Officer McMarin of the NYPD is in for the ride of her life when the Chief Quinns storm into her station, promote her to the rank of detective, and relocate her to Manhattan. Saddled with the dubious honor of being Chief Bailey Quinn’s primary rider is only the beginning of her woes.
Her first case delves into the dark waters of the many ways in which a person can die.
At the heart of the mystery is one Alec Mortan, a forensic accountant with a knack for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Witnessing so much death is hard on a soul, and she can’t help but admire his tenacity and desire to help her uncover the truth.
When the forces of the heavens and the many hells involve themselves in the case, McMarin’s beliefs and skills are put to the test. If she’s not careful, she’ll lose her witness to fate right along with her chance for a happily ever after.
101 Ways to Die is book twenty-one of the Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count) series.
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From Chapter One…
Captain Hugh Frankson of the NYPD stormed to my desk and slapped a file down on the ever-growing stack of misdemeanors I needed to register in our database before I could leave. Any other day, I would have indulged in an anxiety attack over the man’s unexpected appearance.
Whenever the captain showed up at my desk, hell came chasing on the heels of high water, as he went out of his way in his idiotic attempt to prove women had no business being on the force.
Today, however, the hell and the high water had already come calling in the form of the Chief Quinns, who haunted the station somewhere, doing whatever it was chiefs did when checking in on precincts they were responsible for. In addition to dodging jabs over my gender, I’d likely escape from being ribbed over my mixed heritage thanks to their presence. Aware the captain would lose his shit if he believed I wasn’t taking him seriously, I set aside the case I’d been working on and picked up the folder.
Before I had a chance to flip it open and behold the terrors within, the captain announced, “You’re being transferred.” His declaration carried through the open room, loud enough everyone could hear—even the cops busy on the phone. A still quiet fell over the cubicle farm, except for the cops forced to continue their conversations. “I’ll take your cruiser keys now. You’ll have a ride to your new place of employment.”
Well, screw me sideways with a baton while lighting me on fire. With a little luck, the poor bastard saddled with my cruiser would survive the experience; it had needed to retire years ago, but I kept the damned thing running through investing a few hours every week at home convincing the engine to keep trucking along. I opened my drawer, grabbed my keys, unclipped the dying vehicle’s keys, and handed them over. “Effective immediately, sir?”
Captain Frankson snatched the keys out of my hand. “Yes.”
Before I could say another word, he blew through the cubicle farm in the direction of his office and turned the corner. A moment later, a door slammed.
“Damn, McMarin. What did you do?” my now ex-partner, Kit, demanded in an amused tone. “I haven’t seen the captain that pissed since the day you were assigned to our station.”
If Kit ended up with my cruiser, I hoped he survived the experience.
“I did something?” I heaved a sigh, well aware I had an audience. Bracing for the worst, I flipped open the folder and checked the file. A single sheet of paper informed me I’d been promoted to the rank of detective third grade and instructed me to report to my new place of employment under the direct guidance of Mr. and Mrs. Chief Quinn.
My mouth dropped open, and I blinked several times before rereading the sheet, which remained the same. I passed the sheet to Kit, who read it over and joined me in attempting to catch flies in his mouth before he leaned over to hand the news off to the next cop in line.
Typically, those up for promotion endured tests, trials, and tribulation along with a warning of the impending changes. I viewed my daily life as some ridiculous challenge where I needed to prove I could be just as good—or better—than the boys. While the captain loathed me, the boys in blue liked me around, or so Kit often told me. The fact we got requested to serve as backup often implied there was something to Kit’s claim.
The news of my promotion ushered in stunned silence.
“I’d ask you who you slept with, but the incubus at the bar bust this morning made it clear you’re a pure and pristine maiden,” Kit teased.
I regretted the morning half of my shift, which had required me to decline the incubus’s offer. Taking him home would’ve beaten the damned jokes. However, my status as single and unlaid didn’t bother me in the slightest. I was married to my job, so I grinned at my partner and replied, “I reduced him to begging, too. I’m quality, Kit. I put some serious thought into taking a half-day, writing my number and address on a napkin, and taking him up on his offer.”
My ex-partner cackled. “I can’t say I blame you. I would have covered you, too. You know how awful those unexpected stomach bugs can be.”
“Should’ve said I’d contracted the flu,” I stated, gesturing in the general direction of the window. In the morning, we’d gotten snow, which had been reduced to slush, the normal state of January in Brooklyn.
Everyone laughed, and my promotion announcement made its way back to me along with two empty filing boxes. I doubted I’d fill one; Captain Frankson preferred when his cops were white and male rather than mixed and female, so I’d done my best to keep my desk clutter at a minimum just in case I needed to bail out in a hurry. Being half-Irish somewhat appeased the asshole, and my sparkling record had spared me from termination.
The half-Mexican part of my heritage tripped his trigger, reminded everyone in our precinct we worked for a racist bastard, and resulted in a careful dance of the sensible people doing their best to mitigate the damage his idiotic prejudices did to the community we served.
In his book, Mexican was one step up from anyone else who wasn’t white or European; he claimed most Mexicans were at least part Spanish. If my parents found out about his idiocy, they’d give him a talking to, as I was a solid fifty percent Mexica, and my mother was damned proud of her heritage, which hadn’t been conquered by the Conquistadors.
In good news for everyone involved, Captain Frankson generally knew better than to test his luck against the labor board, opting to keep his discrimination somewhat to himself.
My pens and journals went into the box first with my prized dry-erase markers following in their wake. As I had zero scruples about reminding the men that a woman worked among them, I placed my stash of feminine hygiene products on top. I chuckled at the mix of blatantly pink to plain white to camouflage, making certain there was a little something for everyone who crossed my path and might need to make use of them.
My personal stash stayed in my locker, which I would raid as soon as I had half a moment. The rest would eventually find their way into the hands of the needy. I put the lid on and gave the box a pat. “I’m ready. Give the poor bastard inheriting my desk my condolences. He’ll need it. If he needs some love, don’t warn him about the chair.”
It took skill to sit without the devil-spawned chair establishing dominance and declaring itself the winner over its latest victim, usually me. On a good day, it dumped me on the floor. On a bad one, it attempted a cruel violation before dumping me on the floor.
A door slammed down the hall, and Captain Frankson yelled, “Move it, McMarin!”
Damn. Who had pissed in the captain’s coffee? Picking up my box, I hauled it to his office to discover the Chief Quinns lounging together on his couch.
I stepped into the doorway, forced my expression to be calm and neutral, and held my box as though I meant to go to the filing room rather than my locker to empty out my gear. “Sir?”
“Chief Quinn will be taking you to your new station. They have need of a detective, and you were up for promotion. Empty your locker on the way out. Dismissed.”
For a woman rumored to be pregnant yet again, Chief Bailey Quinn hopped to her feet with admirable grace, although her husband beat her to the door and snagged my box, claiming it.
“Sorry for the lack of notice, Detective McMarin,” he said, and he herded me out of the captain’s office, snagging the door with his foot and easing it closed. “The commissioner dumped a huge stack of files on our desk yesterday. I was permitted to bring in one new body to help deal with it. A new hire wouldn’t work, so I inquired with Captain Frankson who would fit well in the position, can handle excessive amounts of paperwork, and has a high tolerance for bullshit, as he’s got the most robust numbers in the area. Upon reviewing your file, Bailey decided we were taking you, and as she’s willing to fight me over it, I thought it wise to cooperate. Don’t mind Captain Frankson’s temper. He’s annoyed we took his best paper pusher, and the commissioner has also decided he isn’t accepting no for an answer. First things first; unless reporters are nearby, I’m Sam or Quinn. She’s Bailey.”
Chief Bailey Quinn glared at her husband and the box he held. “If you want to put him in his place, call me Gardener. It drives him crazy.” Placing her hands on her hips, she continued to glare at her husband. “I could have carried that.”
“You could have, but you won’t.” Chief Samuel Quinn grinned. “As I’m busy carrying this box, I won’t be able to defend your saddle, which I happened to bring with me today.”
The woman bolted down the hall, hit the stairwell door at full throttle, and bounced off it before yanking it open and plunging down the steps.
My mouth dropped open, and I struggled to come up with a single thing to say.
“The kids are at their grandparents’ place today, and she is enjoying her freedom. As she’s no longer nursing, she had her first cup of coffee today since month five of her first pregnancy. This time, she gets to have coffee until month eight. This will delight her until she realizes that she’s already working on her timer before she’s cut off again. She has not had coffee in months. She’s once again forgotten cindercorns don’t appreciate the cold, which should have been her first clue she’ll be losing her coffee rights again by the end of the year. Have you ridden a horse before?”
I grimaced at the memory of being stuck with one of the force’s worst assholes of a horse during my training period. “I have basic mounted patrol training, but I was passed over for duty,” I reported.
“That’ll do. You’ll ride Bailey to the station. Maybe that’ll calm her down. I’ve a pair of goggles for you to wear, and I had a vest made for her so she’s not cop bait. She is excitable today, and cindercorns have a habit of disregarding speed limits when excited. Hell, who am I kidding? Cindercorns hate speed limits.”
I considered running away and searching for the incubus I’d rejected earlier in my shift. Testing my luck with the incubus seemed a great deal safer than riding a unicorn with a habit of breathing fire and destroying entire city blocks at her whim. “Understood, sir.”
“You’re going to be one of the ones who struggles with first names, I see. We have a rule for the newbies at the station: those who don’t use our first names get extra paperwork.”
“Are you serious?” I blurted.
“Not really, but it’s fun making the more formal cops squirm. You’ll get used to it.”
No one had warned me Mr. Chief Quinn was as crazy as his cindercorn wife. Doing my best to mask my skepticism, I replied, “If you say so, Samuel, sir.”
“I’ll take it. Let’s hurry up before Bailey creates extra trouble or breaks something in her general excitement. Had I been a little wiser this morning, I wouldn’t have reminded her she can now have coffee. It’s your first day with us, and I’m already going to have to issue you a hazard bonus for coping with my wife’s insanity. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m really not.”
All I could do was hope heaven might help me, as I doubted there was any other force in the universe capable of stopping a pregnant fire-breathing unicorn with a reputation of creating havoc wherever she went.