The Intelligence Unit Series
The Grifter Episode

Two months later

Addison Hale's glass was always half full. To be fair, sometimes it was full of triple shot espresso (necessity) and other times, it was full of top-shelf tequila (also necessity, in rare but real cases). But she was a detective in the city's most elite crime-fighting unit. They dealt with literal murder and mayhem on the daily. She'd learned a long time ago to turn her frown upside down. It was that, or let the world drag her under, and, yeah, Addison had vowed not to let that happen long before she'd become a cop. Once had been enough, thank you very much.

Blinking her way back to the Intelligence office, she made herself look for something good to focus on. Her gaze landed on Maxwell's goofy-a*s grin, and Lord, at least she didn't have to look far.

"Good God, Maxwell," Addison said, unable to help her own grin from slipping out. Damned things were more contagious than chicken pox. "You could at least try to contain your happiness at the fact that it's nearly quitting time. A girl could take that personally." Okay, so technically, it was past time to call it a day. The rest of the detectives and Capelli had all ducked out of the office twenty minutes ago. She and Maxwell had stuck around to finish their report on the aggravated assault they'd wrapped up earlier in the day, but the more time dropped off the clock, the more he'd eyeballed the door, looking like that emoji with the big, red hearts for eyes.

At least the big oaf had the good grace to give her a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Frankie will be here any minute, and we're taking Isla to dance class."

Ah, the opportunity to dish out some well-intentioned ribbing was far too yummy to pass up. "Look at you, getting all domestic!" Addison gushed. "You couldn't be any cuter if I paid you."

Maxwell raised a brow, and aw, she loved it when he tried to get all broody and badass. He was such a f*****g cinnamon roll.

"First of all, the three of us have lived together for two months now. I'm pretty sure cohabitating is the definition of domestic."

"Ooooh, twenty-five cents for the big word," Addison said.

He added a frown to the mix. "Secondly, I'm pretty sure cute is not my jurisdiction." Before Addison could argue-and she so wanted to argue-he added, "But happy? Yeah, I'll own that."

An odd feeling fired off somewhere of the vicinity of Addison's chest. She'd felt it the other day, when Garza had told them he and Delia had gotten engaged, then again when she'd seen Capelli and Shae dancing together as they'd all celebrated the engagement at the Crooked Angel. It wasn't jealousy-Addison knew far better than to be envious over something she couldn't ever have. But it had been a while since she'd enjoyed an o****m that wasn't self-inflicted. Just because she didn't want a relationship didn't mean she didn't get lonely, and it sure as hell didn't mean she didn't have s*x.

Although, if she was getting all wonky in the feels department, that was probably her libido's way of telling her it was in need of some attention, and wait...when had it become February?

"Hello? Earth to Hale?" Maxwell waved a hand in front of her face. "Did you get lost in thought, or what?"

Addison's cheeks heated, but she laughed it off and went for a full-on swerve in subject. Telling her like-a-brother partner that her, ahem, check engine light had been on for longer than she'd realized was so not on her agenda. "Sorry. So, how's Frankie liking her new job?"

Thankfully, Maxwell took the bait. "She's loving it, although even with Sinclair's recommendation and the Beck case under her belt, the Vice Unit is making her earn her paycheck."

To be fair, Frankie had taken a well-earned month off after the Beck case. The first few days had been pure recovery, although her concussion had thankfully turned out to be milder than most. The RPD had been able to close the case fairly quickly-the shoot had been clean, with both Addison and Maxwell having acted with the necessary force to save Frankie's life. Once Beck was no longer a threat, nearly a dozen people in Atlanta had come forward with testimony that connected him with no less than three unsolved murders and enough drug deals to sink an ocean liner. After Frankie had recovered, she hadn't wasted any time interviewing for a spot in Remington's Vice Unit, then moving her things to Remington to make it official. But most of her time off had been spent with Maxwell, who had also taken some highly deserved time off, and Isla. But having worked with her for a solid month on the Beck case and hung out with her for the past two months since she'd moved, Addison had gotten to know Frankie (and her work ethic) incredibly well.

"Right. And I'm sure she just hates jumping back into solving cases," Addison said with a laugh. Reason Nine Hundred Sixty-Two why Frankie and Maxwell made such a good couple: their shared adoration for the job. The only thing stronger was their shared adoration for each other, and for Isla.

And speak of the devil. Or make that devils. "Hey, you guys," Frankie said, waving from the threshold of the Intelligence office with one hand while holding onto Isla's with her other.

Maxwell's rough, gruff demeanor disappeared in an instant as he rose to greet them both. "Hey! How are my two favorite ladies?" he asked, giving Frankie a knowing wink (a wink! God, he was so far gone for her-which, by the way, Addison had called months ago, not that she was keeping score) before kneeling down to scoop Isla into a big hug.

"Good." Isla smiled, then turned to look over Maxwell's shoulder at Addison. "Hi, Auntie Hale."

"What's up, Noodle Face?" Addison asked, nodding a hello at Frankie and waggling her brows as Isla's smile turned into a giggle. "I heard you're going to dance class."

Isla nodded, disengaging from Maxwell's hug to show Addison the leotard beneath her zip-up hoodie and leggings. "I get to wear a tutu at the recital. It has sparkles in it."

She pronounced it "barkles", and Addison had no choice but to put her hand over her heart and respond with the truth.

"As all tutus should. I can't wait to see it."

Maxwell was halfway into his jacket by the time Addison turned her attention back to him. "You good to go on that report?" he asked.

"Absolutely," she said, proving it by clicking her way through the last screen and hitting send. She opened her mouth to tell him she was right behind him when the phone on their desk rang.

"Damn it," Maxwell muttered, far enough under his breath to keep the swear from Isla's ears. "It's Riordan."

Ugh. The desk sergeant had been at the Thirty-Third since the dawn of time, and he was a notorious hard-a*s. "I've got it," Addison said, scooping the phone to her ear with a bright, "Intelligence Office, Detective Hale speaking."

Without preamble, Riordan said, "Got a call requesting Intelligence. Girl's got a stalker. The brother called it in. Scene is secure, but the boss wants a knock and talk."

Addison battled her urge to groan. There went the bubble bath she'd been planning to sink into. But if this was a true stalker situation, it was no joke, and overprotective brothers could be a handful. This one might be nothing, but if it wasn't...yeah. "Copy that," Addison said, taking down the details. "Hold me down on that call. Thanks, Sarge."

"What've we got?" Maxwell asked, but oh, no. Not a chance.

"Um, you've got a dance lesson, my friend." She did a little twirl in place, then made a shooing motion toward the door. "It's a knock and talk. Patrol probably could've handled it, but for some reason, Sinclair wants one of us to go." Frankie's brows creased. "What's the call?"

"Possible 10-62," Addison said, not wanting to scare Isla. "No suspect on scene. It's probably nothing."

"Then why would Sinclair call us in?" Maxwell asked.

Addison grabbed her jacket, double-checking her badge and weapon before putting it on. "Dunno. But I've got this."

"Are you sure?" Maxwell asked. She knew with one hundred percent certainty that if she said no, or if she even wavered, he'd go with her in a heartbeat.

So she didn't even hesitate to say, "Of course, I'm sure. But you'd better send me, like, a thousand pictures of Isla in her dance class. This auntie has needs." "Thanks, Hale," Maxwell said. "I owe you one."

She held up her cell phone. "Pictures, dude. I mean it. Bye, Frankie. Bye, Noodle Face."

Addison made her way out of the office, Isla's giggle fading behind her. She did a quick review of the call details, making sure to radio dispatch as soon as she got into the Challenger and started to head to the address Riordan had sent over. Her thoughts wandered as she drove, landing on that odd feeling she hadn't been able to shake lately. She had a short, highly curated list of male acquaintances that she relied on for safe, no-strings-attached s*x. But the last few times she'd gone that route had left her weirdly unsatisfied, to the point that she wondered if maybe she should expand the list.

Not that it was easy, she thought as she made a turn toward Remington University. Addison had a strict no-relationship rule, even ones of the casual variety. Her list was exclusively for booty calls. No potential boyfriends, no co-workers (gah), not even friends with benefits. Sleeping with people she saw on a regular basis, even when she was upfront about not wanting strings, tended to make things weird.

Although...

Okay, no. She was absolutely not going to think about the way that firefighter Ryan Dempsey's gazes had lingered on hers just a little too long over the past two months. Ever since he'd shocked the hell out of her by flirting with her at the Station Seventeen holiday party and every time she'd seen him after that, she hadn't been able to stop wondering if it was worth crossing that line. Those piercing green eyes that spent half their time hidden by a fall of dark hair. The borderline cocky smirk he wore just as well as that bunker gear, both of which could fuel her fantasies for a solid month. The muscles, ohhhhh the muscles that pressed against his snug T-shirts, just begging to be touched.

"Stop," Addison whispered, shaking herself back to reality. Okay, yes, so Ryan was hot. Scorching. Whatever. But she knew better than to go there. Friends with benefits never ended well, and she could not, under any circumstances, risk anything she couldn't walk away from at the first hint of seriousness.

Relationships like that might be fine for other people. But for Addison?

They were the highest level of dangerous.

Pulling up to the address Riordan had given her, she radioed dispatch to let them know she was on-scene. The apartment building was a large, three-story affair, close enough to the university that Addison would guess it was inhabited mostly by students. Her careful visual sweep yielded nothing out of the ordinary, and she checked her notes as she made her way inside the building.

Chloe Ferguson, Apartment 6A.Addison walked through the lobby, nodding hello at the young woman grabbing her mail from the locked boxes in the lobby. She noted the security camera-a good sign-aimed at the front door, taking in the quiet hallway leading to the first-floor apartments.

4A...5A...and, bingo. She placed a solid knock on the door of apartment 6A and followed it up with, "Remington PD. Please open the door."

Footsteps sounded off from inside the apartment, followed by a pause, then the distinct click of the deadbolt being turned.

"Hi, I'm Detective..." Addison's words crashed to a halt in her throat as her brain played connect the dots with her eyes, and she registered the worried green stare of the man standing in front of her. "Dempsey? What are you doing here?" "It's my sister," he said, his expression serious enough to send shivers up Addison's spine.

"She's in danger, and I need your help."