City of Fear. Alafair Burke
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‘Is that powdered sugar on there, Hatcher, or did you get carried away this morning with a little arsenic?’
‘They always say you’ve got a wicked sense of humor.’ They didn’t. No one. Ever. Ellie suppressed a stomach growl and tried not to think about how much she would have enjoyed that cherry pastry.
Eckels met her fake smile with his. It wasn’t a look that worked for him. With his salt-and-pepper hair, block-shaped head, and low forehead, the grin created an unfortunate Frankenstein effect.
‘Let me guess. You and this heart-attack-inducing breakfast ball are here to explain why you and Rogan were already well into a call-out when I arrived here at seven o’clock.’
‘Something like that.’ She explained how she came upon the crime scene that morning before the first blue-and-white had even arrived. ‘I was already there, Lou. What was I supposed to do? Miss the opportunity for us to get a head start on the investigation just so I could finish my run?’ She said it as if she’d really been looking forward to that last mile.
‘You know what your problem is, Hatcher? You’re a smart-ass, just like Flann McIlroy.’
Ellie dropped the sunny smile. The last time she saw Detective Flann McIlroy, he was dying in her arms on a cabin cruiser at City Island, gunshots in his stomach and throat. ‘McIlroy was a great cop.’
‘He was a good investigator. He knew how to follow his gut. Problem was, his instincts could be back-assward, and he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t listen to anyone. He thought he was smarter than everyone else.’ Eckels pointed to imaginary people standing around his office. ‘Thought he could go his own way as long as he shined on all the stupid people around him.’
‘I’m not like that, sir, and I’m not shining you on.’
‘But you do think I’m stupid,’ Eckels said, rocking back in his chair.
‘Of course not, sir.’ Ellie hadn’t realized until that moment the kind of insecurity Dan Eckels must live with.
Eckels locked eyes with her, sucking his teeth. Ellie held up both palms. ‘No bullshit, Lieutenant. I’m here to pull my weight. And I won’t bring you breakfast anymore. For the sake of your heart. And, well, I really can’t stand being a kiss-ass.’
‘Jesus H.,’ Eckels grunted, letting his weight drop forward. ‘Just go ahead and tell me what you’ve got.’
She drew him the bare-bones picture they’d gathered so far.
‘A college student killed on spring break in Manhattan? Please tell me the girl’s a bow-wow.’
Ellie shook her head. ‘She was very pretty. And blond. I hear the public likes crime stories about midwestern blondes.’
The self-deprecating crack about her own personal brushes with the media was enough to get another creepy smile out of him.
‘I was tempted to reassign this case to another team, Hatcher, the way you grabbed it. But you know something? You want to be in the middle of the shit storm? Then go for it. You weaseled your way into this squad after only five years on the job? We’ll see how much the brass loves you when your clusterfuck’s on the front page of every paper in the country.’ He unfurled the imaginary headline with outstretched hands: ‘Murder in the Big Apple.’
‘I won’t say I wasn’t warned.’
‘Keep me in the loop, Hollywood. McIlroy never did.’
‘Not a problem, sir.’
She turned to leave his office, but Eckels wasn’t finished. ‘How are things with Rogan?’
‘Good. Real good so far. Thanks.’
‘Just so you know, you’d be paired with that lazy fuck Winslow if Rogan hadn’t saved you. Don’t be a pain in his ass.’
Ellie let the door fall closed behind her.
She found Rogan on his cell phone at his gray metal desk.
There were at least eight different varieties of desks among the twenty that were scattered throughout the squad room. From the looks of things, someone with a borderline case of obsessive-compulsive disorder had at some point attempted to pair them into matching sets for partners. Eight variations. Twenty desks. The math did not work. She took a seat at her own wood-veneer setup.
Rogan lowered his voice to a whisper and swung his chair away from her. She heard him mutter something about ‘three thousand.’ She wondered if the call had something to do with his wardrobe. Maybe the price of a new suit. Or maybe a bet to help pay for the next one.
To avoid any appearance of eavesdropping, she picked up her phone to make a call of her own.
‘Peter Morse.’
‘Hey there.’
‘Hey, yourself. I’m glad you called. I was worried maybe you met some other guy last night when I wasn’t on watch.’
‘Nah, maybe back in my old skanky days. I kicked it at home alone last night.’ Ellie had only known Peter Morse for two months, and she’d been in Kansas for half of that time. But since she’d been home, they’d spent more nights together than apart. ‘Did you get a lot of work done?’
Peter was a crime beat reporter at the Daily Post by day, aspiring author by night. After spending all weekend together, Ellie had insisted that they have two nights on their own so he could have some time to write.
‘Oh, tons. Forty pages, at least. A book contract is just around the corner, complete with an all-expenses-paid tour and a straight shot to the top of the best-seller list.’ Peter tended to understate just how important his writing was to him, and sarcasm often proved handy on that front.
‘If you’re really on a roll, maybe we should take tomorrow night off, too.’
‘Don’t even joke. I was sort of hoping I could come over tonight.’
‘Nope. Two nights. Those are the rules.’
‘Damn you and your stinking rules.’
‘You were the one who told me it always takes you a day to get up to speed after a long break.’
‘Damn me and my big mouth.’
‘Tonight you’ll be in the zone,’ Ellie said.
The grumble on the other end of the line suggested he had doubts. ‘And tomorrow?’
‘And tomorrow, we’ll make up for lost time.’
‘Now I like the sound of that.’
Rogan flipped his phone shut at the desk across from her.
‘Hey, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Promise?’
‘I always mean what I say,’ she said before hanging up.
‘Sorry about that,’ Rogan said, holding up his cell. ‘With you dragging my ass out of bed so early this morning, I didn’t get a chance to take care of some personal business.’
‘No need to explain.’
‘So, turns out our girls from Indiana are a little tougher than you’d think. I told them we found a body this morning. Said you and I both saw her. That she resembles the picture they showed us of their friend.’
‘You didn’t tell them the rest, did you?’
Rogan shook his head. ‘I made it clear there still needs to be an official ID, but they know we’re pretty confident this is Chelsea. For a couple of kids, they’re handling it all right. A whole lot of crying, of course, but I persuaded them to give me their phones until we’ve had a chance to call the family.’ He opened his desk drawer to reveal two cell phones.
‘And