Page 5 of Once Upon a Lie

“Ohhh, maybe Leonard’s going to let us escort these suits around while they pretend to know what the fuck they’re doing.”

About four years ago, we had a serial killer case where the FBI got involved, but they must’ve sent their fucking newbies because the way they handled one of the crime scenes made Dom’s head spin. Lots of amateur mistakes. Lots of Dom yelling. Lots of me trying not to laugh.

Dom lets out a groan. “Please do not make me remember the Hoffmeyer case. I still have fucking nightmares.”

There are two things you don’t mess with when it comes to my work husband of almost a decade—his Dunn coffee (yes, his family owns the mega-rich coffee conglomerate) and his crime scenes. The fucker is type A enough for the both of us.

“Well, I’m sure they’re here to fuck up something. Might as well be something you and I have to deal with.”

“Uh-oh . . .” Dom pauses, leaning closer to me and dropping his voice. “You think they’re here about your dating life? Gonna subpoena your DMs?”

“Get real,” I retort. “Shane Maddox is old-school, Dom, you know that. I like face-to-face conversation. Plus, these uptight bastards would be lucky to learn from my mystical, sweet-talking ways.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. I would love to see you—”

Before he can finish that thought, Captain Leonard’s door swings open hard enough to rattle the blinds. “Maddox! Dunn! My office. Now.”

See? A simple grunt.

“Maybe Captain started noticing all the female cops that keep ending up in your hoodies.” Dom waggles his brows at me as we climb from our chairs in unison. “And he’s running an internal investigation on you.”

“How’s life up there on your high-and-mighty marriage horse, Dom?” I counter. “Sure hope you don’t fall off it and break your fucking head.”

“Life is good, man.” Dom just grins. “Life is fucking good.”

Captain Leonard’s office feels like the inside of a command bunker as soon as we step inside. There are no windows and no warmth, only the steady hum of a man who’s allergic to nonsense and asbestos-filled vinyl floors. I honestly wonder if this is why the bastard always looks like he drank piss for breakfast—he’s being poisoned one day at a time.

Two of the three suits offer small smiles, but the third one without the FBI badge, or any identification for that matter, remains reactionless. The black sheep stays black, I see.

Leonard shuts the door behind us. “Gentlemen, these folks are not tourists. They’re here on a joint task force—CIA, FBI, Department of Justice.”

Dom raises a hand, and the vein in Leonard’s forehead swells up so much it grows a micropenis of its own.

Cap cuts him off with a look that could break concrete. “Don’t. I’m not in the mood for your shit.”

I bite back a grin, but when no one says anything else, I can’t stop myself from chiming in. “Of course, sir. Stealing barbecue recipes across state lines or something is a serious matter.”

Leonard exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maddox. I fucking swear. You two and your clown shit are on my last nerve.”

“He only does clown shit on the weekends, sir.” Dom gestures to me. “I mean, occasionally. Mostly when women are watching.”

“He’s not wrong.” I shrug. “Creativity’s important in the bedroom.”

Things One and Two hide their eyes with a downturn of their chins, but Mystery Man eyes me sternly.

“How about you shut the fuck up before I put you in an early grave?” Captain Leonard moves around to his desk, his tone leveling out into that grim cop calm that means whatever comes next isn’t minor. “We’ve got a national-level situation. Department of Justice is watching it like a hawk now. The Bureau’s been working it for over a year, the Agency for even longer overseas. And it’s brought them to our backyard.” He nods toward Mystery Man by the wall. “Special Agent Mike will take it from here.”

Special Agent Mike sounds a hell of a lot like a spook. It’s not exactly commonplace for the CIA to work directly with a police department—a.k.a. expressly forbidden by the law and shit—but what the hell do I know? I’m just a lowly homicide detective from Nashville, Tennessee.

Mike doesn’t smile, his eyes those of a ghost, as he dives right into the meat and potatoes of the situation. “We’ve got an international arms case operating out of Nashville city limits. FBI and CIA have been tracking the Cordone organization for months. They’re moving weapons. Heavy shit like assault rifles, antiaircraft gear, you name it, and they’re not only doing it within our borders—they’re doing it overseas to people who’d love nothing more than to watch the world burn. DOJ’s breathing down everyone’s necks to trace the money and cut the head off the snake.”

Dom’s humor fades a little. “This shit sounds serious.”

“Yeah,” Stoneface Mike says. “It is. Which means whatever is said in this room doesn’t go outside this fucking room. Understood?”

He stares at both Dom and me, and while I would love nothing more than to make some If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you joke, I settle for a nod that’ll keep my body out of a river. Dom follows suit.

“Good. Let’s get into it.” Mike drops a thick manila file folder on Leonard’s desk, and it hits the wood with a hard thud.