RATTLING THE HEAT IN DEADWOOD
Unlike Cooper, who was a decent detective except when he was harping on me for something that wasn’t my fault, Hawke was a pen-clicking, brown-nosing dipshit who’d most recently mistaken me for a witch. Not the nice, sexy sort of witch either. More like the wart-covered, spell-casting type with knowledge of mind-altering potions and disfiguring hexes. I wasn’t sure if this included flying broomsticks, but most days I wouldn’t put it past Detective Doofus.
“That’s a whole lotta corral dust, Coop,” Harvey said.
Corral dust? That was a new one for me. Harvey had a way of speaking that often left me either scratching my head or fanning my cheeks.
“I’ve seen you rip-roarin’ through town, tearin’ up the streets without your cherry lit too many times to recall.”
After shooting his uncle a glare, Cooper pointed at my speedometer. “Slow down, Parker, or I’ll give you a speeding ticket.”
I batted Cooper’s hand away. “You can’t give me a ticket when you’re not on duty. Hell, you’re not even wearing a tie or one of those bulky police utility belts.” Not to mention his short blond hair looked like he’d been trying to tear it out tuft by tuft.