Page 3 of Under the Radar

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Three Weeks Later…

Mo Reardon was two blocks away from freedom.

Her bronze, patent-leather Jimmy Choo sandals tapped across a stretch of sizzling asphalt near downtown Baltimore as Alice Cooper’s School’s Out pounded through her earbuds. Summer school ended today, and as much as Mo loved being a social worker in the Baltimore City school system, it delighted her to hug her kids a temporary farewell. She needed a margarita and a beach. Mo glanced at her hand as she hopped a curb and made a mental note to add a manicure to the list.

Six lovely weeks of summer vacation stretched before her. There’d be no alarm clock, no bagged lunch, and no knocking on doors in West Baltimore chasing down parents to sign permission forms until after Labor Day. Every one of her little charges was enrolled in day camp, courtesy of the silent benefactor donation she’d made. They had crafts, swimming, and field trips to look forward to.

Mo usually parked in the secure school lot provided for staff, but it had been closed this week for line repainting. She’d parked her tricked-out white Escalade on a side street a few blocks from school. As she rounded a corner, the rumble of a garbage truck compressor vibrated under her feet. Pigeons gulping the remains of discarded fast food scattered as she approached them. From the third-floor balcony of an old hotel on her left, a man waved his arms and yelled to someone below. She squinted and searched for who he was yelling at.

And froze. No. Freaking. Way.

A group of men huddled around her Escalade. The cargo hatch was up. What were they doing in her car? Hell, no!

She hit the panic button on her key fob, fumbled for the phone in her bra, tapped 911, and ran toward them. “Get your mitts off my ride, you scumbags. This is not your lucky day. I’ve got the cops on the phone. You will not jack my car.” The men swiveled in her direction, slammed the hatch shut, and scattered. A few of them hauled ass down an alley. Two more sprinted up the block with big garbage bags slung over their shoulders and dashed around the corner.

The 911 operator’s raised voice echoed in her ear. “Ma’am, are you there? Ma’am?”

Mo’s mad dash came to an abrupt halt twenty feet from her SUV. She deactivated the car alarm. “Yes, I’m here. Sorry. They were inside my car. I’m a block from MLK Blvd on Hazel Avenue. Would you please send a police car?” She peered into her driver’s seat window. “No, they didn’t actually steal the car, but they came pretty damn close. I want to file a police report.”

Mo opened the hatch. The cargo area looked much the same as it did this morning, except her suitcase full of beach clothes and the bucket of auto supplies were in a different spot. “Alright, I understand. At least fifteen minutes to get a unit here. No, I don’t want to come down to the precinct to file the papers. I want them to take the report right here where it happened. Okay. Thank you.” She disconnected the call.

Thank goodness she’d rounded the corner when she did. Her car might have been joyriding through the city if she hadn’t stopped them. The last thing she wanted to deal with today was a bunch of ragtag hoodlums ruining her one and only vacation of the year. Idiots. Mo laid a hand across her racing heart. Whew. That was a close one.

She wiped beads of sweat off her forehead as she leaned against the Escalade door, perusing the buildings on either side. This street had a distinct seedy flavor she hadn’t picked up on when she’d parked in the early morning sunshine. The back of her neck prickled. The dappled, late afternoon shadows shrouded the old industrial buildings as she counted seventeen boarded-up windows and at least as many empty liquor bottles strewn down the adjacent alley. The balcony where the man had been waving his arms lacked any sign of life. The torn and barely hanging drapes were drawn.

Mo glanced at the time on her phone. Sixteen minutes had passed. Without this interruption, she would’ve been well on her way to the Bay Bridge and Maryland’s Eastern shore.

She tapped her foot impatiently and checked her messages. Bummer. Still no text from Mac. The scorching hot Adonis named Mac Mackenzie was the only one-night stand she’d ever had, three weeks ago after a friend’s wedding when she was the maid of honor and Mac, the best man. Her smoldering attraction to him had been an instantaneous magnetic sizzle that combusted in fireworks.

When she closed her eyes, she could still feel the torrid heat from his kisses on her neck and shoulders. In three minutes, he’d reduced her to a wanton ball of fire and whisked her off to his suite. They’d finally fallen asleep in each other’s arms around sunrise. When Mo awoke at noon, he was gone. He had left a note on the pillow that read, “The first of many nights, I hope…” and a red rose. She was smitten.

But Mac never called. He did send one text informing her he needed to do a favor for his dad involving work of some kind, and he would be in touch. He’d included a naughty emoji in the text that made her laugh. But three weeks without so much as a text from him? C’mon. He’d ghosted her. Ghosting was gutless. Unforgivable. Don’t ever leave the other person in romance limbo. Disappointment ached in her chest. She didn’t even know what he did for a living, except rescue people. Mac was like an action hero, here and then gone.

So much for hoping the love fairy had given her a solid. Nuh-uh. Dating in Mo’s world involved assets and power plays. As the daughter of a business mogul, she was viewed as a wise investment requiring negotiations. Provincial attitudes like that still existed in certain wealthy circles. Her father’s money could fund political campaigns and business ventures. At last count, she’d dated twenty-three men—all of them looking for a financially well-endowed wife. But Mac was different. He’d never mentioned the money.

A police car with flashing lights turned onto the street and parked by her vehicle. The cop spoke into his radio as he climbed out of the cruiser. He was a paunchy, middle-aged man with quick brown eyes that roved the length of the street and landed on her. “Evening, miss. I’m Officer Winters.”

“Hey. I’m Mo Reardon. Thanks for coming.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I parked my car here this morning because I work at the elementary school around the corner,” she said, pointing toward the school, “and as I approached my vehicle, a group of men were inside my cargo hatch.” She recounted the whole incident for him.

The officer folded his arms and gave her an appraising look. “They just took off as you ran toward them?” He reached into his pocket, grabbed a plaid bandana, and mopped his sweaty face and neck.

“Yes. Three ran down that alley and the other two went up that way and around the corner carrying what looked like garbage bags.”

“Have you been in your car yet?”

“No. I didn’t want to disturb any fingerprints. But I checked the cargo hatch to make sure my luggage was still there. I’m supposed to be driving to the beach right now. Summer school ended today, and I had all my stuff in the back so I could leave from work.”

“License and registration, please.” He jotted notes in a little spiral-bound book.

“Of course. My license is in here.” She dug through her purse and retrieved the faded Gucci billfold with rhinestones that her parents’ butler had given her for the holidays ten years ago. She found the license and handed it to him. “My registration is in the middle console by the driver’s seat. I’ll get it for you.”

Officer Winters followed her to the car door and stood back as his hand discreetly slid to his holster. The maneuver wasn’t lost on Mo. Plenty of cops did it on TV. “You don’t need to protect yourself from me, officer. I’m exactly who my license says I am, and I’ve got no record.” She gave him a small smile as she sorted papers, searching for the document.

He took the registration from her hand. “Don’t wander off. Stay here.” Winters cast a wary eye at the boarded-up buildings and walked to his cruiser.

Mo strained to hear the chatter on his radio, but it was muffled garble to her. She leaned against the Escalade’s back door. Darn. She hadn’t thought to make sure her registration was current before calling the police. Had she paid online? Forgotten to renew? Ugh. Her mind blanked. She definitely wasn’t the weight her license stated. Oh, what the hell. Lots of people underestimated the weight on their license. She wiped her clammy hands on her pants and picked at the worn polish on her pinkie nail.

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