by Lena Bourne
It’s a weird feeling to be sitting in the office and waiting for my team to come in and report. At any time in the past, I would be out there conducting all these interviews myself. And I have a very distinct feeling that tomorrow I will be. But for tonight, I’m still determined not to let the case suck me in. Not to let it disturb my work/life balance.
The office door opens with a groan and a thud against the rubberized metal stopper. I look up, fully expecting Slava and Ida, but it’s Walter. His cheeks are red and it can’t be from the cold, since it was another exceptionally warm spring day. His hair is also not as neatly combed as it usually is.
“Good, you’re still here,” he says breathlessly as he strides towards me. “I couldn’t find the daughter anywhere.”
He inhales a few times to catch his breath but fails. What did he do? Run here?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“She wasn’t at her home address, or with her mother,” he says. “I tracked down her boyfriend and five of her closest friends and none of them have seen her since last night and—“
“That’s definitely odd,” I say, mainly to stop his nervous rambling. “And I assume you tried calling her?”
He nods. “I’ve been calling her all day. Her phone is off.”
“People handle shock and grief differently,” I say. “Could be she just wants to be alone.”
Walter visibly relaxes, even his breathing slows.
“Tomorrow we’ll visit the place she works at,” I say. “And go see her mother again. Did you ask her any questions, by the way?”
“Just where she was last night,” he admits. “And whether she had seen her daughter. She was home alone.”
His voice trailed off and faded before he even finished his last sentence. I’m pretty sure the cause of that was the expression on my face. This kid is even greener than I figured he might be. From now on, he’s only tagging along with me or one of the other investigators. I have no idea how to train inexperienced young investigators, and if I use the methods my instructor used on me, I’ll probably get fired and sued.
“I’m sorry,” Walter mutters. “I just assumed she had nothing to do with it.”
I shake my head and sit down at the conference table. Brina is standing in the doorway of her office, still clutching the pen she’s been taking notes with. Her hair is messy and tangled and the dark circles aren't just under her eyes anymore, they’re all around her eyes now.
“You shouldn’t have assumed that,” she says, saving me the trouble, as she strides over to join us by the table. “He was still married to her when Anita was found. And I’m willing to bet she knows more of his secrets than his new wife did.”
Walter’s cheeks turn even redder than they already were, but he doesn’t respond, just unzips his jacket, which makes an extraordinarily loud noise for some reason. At least he’s not leaping into defending himself. That’s a good start to teaching him, I guess. I was always very vocal about what I considered my mentor’s bullshit reprimands and instructions. Hopefully, Walter’s not going to be like arrogant young me in that regard. Good. One less thing to deal with.
“We’ll re-interview her tomorrow,” I say and Brina nods. I didn’t necessarily mean she’ll be doing that, since she’s too close to all this, but I’m spared having to tell her that by Ida and Slava arriving.
While Slava looks like she’s ready to go home, her eyes glazed, her skin colorless, and even her otherwise bright orange curly hair kind of dull-looking, Ida seems to be running on some turbo jet fuel. She strides into the office and to the table like she’s just getting started with the day’s work and not like she’s been at it for nearly twelve hours already.
She slides her coat off and dumps it on one of the chairs by the table. “I can’t stay long, I have to get back to the lab,” she says and takes out a sheet of paper covered by messy handwriting.
“I wrote everything I want to tell you down, so I don’t miss anything,” she says, slightly apologetically as she sees me eyeing it. What I was thinking is that she’s the most efficient crime scene tech I’ve ever worked with and that she has absolutely nothing to apologize for. I’d tell her that, but she’s already totally focused on scanning her notes.
“Did you find anything at the office?” I ask after she doesn’t start speaking like I thought she would.
She flashes me a look and shakes her head. “Not yet. There are what could be signs of a struggle in there, but the explanation that the window was open and the wind caused most of the mess is plausible. There were three potted plants on the windowsill and the window slamming open probably knocked them down. The papers on his desk could’ve been scattered by the wind. But I don’t think that’s the likeliest explanation.”
She looks at me to see my reaction and I just nod for her to keep talking. “It’s the coffee spill, you see. No effort at all was made to clean it up or to save the papers, some of which looked like original contracts to me.”
“Well, if the wind knocked it over, no one would clean it up, right?” Walter asks, looking at each of us in turn. “I mean, no one was there when it happened.”
“The cup’s too heavy to be knocked over by the wind,” Ida says. “And it was placed too far from the window to be knocked over by it being blown open. Yet something, or more likely, someone, knocked it over. And then that person didn’t clean it up, which is odd, because I’m sure the mayor would’ve made some effort to save the papers that were ruined. As would his secretary, or any other employee.”
“Unless they wanted it to seem like the open window was the cause,” I say. “Maybe someone was trying to destroy a specific document.”
Ida’s eyes light up and she nods vigorously. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“But in this day and age, there’s bound to be copies of everything,” I add, not enjoying watching her deflate. But one thing I’ve learned in all my years as an investigator is that you never want to start concluding anything early on. At this point in the case, anything is still possible.
“Is this the only suspicious thing you found at the office?" I ask.
Ida inhales to start speaking, but it’s Slava who says, “Yes, pretty much.”
Ida shoots her an annoyed, borderline angry look. Slava shrugs and keeps her eyes fixed on her. “You know it’s true. For now, until we get the autopsy results, the ballistics report, and do the fingerprint analysis, we don’t have much, and definitely not anything to indicate this was more than a domestic. But we were very thorough in collecting all the evidence.”
The emphasis she puts on the word “all” tells me she thinks they were much too thorough. And that she wanted to be back here with the findings hours ago.
Ida stuffs her page of notes back into her backpack. “Slava’s right. We don’t have much pointing to the fact that there was any kind of disturbance at the office, and not much to make us think people other than the husband and wife were involved in the shooting. I’m sorry.”
That apology was mostly for Brina, I think, since she was looking at her when she said it.
“Alright, we’ll see what we have once all evidence is processed,” I say and turn to Walter. “But we might as well check the CCTV from the town hall before we go home though.”
For the first second, he looks like he has no idea what I’m talking about, and in the next, his face turns fire truck red.
“I didn’t have a USB stick to download it on, and I said I’d come back, but I forgot,” he says breathlessly. “I’m sorry.”
I’ve been hearing sorry all day today and I’m getting sick of it. We’re definitely off to a shoddy start on this case, no two ways about that.
“You’ll go get it first thing tomorrow morning,” I say in what I hope isn’t too harsh a tone.
Clearly, it was because he looks stricken as he nods. “Yes, of course.”
I don’t want to be one of those annoying bosses who are always reprimanding their workers. Then again, I don’t want
to be any kind of boss either. Or have to worry about how I’m coming across to people I’m supposed to be leading. This aspect of the job I took didn’t even cross my mind when I agonized over signing the task force contract, and I could do without the hassle now.
I stand up and take my jacket off the back of my chair. “Let’s call it a day for now, but meet back here tomorrow morning at eight.”
Everyone nods and starts getting up and preparing to leave. Except for Brina.
“You too,” I tell her. I wasn’t going to warn her about overexerting herself and getting too enmeshed in this case, but she looks about ready to drop.
She shoots me a sharp look and stands up. “There’s something I have to check first.”
Now, in the old days, I’d ask her to tell me what and then probably spend at least another hour going over the case with her. A part of me still wants to do that. I’m sure that notebook I saw her scribbling in earlier is full of theories regarding the case. I wouldn’t mind hearing them.
But the louder part wants me to keep my promise to Eva. And an even louder part wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening with her, talking about anything other than work.
And in about an hour, when I get home to the cottage, that will become reality.
Mark
The best parts about living with someone hide in the little things. I realized that the first time Eva and I lived together back in Berlin, and I’m rediscovering all of them all over again now. One of them is arriving home after dark and finding the cottage all lit up, the yellow light spilling out through the uncurtained windows. I just sit in the car for a couple of moments taking all the sparkling warmth of it in.
Eva must’ve been waiting for me to walk in because she greets me by the door as soon as I unlock it, hugs and kisses me, making the flowery scent of her all I can think of for the next few moments.
She’s dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a fluffy, waist-length white sweater that she only wears outside. Her hair is combed and she’s wearing makeup. The wide smile on her lips and the twinkles in her blue eyes that look brown in the dim hallway light complete her outfit.
But the kitchen behind her is dark, the house smells like coffee and mint tea, which she’s recently started preparing in the evenings, and the dining table is covered by case files, reports, and crime scene photos. I recognize most of them since I’ve been looking at those same documents all day today. She follows my gaze, then steps into my line of sight to block it.
“I asked Simon to send me the materials from the case you’re working on,” she says. She’s still smiling, but I can see the tightness behind it. And it’s growing. So much for enjoying an evening away from the case.
“Come on, I thought we could go out for dinner,” she adds. “Maybe walk down to the Taverna. I bet you’re dying to go for a walk after spending all day in the office.”
I grin at her and brush her hair back from her face. I love the feel of it on my skin and I love that she had me on her mind while making plans for tonight.
“It’s not much of a walk to the Taverna,” I say anyway, because I can’t help it. I love taking hikes and she hates it. The reminder that we’re on such opposite poles on that is for some reason, not just a minor annoyance right now. I have no idea why. Except I kind of do.
“A stroll then,” she says. “Do you want to change first?”
I look down at the wrinkled khakis and dark blue sweater I’m wearing. The outfit was good enough for today and it’s good enough for this. “No, let’s just go.”
She takes her dark green raincoat off the peg by the door, steps into her flats, and isn’t smiling anymore as I pull the door open for us.
“I want to work on this case with the task force, Mark,” she says. “No, scratch that. I’m going to work with you on this case.”
I place my arm around her shoulders and lead her outside.
“If you want,” I say and the words come out quite lightly despite how hard they were to say. “But it’s most likely an organized crime-related case.”
I almost add that there’s no serial killer anywhere in sight, but manage to stop myself. She’d get angry if I did and we’d fight and that’s the last thing I want. Going by how still she is under my arm as we walk down the narrow path to the street, I’d say we’re going to have that fight anyway.
“I’m not so sure that’s all it is, Mark,” she says. “I think Anita is the key to solving it. That’s why I’m going to the village she’s from tomorrow to find out all I can about her and her family.”
I go completely stiff at hearing that. And while I was very hungry a minute ago, I don’t think I’ll be able to eat anytime soon.
But I now know a large part of this panicked fear that something bad will happen to her is at least seventy percent my own PTSD. I have been working on mastering that too.
We’re standing on the sidewalk, my arm no longer around her shoulders and she’s glaring at me. Her eyes are full of light even though we’re standing in near-complete darkness.
“Don’t,” she whispers then seems surprised to hear her own voice.
I manage to grin even though I don’t feel like smiling. But I want to. And feeling like it will come in time, I’m sure.
“I’d love to have you on the team,” I say and it makes her whole face, not just her eyes, glow.
“Yeah?” she asks, searching my face with her gaze like she doesn’t believe it.
“Yeah,” I say then cup her cheeks and kiss her.
In the last couple of months, I’ve slowly come to the realization that making her happy is more important to me than keeping her safe. It’s a weird thing to have for a choice, but it is what it is. And besides, her fiery, passionate nature is a large part of why I love her as much as I do.
Eva
It’s well past dinner time, but we’re not alone in the Taverna. Sabrina, the divorcee from Ljubljana is there having a glass of red wine or five. She was chatting with the owner, Mario, by the counter, but after he went to the kitchen to start preparing our food, she wandered over to our table, all smiles and random touches, which I think are too many.
She’s been sitting with us for fifteen minutes and isn’t showing any signs of leaving soon. I’d say she was chatting with both of us, but that would be wildly inaccurate. She’s talking to Mark—or flirting with him, more like—and gives me the side-eye when he’s not looking. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m not here to stay. She couldn’t be more wrong. Of course, if Mark wasn’t so infuriatingly clueless about that whole situation, I wouldn’t be so annoyed by it.
The whole damn room smells of her Channel No.5 and she talks so loudly I’m sure the people in the living room of the house next door can hear her clearly. I should’ve just made the spaghetti for dinner as I planned.
She finally leaves once we get our meals—gnocchi with a creamy cheese sauce for me and calamari for Mark.
“Are you still in denial that she’s after you?” I ask as soon as she clears the door of the restaurant.
I’m pretty sure she heard me because she froze right as I spoke it, but that was my intention anyway.
Mark glances at the door, then fixes his eyes on mine, smirking at me. “Well, she won’t have me.”
I widen my eyes at him and I’m not doing it to be funny. “So, you’re not denying it anymore?”
We recently went through a bout of being jealously protective of each other, and it wasn’t the best feeling. I don’t even like to think of it anymore. I liked it better when he was pretending not to notice that Sabrina was flirting with him.
“What’s the point?” he says. “You’re not going to stop asking. But I’m pretty sure she knows she has no chance with me by now.”
I could go on, keep arguing about it with him, tell him it looks like he’s stringing her on. And I would, if the tone of his voice as he said that she had no chance was so soaked with feeling and certainty—love, I guess, the forever kind—that I see no point in
even thinking about her a second longer. None at all.
“How about you tell me why going to Bosnia to track down Anita’s relatives seems so necessary to you?” he asks then brings a huge piece of calamari to his mouth.
“I’m going tomorrow,” I say. “I already booked my bus ticket.”
He swallows without chewing properly, and it looks painful.
“My question stands,” he says as soon as he can.
I’ve been mentally prepping for this question all day. But he threw me when he agreed to my involvement in the case so quickly. I figured that’s where I’d have to do the bulk of persuading him.
“I know you think this is organized crime-related,” I say. “But I’m not sure that’s entirely true.”
“Yeah, I have my doubts too,” he says, catching me off my guard for the second time tonight.
“But Simon said—“
“I mean I do think the mafia comes into it, somewhere, somehow, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we find it’s not one of the more notorious branches,” he says. “There’s just something so amateurish about this whole case. Including today’s scene.”
“So you think they’re definitely connected?” I ask. “You don’t agree with the police that it’s a murder-suicide?”
I finally take a bite of my food. The sauce has cooled a bit, but the gnocchi melts in my mouth anyway. As always when we eat here, I’m surprised there isn’t a line outside. Mario is a first-rate chef.