The Intelligence Unit Series
The Grifter Chapter 4

Frankie rolled over in bed and measured her pain on a scale of one to f**k-me-running. The dull thud in her left shoulder clocked in at a solid three and a half, but that was pretty much par for the course. The ten-hour day she'd spent catching Shawn up, then the weekend that had followed, had been full of adjustments, and she'd had to ease herself in slowly. As a recovering addict-and, okay, fine, a non-recovering control freak-change was not on Frankie's fun list. She relied on routines to keep herself on the level, and between her temporary relocation to Remington and the spin-cycle of emotions that went with both being back and working this case, she'd needed to get as close to her version of normal as possible.

The extended stay apartment the APD had put her up in wasn't half bad, although her shoulder was writing a sternly worded letter to the management about the (lack of) quality of the mattress. Pushing to her right side, Frankie rolled the joint in question a few times in test-mode, breathing deeply through the snap, crackle, pop stage until things loosened up. She'd spent the weekend arranging things to be as homey as possible, unpacking creature comforts like her favorite fluffy blanket and her trusty e-reader, and heading to the grocery store to stock up on enough green tea, fruit and veggies, and raspberry Pop-Tarts (so she had one vice. Sue her) to make the rental feel more like her place in Atlanta.

More importantly, she'd been able to replace an NA group nearby that met regularly, and she'd joined them for a couple meetings. Frankie had long since gotten over the awkwardness of spilling her guts in front of strangers; after all, one of NA's biggest tenets was no- holds-barred honesty, and she'd learned early that, yeah, they meant out loud, in front of God and everybody. She made a mental note now to-ugh, ow-replace a gym close by, or maybe a yoga studio where she could pay for drop-in classes whenever she wasn't working. Not that she planned to be not working a whole lot, but she knew better than anyone that if she didn't proactively manage her pain, her pain would sure as shit manage her.

Frankie! Frankie! Jesus, baby, hold on, you hear me? I'm here...

Speaking of pain.

Frankie flopped back against her bed sheets and let go of a slow exhale. She knew from experience that flipping the lid off her memory jar would sting, and not a little. After all, she'd muscled through them as part of her recovery no less than a trillion times. So, sure, this particular memory was painful. But running from things that hurt had only gotten her more hurt after she'd been stabbed. Frankie knew from experience (thanks, therapy) that high-test emotions were usually better out than in, and right now, this one wanted out, so she closed her eyes and let the memory wash over her.

"Okay, okay! This is a good one, so pay attention," Frankie said, grinning at Shawn from the passenger seat of their patrol car. "Would you rather do a foot chase on the hottest day of August, or a D&D where the drunk person pukes everywhere?" Shawn kept his focus on driving even though the crease between his brows told her he was calculating each scenario with care. "Is there a threat of grave danger in either case?"

"Leave it to you to ask the serious questions," Frankie laughed, although, fine, she was totally scanning their surroundings through the passenger window as they spoke. Situational awareness was Good Police 101, and the very first thing they'd been taught at the academy.

"I'm asking the smart questions," he flipped back, giving her a lightning-fast smile from the corner of his mouth that made her wish they didn't have two hours left on their shift. "Body fluids over bullets, but both of these scenarios could potentially involve either. And I know better than to make assumptions with you, because you're tricky."

Of course, he was right on both counts. "Assume no mortal peril in either case."

"Oh, that's easy, then. The foot chase. No question."

"Really?" Frankie asked. She'd have gone for the vomit comet, hands down.

Shawn nodded. "No matter what, I'd have to do laundry, and at least with the runner, I get my workout in while I'm on the clock."

"You are very resourceful. A little crazy," she added with a wry smile, "but definitely smart."

"Smart enough to let you take point on all of our D&Ds," he pointed out, turning her smile into a laugh.

"You're terrible."

"Funny, that's not what you were saying this morning when I-"

"We're on the clock! Do not finish that sentence," Frankie warned, although the fact that she was still laughing probably took the wind out of it.

Shawn lifted one hand off the steering wheel in concession. "Okay, I've got one for you, then."

"Better than the foot chase?" Their weird version of Would You Rather had grown pretty competitive over the last two years. She couldn't remember which one of them had started it, but they were always trying to outdo each other in the rock/hard place department.

"Better than the foot chase," Shawn said. "Would you rather keep living out of a single drawer in my apartment and hiding our relationship from everyone at the RPD, or come clean about the fact that we're crazy about each other and move in together?" Frankie's pulse spiked. She replayed the question in her head, and still... "What?"

Shawn pulled over, putting the patrol car in Park and turning to give her his full attention. "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that. But I love you, Frankie. I'm tired of hiding it. I want us to be together. Really together. What do you say?" Oh my God, yes! screamed her heart, the impulsive bitch. And ohhhh, it was tempting to let her mouth just say it. She really was crazy about Shawn-he was smart and kind, yet badass, and turned her on in ways she'd pretty much only ever dreamed about. But, he was also her partner, and while they were technically breaking the rules by having a relationship outside of work without documenting it with the department, disclosing would open up a whole different can of worms.

"I want to," Frankie started, and God, Shawn knew her all too well.

"But."

"But, if we disclose, they'll split us up."

It was a conversation they'd had no less than a hundred times. As far as the RPD was concerned, they could be together all they liked; they just couldn't be partners at the same time.

"I know that isn't ideal," Shawn said. The truth was, they were great partners. They had been before they'd started sleeping together, and they were now, too, nearly seven months later. "But the longer we wait-"

"I get it," Frankie said, her heartbeat snapping faster. "It's just that we work so well together. That's not easy to replace."

Shawn shrugged. "It's not all that hard, either. We're both really good cops."

"Right, but 'good' and 'cop' don't always go hand in hand." Her shoulders tightened, but she couldn't back down from this. "The beat sergeant I trained under as a rookie is case in point. He literally called me 'princess' every day for weeks, then told me I was too emotional when I finally called him on it."

"Okay, but that guy was an antiquated, sexist dickhead," Shawn argued.

Shawn wasn't wrong, and he'd never treated her with even a sliver of inequality. Which made her really f*****g hate that she had to say, "And yet, that sergeant isn't nearly the only antiquated, sexist dickhead on the force. The reality is, if we tell everyone about our relationship and have to both replace new partners, that's a very real hurdle I'll have to jump. Not to mention the fact that everyone will know we're sleeping together."

"That's a bad thing?"

The muscle that pulled across Shawn's jaw as he'd spoken was impossible to miss, and dammit, she was dangerously close to f*****g this up.

She exhaled softly. "I want to say no. And I want to say yes, let's take the plunge and just disclose, and screw everyone else. I want...you." She broke their very strict no-touching-at-work rule by reaching out to place her hand on his forearm. "But the unfair truth is, if we do that, some people will judge me a lot differently than they do you. And, while it's something I hate, it's also something I have to take into consideration. This is my career."

"It's bullshit that anyone would do that," Shawn said, low and serious. "You're an incredible cop."

"And you're an incredible man. See why I want to keep you as my partner?"

"I want you as more, Frankie," he said. His dark blue eyes brimmed with truth that bordered on something so much deeper, enough to take her breath away, and God, she officially hated this.

"I know. And I know we can't keep this a secret forever. It's just...it's a big deal. Disclosing. Moving in together. Us." She squeezed his forearm. "I need to get my head around it, okay?"

Shawn paused, and for a beat, Frankie thought he might argue. But then, the radio crackled to life, snaring both of their attention.

"Dispatch to Patrol Unit Sixteen Twenty-Two, what's your status?"

Sighing, Frankie scooped up the mic to respond. "Dispatch, this is Sixteen Twenty-Two. Go ahead."

"We've got a nine-one-one caller reporting possible suspicious activity at 402 Lancaster, Apartment 6A. Neighbors heard yelling and possible sounds of a struggle, over."

Shawn exhaled through his teeth. "That's six blocks from here."

"Copy that, dispatch. Hold us down on that call," Frankie said as Shawn put the car into gear and slid into traffic. "Sixteen Twenty-Two responding and en route to 402 Lancaster. Out." She replaced the mic, then chanced a look at Shawn, whose expression was a shade more serious than necessary for a garden variety 10-66. "Hey, I didn't mean-" "We can just forget it, if you want."

The words sent a sharp bolt of surprise through her, an argument hot in her mouth. But they'd have to throw down over his hurt feelings later, because right now, they were rolling up on this call.

"Fine." Shoving her emotions into their allotted compartment, Frankie regulated her breathing and her pulse, measuring the steady rhythm of both until Shawn pulled up in front of a two-story apartment building. Frankie called in their location to dispatch, then scanned their surroundings from left to right as Shawn did the same in reverse.

Older building, but not in a huge state of disrepair. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, both laughing and walking hand-in-hand on the sidewalk. An adult man pushing a baby in a stroller in the opposite direction. No sign of anything unusual.

"Apartment 6A," Shawn said, lasering his focus on the building's front door. They fell into step, moving inside the building-God, the security was for shit, with no doorman, no keycard reader, and just a single camera over the front door-then down the narrow hallway, stopping outside the door marked 6A.

Frankie's right fingers rested, feather light, on her weapon, as she used her left to place a set of firm knocks on the door. "RPD, please open the door."

Beside her, Shawn's hand hovered over his own weapon, but his eyes were on hers. "Think anyone's home?"

"The neighbor heard something that made him or her call it in." Frankie tilted her head, listening. "TV's on."

Shawn nodded slowly, knocking on the door. "Hello? RPD. We're just checking in."

Sloppy footsteps sounded off on the other side of the door, followed by a twist of the doorknob and the appearance of a white guy in his mid-twenties with pupils the size of nickels. "Hi."

Frankie exchanged a glance with Shawn that lasted an instant, yet said about six different things, the most important of which was that even through the three-inch crack between the door and doorframe, she could tell with one hundred percent certainty that this guy was as high as a Boeing 737. "Hi, sir. My name is Officer Rossi, and this is Officer Maxwell."

She paused to let him fill the and-now-it's-your-turn silence, but after five seconds of blank staring while the TV blared in the background, Shawn gave it a try. "What's your name, sir?" "Mike. Mike Mattigan."

Frankie tried to get a peek past the spot where the guy stood, but his body blocked most of the view. Even then, all she could see was a navy blue bathrobe pulled tightly over his frame, a solid three days' worth of stubble on his face, and those huge, glassy eyes. "Do you live here, Mr. Mattigan?"

"Mmmmhm. Yep." He nodded, then let out an odd laugh.

"Are you home alone today, sir?" Frankie asked. She and Shawn had been called to "disturbances" that had turned out to be overzealous fans watching hockey playoffs, couples (and in one case, a threesome) having wild yet consensual s*x, and actual altercations, which proved the rarest of the bunch.

Still, something about this one felt just a tiny bit off, even when Mike replied that he was, in fact, alone, so Frankie pressed. "We got a report of a disturbance. Would it be okay if we came in to make sure you're alright?"

"Oh. Okay. Sure." Mike blinked, but stepped back and turned to wander in to the apartment.

"Are you sure about this?" Shawn frowned, not budging from his spot on the threshold. "It seems like a wild goose chase."

"Come on. The guy is clearly wasted," she said from the corner of her mouth, and Shawn shrugged.

"Oh, he's high on something, for sure. But chances are, the neighbor heard the TV. It's probably nothing."

The strains of some action movie were blasting through the place, louder now that Mike had left the door open halfway, but ugh, that feeling in her gut just wouldn't let go. "I don't know. I think we should dig a little." Irritation flashed over Shawn's face, there and then gone. "Fine. Whatever you want."

Frankie clamped down on the urge to tell him that shitty wasn't his color. "Awesome," she said, sailing right past him into the apartment.

Following Mike down the short hallway leading to the main living area, Frankie did a visual sweep of the place, which turned out surprisingly cozy and neat. Shawn watched Mike for a few seconds before trading off with her to do his own scan of the apartment, and see, this-this was why she didn't want to mess with such a good thing. They worked seamlessly together. Even when they were pissed at each other, apparently.

A pang centered itself in Frankie's chest, but she swiped it aside. Work first. Pissed later. "Have you been watching TV for a while, Mike?"

Machine gun fire blasted from the speakers, pinging off every one of Frankie's nerves. "Huh? Oh, yeah," Mike said, his eyes on the TV as Shawn broke off to take a few steps toward the kitchen.

"You didn't have an argument with anyone? On the phone, maybe?" she tried again.

"Mmmm, nope. No." He shook his head, a trickle of-what was that? Worry?-cinching his mouth into a frown. Shawn moved slowly around the room, his walk as relaxed as if he were in the park on a Saturday afternoon, but Frankie knew he was examining everything he could see for signs of anything he couldn't.

Just as he reached the far side of the living area, a particularly loud explosion burst out of the TV, clipping at Frankie's nerves. "Hey, Mike, would it be okay if we turned this down a little?"

If he heard her, he gave no indication. He shook his head and started to pace a tight path, two steps out, then two back toward her. "No. No, no. No arguing. Shhhh. She has to be quiet. Can't let anyone hear."

Frankie's pulse skipped just as she saw Shawn's chin lift out of the corner of her eye. "Who were you arguing with, Mike?"

"She wouldn't be quiet," he muttered, his eyes wide and wild. "I had to make her be quiet. Don't you see? Someone was going to hear!" He spun back toward Frankie, his dark blue robe falling open as he gestured in agitation, and oh, God.

He was covered in blood.

Time sped up and happened in slow motion, all at once. Frankie took an involuntary step toward him-was he hurt and too high to realize it? His shirt was soaked, that couldn't be right. How was he bleeding so much and still standing there, talking to them? She opened her mouth to ask, to signal Shawn that something was very wrong. But before her mouth could form the words, Mike screamed, "Quiet! Quiet! Quiet! You need to be quiet!"

And then, he struck like a viper, burying a knife in her shoulder so deep, she felt it slam into her bones.

Time boomeranged forward, then, becoming a blurry backdrop for the white-hot pain. Frankie stumbled back, her knees melting her to the floor. There was a shout and a pair of loud pops, the reverb ricocheting off her ears. A chill stole over her, her fingers tingling and sticky-wet as the dirty-copper smell of blood punched her directly in the throat. Everything was hazy except for the pain-oh, God, it was in her breath and bones and everywhere, burrowed so deep it must be some new, vital part of her because only something that big could rip through her so completely.

Shawn appeared in her line of vision, pale and wide-eyed, and it occurred to her, then, that for the two years they'd been partners, she'd never seen him truly scared.

He wasn't scared now. He was f*****g terrified.

This wasn't going to end well.

"Frankie! Frankie! Jesus, baby, hold on, you hear me? I'm here..."

Frankie exhaled, wiggling her fingers and toes against the bed sheets to bring herself back to the here and now. She had barely any recollection of what had happened from the time Mike Mattigan had stabbed her until she'd woken in a hospital bed the next day, her left arm bandaged from neck to elbow and entirely immobilized. The ghosts in Shawn's eyes had told her he remembered every second, though. Now? His eyes told her nothing, and f**k if Frankie couldn't tell which was worse.

Her cell phone buzzed on the nightstand, the familiar name on her caller ID giving her a much-needed smile. "You're worse than my mother, you know," she said, cradling the phone between her right ear and shoulder as she swung her feet to the floor. A deep baritone laugh floated into her ear. "Sponsors are like that, kiddo. You've had some big changes lately. I wouldn't be doing right by you if I didn't check in."

For this, Frankie couldn't really blame him. Bailey Riddick had scooped her out of an emotional dumpster fire after she'd finished rehab, eight weeks sober and royally pissed at the universe. He knew her better than anyone, which meant he so wasn't wrong about her aversion to anything that even smelled like change.

"I'm okay. It's been a lot," she agreed. "But I'm working a big case and I had to come back here to do it, so, you know. It's not like I thought I'd be lounging poolside."

"Is the case going okay?" Bailey asked, and Frankie padded to the kitchen, beelining for the single-serve coffee maker and popping a pod into the top.

"You know I can't discuss any details with anyone not directly involved in the case."

"And you know I'm not asking about the details as much as I am your ex."

Well, shit. Bailey never had pulled any punches. She shouldn't have expected him to start now, and it wasn't as if she hadn't given him a tell-all about her ruined relationship over the course of the past seven years. NA was as big on honesty as it was sharing. "Shawn is...Shawn. Still a good cop. Things will be fine."

"Mmm." Bailey paused. "Have you two talked?"

Frankie exhaled, watching the coffee burble into the mug she'd pre-emptively placed in the coffee maker last night. "Talking is a bit of a prerequisite for working together." Bailey's knowing chuckle was its own bullshit flag. "Have you two talked about anything other than work?"

The question sent a pang to the center of her chest. Twice over the weekend, her fingers had hovered over the contact information Shawn had given her on Friday. She'd had no idea what she'd say-somehow "the last time I saw you, we were both in our own personal hells and our relationship had been trashed beyond all hope and I really needed you but you were too busy feeling guilty and I was too busy trying to numb my pain by getting high" didn't seem like the best opener. Plus, if their conversation on Friday was any indication, his desire to keep her at arm's length was stronger than ever, and probably smart, to boot.

"I didn't come here for a reunion," Frankie said.

"Still," Bailey countered gently. The big oaf. "Stuffing your feelings down won't help, personally or professionally."

Frankie's heart stuttered. She'd already tried to be nice to Shawn. For Chrissake, she'd even gotten personal enough to tell him about Val. Yeah, he'd listened, but he'd also shut her down both times, and she wasn't dumb enough to go there again.

She'd been too broken for it to hurt eight years ago. But, now, when he froze her out?

It stung, and she couldn't afford to let anything personal distract her from nailing Beck.

"I'm not stuffing anything down," Frankie said, taking a sip of coffee and letting the burn ground her. "There's nothing to stuff down. Shawn and I have a case to work. He wants to stick to business, and I want to catch a bad guy. It's just better if we don't dig into the past. That part of our lives is behind us."

For a beat, Bailey was quiet. Then he said, "The past is always behind us, Frankie. That doesn't mean it doesn't matter. If you really want to leave it there, that's okay. But you and Shawn left a lot unsaid. If you change your mind and need to air it out"-another pause, during which Frankie counted her heartbeats to slow them-"that would be okay, too."

"I don't. I get that you're looking out for me, Bay," Frankie said, because she really did. "But I'm good moving forward without looking back."

"As long as you're sure, kiddo," he said, and even though she knew he doubted it, she shook her head and said,

"I am."