Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  Reid turned in her seat. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  London’s face was uncomfortably close to hers in the confines of the car. For the first time since they’d met, Reid realized how beautiful London was. “Sister Margaret even held my hand,” she admitted proudly.

  “Congratulations.” London sat back and gazed out the window. “But I can’t go back to the Catholic church.”

  Was Sister Margaret right about London? She couldn’t tell for sure one way or the other. She felt the first stirrings of curiosity and suddenly found herself craving more information on this rookie. “When she invited me to mass, I told her I was gay. Figured that would earn me a lifetime exemption.”

  London stared at her. “And?”

  “No such luck. It appears the Catholic church—or, at least, this one—is finally coming out of the Dark Ages.”

  “No way. You’re still invited?” London looked just as shocked as Reid felt. “Even though you’re…”

  “Gay? You can say it, you know. It’s not contagious.”

  “Too late.” London rolled her eyes. “I already caught it.”

  * * *

  Reid pulled up to Beatrice’s quaint ranch-style house and parked on the street. She cracked the windows and told Mug to stay as London climbed out of the car. They were entering a crime scene now, and Mug wasn’t allowed.

  “He’s okay in the car?” London asked, looking doubtful.

  “Mug’s better behaved than most humans. He’ll be fine.” She and Mug went everywhere together. After six years, he probably knew their routine better than she did.

  Reid realized she depended on him as much as he depended on her. Communicating with spirits on a daily basis was draining and, at times, overwhelming. Most days, it left her totally depleted. Mug’s constant presence in her life kept her grounded. The upside to their relationship: no talking—or listening—was required. She preferred it that way. In her eyes, Mug was the embodiment of the perfect partner.

  Which was another reason this rookie was grating on her nerves. The endless stream of questions made it difficult to focus and diverted her attention from the case. It was like trying to play the cello while having a conversation. She knew from experience it was possible to do both at the same time, but the quality of the music inevitably suffered.

  Beatrice appeared the moment she set foot on the porch. The old woman smiled in recognition. You made it.

  “We made it,” Reid replied.

  “Made what?” London asked from behind her.

  Beatrice pointed to the outdoor area rug under Reid’s feet. That’s where it happened.

  “Hold up a minute,” she said, halting London on the steps behind her. She reached inside her coat pocket and withdrew two pairs of latex gloves. She handed a pair to London. “From this point forward, we don’t touch anything with our bare hands. Take care to preserve everything exactly as is.” Slipping the gloves on, she squatted down and lifted one corner of the rug.

  “Is that dried blood?” London asked, pulling on her gloves as she squatted down beside her.

  “Looks like this is where our vic was stabbed.” Reid carefully lifted the rug the rest of the way to reveal telltale brown stains and droplets along the wooden planks.

  Told you, Beatrice said matter-of-factly. But I’m not sure how the rug got there. It’s not mine.

  The killer must have put it there to cover the evidence. Interesting. Either he brought it with him—which meant the murder was entirely premeditated—or he stole it from a neighbor’s porch after the fact. She dismissed the idea that he returned after moving the body just to cover the bloodstains—too risky. Sticking a mental Post-it in her mind, Reid withdrew her cell and dialed Forensics.

  “How’d you know to look under the rug,” London asked as soon as she hung up.

  “When you’re working a crime scene, you start from the bottom and work your way up. No stone unturned.”

  “But we weren’t even sure this was the crime scene. For all we knew, our vic was abducted from her home and stabbed elsewhere.”

  Reid shrugged. “Well, now we know she wasn’t. Let’s suit up and get a look inside.” London followed her to the car.

  “Protocol says we’re supposed to refrain from entering the premises until Forensics—”

  “One thing you’ll learn about me is I don’t follow all the rules. Just the important ones.” She handed London a sealed plastic package with a white Tyvek suit and booties inside.

  “But waiting until Forensics clears the crime scene is a pretty important rule.”

  “It is if you don’t know what you’re doing.” Reid stepped onto the sidewalk and pulled the suit over her clothes, leaning against the car as she slipped the booties over her sneakers. “Follow my lead, and you’ll be fine. Do not mess up my crime scene. Understood?”

  London nodded.

  She waited for London to gear up before leading the way back to Beatrice’s porch.

  You have to wear all that just to go inside my house? Beatrice asked.

  Ignoring the question, she met Beatrice’s gaze. “If I were a key, where would I be hiding?”

  “Under the mat?” London offered, kneeling to take a peek.

  Beatrice led her to the side of the porch and pointed to the corner. Right there, dear.

  Reid reached between the wooden railings and lifted the key from the nail it was hanging on. “Found it,” she said, holding it up for London to see.

  London stood. “How’d you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Find the key. What made you think to look way over there?”

  “You get pretty good at finding things when you’ve been doing this as long as I have.” She unlocked the front door, and they both stepped inside.

  Reid took in her surroundings. The house was cozy, sparsely decorated, and very clean. Living room to the right. Office space to the left. Eat-in kitchen off a short hallway, dead ahead. Bedrooms were probably on the other side of the house.

  Beatrice stood beside her. He left a note for you in the kitchen.

  “Where do you want to start?” London asked.

  Asking Beatrice to elaborate wasn’t exactly an option at the moment. “Kitchen,” Reid replied, already on her way.

  There, in the center of the countertop breakfast bar, was a handwritten note in bold black marker: Sylver—I know your secret.

  The note was held in place by a clear glass vase containing what had once been a single white rose. All that remained in the vase now was a flowerless stem. The rose itself had been cut off and placed, upside down, on one corner of the note.

  London frowned. “The killer left you a note?”

  Reid thought for a moment and shrugged. “Could be a weird coincidence.” Maybe she shared the surname of the note’s intended recipient. Seemed unlikely. But the alternative was even more strange. Why would the killer leave a note for her? And how’d he know she’d be the detective working this case? She was assuming the killer was male. Statistically speaking, chances favored a man.

  She caught Beatrice’s eye. If there was ever a time when she needed to ask questions, this was it. But her hands were effectively tied at the moment.

  Beatrice had said the note was for her. Spirits always spoke the truth. At least, that had been her experience to date. Instinct told her Beatrice was no different from the countless other spirits who’d found her in their time of need.

  Careful not to disturb anything, Reid and London toured the remaining rooms of the house but found nothing of interest. They stepped down from the porch and onto the sidewalk as Forensics arrived.

  Reid slipped out of the Tyvek suit and, in a replay of her earlier movements, leaned against her car to remove the booties.

  “Already been inside?” Cabrera asked, suiting up.

  Reid nodded. “Heads.” She tossed him the key, which he deftly grabbed in the air. “Vic was killed on the porch. There’s a n
ote on the kitchen counter.” She doubted they’d find any prints. The killer seemed too meticulous.

  Cabrera nodded. “Mug with you today?”

  Mug barked from the car at the mention of his name.

  Cabrera reached inside the van and withdrew a can of tennis balls. There was a small red bow stuck to the can’s lid. “Congrats on the win,” he said, tossing it to her. Everyone knew about Mug’s addiction. “And sorry about your captain.”

  “Thanks. Have you met Detective Gold?” she asked in an effort to change the subject.

  “Sylver and Gold?” Laughing, Cabrera stepped forward and extended a hand to London. “Never known you to take on a partner, Sylver.”

  “We’re not partners.” London corrected him. “She’s training me.”

  Cabrera raised an eyebrow. “Never known you to take on a rookie, either.”

  “Boyle’s just flexing his muscles,” she said. “Let me know if you find anything.”

  “Will do.” He shut the van door and started toward the house.

  Chapter Six

  Seated in the car once again, London decided riding in the back had its perks. Sure, it was uncomfortable and a little humbling to be taking a back seat—literally—to a dog. But, back here, she could gaze at Reid’s profile without being noticed. She’d never had the chance to study her up close.

  Reid was stunning from every angle. The raven hair that she kept almost as short as a military crewcut only enhanced her beauty. Without a drop of makeup and exhibiting zero effort in the fashion department, it was clear that Reid put very little time, effort, or thought into her appearance. London doubted Reid was even aware of just how beautiful she was. Her bold confidence and take-it-or-leave-it attitude made everyone around her accept her for who she was. She had clearly worked hard to make a name for herself and was readily respected by colleagues.

  London took a deep breath and realized her crush was getting the best of her. Even Reid’s brashness somehow added to her appeal. But there was something deeper in Reid that drew her attention—something she hadn’t noticed before now. Pain.

  There was a distinct vulnerability in Reid that lay, at least partially concealed, underneath her thorny attitude. It was well camouflaged but definitely there. London couldn’t help but wonder what it was.

  The note inside the victim’s house sprang to mind. If, indeed, the note had been meant for Reid—as London suspected it was—she wondered what the secret was. Could that secret somehow be connected to the pain she sensed in Reid?

  She cleared her throat, surprised Reid hadn’t resorted to blasting the radio the moment she’d started the car. Perhaps no radio was an invitation to talk. “What did you win?”

  “Huh?” Reid asked, clearly jolted from her thoughts.

  “Cabrera congratulated you.”

  Reid gazed proudly at the dog beside her. “Mug here won first place.”

  “In what?”

  “Ugliest Dog.”

  She laughed, waiting for the real answer. None came. “Oh.”

  “I always say, if you’ve got something unique going for you, own it and be good at it.” Reid reached over to pat Mug on the back. “Just so happens he’s really good at being ugly.”

  London couldn’t help but smile. Now their matching sweatshirts made sense. The love Reid had for Mug was clear. There was a soft side to this detective, after all.

  * * *

  “Where to now?” London asked from the back seat.

  “Back to the precinct to get your coat.”

  “We’ve been over this. I am not going inside without—”

  “Mug and I will escort you inside, Your Highness.” This time, Reid didn’t have anything up her sleeve. It was simply too cold outside to make the rookie traipse around in a blazer. London’s periodic shivering was starting to make her feel guilty.

  “Then what?” London persisted.

  “We’ll return to canvass the neighborhood. See if anyone saw or heard anything on Saturday night.”

  “Why Saturday?”

  “Because that’s when our vic was murdered.”

  “ME’s report came back?” London met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Already?”

  Damn. She’d slipped. Again. “Hasn’t come back yet, no,” she replied nonchalantly.

  “Then how do you know she was murdered Saturday night?”

  Reid shrugged. “Educated guess.” Keeping up with London’s questions and covering her tracks while working the case was proving near impossible.

  “Let me guess. When you’ve been doing this as long as you have, you get pretty good at these things.”

  Reid sighed, grateful for the save. She couldn’t stop thinking about the note in Beatrice’s house. It was taunting her now. The only thing she kept secret was her ability to talk to the dead. And there were only two people in the world she’d ever confided in: her grandmother and the captain, both of whom were now dead.

  She pulled into the BPD’s parking lot, climbed out of the car, and led the way upstairs with Mug at her side and London behind her. She took a seat at her desk and picked up the phone, intent on calling the ME for an update.

  London stood beside the desk and held out her hand.

  “You hoping for a tip?”

  “Keys.”

  “To what?” she asked, balancing the phone on one shoulder.

  “The car. What else?”

  “No. Keys stay with me.”

  “Fine. Then I get the dog.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Come on, Sylver.” London sighed impatiently. “I have to use the bathroom.”

  “And you need my dog to help you?”

  “I need something for insurance.”

  She replaced the phone on its cradle, annoyed beyond measure at these constant interruptions. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Insurance,” London repeated. “So you won’t bail on me again.”

  It’d be a miracle if she got through the rest of this shift without losing her temper. Fuming, she opened her desk drawer, stood, and handed over the keys.

  “Nice try. But these aren’t them,” London said without even looking down.

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “I saw you put them in your pocket.”

  “Shit.” She felt herself soften a little. “You might be in the right line of work, after all.”

  London took Reid’s hand and placed the imposters firmly in her palm. They locked eyes the moment their hands connected. “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Reid drew in a breath, surprised by the sudden chemistry between them. Not only was London not backing down, this rookie was holding her own. She found that incredibly alluring.

  She was close enough now to notice how good London smelled. Her blond hair looked silky-soft. Large brown eyes were intelligent and probing. There was a fresh-faced beauty about her. In that moment, Reid knew she was in trouble. She withdrew her hand and took a step back, her gaze still on London’s.

  “Right pocket,” London prompted, breaking the moment. “Hand them over so I can pee.”

  “Fine. Here.” She dug into her pocket, sat back down, and set the keys on the corner of the desk to avoid further physical contact. Watching London walk away, she didn’t have the heart to tell her that she had a spare set. Every good cop did.

  * * *

  Back in the car and alone for the first time all day—finally—Reid took a deep breath, started the ignition, and peeled out of the parking lot. She started toward Beatrice’s neighborhood and had driven for about five minutes before her conscience kicked in. Cursing, she pulled to the side of the road.

  She wanted nothing more than to lose the new baggage that had been forced upon her, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. Shit. She beat the steering wheel and cursed aloud as Mug peered at her quizzically.

  Since her transfer to Homicide, knowing her secret could be uncovered at any moment by a nosy reporter, colle
ague, or boss, she’d kept early retirement in her back pocket. Her plan B was to start her own private-eye business. Was it finally time to put in her papers?

  Mentoring London meant she’d have to find a way to solve cases without revealing her secret. Limiting her conversations with the dead and keeping her secret under wraps would likely more than double her workload.

  Even with her best efforts, there was always the risk she’d be discovered. If anyone could figure out her secret, it was London. The one thing Reid had in her favor was London didn’t believe in that stuff. She’d said as much when Reid deflected the rookie’s suspicion by asking if she was psychic.

  Reid shook her head as she slowly came to terms with this new arrangement. Looked like her days of solitude were over, at least for the next six months. Boyle had better not saddle her with anyone else after that.

  Her mind made up, she put her blinker on, swung a U-turn, and returned to the precinct.

  * * *

  London couldn’t believe it. Reid had left her. Again. She set her hands on her hips and took one last look at where the black Camaro should have been parked.

  Had Reid given her the keys to another car? She fished them out of her coat pocket to take a closer look. These were Reid’s car keys all right. She was sure of it. The slippery detective must have had a spare set.

  She shook her head, remembering when their hands had touched upstairs as she’d pressed another set of keys into Reid’s palm. Something had changed between them in that moment. Something had ignited. She’d felt it with every cell in her body. Reid was attracted to her. That’s why Reid had fled.

  * * *

  “Have you seen the rookie?” Reid asked as Garcia rounded the corner with his daily hot dog from the cart across the street. London was nowhere to be found.

  “Yup.”

  “Well?” she asked. “Where is she?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Sighing, she cast a glance at Boyle sitting behind his desk on the phone. She couldn’t let on that she’d lost the rookie on day one. “Tomorrow’s hot dog—my treat.”