Perfect Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

I drop my phone in my pocket and get out of the car.

A guy almost as tall as me with a shaved head and tanned skin hops out of the truck.

He wasn’t with the guys who loaded the boxes into Will’s car. Maybe he’s a backup?

“Can I help you?” I snap, trying to sound casual.

“You’re blocking me, man,” he says coldly.

“You were behind me for ten minutes and you almost hit me.”

He shrugs. “Sorry?”

My eyes flick to his hands. No indication he’s about to pull a gun or anything else to get the jump on me.

Weird.

“What do you want?” I growl, dropping the facade.

He looks up and blinks at me. “Huh? Nothin’.”

“Why were you following me?” I ask.

“Following you?” He bobs his head back in disbelief. “You paranoid? Why the hell would I do that?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“I wasn’t following you,” he insists again.

“Whatever. I always nearly rear-end people to turn into an alley going nowhere, too.” I drop a hand into my pocket, making sure it catches his eyes.

“Get off my dick. I thought I had a flat tire,” he snaps, taking a step forward.

“We passed three gas stations in ten minutes. I’m not stupid. What’s really going on?”

“Nothing. We just happened to be in the same place at the same time. Don’t you believe in coincidence?” His voice hardens.

“In a city of over two million people, you just had to be behind me for ten minutes and didn’t realize you had a flat fucking—” My eyes drop to his tires. I take a couple of steps to check the other side. “They look fine to me. Call me crazy, but fuck your coincidence.”

He doesn’t say anything. The more I glare, he doesn’t seem like a thug, or even a patsy looking for some easy dirty money like Frisk.

This isn’t about the drugs, my gut screams.

What else? One of Roland Birdshit’s minions? No matter what he said about dropping that last piece, I doubt he’s given up on me.

“Are you from The Chicago Tea?” I demand harshly.

He stares at me for a heavy second and then laughs.

“The Tea? Jesus, no. Paparazzi punks don’t do any honest work. Do I look like a reporter? I don’t even have a camera.”

He has a point.

“Did someone hire you?” I demand.

Again, the silent treatment.

“So they did,” I growl, approaching him. “Who hired you to follow me?”

“Dude, I didn’t say anyone hired me.”

“They did. It’s in your face. Otherwise, you would’ve denied it. Who the hell hired you, and how much are they paying?”

“Why?” He turns his head up, giving me an assessing look.

Why? That tells me he’s willing to sell out his employer if I strike the right tone.

“Because I’ll pay you double to cough it up.”

“She’s paying four thousand a day—”

She? Who the fuck is she?

Apparently, this has nothing to do with Frisk or Birdshit at all.

Only one more possibility. The revelation tastes like sour milk in my brain.

“—and it’s a ten day gig. That’s the reason I took it. Don’t have to worry about lining up jobs for the next month,” he says.

“Four thousand dollars per day?” I grind out.

He nods proudly.

“Fine, I’ll pay you eight thousand per day for your remaining time to tell me who she is and why the fuck she needs to spy on me.”

“Up front.”

“What?”

“Cash up front,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“Deal. Now who are you working for?”

“I said up front, Brandt. You send me ten big by app and wire the rest by tomorrow.” His look says he’s nothing but serious.

Damn. And I thought I could cut a deal. I pull my phone out and send him the money after he gives me his address.

“Okay. Talk.” I hold my breath, waiting for the answer.

“A lady named Carmen Seraphina. I gotta tell you, she’s pretty beautiful and disgustingly obsessed with you. But I guess you two have history. A woman like that wouldn’t have to hire a PI to track me down.”

“I didn’t know she was that crazy,” I grind out, mostly to myself, then look at him again. “And you’re not a very good PI.”

He puffs his chest out. “Screw you. I was a Chicago PD investigator for twenty years. I’ve been striking out on my own for fifteen. You’re the first guy who’s ever caught me following.” He hangs his head.

I shrug. “I’m former military. What was Carmen hoping to gain by hiring a private eye?”

“She’s after data. Her hard drive crashed, and she said the only copy of some old audition video—”

I don’t let him finish. “What audition?”

He stares at me, his wiry mustache twitching.

“She thinks you have the only copy of something she wants. She hoped I’d be able to get in your place at some point and swipe old cameras or data cards. Ideally, I’d get your phone, too. Her file was corrupted, so she needs to retrieve another copy of the video. She said you wouldn’t be willing to cooperate, so—”