in.”
    His room was definitely much smaller than her rental, but it was impeccably neat—another surprise.
    “You sure took my grubby hobo comment to heart.” She had regretted the nervous quip the moment it had left her lips.
    “I’ve gotta keep up, don’t I?” he said, being tactful but obvious as he scanned her up and down.
    She appreciated the gentle save.
    Not wanting to stare at her too long, he turned, catching his reflection in the mirror. Hello, stranger . As if seeing an old friend, he felt fuller, better.
    “We should get going.”
    He nodded, holstering his weapon.
    † † †
    As the agents approached the office, they heard Sheriff Roscoe yelling.
    “I’ll shut up when it rains fucking teddy bears—and not a moment sooner!” He slammed the phone down on his desk.
    “There was an incident last night,” he said before either of them could sit down. He looked up and drew out a long, distracted whistle. “ Holy shit .”
    Her morning preparations were justified. He scanned up and down her skintight jeans, coming to a rest at the low cut of her blouse beneath her fitted tanned-leather blazer.
    Vicki took advantage of being in the field by extending her liberties, dressing covertly sexy rather than overtly slutty—there was a distinct difference, and she knew how to wield this craft.
    Many viewed this as vain, but, to her, attractiveness was an asset—be it for currency or distraction. She leveraged all of her gifts—mental and physical. According to her father, all the best champions did—that’s what made them great. Vicki Starr was willing to do whatever it took to get the job done. If it raised a few eyebrows, she didn’t care. Her results spoke for themselves.
    Roscoe showed no signs of letting the linger wane.
    “Incident?” Vicki asked, reclaiming his attention as she took a seat.
    † † †
    Hank decided to ride shotgun on this case for a while and let Vicki do the talking. John Roscoe didn’t like Hank, and he knew it. He wasn’t sure why, but he had a few guesses. From the way Roscoe furtively took in Hank’s cleaned-up appearance, Hank figured at least one of his hunches was right.
    “No one was hurt, but there were a few shots fired.” In response to their visible shock, he added, “Just watch.” He turned his screen toward them and played a shaky video.
    “iPhone?” Vicki asked. The footage was sloppy but discernible.
    He nodded.
    The stage filled the view, where the mayor stood at the podium and the sheriff