LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Ooh, how Sherlock of him.”

      “He wants to date. Not marry, not have a one-night stand.”

      “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Sanjula said. “You’d want to have second helpings of that dish.”

      “Maybe. The thing is, he’s awfully good-looking.”

      “And that’s bad because…?”

      Aubrey sighed. “The being-beautiful baggage,” she said. “Ego. Competition. Ego.”

      “All right. I’ll give you that. But it’d be worth it for those blue eyes. Anyway, continue.”

      “His fave restaurant is Parlor Steakhouse. His secret passion is the Mets. Ugh.”

      “Hey, it could be worse.”

      “I know, but come on. Baseball? I was expecting more from you, Liam.”

      “No editorials please,” Sanjula said. “What else?”

      “His Bottom Line is ‘To find a woman who shares my goals and values.’” Aubrey turned to face the store as another gust of wind hit. “He needs a one-night stand. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

      Sanjula snorted. “Yeah. Or two or three—one for each of us.”

      Aubrey laughed as she looked up. There, above the doors, was the perfectly lit logo for the store. Her gaze snapped back to the card, then up again at the two bold words. Le Muse.

      Sanjula was still talking, but Aubrey couldn’t focus on what she was saying.

      “Yeah, right,” she mumbled. “Love you.” Aubrey hung up, and stared at his picture some more.

      “Oh, my God,” she whispered, letting the breeze carry away the words. She had to admit the whole thing was a bit heavy-handed, but the Fates weren’t known for gentle nudges.

      Liam Flynn had clearly been sent, special delivery, to be her own, personal muse.

      A beer sounded great. Liam hung up his suit jacket, then turned on his computer terminal as he sat at his desk in the squad’s bull pen. He straightened his desk plaque, which someone had knocked sideways. Detective Liam Flynn. He’d never felt more deserving of the title than he did tonight.

      “Well done, Flynn.” Detective Lieutenant Posner, the woman in charge of the detectives at the Midtown North precinct, stopped in front of his desk. “The bastards were right where you said they’d be. All of them and their computers brought in with no surprises.”

      “I had some good intel,” he said. “My CI really came through.”

      “I’d heard you’d made an impression on the locals when you were a beat cop. I’ve always believed that the best safety net is a community that has your back.”

      “Yeah, well, I made my share of enemies, too.”

      “I’d have been suspicious if you hadn’t.” She leaned in, lowered her voice. “Don’t think I’m not aware of your impact here. Most of these bums would rather chew off their own arms than do thorough reports, but in the end, seventy-five percent of convictions come from dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. Keep it up.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Detective Lieutenant Posner smiled and went over to join the huddle of “bums.”

      Liam heard them laughing from the other side of the bull pen, although he hadn’t caught the joke. He rarely did. But he knew that the vice team would be planning which bar they’d go to after shift. They’d choose between the White House, which had the prettier waitresses, or the closer O’Malley’s, where the drinks were less expensive.

      Maybe, this time, he’d say yes when Harry came around to invite him. The bust on the money-laundering operation had gone like clockwork. It warranted a hoisted glass or two. If they decided to go to O’Malley’s. The White House was off-limits for him. The one time he’d gone, a waitress had tried to convince him to go home with her. He’d declined, but that hadn’t been enough to satisfy Detective Tony Ricci, who’d been trying to score a date with her for months. Tony still hadn’t forgiven him.

      “Yo, Ridiculous.”

      Liam’s jaw flexed at the nickname he hated. Especially coming from Ernie Rogers, one of the most decorated detectives in the NYPD. Rogers was nearing his twenty, and Liam had wanted to get to know him before he retired, but it had been seven months since he’d joined the team, and so far, they’d talked nothing but ongoing cases. “The name’s Flynn,” he called out, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference.

      “You comin’ with? We owe you a drink for today’s bust. And then you get to tell the class how you figured out that Stevens and Isaacs were both going to be at that apartment.”

      “Where?”

      “The nation’s capital.”

      “I’ll pass.”

      Harry Bigalow, another old-timer, clapped Rogers on the shoulder as he shook his head at Liam. “Screw Ricci. You can’t help it if the ladies are all over you.”

      “You know what? I’m beat. I’m gonna go on home. I’ve been up since three this morning.”

      “You change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” Rogers said.

      Liam nodded, then pulled up the first of several forms he’d need to fill out. He stopped listening to the chatter, the laughter. Fuck them and their juvenile humor. And fuck the complete stranger who’d taken his picture at last year’s Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade back when he was still in uniform.

      He’d found out that she’d put it on the internet a couple days later. By then it was too late to do a damn thing about it.

      She’d dubbed him Ridiculously Good-Looking Cop, and posted it to the massive social media site Reddit. It had already gone viral by the time one of the cops at his old precinct had sent the picture and the caption to everyone in the department. Maybe not the chief of police, but he couldn’t be sure.

      He’d been Ridiculous ever since. By all rights it should have died down by now, but no. He had no idea why he’d imagined setting up today’s bust would change anything. Normally he wasn’t that optimistic. Now he was pretty damn certain the nickname would end up on his tombstone.

      Most of the time, he didn’t give a rat’s ass. He did the job to the best of his ability. The more he was promoted, the more the idiots would hate him. Tough. He’d have a career he could be proud of. It had never been a popularity contest.

      “Detective Flynn.” The caller ID gave no name or number. He’d just finished for the night after two hours of paperwork, and he was starving and tired.

      “So, are you a police detective, a private detective or a consulting detective?”

      Her voice was sultry, and if he’d been at a bar he’d have known exactly what she wanted. But as a cold call? “Do I know you?”

      “Not yet.”

      Huh. “Maybe we should start with why you’re calling me. If this isn’t a wrong number.”

      “Definitely not a wrong number. I’m Aubrey, and I’m the lucky girl who got your Hot Guys Trading Card.”

      “My Hot Guys…” That couldn’t be right. Mary had sworn that only one other person had seen the card, and that person was the printer. Even if somehow something had gone wrong, and his cousin hadn’t destroyed it as he’d asked, she would have told him. Warned him. “Aubrey…?” He clicked on his pen and turned to a fresh page in his notebook.

      “I’m not going to tell you my last name. That would be silly.”

      “Why?”

      She huffed at him. “Some detective you are. Because

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