2
Mickey Ross was not a happy man.
He’d just come off a two-day stakeout and had the rumpled suit and unshaven chin to prove it. He was tired. He was cranky. And he wasn’t home in bed having that dream where the cover girl for Sports Illustrated was rubbing sun tan lotion onto his back.
He looked at where he didn’t want to be, but the waiting area of the New Orleans International Airport didn’t fade to something more pleasing. Nor did the stuffed pig dangling at the end of his arm vanish into the nightmare realm where it belonged.
Mickey glared down at it. Bad enough for a cop to be keeping company with any pig, but this pig, well, if it’s lurid pink and purple surface was any indication, it had never been a beauty. Time had rubbed away the fluff from its surface and left one sorry bla
