The vanity license plate bolted to the black hybrid read N MAN 1 when it should have screamed TR UB LE. A rainy night rush hour flat tire on the freeway kind of trouble. That’s what Molly Hewitt expected when she approached the not-for-profit medical clinic where she served as administrator. Otherwise, why would Nick Mancini’s car squat in the twenty-four minute zone — ticket territory? He had his own parking slot at the other end of the block, alongside the trailer he used for a construction office. It wasn’t as if he were inside the clinic making a killer donation. The odds on that were as slim as men and women flip-flopping on the Mars/Venus thing.
The morning from hell already landed on Molly’s doorstep. She’d overslept, burned her toast, and forgotten to plug in the coffeemaker. Now, hungry and caffeine deprived, and with Ms. Cranky lurking inside her and ready to stomp on her usually placid disposition, she had to maneuver through a tête-à-tête with the San Francisco condo king. Were the Furies tap dancing on her head, or what?
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