Page 1 of Art of the Hunt
Chapter One
Detective Hunter James worked alone. Always had, ever since he’d convinced his captain that he was no longer a rookie and thus able to handle his own beat.
If he actually saw a therapist, they’d probably say this was a result of his upbringing. The middle child and only male in a household with one bathroom, three bedrooms, three sisters and his mother, the only moments he had to himself were the five minutes he was allotted to shower every other day.
And while, generally speaking, he hadn’t yet grown tired of his alone time—he had doubts he ever would—there were those rare occasions when he wouldn’t mind a little help. Tonight was a good example.
Because he was about to take down the owner of a massage parlor where Hunter had finally had proof that the guy was forcing his staff to do a lot more than give massages to their clients.
As if that alone weren’t enough, the owner was taking all their tips too. Christ, if he was going to force them to have sex, the least he could do was let them keep the extra money.
Problem was, if the hoard of security guards milling about the place was any indication, this guy was fully aware of how wrong his way of doing business was.
Hunter definitely couldn’t waltz in from his position outside the establishment and arrest the guy. He had to be stealthy. He’d called for backup, but the young girl who had finally become his mole was working tonight and the customer she particularly loathed because of the things he made her do had just walked in. He had a niece who was almost as old as his contact. Hunter didn’t have time to waste.
So he shed his bulletproof vest, his shoulder holster, and his gun and stuffed it all behind a scraggly bush on the far end of the parking lot behind the building. He got rid of his ID, too, in case security didthatthorough of a search.
Plainclothes detectives could get away with jeans and a T-shirt underneath a flannel shirt left over from his college days, although even he knew he didn’t look particularly attractive in his go-to uniform. Whatever. If he were a stylish guy, it wouldn’t be believable that he’d call on a massage parlor in the middle of a questionable part of Chicago, looking for a little love from a nameless girl who likely didn’t want to be here in the first place.
Cutting through the poorly lit plot of land next to the strip mall that housed the massage parlor, Hunter stepped onto the cracked sidewalk and strutted toward the front entrance like he had all the confidence in the world, like he visited massage parlors all the time. He damn near added a whistle, but that was shit from the movies, not real life.
A lady he pegged as Puerto Rican heritage like himself greeted him at the door, dressed as a politically incorrect geisha girl, including white face paint, bright red lipstick, and a skintight dress with a slit that rode so high it was damned obvious she was not wearing undergarments.
Classy.
“Nice outfit,” he said by way of greeting.
“You got cash money?” she replied, eyeing him from head to toe and hopefully not making him as a cop.
“Yep.” He didn’t pull out his wallet because that was something a rookie cop would do.
She gave him another once-over, patted him down, and then nodded, which he assumed was the okay to go inside. As soon as he did, one of the burly guards he’d seen smoking out back in the parking lot stepped up and patted him down with a more force.
“Didn’t know getting a massage required so many checkpoints,” he noted.
“Our massages do,” Puerto Rican geisha lady said behind him. “What’s your preference?”
“What are my choices?” He already knew what he was supposed to ask for, thanks to his contact, but he couldn’t blow his cover.
She recited the basic massage options.
“That’s it?”
“You got a lot of cash money?” she asked.
“I came prepared. My friend told me this is the place to go for arealmassage.” Hopefully, he was coming across as a dorky guy who didn’t get laid unless he paid a premium.
“Show me the money.”
He pulled out a handful of Benjamins, all of which he was required to return to the evidence room at the precinct as soon as this sting was done.
“Ah.” His hostess’s eyes lit up. “You want the real deal.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Okay, here are your options.” She rattled off a general description of each of the girls who were supposedly licensed masseuses, along with each of their specialties. He picked the one Denise told him to choose.
“Follow me,” the hostess said, and she strutted down a poorly lit hallway on ridiculous platform heels, her ass swinging in that too tight, too narrow skirt.
