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Hank jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”
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    â€œWhere’s the G-Wagen?” Normally Hank drove a black Mercedes SUV.
    â€œSeemed like a Super Bee sort of day.” We crossed the parking lot to a black restored 1969 Dodge Coronet muscle car. He opened the passenger door, closing it after me. I tried not to hyperventilate as he went around and got in. “Talk or music?” he said.
    I was way too nervous to talk. “Music.”
    Not a stickler of restoration for restoration’s sake, Hank pushed a button beneath the video screen in the dash and said, “Brazil mix.” A Jobim samba filled the car.
    I couldn’t stop smiling. A tear slid down my right cheek.
    Great. I’m the human embodiment of A Tale of Two Cities.
    I wiped it away without his noticing and snuck a glance at Hank. Clean-shaven. Unusual for him at this time of night. I spent the ride pondering that. It was a lot kinder than living through the Police Academy expulsion loop.
    Hank drove like he did everything else—with speed and precision. He drove us into the city and stopped in front of an unremarkable limestone building with a simple black awning. A valet collected Hank’s keys, while the doorman opened my car door as well as the door to the building with flourish. “Good evening, Mr. Bannon, miss. Welcome to Blackie’s.”
    I was used to Hank’s hands on me from training. Even so, it was hard to hide the happy shiver as his hand went to the small of my back. We took an elevator to an upper floor of the private club and he led me into a dimly lit bar trimmed in mahogany and leather. Pure swank.
    A tuxedoed waiter appeared at his elbow. “The usual, Mr. Bannon?”
    Hank held up two fingers. The waiter disappeared.
    â€œYou all right?” he said.
    â€œNo.” I stared into his sleet-gray eyes. “I’m not.” But being with you under any circumstance is pretty terrific.
    â€œWhy’d you get the boot?”
    â€œCommandant Reskor called me in and told me I failed the psych review.” I winced. “Apparently I’m too thin-skinned to deal with an antagonistic public.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I rubbed my eyes. “He gave me the bum’s rush and I . . . I folded like a lawn chair.”
    He reached over and gently tapped his finger against my temple. “Lizard brain.”
    Hank’s Law Number Three. Don’t let your lizard brain go rogue. Lizard brain is the leftover primitive fight-or-flight bit of your brain that takes over in times of extreme duress and makes you believe you’re acting rationally when you’re not. It usually gets you killed. “Yeah.”
    â€œMad yet?” he said.
    â€œNoo-oo.”
    â€œYou will be.” He tapped his temple. “Keep the lizard under the rock.”
    The waiter returned with a pair of vodka martinis on the rocks with olives. I took a sip and gazed out the window at the twinkling city lights. Just another reminder of the flashing lights I wasn’t a part of. Like the crime scene today. “Hank?” I trailed a finger across the rim of my glass. “What do you know about the Unions?”
    â€œEnough.”
    â€œDoes the Mob really own them?”
    â€œThe Veteratti family has been known to exert some influence.”
    Influence. The way he said the word fired a synapse in my brain. “You knew I got expelled before I told you, didn’t you?” I said slowly. Maybe before I did.
    â€œI keep tabs on all my mutts.”
    â€œBut I’m not one of your mutts, am I? Not really.”
    â€œNo.” His mouth quirked up at the corner.
    That hurt. “Thanks a lot. You look real broken up for me.”
    â€œI’m not.” He lifted his glass to me in salute then took a drink.
    My throat tightened. “Oh? Why?”
    â€œI don’t date cops.”
    What?
    I blinked, taking my time to sort