States of Grace by Mandy Miller (top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT) 📕

say, as Vinnie manhandles the Crown Vic into the space nearest the entrance of Lauderdale West, his sinewy arms muscling the steering wheel as if he were at the helm of a sailboat in a storm.

Once we’ve jolted to a stop, the engine idles with a symphony of clanking and screeching that causes my teeth to hurt and Miranda to bark.

I point at a blue sign of a stick figure in a wheelchair. “This space is handicapped and neither of us is.”

He pulls back and eyes me.

“Well, I am, but then I don’t have my car back yet, so I don’t need a handicapped tag.”

Vinnie reaches under the seat, extracts a handicapped tag, and slaps it onto the rearview mirror.

“Shit! Where’d you get that?” I roll my eyes. “Forget it. Don’t tell me. Another thing about you I don’t care to know.”

He leans around Miranda who’s sitting tall between us like a hirsute hood ornament and slaps my arm. “I thought you were trying to clean up your language?”

“I’m trying, I swear.”

He holds out his hand. “Funny one. But that’ll still be ten bucks.”

“Like hell!”

“That makes it twenty. We had a deal. You curse, you pay.” His lips pull into an innocent smile. “It’s for a good cause. The sisters at St. A’s thank you and your potty mouth.”

“Okay, okay,” I say slapping the cash into his hand. “You wanna come inside?”

He pokes a finger in his chest. “Moi?”

“Yeah, you. Who else would I be talking to?”

He turns to Miranda. “What are you, chopped liver?”

“She’s coming,” I say, attaching the leash to her collar. “Are you?”

“What you need me for?”

“I don’t need you for anything, but I think your finely tuned people-reading skills may come in useful. We can say you’re my investigator.”

Vinnie throws his head back. “That’s classic. Me doing the investigatin’.”

I get out and rearrange Oscar, followed by Miranda who hops down with the grace and confidence of a four-legged dog, as if the missing leg was something she had no need for all along.

After checking our identification and taking a close look at the service dog license attached to Miranda’s vest, the front desk attendant hands over two visitor passes and directs us to the seventh floor.

“That license worked like a charm,” Vinnie says. “Like I said, she’s street legal.”

I give him a one-eyed stare. “More than I can say for the pretenses under which you got her.”

“Geez, I think I forgot to tell you, when you finish the training together, they’ll give you her real license,” Vinnie says.

“Real license? Don’t tell me you—”

“Hurry up would you,” he says, holding the elevator door.

“I can’t believe you.”

He chuckles. “You’re not the first, sweetheart.”

When the elevator opens onto a waiting room, Gretchen rushes me. I pass off Miranda’s leash to Vinnie.

“Thanks so much for coming,” she says, hands flapping. Except for the bloodshot eyes, she’s still every bit the beauty queen, all decked out in a pink velour track suit emblazoned with a designer logo of a crown in rhinestones. Skin-tight pants hang over rhinestone-sequined sneakers made without any athletic purpose in mind. Over her shoulder stands a squat man in a tuxedo. Anton Slim, I presume, although slim he is not. He’s as big around as he is tall. Balding. Puffy face. Bow tie undone, a limp ribbon around his bull neck. What I assume to be a red wine stain mars the front of his pin tuck shirt. Arms braced across his barrel chest, he’s rocking back and forth on his heels, the high polish of his shoes reflecting the fluorescent light from the ceiling strips.

“I trust you got the check we sent over?” he asks.

“I did. Thank you.”

“You’ll receive the rest when you get my daughter out of this mess,” he says, looking me up and down, which leaves me feeling grossly under-dressed in my Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt and board shorts.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Vinnie examining the fronds of a potted palm, Miranda at his side.

“We apologize for being this casual. Mrs. Slim’s call was unexpected.”

“For some, maybe,” Anton says, scowling at Gretchen.

Gretchen glances at Vinnie. “And this is?”

I rest my hand on Vinnie’s shoulder. “This is Vincent Vicanti, my investigator. He’ll be working with me on Zoe’s case.”

Vinnie takes Gretchen’s hand with a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure.” He smiles and pets Miranda. “And this here is Miranda.”

Gretchen withdraws her hand as if she’s touched a hot burner. “She’s big.”

“And fierce,” I say.

Vinnie turns away, pretending to fuss with Miranda’s lead to hide an evil little smile.

I slide a single sheet of paper out of my purse and hand it to Gretchen along with a pen. “If we could get a little preliminary business out of the way, I’d appreciate it. If you would please sign this release so I can have access to Zoe and her records.”

Anton snatches the form. “Ms. Locke, my wife and I are private people. We’re not in the habit of letting strangers nose around in our business or our family. In your line of work, you understand the importance of discretion.”

“Of course, Dr. Slim. And believe me, no one wants to keep Zoe’s presence here from becoming public more than I do. It’s my job to make sure she gets a fair trial, but to do that, I need access.”

Anton hikes his pants up over his belly. “We can share any information about Zoe on an as-needed basis. I’m sure Dr. Kesey, the attending psychiatrist for Zoe, will help you with that.”

I cut my eyes to Vinnie, one leg bent up, foot against the wall, gnawing on a toothpick.

Gretchen blinks fast to stem the tears bubbling up in the corners of her eyes, threatening to cause her mascara-laden eyelashes to wilt. “Please, honey,” she says, stroking Anton’s arm.

Anton pulls a pair of wire half-frame reading glasses from his inside pocket, scans the single-spaced text, and shoves the release at his wife. “Sign it if you want, my love.”

Using her