Page 51 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

“Yo, you can’t park there.”

The office maintenance engineer—he preferred that to “janitor”—was calling out to the driver, who had just pulled into the loading zone. He might’ve shut the engine off. Ramirez couldn’t tell because rap was blaring from what must have been oversize speakers.

The driver’s eyes, a shade darker than his skin, turned and sliced Ramirez into little pieces before returning to his phone.

No, no, this wasn’t going to work. Fuck no.

“Yo, I call the police, have your ass thrown in jail.”

The driver frowned. “Yeah. On private property? You can sue my ass. But police got nothing to do with it. Course, you could always just whip my ass. In fact, I’d welcome you to try.”

Ramirez couldn’t see the driver’s body, only his head, but it was a big one and the torso it was attached to was probably equally sizable.

But still the guy was breaking the rules, if not the law.

And pissing him off in the process.

Ah, but now the owner of the building had arrived. Ramirez had friends in high places, and he wasn’t going to let a suspicious character like this jerk just sit in a no-parking zone.

Not in his kingdom.

Ramirez waited for the owner to park his Mercedes before approaching him. He stopped short, however, when the owner got out and headed straight toward the rule-breaking asshole.

Good. Kick the prick off the property.

But wait, what was going on?

The door of the SUV was opening and the driver—a huge man in a black leather jacket—got out. The two shook hands and the building owner handed him a thick white envelope as they exchanged a few words.

The owner nodded goodbye, and the driver got back behind the wheel and piloted the black Ford Edge out of the lot, leaving Hector Ramirez very grateful he hadn’t made a stink about anything.

The owner of the complex, Mr. Carl Overton, could have one hell of a temper.