Twenty

Michael hit the station lobby and flashed his fake badge at the desk sergeant. The guy bounced a sharp look from the badge to his face and back again. His lip curled up a bit and he chuffed a harsh, one-note laugh. “I’ll phone it up. Homicide’s on three,” he said before slapping the desk phone out of its cradle.

Feds always got the ticker tape parades when they came to town. It was enough to give him a case of the warm fuzzies, but he understood. He’d never been a fan of law enforcement himself. Michael stowed the badge in his breast pocket and nodded his thanks before making his way to the elevator, feeling like he was on display every step of the way.

He kept his face turned away from the surveillance cameras mounted in every corner, more out of habit than actual need. Lark had wanted to come with him, but that had earned him nothing more than a round of belly laughs in the face. Instead he’d been left behind, reduced to maintaining and manipulating security feeds from both the station and the hospital. Michael could just see him, surrounded by computers in Miss Ettie’s sunroom, scowling at the monitors. He’d been pissed beyond belief that he was getting the big freeze, but what could he do? Run and tattle that the other kids wouldn’t play with him? Fat chance. Admitting to Livingston Shaw that you couldn’t handle the task at hand was like chumming shark-infested waters. Lark would rather eat the crap sandwich Ben was feeding him than disappoint the boss.

The door slid open on the third floor and he shouldered his way past the silent patrol officer, feeling his eyes drilling into his back until they slid closed again, but he didn’t turn around. Instead he asked the closest cop to point him in Captain Mathews’s direction.

He made it about halfway across the room when he happened across it. Sabrina’s desk. Clean. Uncluttered. The desk butted up to it was disgusting—and occupied.

Strickland sat with his feet kicked up on his cluttered workspace, nose buried in a stack of files resting in his lap. Michael walked by without slowing, heading for Mathews’s office. Strickland never looked up.

A couple of sharp knuckle raps earned him a terse bark that sound like come in. Michael pushed the door open, fixing his best I’m just here to help smile on his face. Behind the desk was a man in his early forties, sandy hair cut high and tight and small dark eyes that looked like they were already counting the days until retirement. “You the fed?” Mathews said.

Michael nodded. “Yes. Special Agent Marcus Payne, sir.” The word sir stuck in his throat, but he took a few steps into the room and leaned across the worn desktop to offer his hand. It was taken and given a few disgruntled pumps before being all but thrown back at him.

“Got a call from your field office. Told me you’d be coming in,” Mathews said, managing to make it sound like he’d caught Michael taking a piss on his prize tulips. “Have a seat. Inspector Vaughn was just about to get down to the debrief.”

Michael looked at the pair of chairs to his right. The one offered was empty. Sabrina sat in the other, less than two feet away.