by A. L. Tyler
“Missing child, Jones.”
“And it’s really not your case anymore, Bailey. An investigator has been assigned. Didn’t they teach you any of this in cop school?”
I clicked wrong in my surprise. A photo of Mr. Gregory with a knife sticking out of his chest popped up on my screen and I turned away, confused. I looked from Marge to Bailey.
Marge picked up her energy drink and gave it a slurp as she kept her fighting face fixed. (Damn, I really wanted some caffeine right then.) Bailey looked slightly sickened as he glimpsed the picture on my screen.
“Something to add, Driftwood?”
I furrowed my brow. The girlfriend was alive? I had to force myself to speak. “An investigator’s been assigned? Who?”
“Stewart,” he said bitterly. “The girlfriend was sighted at the state border. I was hoping Jones would do me the professional courtesy of telling me if anything new had come in, seeing as there is a missing child, and I care, but she’s not in the mood...”
I looked at Marge. “Has anything new come in?”
Marge looked back and forth between the two of us, seeming torn.
“Talk to Stewart,” she said finally. I could see the shark swimming just beneath the dark depths of her unblinking eyes. “He’s both more professional and courteous than I am, asshole.”
“Up yours, Jones.” Bailey took the case file from Marge. The bags under his eyes told me he’d had some rough nights lately, too, and I felt a pang in my chest. He was a jerk, but he was just as focused on this case as I was.
Just like Nick, he had the wrong person. But what if he didn’t? If the girlfriend was still alive, then my theory that the killer had her, or had killed her, was shot. Why was she running?
Innocent people didn’t run.
Bailey skulked out of the evidence room.
“Just the girlfriend?” I didn’t even try to make small talk with Marge. “Or was the kid with her?”
“Psht.” Marge glared after Bailey. “Asshole cop. Just the girlfriend. Yeah, I know. If the next set of pictures to come in here features that little girl... I bet Bailey would lose his lunch. Did you see his face when you pulled that up on your computer?” She cracked a smile, and then looked at my face and frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m a sick, twisted human being. That was a terrible thing to say.”
I shook my head, still lost in my own thoughts. “No—I mean, yeah, it was—no judgment here. That’s all. Just... Wow. There’s really nothing on the kid yet?”
I turned back to my computer screen, closing out of the crime scene photos and pulling up the recent activities.
The crime scene had been processed. Everyone was out. Keys had gone back to the landlord, which meant a cleaning crew would be there. I had no idea how long it would take before the cleanup crew left. My interest in crime scenes pretty much stopped at evidence collection.
Crime scene cleanup didn’t work over night, though. Did they? I had to find a way in.
The silence in the room made me twist around to see if Marge was still there. She was.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
She startled a little but didn’t turn to look at me. “Yeah. Sorry, I just got lost in the woods.”
My gaze slid down to her computer screen. A jobs site.
Now I remembered. “How’s that thing with Beech going? Did you have your meeting with HR?”
“No.” She closed the tab and sat back. “Sorry. We haven’t met yet. It’s just I got to thinking that maybe I’m not such a great fit here.”
I scoffed. “You love it here. You even love Beech. Get over it, you’re staying.”
I wanted to reach out to her. I wasn’t sure how. She would regret it every day if she left this job without a fight. I didn’t know if she wanted me to involve myself in her business.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be involved.
I had my own troubles, and if I positioned myself as Marge’s rock and then disappeared... No. That wouldn’t do her any favors.
“What’s up with you lately?” she asked.
I held my tongue, organizing my thoughts. “Nothing. Why?”
“I think you had a hot Italian date and you’re not giving me details.’
Damn. Well, she had me there. “He’s not Italian and it wasn’t really a date.”
“Sure.”
Her tone didn’t carry any of her usual ringing happiness, and sadly, it was the harbinger of the tone for the rest of that day.
I made three trips to the bathroom that morning, locking myself in alone to let off steam from my palms in the women’s restroom sink. Marge stayed mostly quiet, and when she excused herself to inventory a section of the back, I let her go without question.
I used the time to harass Nick with text messages.
You’ve got the wrong guy. Crime scene is vacated. I’m going tonight.
Nick’s reply came a little too quickly, and my paranoia kicked into overdrive. Was he really away and busy that day?
We’ll see about Farrow first.
I shook my head. We were talking about a missing child, and he wanted to wait? I understood that he didn’t trust me. I understood that I was a flight risk.
I understood that if I didn’t get on this, and quickly, it was going to become the thing that I thought about every night as I tried to sleep for the rest of my life.
However potentially short that time might be.
“Marge?” I called into the back.
“Yeah?” she answered from somewhere.
“I’m cutting out a little early,” I said. “I’ll...”
I almost said I would be in early to make up for it. Then I realized that I might not be in early. I might not be back, ever.
“I’ll settle it with Beech,” I finished, hearing my tone fall flat.
Marge stuck her head out. For the first time that day, I realized how tired she looked. Tired and concerned.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” I shrugged. “I’ve just got to...um... It’s personal.”
She stepped out of the aisle, walking toward me as she crossed her arms. She kept her voice quiet.
“Janet, are you in trouble?”
The smile that I flashed in nervousness was as good as anything I could have planned. I laughed off her accusation. “Trouble? No. Marge, I’m just worried about my aunt.”
It really was pretty hilarious when I thought about it. Marge loved conspiracy theories. She loved reading case files, shady suspects, and unsolved crimes. She had a theory that the same middle-aged woman who had a parakeet and a rheumatoid arthritis was behind at least half of the money forgeries in evidence over the last thirty years, and all of it from her amateur analysis of hand writing and the presence of “bird poop-like stains” and uneven cutting on some of the bills.
She loved a good conspiracy. But standing there, accusing me of being at the center of a mystery, she didn’t look amused. She finally had one right on the money, and she was miserable.
She nodded. She didn’t blink. “Well, okay. I’m sorry she’s still not well. Let me know if I can do anything to help, okay?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
And off I went to break into a crime scene.
KANE WAS WAITING FOR me in the lobby. He jumped up like an excited puppy as the security door closed with a low buzz behind me.
“Hey,” he said with a smile. He was wearing eyeliner again, and I wondered if he ran back to Nick’s to get it... but he was still wearing his night clothes. Why go all the way back for makeup and skip the clothes?
Then I remembered the spare makeup kit I kept in my glove box.
Bastard.
“Why are you in here?” I asked, smiling through my disdain.
“I’m your boyfriend!” He came in for a hug. I kept my arms at my sides. “I was just telling Charlene all about how we met, and how I’m here to meet you for your appointment!”
I glanced over my shoulder at the receptionists’ window and saw Charlene,
standing up with a comically huge grin as she walked out through the security door to meet us.
“Janet!” she said with too much enthusiasm. “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend!”
“I am not doing this,” I hissed in Kane’s ear.
“Smile, Janet!” he whispered back.
“How did you know I was leaving?” I snapped under my breath. Then I turned to face Charlene, plastering on a huge, fake smile of my own. “Yes, I have a boyfriend! And an appointment. Let’s go, Darling.”
“Well I just think that’s so wonderful!” Charlene said. The shade of her electric pink lipstick and her dangling hoop earrings were beginning to annoy me. “And so modern. Congratulations, you two!”
I cocked my head, keeping my smile fixed. “Congratulations?”
“Oh, I hope you don’t mind I told her,” Kane said. He gave me a quick side hug, and I had to fight the urge to take a sledgehammer to everything I had going for me by turning him into a human fireball. “I’m just so excited we’re finally seeing a fertility specialist.”
Chapter 22
I LOOKED OVER AT HIM, too shocked for words.
“It’s just so great,” Charlene said. “And I love the names you’ve picked.”
I snapped my attention back to Charlene. “So do I. But really, we’ve got to go.”
“Don’t let me stop you!”
She waved her hands at us to get going as I started to march, firmly holding Kane’s arm to take him with me.
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” I snapped at him after we were across the lobby.
I cast a glance back at the reception area and saw Bailey walking up to Charlene.
Oh, gods no...
Charlene chattered on like a parrot on Prozac as Bailey stared at her in disbelief. His eyes darted up just long enough to scan me, and then he stared at Kane, looking sickened. He cut off his conversation with Charlene and walked away.
“Well, I couldn’t tell her I was here to keep an eye on you while Joe tries to meet up and turn in Farrow.” He winked. “No word on that, by the way. But Charlene did say she wants to plan us this great baby shower. And when I told her we were worried about the cost of fertility treatments, she said she was going to put a word in the invites saying we needed donations the most! Isn’t that great of her?”
I rolled my eyes in disgust as the doors to the lobby closed behind us. “Are you always running a con?”
His phone chimed and he pulled it from his pocket.
“Is that Nick?” I demanded as he checked his message. When he didn’t respond and started texting instead, I made a grab at his phone. “Tell him I want a different sitter!”
Kane pulled it away and slipped it back in his pocket. “Not Nick! Just a friend.” He looked at me with a little smile. His eyes glittered as he shrugged. “I hope our baby gets your fiery attitude. And maybe your adorable nose, too.”
I took a sharp breath in, but I couldn’t think of a response. He was still waiting, and still smirking, but he didn’t throw out another jab.
“So,” he finally said. “Where to?”
“Oh.” I stopped, looking down at my feet as I tried to collect my thoughts. All I could seem to think about was Charlene, spreading office rumors that I was trying to conceive with Mr. Guyliner. Images of a baby with shocking black hair and dressed in skinny jeans clouded my thoughts. I shook my head in frustration. “What were the names?”
“Names?”
“Someone is going to ask me later, and if I don’t know them it’ll be weird. What names did you tell Charlene? For our imaginary child?”
He didn’t respond until I looked at him again. His smile was a little crooked. “Mango and Lulu.”
I cocked my head and sighed.
“I’m joking! Samantha and Darrin.”
I raised my eyebrows. Was he still joking? “We’re naming our baby after the lead from Bewitched?”
He winked. “You’re either older than I thought or a Nick at Nite fan. Seemed appropriate and memorable. Pro tip from the con man, Sparky—always choose names you won’t forget.”
Seeing as I had already forgotten my fake sister’s fake name, and most of my fake relatives at that, he did have a point.
His eyes were flashing slight impatience. “Where to?”
“Oh!” I let out a deep breath. “52 Low Fennel. Scene of the crime.”
“The crime scene,” Kane said flatly.
“That is what I said. Scene of the crime.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“What?”
He nodded, looking down. I felt the glow on my palms before I saw it, and I shoved my hands in my pockets, blushing.
“You want to mix power like that with the energy found at a murder scene—any murder scene—let alone one where gods-know-what went down with a spell?” He was already fishing for something in his pocket. He offered me a discordant pearl necklace bearing signs of a love spell gone horribly wrong.
The enchantment was wonderfully complicated, and I plucked at the notes until my glowing fingers subsided. Kane waited patiently. We walked through the lot to my car and got in so as not to draw any attention as I worked.
When I finally tore my attention away and looked back at Kane, he was texting on his phone.
“Nick?” I asked.
Kane cleared his throat. “He likes his updates.”
He shoved the phone in his pocket and looked at me expectantly. I stared right back at him.
“Crime scene?” I prompted.
His frown extended all the way into the furrow of his brow. “You’re really going to make me do this?”
“I can go alone,” I offered. “Can’t promise I’ll come back in that case, but...”
“I could shoot you, you know,” he said with all the conviction of a mistrial.
“Just drive.”
WITH THE CURSED NECKLACE still clutched in my hand, notes hitting awkwardly at my every attempt to silence the sharps, we drove past 52 Low Fennel twice before I told Kane to park down the street.
A discreet van sat in front of the house. People in protective bodysuits went in and out carrying large trash bags and cleaning equipment.
“What the hell do they need a shovel for?” Kane asked.
I cringed, closing my eyes. The things I wished I didn’t know. “Blood. After it congeals, it kind of—”
“Nope.” Kane raised a hand, a disgusted expression on his face.
The sad thing was, the only reason I knew what the shovel was for was because Marge couldn't keep her mouth shut.
“How long is this going to take?” Kane asked.
I sighed. “As long as it takes, I guess. Maybe a few hours or maybe a few days. I don't know. I don't clean up crime scenes. I just look at them a lot.”
“Well, does this look like a ‘few hours’ scene or a ‘few days’ scene? How long would it take you to clean it?”
I snorted. “As long as it takes them to clean it!” I nodded at the cleaning crew. “I’m not touching that!”
We sat and watched the people go in and out, carrying large bags as they went. It didn't look like anything remarkable. No one would have guessed they were carrying out the remains of a human being that even a coroner couldn't have removed.
I suggested food after the first hour. Kane looked at me like I was insane. So we continued to sit, my uneasy stomach a little more uneasy for not having anything in it. I clutched my pearls and played with the riddle of the song that plagued them.
When my hands started to itch and my arms started to get restless, and just as I was considering suggesting that we needed to find somewhere to let some magic fly, Kane's phone rang.
It was Nick. And just from the look on Kane's face, I knew he wasn't happy.
When Kane hung up, his complexion was ashy and I could practically see the sweat on his palms as he gripped the wheel.
“What?” I asked.
“Joe missed his pick-up,” he said. Kane cleared his throat, e
yes darting back and forth as he checked the road before doing a screeching U-turn.
I grabbed the handle on the door as he accelerated. “That isn’t like Joe, is it?”
“Nope.”
My eyes must have been as big as dinner plates. “Farrow?” I asked.
“Nick is going to check on them now. But he wants you back before he goes.”
“Gods,” I whispered. But in my mind, all I could think was, shit.
Did I have this all wrong? Farrow couldn't be the right guy. But if Joe had missed the pick-up, something must have gone wrong. I had never known a handler to play around where his check was concerned.
Or where the Bleak was concerned. Unreliable handlers didn’t stay employed long.
Had Farrow escaped? If he had, did that mean he was guilty? This was the girlfriend all over again.
Innocent people didn’t run. But if Farrow was guilty, and the girlfriend was guilty... Were they in it together?
And where was the girl?
No. I tried to calm my nerves. That makes no sense, and Nick will know it. He won’t turn me in until he has the right guy...
I needed more time. Or a well-planned escape. I had neither.
Should have stuck to the plan.
Kane sped off towards Nick's apartment. I thanked my lucky stars that even though Kane wasn't an eater when he was disgusted, he was a nervous snacker. We stopped for food on the way.
With a bag of greasy goodness in one hand and my game face on, we boarded the elevator.
I didn't know what was going to happen the rest of that day. I didn't know if I was going to have to fight my way out of that apartment. If Nick was thinking along the lines that I was—that Farrow wouldn't try to escape and run if he was innocent—then he had enough to know now that he had his man.
In other words, he wouldn't need me anymore.
New plan, Driftwood. Think fast.
Nick was sitting in a green wingback chair when we walked in the door. He had one elbow rested on each armrest, fingers pressed together as he considered our predicament. His commanding, hazel eyes wandered to me.
He didn't look happy.
“Yes?” I asked, trying not to sound too worried.
“Joe missed his pick-up,” Nick said in an irritated tone.