LITMIR.BIZ

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inches of her.

      “Park it,” she said over her shoulder as she walked her fingers through hanging files in a cabinet drawer.

      Wesley settled into a chair facing the desk and busied himself studying the shapely E. Jones’s rear end, encased in snug khaki-colored pants. No crew cut here—instead, glossy auburn hair was twisted in a knot on the back of her head and secured with a pencil stuck down through it. But her arms were ripped—lean and tanned beneath the short-sleeve yellow shirt she wore. He could only hope that her front was as hot as her back.

      She whirled around and pinned him to the chair with blazing green eyes. Damn, she was…gorgeous.

      “What’s your name?” she barked, dropping into the chair behind her desk.

      Name? “Uh, Wesley,” he stammered. “Wesley Wren.” He leaned forward and handed her the slip of paper that he’d received in the mail.

      She glanced at the paper, then sifted through a stack of folders on her desk and pulled one from the pile. She didn’t look up, but Wesley didn’t mind because it allowed him to study her unobserved. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and she moved like a cat, with no wasted motion. Her lashes were dark and incredibly long, her nose petite, her mouth full and pink, although it was at the moment tightened in a disapproving little bow.

      “So, Mr. Wren,” she said without looking up, “you’re a bad computer hacker.”

      He bristled. “I got in, didn’t I?”

      “Yes, and you got caught.” She sat back in her chair and assessed him with narrowed eyes. “You’re what, eighteen?”

      “Nineteen,” he said, sitting straighter.

      She seemed unimpressed. “Okay, I’m supposed to help you get a job.”

      “I already got a job,” he was glad to report.

      “Where?”

      “It’s not in a location. I’m a body mover.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “I work with a guy who contracts with the morgue for body retrieval.”

      She pursed her pink mouth and nodded. “It’s a niche. But I’ll need a note from your employer, or a paycheck stub.”

      “Okay.”

      “And you need to set up a payment schedule with the court to pay your five-thousand-dollar fine.”

      He winced. “How will that work?”

      “Make regular payments to the court cashier, with a check or money order, preferably every week.”

      Another weekly payment. He was still feeling queasy over the fact that Carlotta had met Tick at the door yesterday morning and handed over a grand before fatso had a chance to ring the doorbell. His sister didn’t want to say where she’d gotten the money, but when he’d insisted on knowing, she’d admitted that she’d pawned the engagement ring that Peter Ashford had given her. She’d mooned over the guy for ten years, and now that he was available, she’d pawned the ring.

      If he lived to be five hundred years old, he’d never understand women.

      Of course, between Father Thom and The Carver, his chances of living to be a hundred didn’t look too good.

      The rapid snapping of fingers caught his attention. “Are you with me?”

      He flushed, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. “Sorry.”

      She frowned. “Are you high?”

      “No.”

      She pulled open a drawer and produced a cup. “Then you won’t mind giving a urine sample before you leave.”

      His neck and ears warmed. “No.”

      “Drug use, possession of a firearm and any other legal violation will land your ass in jail, do you understand?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Your probation also stipulates that you aren’t to access a computer, except when you begin your community-service work with the city to improve their computer security.”

      “Right.”

      “And I see from your file that your driver’s license has been suspended for multiple speeding violations.”

      “Right again.”

      “How do you get around?”

      “I ride the train or walk.”

      She frowned and reached inside yet another drawer and pulled out a Marta train pass. “Here.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Now…back to paying off your fine. Can you swing fifty dollars a week?”

      “Probably.”

      “Can you or can’t you?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      She made a note in his file. “How soon can you begin your community-service work?”

      He perked up. “The sooner, the better.”

      “What about your work schedule?”

      “My boss knows my situation. He’ll work around it.”

      “Okay, I’ll make a couple of phone calls and get back to you.” She asked for and wrote down his cell-phone number. “Regardless, you’ll need to meet with me once a week. Are Wednesdays okay?”

      He nodded.

      “Any questions?”

      “Yeah. What does the ‘E’ stand for?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      He stabbed at his glasses, then pointed to the nameplate on her desk. “Your first name—what does the ‘E’ stand for?”

      Her pink mouth twitched downward. “You don’t need to know.” She handed him the cup for his urine sample. “Down the hall, to the right. Leave the sample with the officer there. I’ll see you next week. Don’t forget to bring your paperwork.”

      Feeling thoroughly dismissed, Wesley stood and walked to the door.

      “Mr. Wren?”

      He turned back, eager to have more contact with the intriguing E. Jones. “Yeah?”

      She tapped his file with an ink pen. “For some reason, your probation has been flagged by the D.A.’s office for close scrutiny. Why is that?”

      Deciding he could be mysterious, too, Wesley shrugged. “You’ll have to ask the D.A.”

      For the first time, he detected a light of curiosity in her green eyes. “I will.”

      He left her office with a bit of a spring in his step and, after depositing a sample of his whizz with the dour-faced guard in the john, walked out of the building, whistling under his breath. Suddenly, probation was looking like a more pleasant prospect. He certainly could get used to looking at E. Jones every week.

      With his probation officer’s warning about possessing a firearm ringing in his head, he used the pass she’d given him to take a Marta train to the Midtown station, then made the several-block walk to the Sonic Car Wash, a huge enterprise that was always jammed with business. He asked a fellow in the exit lot who was hand-drying the windshield of an SUV to point out Louis Strong. The man pointed across the lot to a short, rawboned guy supervising the tire-cleaning of several vehicles, shouting orders and waving cars forward.

      Wesley walked over to the man who sported tattoos across his knuckles. “Louis Strong?”

      The man turned and eyed Wesley up and down. “Who wants to know?”

      Wesley leaned in. “Cooper Craft gave me your name. I need a gun.”

      Panic

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