She scrunched up her face. “Hmm. Fair enough. So, married with kids, not your type either? So, my friend, when was the last time you were laid?”
Court shuddered visibly. Dating a fellow detective was one the worst things he could imagine—married or not. “It’s been so long I can’t remember.”
“Oh, man … that is about the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” Cami’s shoulders slumped downward along with her entire upper body as she leaned back against her chair. “You’re kidding.”
“Duh. It’s only been a couple weeks.” He usually shared everything with her. When was the last time they’d hung out? Used to be they got together three or four times a week, but Cami had been the one full of excuses lately.
Cami leaned forward, full of attention now. She liked the nitty-gritty. “Still too long. Another of Britt’s candidates?”
“Yep. Now, get this. We went to a Renaissance faire. She dressed me up with elf ears and made me wear a long blond wig.”
“Ohhhh. Did she wear one of those costumes with a corset?” Cami pushed her breasts up through her shirt, shimmying seductively.
Court chuckled at the attempt. “Okay, that part wasn’t so bad. “
“Don’t suppose you got any pictures of you with pointy ears and long hair.”
Court laughed and leaned over his phone. The beer was making him a little tipsy and it took him three tries to get his PIN. He barely remembered to cover the screen when he opened his album. Didn’t want Cami to see the photos he’d taken at the scene. He scrolled up to the one of him in the ridiculous get up, spinning the phone around for her. The condensation from his beer made the surface slippery. It skittered out of control so Cami had to catch it before it flew off the table. She examined the photo of Court with his arm draped casually over the naked shoulders of his date.
Her jaw dropped open for a second. “Yowsa. How did I miss her? She’s hot, Court. What happened?” Cami slid his phone back over the slick surface.
He caught it, shrugging. “The physical chemistry was good, but I wasn’t a fan of dressing up all the time. And I mean, all the time. Renaissance faires, comic book conventions, fantasy conventions, Star Trek, Star Wars. You name it, she had a costume for me. She wasn’t my type for long-term.”
Cami’s face shifted into serious mode. “Is anyone, Court?”
Court dropped his gaze to the foamy ring at the bottom of his glass, wondering how it was already empty. It would have been easier if she’d asked for details about elf sex.
Cami drummed the table with her fingers. “Okay then. So … you think Britt will have someone new on tap for you tomorrow?” Cami had been babysitting his niece and nephew for years and was pretty close to them. As a consequence, she was invited to all their family gatherings.
Crap. Court had forgotten about the birthday party. It would be a madhouse, with kids running everywhere. Britt would use it to introduce a new candidate. He pushed his empty beer glass aside, dropping his head onto crossed arms. “Probably. I’ll be working all day. Maybe I’ll be into something and have to skip the party. Only go to the family thing on Monday.”
Cami stood up, stretching. “Hot new case makes Court a dull boy.”
Court shrugged, annoyed at himself for opening that avenue again. “I’m kidding. I would hate to miss the twins’ party. I already have their present.”
Cami leaned over to kiss his cheek. “You’ll be there. Besides, deep down, you know you can’t help but wonder who Britt is going to throw at you next.”
8
A new investigation often kept Court awake. It was worse at the beginning of the case when the field was wide open, and his imagination ran wild with possibilities. He’d managed to crash into sleep only after he’d written everything flooding his head down in his tiny notebook. He was in the middle of a dream when his phone rang.
He rolled into a sitting position, wiping sleep from his eyes. Five o’clock in the morning phone calls were never social engagements. “Pearson.”
“Court, this is Mary. Mary Coleridge.”
All fragments of sleep skittered away. Court stood up. She’d never called him at such an ungodly hour before. “Mary? What’s up?
“Bad news. We have a train derailment with multiple deaths five miles west of Wenatchee. Something about a tunnel door not functioning. I don’t have the details yet, but, the number of bodies is too high for the local coroner to handle.”
Court flopped back onto the bed. “Holy crap. Do you have a count yet?”
“Eighteen. So far. First responders are still at it. There’s no way we’ll get to Drummond’s autopsy today. It’ll have to wait.”
All those people. No doubt it would be a mess. His stomach churned. Court did the math in his head. Most county offices can manage one to four bodies at a time. Even King County could only handle about twenty before getting backed up. A gigantic landslide the previous year had required a similar shared response, pulling in agencies from across the state. Autopsies at King County had been backed up for six days before getting back into a regular rhythm again. “Everyone has to go? Any chance you can do Drummond now, before you head out?”
“No. Too many people are on the invite for this autopsy. Stensland, you. Hell, the DA wants one of his prosecutors in there. Even the Chief wants in on it, too. Besides, you know how few deaths like this we see? I’ve got a couple of newbies on staff who need to be there.”
He rubbed at his eyes. He wouldn’t push harder. The actual cause of death wasn’t likely to matter much in the investigation as a whole. And, it wasn’t like the big deep rope marks around his neck left much to question. “Any idea when you’ll be back?”
“No. I’ve got to go. We’re all heading out to the scene now. I’ll try to keep you updated.”
She hung up. He stared at his phone for a long time before texting Ivy with the news.
Court had told Ivy he’d be back by 6:30 a.m. With the autopsy delayed, he would have time to hit the early-Saturday Krav Maga class in the basement gym of the department before they needed to get to the Drummond house at ten.
He scoured the Seattle Times website during his bus ride, and only found one small article about Drummond’s death. It gave only the basics: that Drummond had been found dead the night before and there was an active investigation into his death. Nothing about murder, yet anyway. The final line promised a full in-depth article in the Sunday Times. Great. How much more did they think they were going to get by tomorrow? He changed into his scruffy sweats and headed into his Krav class.
Gilad Agbaria was a crusty retired Israeli general who stood maybe five-three with shoes on. He was an old dude who could kill someone in hundreds of ways, but came across as a lovable grandpa. When he smiled, his face erupted into dozens of smile lines, and he moved with catlike grace. Court hoped he would get around half as well by the time he hit seventy-nine.
Agbaria had an easy, patient way about him, which made training with him a pleasure. Krav Maga was so much more fun than a traditional Karate setting. There was no bowing and scraping on one’s knees to a Sensei. Instead, there was mutual respect and a sense they were in the fight together. And, there were no katas. Court understood the theory behind the form movements, but he’d never been in a fight in which he had to deal with four opponents coming at him from all directions with exactly the specified moves.
Working out in sweats and a t-shirt instead of the traditional heavy gi was an added bonus. The class was more crowded than he would have suspected. Russell Flanagan, one of three homicide detectives who had shown an active disdain for Court, was warming up by punching the hell out of a freestanding bag. He looked up from his target and gave Court a smile that promised a difficult workout. Court had made a fine art of avoiding Flanagan, but in a tight department like theirs, he could never be one-hundred-percent successful.
Sure enough, as soon as they were through their warm-up and asked to pair off, Flanagan squared off in front of Court.
“Don’t
recall seeing you in this class before, Pearson. Decided to take on the big boys?”
Court’s usual classmates were the younger generation of street cops who slept in on Saturday mornings when they got the chance. Flanagan was close to retirement with the beginnings of a bulge dipping over his pants. Come to think of it, most of the guys in this room were over forty, Court included. “Exactly. I figured I could learn something from people who’ve been around a long, long time.”
Flanagan clenched and released his fists. “Heard you got a new case last night. Think you can handle it with that pretty piece of fluff they gave you for a partner?”
Did anyone really think Ivy was a piece of fluff? Fluff? Fuck that. He stepped in close to the other man’s face, dropping his voice to a throaty growl. “Don’t talk that way about Langston. She’s put in her dues.” He wasn’t even sure he liked Ivy, and here he was defending her honor?
Flanagan held his ground, a slow smile forming on his lips.
Agbaria cut into their tête-a-tête with a curt intensity, moving them through drills at breakneck speed. Talking would only get him hurt during this kind of workout. Court ignored Flanagan and fell into a near-meditative state, totally focused on the moves.
The class moved quickly from basic warmup before focusing on a review of close-up knife attacks. Court landed several nice kicks to Flanagan’s groin in the process. He was savoring the latest blow when Agbaria pulled out the weighted plastic guns. They were as heavy as a regular gun, but a lot safer to toss around than a loaded Glock.
Court wiped the sweat from his face with his t-shirt, inadvertently pulling it up so it bared his chest to the group. People tried to pretend they didn’t think about what was underneath his clothing, but whenever they got a chance, they couldn’t keep themselves from peeking. He ignored them as best he could, knowing his six-pack abs were as hard and chiseled as any of theirs. Maybe more so. Early hormone therapy had prevented him from ever having breasts, but they didn’t know that. They were looking for scars. Some sort of proof.
The pairings had made the rounds and he found himself up against Flanagan again. The other man took a too-gleeful approach at pointing the fake gun at Court’s head. Court sidestepped trying to loop the gun out of Flanagan’s hand, but the older man managed to pull out of it, flipping Court onto his back with the gun pointed between Court’s eyes. How had he let that happen? The warmth of embarrassment crept up his neck and cheeks.
Flanagan reached down with a hand to assist Court to his feet. Court took it warily. The yank would have been painful if he hadn’t been expecting it.
Flanagan used the momentum to pull Court in close. Closer than Court liked to be to another guy. He whispered so no one else could hear him. “Nice try, Courtneeeee.”
Court held back his hot anger, refusing a verbal sparring match. This time, Flanagan was going down.
9
Only a handful of people were working when Court made it to the squad room. Part of him wished someone else had been on call last night, but another part of him wanted to dive in deep and ignore the world. It was the luck of the draw. While the official response was to treat every victim equally, there was no denying that politics would influence the handling of this case. Everything he did would be scrutinized under a microscope. He’d have to play this one hundred percent by the book. No shortcuts.
He and Ivy had cubicles directly across from each other. His was neat and orderly, but had nothing personal in it aside from a few helpful books on psychology and investigative techniques. No photos, no plants, no artwork. He used to keep a photo of Amanda and Bailey next to his monitor, but had removed it. It wasn’t so much that it pained him to see them every day. He hated the undying pity oozing from those around him when they noticed the picture and put it together with what they knew about him.
Ivy sat with her back to him, typing with a quick efficiency he could only dream of. Her cubicle had one potted fern and three photographs adorning a corner. One was of Ivy and her husband at their wedding, ankle deep in shallow waves on a Hawaiian beach under a traditional canopy. In the second, Ivy leaned against her husband in front of a trippy sixties-modern style house, each holding a child. They were all smiles. The third was a family photo taken at her son’s recent bar mitzvah, two kids standing in between the parents.
Court leaned over her shoulder and checked out the report she was finishing. There were no typos, and she had hit all the key points in a more thorough way than he would have. He usually kept his reports as short as possible and used lots of bullet points. Hers read like a rough draft of a novel. She’d gotten the deal with Hunter cleared and forwarded to Wagner, called the hospital on Hunter’s alibi, and made a long to-do list.
He pulled out his phone and double-checked his email. “Why wasn’t I copied on the deal with Hunter?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her face impassive. She saved the report and hit send. “Guess I forgot. Where’d you go? I woke up at five and you were nowhere around.”
Court pointed to the screen. “I want a copy of everything you do on this case. Partners copy each other on everything.”
She pushed back from the computer, edging him away from the space with her movement. “I’ll try to remember that. Partners also check in when they take off.”
Court bristled at her tone. He searched her monitor for the note he’d left her, but it was gone. She probably wouldn’t believe him if he tried to explain.
She stood up and tilted her head toward the squad’s technical division. “Ashena’s been working like an angry bee for a couple hours already. What’d you do to get her here so early?”
Court held out his hand to let her go ahead of him. “I called her last night and sweet-talked her into some Saturday hours. I asked her to get the information off the entry system to Hunter’s office. Those things record key swipes and door openings. At the very least, we’ll know when the door was opened and closed.” It was stretching things a bit. In truth, Ashena Williams had owed him a huge favor for his discretion on a screw-up she’d made a few months prior. But he’d have to call in more than one favor to get traction on the case while working around closed businesses on the weekend.
As they approached, Ashena stood up from behind her warren of wires and terminals with a half-inch thick stack of papers held together by a black binder clip in her hands. She reached past Ivy, placing the papers directly into Court’s hands, her spicy scent flowing past him. “There’s definitely something hinky going on with the card keys,” she said.
Court wondered how a goddess like Ashena had ended up geeking out. Her prominent cheekbones and glossy brown skin were more runway model than computer nerd. “What’d you find?”
“First, I did as you asked and pulled up the history from last week. Go to the first green sticky.”
Court flipped it open and held it up so Ivy could see.
“That’s the list of activity starting Wednesday. One swipe from Hunter’s key at 3:03 p.m. The door opened again at 4:15, presumably someone leaving. Fifteen minutes later, Hunter’s key opens the door again. The next activity is at 6:55 when a key labeled ‘Rosie’ opens the door. Finally, the door opens, again someone leaving, at 7:30. No more activity until yesterday at 4:02 p.m., when Hunter’s key unlocks the door.”
Everything fit Hunter’s story about leaving at 4:15 on Wednesday, except her return at 4:30.
“But, I checked her story with the hospital first thing this morning. Her alibi for Wednesday afternoon and evening is solid. She couldn’t have been in both places at the same time,” Ivy said.
“She couldn’t, but she could have left her card behind for someone else to use,” Court said. “And what about the Friday 4:02 stamp? Why did she wait almost forty minutes before making the 911 call?”
Ashena put her hand on the book. “Wait. I’m not done yet. I thought it would be a good idea to go back a few weeks and compare the regular usage of the keys to more recent. You know, see what the baseline activity
is. And that’s where things got a little strange.”
“Come on, Ashena, get to it. Please,” he said.
Ashena crossed her arms and glared at him over the rim of her glasses. “I’m getting there. Be a little patient, will you? So, I pulled the logs starting from July to obtain a good bit of data. What I found is this.”
She flipped through the papers to the purple tab. “Hunter’s activity is pretty consistent from July through mid-September. What you need to get from this, is she arrived pretty much the same time every day. Her arrival is followed by another key swipe entry. She issued every client their own card, programmed to work only for certain times. Then, Hunter and her client leave within a few minutes of each other a few hours later. For the most part. Sometimes, the Wednesday night shifts, and the person with the key labeled as ‘Rosie’ stays until the next morning.”
“So, I highlighted the times where people had entered with a card key. Hunter’s swipes are highlighted in blue, and each codename has a different color. A pattern emerged in the first few pages.”
Court followed her fingers as she spoke, repeating her words to himself to get it straight.
Ashena flipped to another tab. “So, here’s something you need to check out. Eight weeks ago, there was a reboot of the entire system. The installer, Haubek Inc., came out and wiped the system. All the previous cards were rendered invalid. Over the next week, the records show new cards being made, starting with Hunter’s after the reboot. For two weeks, the pattern returns to normal. Then, six weeks ago, the system shows her coming back in at odd hours—out of her usual pattern. Sometimes in the middle of the night, but almost always on Wednesday nights. I thought this was kind of strange, so I dove into the code on the entry system.”
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