—T-SHIRT
Cookie went back to man the phones at the office. Gemma had clients to see, poor suckers. And Wyatt, Uncle Bob, and I headed to the station to report our findings and start the paperwork. Unfortunately, I had a statement to write. Paperwork wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for all the paper. And the work. On the way back to the station, Ubie called the DA, the captain, and several other important people so that, by the time we arrived, we had a small mob waiting for us.
“What do you mean you have a strong lead on the Knight Ranch killer?” the DA asked as we marched inside.
Oh, man, was that what they were calling him? Kenny Knight would not appreciate that at all. I would have to suggest something else, like the Scumbag Serial Murderer or the Low-life Oil Dumper Guy. No, that didn’t really have a good ring to it, but giving serial killers cool names was such a bad pastime. Why glorify their horrific deeds? It never made sense to me.
We converged in the same conference room from that morning, and Uncle Bob went over the case. He even drew a diagram on a whiteboard to connect the dots. He used lots of colors. It was very pretty. Wyatt explained his part, how he’d been trying to solve a two-decades-old cold case and how it all tied together. And I sat back and offered my opinion every so often. Mostly when they got things wrong. I realized I could have a bright future as a corrections officer, going around and correcting people when they got things wrong. I wondered what that paid.
No less than three agonizing hours later, we broke. After all that, I still had to submit my report, but that would have to wait until mañana. I did my best to blend into the background so I could sneak out unnoticed. The gang was still talking about the case. The DA was having a field day. Two huge cases kind of sort of solved in one day. And the captain —
“You did it again.”
I turned to see the captain standing just outside the conference room. Staring at me with perfect posture. Like a killer robot from an Isaac Asimov story.
“And you did it when I wasn’t looking.” He walked forward.
I thought about running but realized that would only make me look guilty. Of something. No idea what.
“I’ll have to try harder next time,” he said, stopping short in front of me.
“That was all Uncle Bob and Officer Pierce,” I said, trying to stand my ground. But looking up at him from so close a distance was like looking up at a skyscraper.
He nodded and surveyed the room. Every officer in the place was talking about our case, their movements exaggerated, their excitement infectious. Clearly the captain had been inoculated against such shenanigans. His expression exhibited only one thing: annoyance. He’d missed the boat on this one.
“Another time, then,” he said. He turned, his movements sharp, his execution crisp, and headed back to his office.
I couldn’t help it. It came out of me before I could stop it. I had recently been to a nursing home. Maybe I’d caught dementia. I clicked my heels together and did the Heil Hitler salute.
Just as he was turning to say something else.
When his gaze landed on me – busted beyond belief – I stood transfixed. Then I folded all my fingers down except the index. “Look,” I said, pointing to the wall behind him, “there is no camera there. But you have one there.” I swept my arm, elbow locked, fingers rigid, a foot to the right. “See, there is a camera. However, that camera cannot record all the events in this —” I indicated the opposite side of the room with my left hand. “— side of the room.” I dropped my arm at last. “I feel like your security measures are not what they should be, Captain.” Don’t say Jack. Don’t say Jack. Don’t say Jack.
His mouth formed a grim line across his face. He turned and left without relaying what he was going to say. Wonderful. Now I was going to be curious all day. Not terribly, but still.
My old frenemy, David Taft, laughed behind my back. Literally. “I swear, Davidson, you sure know how to make friends and influence people.”
I turned to him as he sat at his desk. “If you aren’t careful, I’ll tell your sister you’re dating that call girl from Poughkeepsie again.”
He sobered and cast a worried glance over his shoulder. “I am not. How did you know that?”
With a smile drenched in saccharine, I winked and said, “I didn’t.”
He closed his eyes and hung his head in shame.
I tsked at him. “You fall for that every time.”
Gemma walked into the station as I was leaving, probably to see her man. The thought made me happy. She didn’t date much, as gorgeous as she was. She needed the distraction from her miserable, lonely life before she started collecting stray cats.
Wyatt saw her and headed our way. Seeing his scars made me wonder about my little pixie, Faith Ingalls. She’d sent me straight to him. How could she possibly have known he’d been investigating the case? Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe there was another reason. He was probably the last person she saw before she died who tried to help her. Who risked his life to help her. And I still had to wonder why the women were still in my apartment. What did they want, need?
“I need to ask a favor of you,” I said to Wyatt as he walked up and gave Gemma a sweet smile. He probably didn’t want to make a big deal in front of the guys, so he kept his greeting G-rated.
“Shoot,” he said.
Gemma raised her brows in suspicion. What’d I say?
Wait, what would I say? I couldn’t really ask him to come over to meet the ghost of the girl he’d tried to save. So I improvised. “I need you to check something at my place. I have a leaky faucet.” Oh, my god, I was so good at improvisation.