| |
Days later, Harry lay in a hospital bed hooked up to machines when Busy walked in. She smiled and reached to take the oxygen mask off, but Busy stopped her.
"Oh, no, you don't," the crime scene analyst said. She sat down on the bed beside her, plucked Harry's arm from the sheet, and caressed the heplock taped onto the back of her hand. "You need that. Do you want to ever get out of here? Doctor's orders."
"I've been on oxygen for days. I'm fine." Busy's skin warmed her cold fingers.
"You're fine when the doctor says you're fine. What you went through was traumatic, Harry..."
Harry pushed herself up in the bed and pulled the oxygen mask down. "I'm fine," she said with a growl. "That was nothing. It could have been way worse than it was, and in the end..."
"In the end," Busy said, slapping the mask back on Harry's face, "you almost died. I almost died. Cal almost died. So many of those kids almost died. Some did. Don't you get that you're allowed to be upset and traumatized?"
"I don't get traumatized," Harry said, and fell back onto the pillow. She pulled in a deep breath that burned in her lungs. Waves of color and light danced in her vision, and she closed her eyes tight. Busy replaced her own oxygen mask and tucked Harry's hair behind her ears.
"Okay, you're not traumatized, but you have to admit that your body needs time to rest and heal. And the only way you can heal is to relax, stop trying to be so tough, and let nature take its course."
Harry opened her eyes and Busy's face was only inches from hers. If not for the mask, she would be able to smell her. She knew just what she would smell like, too: a warm, sugary latte. If not for the mask, she could lean forward and kiss her without ripping the stitches in her neck or causing too much strain on the arm that had been pulled out of socket as she had been dragged unconscious out of that hallway.
She kept the mask on. No matter what either of them might be feeling now, the time wasn't right. Too much had been said and done. Too much had nearly been lost, and everyone would have to learn to cope with that. Even for people who face the prospect every day, a near death experience leaves a mark that's hard to strip off with a shrug and a couple of days in bed. To be okay again, one needs more time than the span it takes for the cuts, bruises, and broken bones to heal. Busy would be going more regularly to her therapist for a while, and that was good. Harry didn't want her to waste too much time talking about their so-called relationship. Her kidnapping was more important.
"I will," Harry whispered.
Busy leaned all the way forward, pulled down her mask, and placed a kiss on Harry's forehead, then snaked her arms around her for a hug so tight that her ribs smarted. When she pulled back, she was wearing a smile, but tears gleamed on her cheeks.
"What's wrong?" Harry asked.
"I'm heeding Vinton's advice and taking some time off. Nothing long term or permanent, but I’m taking a few weeks away so I can regroup. What happened..." Her palm glanced over the bruise on her temple where Sanura Johnson – Tijana Cambell – had knocked her out. "Susan said it would be a good idea to work on myself for a while. She thinks this is going to bring a lot of things up."
About us. About how I left you vulnerable. About how I called you and sent you straight into that psycho's trap. About how you can't trust me, you haven't ever been able to trust me, and you have to face the fact that maybe you never will really be able to, because I'm sick. I'm broken, and no one is ever going to fix me.
"I'll call you when I get to where I'm going," Busy said. "I want to hear that you're listening to your doctor and doing what she says. If you do, you'll be out of here in a week or so."
“So soon?” Harry tried not to sound too disappointed.
Busy smiled. “The auditorium’s high ceiling saved me. Well, that and your friend Slip. That kid drives like a crazy person, but she got us to the hospital in time to save us.”
"When will you be back?" Harry asked, then cursed herself. She didn't need to know. Busy would be better off if she never saw Harry again, and they both knew it. It was less dangerous when they were no one to each other but bodies who passed occasionally in the halls.
Busy smiled, squeezed her hand, and stood up. "Right now, Vinton has me on sick leave for a minimum of four weeks. I can come back after that pending a full psych eval."
"I'm sorry."
Busy struggled back onto her feet, and leaned for support on the oxygen tank to which she was attached. "Take care of yourself, Harry."
"Always."
––––––––
AFTER A LONG TALK WITH the captain, Harry hassled the staff until they got her a wheelchair. Despite her objections that she could work the wheelchair herself, a nurse pushed her down to see Cal, and Harry convinced the woman to begrudgingly leave her alone long enough to talk to him. When she had gone, Harry stood, leaned over the rails of the bed, and peeled the hospital gown away from his side. The bandages were splotched with blood, but it was spotty and drying. She sighed with relief, then eased back down into her wheelchair.
"Trying to get a peek at what all the ladies like?" Cal rasped from behind his oxygen mask. He winked and she rolled her eyes.
"I wanted to make sure they patched you up okay," Harry said, and pulled her mask away. "How long are you gonna be here?"
"Few weeks," Cal said. "The doc said six on good behavior."
Harry put the mask up to her face and took a deep pull, then dragged it away from her mouth again. "I didn't get a chance to thank you."
He raised his eyebrows. They both knew it was the first sincere thanks she had ever given him, and maybe the last. “The captain told me where you were. Everyone was on the house on Sycamore dealing with the nursery from Hell, so I had to go save your ass.”
"You saved her."
He smiled behind his mask. "I knew you couldn't handle it on your own, Thresher. You go in, guns blazing, cocky as hell..." He coughed and his hand shot up to his side. He winced behind the mask. "You needed me. You didn’t even know you had been bugged.”
She leaned forward, her hand fisted, and brushed her knuckles against his. "You're a hell of a partner.”
"Ex-partner," he whispered.
Harry shook her head. "We might both be out of law enforcement forever, but you'll always be my partner."
"Bros," he said, and bumped his knuckles softly against hers. “I never figured out where all those babies came from. The captain said they found twenty-four of them. Some were alive, some weren’t...”
Harry patted her hip in the spot where her cigarettes would be if she had been wearing pants, then sighed and leaned against the bed railing with a grunt. “Sanura Johnson – Tijana Cambell – whoever the hell she was, was using them as bait. Those babies kept the kids in line. It was one of her tricks to get the kids to sign on to her little plan. She would find a girl in trouble, or the boy who got her that way, and promise to help them under the guise of her fake medical degree. When the baby was delivered, she held it hostage.”
“Christ,” Cal replied. “What a sicko.”
“She had my brother helping her with the rest. Those kids all needed hope, and he was exactly the kind of charismatic psychopath who could give it to them. By the time they realized what was happening...” She shook her head.
“How did she get the job with the shelter then?”
“Well, they found David Miller with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. I’m not sure we’ll ever know what role he had in it all, but I do know that Ash is taking over his place at Regina’s Flock.” Her laughter was hoarse and weak. “The strange people you meet in our line of work.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing I’m always watching your back, isn’t it?” He smiled. "Now get back to bed before that nurse knocks you out and drags you there." He lifted a finger to point toward the doorway, where a couple of nurses stood at the ready to take her back to her room.
––––––––
AFTER THE HOSPITAL, the last thing Harry wanted to do was spend time in her apartment. She made a few calls, paid for a post office box, and packed a bag, then asked a neighbor whom she was on sketchy speaking terms with to watch her apartment and call the cops if she saw anything suspicious. She paid the woman for her trouble, then drove her abused, little car to a used lot. An hour later, she headed off the lot on a 1986 Honda Shadow VT, with her bag strapped to her back and a closed-lip grin on her face under a helmet that hid every identifiable feature.
A few days later, she was in a motel on the other side of the country. A thermometer with little birds on its face was stuck to the window, and read 38 degrees. She laid down on the bed, her boots still on after a day of checking out the local food and drink scene, and closed her eyes just as her cell phone rang. She swore, grabbed it off the night stand, and put it to her ear with a gruff greeting.
"Enjoying your vacation?"
She would know the deep, mellifluous voice of Captain Blanca Briggs anywhere. It had been less than a week since she had heard from her, but Harry didn't have a clue why she would be calling. She cleared her throat.
"It's beautiful up here."
The captain paused for a moment, and Harry could hear the low din of the station around her. It was the soundtrack she missed almost more than the work itself. The constant ringing of phones was something she never thought she would be nostalgic for, but she was, and it hurt down deep in her gut.
"The police board made a ruling in your absence."
Harry almost choked on air as she sucked in a breath too hard and fast. She covered her mouth and cleared her throat. "And?"
"They considered arresting you when you got back for getting involved in an active investigation."
"Was it really active, though?" Harry couldn't help but smile. "I imagine you talked them out of that."
"I did." Her voice was sharp, but Harry thought she could hear the smirk in it. "Considering you were practically dragged into it by the perpetrators, and despite your never being given clearance to work the case, they decided to be lenient."
"And because no one on active duty would have figured this out until sixty or so people were dead in an explosion..."
Briggs sighed. "They have decided to offer you your job back. Probationary."
"Paper pushing?" Harry asked. She unlaced her boots with her phone propped between her ear and her shoulder. The line was quiet for a moment, and Harry realized Briggs must have closed her door.
"Not just. It would be a slow reintroduction back into your previous position."
"I don't have a partner."
Briggs answered by typing something. A short intake of breath and a click of the captain’s tongue told Harry that she had landed on something she knew would be good – if risky and potentially problematic.
"What?" Harry asked.
"I think I have someone for you. The perfect partner."
"Robocop?" Harry asked with a snicker.
A few months ago, Briggs would have barked at her for the wise crack, but she didn't miss a beat. "Better. Much better."
“The Kyson case still open?”
“No,” Briggs said, and lowered her voice further. “It turned out to be unrelated. She eloped with her tutor, and the last I heard, they were spotted somewhere in Mexico, and her father had disowned her.”
“Another win for the PD.”
Briggs snorted. “Another loss. Mr. Kyson isn’t happy with the department, but what’s new?” After a long moment, Briggs said, "I'll expect you back here in two to four weeks."
“You got it, Cap.”
Harry plugged the phone into its charger and put it back on the nightstand. She exchanged it for the television remote, then lay back with one arm behind her head and looked for something to watch that wasn't Pay Per View porn. She had to admit, Briggs had her intrigued. She never thought she would have her job back, let alone at nearly full capacity so quickly. Her long vacation would have to wait.
THE END
Thank you for reading Cluster B!
Here’s a sneak peek of the next book in the series, Eager Observer:
CHAPTER 7
––––––––
ON MONDAY, SHE WAS back at the station feeling rested and almost not annoyed with her partner. She discussed the case as it was in the first half hour of her shift, then they sat for ten minutes in silence as they ruminated over the lack of facts in the case.
Two more women were dead. An M was carved into one, a woman who hadn’t even been reported missing. According to preliminaries with her family and employer, no one expected to hear from her for a week. She was on a much-needed vacation from her job at the overcrowded day care center when she was kidnapped.
Garcia let her head hit her desk with a groan, then popped up as her phone dinged from beside it. She plucked the phone from the desk and studied it. After a long moment, her frown was replaced with a wide grin.
“What are you smiling about?” Harry asked.
“Hot date?” the front desk officer asked as he passed.
Garcia shot him a dirty look. “No.” She got up out of her chair and came around the desks to squat down beside Harry. “Check this out.”
Harry wasn’t sure what she was looking at on Garcia’s phone. “What am I seeing?”
“I set up an alert to get emailed when anything went online about our killer.”
Unimpressed, Harry sat back in her chair. “Yeah, there’s a lot of stuff circulating, but all of it is recycled. There’s nothing new.”
“That’s not true,” Garcia said from her spot on the floor. She waited for Harry to lean forward again before she continued. “I got a few results from this blog before and dismissed them, but the latest post is a little closer to home for the Initial Killer.”
“I wish you would stop calling him that,” Harry said, but she looked at the phone anyway. The blog in question was tastelessly built to look like a tabloid magazine. “What does it say?”
Garcia turned the phone around and read to herself. Then she met Harry’s eyes again, and her face had lit up with glee. She looked about ten years old, and Harry could imagine what she would have been like: stubborn, happy, and mostly ignorant of all the garbage in the world. Harry wished she had ever been so naïve.
“Basically, it says that this girl knows more than she should about our guy and his favorite pasttime.”
As much as she wanted to believe it would be this easy, Harry knew not to believe everything she read. People lied every day. They lied about relationships, food, the size of the fish they caught or the precision of their golf swing. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for a girl who wanted attention to talk up what she knew about a case, especially if it was how she made a living.
“I doubt she knows anything,” Harry said, but she got up anyway. “Can you find out anything about the girl? How we can contact her?”
Garcia stood. “Already did. She uses her real name on her blog, and her phone number is listed.” She moved over to her computer, did a quick search, then swiveled the screen around so Harry could see. “And here’s her address.”
“We may as well check it out.”
Harry followed as Garcia strutted out of the office with a little more pep in her step than usual. If she didn’t know any better, she would say Garcia was onto something. As it was, she figured it would be a welcome distraction, and more action than they had seen on the case so far. Couldn’t hurt to check it out.
...
The building the girl lived in was somewhere between nice and dingy, like the one Harry had moved into only recently, and Harry wondered how a girl who listed her occupation as “blogger” could afford the same kind of digs as her. Then she chided herself. Of course she could; she probably made more money than the two detectives coming up to question her put together.
“I’d like to take the lead on this one, if you don’t mind,” Garcia said as they stopped in front of the blogger’s door.
Harry wanted to disagree, then thought better of it. She took a step back, and Garcia flashed her a rare smile.
“Thanks.”
Garcia’s knock was exactly the kind one would expect from a cop: harsh, brusque, registering like gunfire in the silence. Harry winced. She normally didn’t like to set people up to be on guard, but she had relinquished this one to her partner. Hopefully she wouldn’t regret it.
A few moments passed before the door opened on a chain lock and a woman peeked out at them. “Can I help you?”
Garcia was ready with her badge and what Harry was coming to think of as her ‘cop voice’. “My name is Detective Garcia, and this is Detective Thresher.”
The door closed, the chain lock came off, and the door opened wide. “Please, come in.”
Garcia glanced back at Harry before she walked in. Harry followed, not sure why the woman was so eager to get them inside, but wanting to let the situation play out.
“Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?” the blogger asked on the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Is it made?” Harry asked. Garcia frowned at her, but Harry ignored it.
“Yes, and it’s fresh.”
“I’ll take a cup. Black,” Harry said.
Garcia’s cheek and jaw tightened, then relaxed. The blogger peeked her head around the kitchen doorway. “And you, Detective?”
“Do you have bottled water?”
The blogger gave her an appraising look, then smiled. “I do. Coming right up. Please, make yourselves at home.”
Harry sat and Garcia followed, then leaned in close. “What do you think she’s playing at?” she whispered.
Harry smirked. “I think she’s going for polite.”
Garcia leaned back and folded her arms over her chest, obviously not going for polite herself, and they waited a minute before the woman came back in the room with two cups of coffee and a bottle of water. She handed the bottle over first, then Harry’s coffee, before she sat down with her own mug, which she promptly put on the coffee table.
“I guess you’re here about the Initial Killer.”
Harry winced. She hated the name the press had given the guy. It only gave him more credence, which might make him feel like he was expected to keep killing. But she kept it to herself.
“We are,” Garcia said coolly. She pulled out her notebook and pen. “Your blog has a lot of information about the perpetrator of these crimes -”
“I call him IK,” the blogger interrupted.
Garcia ground her teeth. “Yes, IK. You have a lot of information about our case, some of which has not been released to the press, and we were wondering how you got it.”
The woman looked from Garcia to Harry with a smirk. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Pardon?” Garcia asked.
After a sip of coffee, the woman placed her mug back on the table, and gestured at Harry’s. “It’s cool enough to drink without burning your tongue now.”
Harry nodded at her, picked up her cup, and took a sip. The brew was delicious, better than she had ever made at home, and she thought to ask about the brand, but she knew Garcia would be pissed. After all, she had already screwed up this interview. The woman had thrown her off immediately, and she hadn’t yet regained her footing.
“What do you mean?” Garcia asked.
Harry watched the blogger as she studied Garcia over the rim of her coffee mug. Her hazel eyes were amused, and the set of her face was calm. She was obviously accustomed to dealing with bluster. Her hair was brown, cut to her shoulders and across her forehead in bangs, with a slight curl at the ends. She had narrow shoulders, wide hips, and dressed somewhere between conservative and casual.
She looked a hell of a lot like their serial killer’s type.
“I received the information from a confidential source.” She smiled at Garcia, unperturbed.
“And would you want to give the source’s contact information to me?”
The woman’s eyes sparkled and she couldn’t hide her grin as it widened. Harry was reminded of a house cat toying with an insect that had made its way into her territory. “You know I can’t reveal that, and I don’t have to. Reporter’s privilege.”
Garcia scowled.
“And, for the record, my name is Millie Hamlin. Since you didn’t ask.”
Harry wasn’t sure if Garcia’s mouth would drop open or not. She glanced at her and was proud to see that it did not. In fact, it was ground farther closed than ever, and for a moment, Harry wondered about the state of her teeth. Her own bruxism had cost her a lot of money in dental work, and she couldn’t imagine Garcia would escape the same for much longer.
“I would love to be able to help you, detectives, but I’m not sure that I can say much more.”
When Garcia didn’t keep talking, only stared at the woman like she wanted to rip her limb from limb, Harry took another sip of her coffee and put the mug down on the coffee table with a light thump. The blogger looked her way and she smiled.
“I guess what we’re wondering is if you know more than you’ve posted on your blog already. Any information you can give us from your source might help us catch this guy.”
Millie nodded and took a drink from her coffee, then settled the mug on her knees, her hands wrapped tightly around it as if she were cold.
“Is there anything you can tell us without revealing your source?” Harry asked.
“I can tell you with certainty that he isn’t finished. And the letters he’s carving into his victims aren’t initials, despite the moniker; they’re a message.”
Garcia had her pad and pen in hand again and was taking notes. She kept her mouth clamped shut, and Harry took it as a sign that she would be finishing the interview out alone.
“Do you know what the message is?” Harry asked. She smiled the crooked smile she knew worked on a lot of women with a soft spot for tomboys.
Millie grinned. She knew what game Harry was playing, but she was willing to play along; Harry could see it in the glint of her eye.
“I haven’t figured out the message yet, and my source doesn’t have anything to say about the subject. What we do know is that it’s a message he doesn’t intend to leave unfinished.”
Harry let Garcia finish scribbling on her pad in her tidy scrawl before she went on. “Could you wager a guess at the message?”
Millie let out a giggle and put her mug on the table.
“What?” Harry asked.
Millie fanned her reddening face and waved the question away. “I’m sorry. Your question caught me as funny. The message is going to be the same as it always is, like IK is going to be the same they always are.”
“White, 20-40, middle-class, Everyman, troubled relationship with his parents,” Harry supplied.
The blogger pointed to Harry with one hand and laid a finger on her nose with the other.
Harry couldn’t help but grin. In different circumstances, she might have had fun with this woman.
“And the message?” she asked.
Millie sighed. “Women are mean, especially his mommy, and we all deserve to be punished because we don’t drop on our knees with our legs spread as soon as he walks into a room. Or maybe because we do; depends on how popular he is with the ladies.”
Harry saw Garcia’s eyes widen out of the corner of her eye, but she kept writing. When she had finished, Harry stood up, pulled a card out of her pocket, and tucked it under her empty coffee cup.
“If I learn something new or think of something I forgot,” Millie said.
Harry made the same gesture – on the nose – then waited for Garcia to stand up, too. “Thank you for the coffee, Miss Hamlin.”
The blogger stood, came around the table, and clasped Harry’s hand firmly. She rubbed a fingertip over Harry’s wrist. “It’s Millie. And you’re welcome to come by any time for more. It’s a secret recipe of mine.”
“Best coffee I’ve had in a while,” Harry said with a tight smile. Then she slowly pulled her hand away. “Have a nice day, Millie.”
“Same to you, detectives.”
Harry lead the way out with Garcia close on her heels. The blogger closed the door behind them. They were halfway back down in the elevator when Garcia turned to Harry with an incredulous expression.
“What?” Harry asked.
“I can’t believe you drank the coffee.”
Harry had noticed the unopened bottle of water that was still on the coffee table when they left. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Some people don’t like cops, you know,” Garcia told her, as if explaining something simple to a dimwitted child.
“And, what, they offer you coffee to poison you?”
They left the building, passed an angry-looking young man on his way in, then crossed the parking lot to where Harry had left the car. Inside, Harry turned to face Garcia as they buckled in.
“People don’t just poison cops,” Harry said.
“I guess you haven’t heard about all the men and women killed on and off duty,” Garcia said with a scowl. She was facing out her window, but Harry could see the pulse thumping hard in her neck.
“I have. I also know it’s always been this way. And none of those who died were from poisoned coffee,” Harry told her.
Conversation stalled as they left the parking lot, went down the craggy side street, and pulled onto the feeder road beside I-10. Harry skipped the entrance ramp, and Garcia turned to stare at her silently.
“What?” Harry asked.
“You missed your entrance ramp.”
Harry shook her head. “We’re going to get a character reference for our blogger. If the people she spends most of her time with like her, then I feel like we can trust what she says.”
“Why not skip it and call her trustworthy? I figured you would, since you like her so much.”
A glance across the seat told Harry Garcia was coiled tightly and staring out the window like the world had wronged her. She pulled a breath in, held it, and recited silently all the reasons she should work well with her partner. Then she let it out.
“I saw the way you were touching each other,” Garcia said.
“Hm.”
Garcia adjusted in her seat as they followed the service road to a stop light, then turned right at the red light. They drove a little farther before Harry turned into a parking lot and had to stop abruptly to let a family pass in front of them.
“I think you should keep your personal life personal.”
Harry parked in front of the coffee shop and sat a moment before turning to face Garcia. “Okay, let it out.”
“What?”
“The whole thing.”
“What thing?” Garcia asked uneasily.
Harry barely stifled a yawn. “The part where we gays should keep our gayness close to the vest, and if we can’t stop being so gay in public, should consider one of those conversion camps to learn how to pray the gay away.”
Garcia stiffened, took off her seat belt, and looked at the coffee shop. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Then what?” Harry asked. She took her belt off, too, and pocketed the keys but didn’t get out of the car. She turned and faced Garcia in the seat. “Let it out before we get in there. I need you to be my partner, and partners should be able to work together, without anything unspoken between them.”
“The way you acted with that suspect was unprofessional.”
“Maybe,” Harry conceded. “But I think it helps. Sometimes people will open up to you if you only take the time to make them feel good.”
Garcia wrinkled her nose and her lips contorted into a grimace of disgust. “They open up better when they know they should treat you with the respect the badge entails, not when you play on their baser urges.”
“Remember that thing you were saying about people hating cops?”
“Yeah?” Garcia turned to Harry finally, her eyes narrow.
“The more we treat them like human beings who also deserve respect and kindness, the more they will act in kind. No one likes being spoken down to, especially not by an authority figure.”
“And a woman,” Garcia added with some bitterness.
Harry winked. “Now you’re getting it. You just have to learn to read the room. Figure out what works on each witness or suspect.”
“I went to the academy, too.”
“I know,” Harry said as she got out of the car. “And you know all the rules. All you have left to learn is the human aspect, and for that, I’m a great teacher. Even if you don’t always agree with my execution, my methods are good.”
Garcia didn’t say anything else as they walked in the coffee shop, but she pulled out her pad and pen. Harry had to smile at the obviously defensive gesture.
“Welcome to Erstino’s!” a young man called out from behind the counter in a chipper squeak.
Harry pegged him for the helpful type, so she went immediately up to him. She glanced at his clip-on name badge. “Hi, Mitchell. What’s your special today?”
While he went through the barista spiel, she looked over the menu. The coffee was expensive, but not as high as the more famous chain down the road a bit, and seemed to have as many variations. They offered ice cream – a nice touch the big store didn’t offer – but the sandwich prices put a damper on her appetite.
“Let me get a latte, the medium size, with soy milk.”
“Tall soy latte, got it.” The barista rang up her order and glanced at Garcia. “And for you, ma’am?”
Harry watched Garcia’s mouth open to correct the address, then close again as she tried to follow Harry’s advice. She was surprised to see Garcia smile at the young man.
“What’s your favorite cold drink here?” Garcia asked, leaning in an awkward but not unconvincing way on the counter.
“If you like sweet drinks with a little kick to them, we have an iced blended Mexican hot chocolate that you won’t regret.”
From the open expression on his face, Harry could tell he wasn’t joking or having a jab at her. Garcia seemed to think the same thing, because she nodded.
“That sounds great, Mitchell,” Garcia said, then pulled out her wallet and nudged Harry aside. “I’ve got this one, Harry. Find us somewhere to sit?”
Harry turned on them both before the grin could take over her face. Garcia might be stubborn, but she was a quick study when she put her mind to something.
The café was quiet and relatively empty, so she took the time to glance around at the décor. The first thing she noticed were the homemade posters over some of the tables, so she got into a booth to inspect the first one she came to. It advertised a weekly chess tournament whose next game was only hours away, and encouraged “everyone” to attend.
Across the room, through a set of glass doors, was another poster. Harry got out of the booth and walked to this one to check it out. When she realized what she had stumbled on, she pulled out her phone and took a picture. She was just zooming in to make sure her shaky hand caught all the details when Garcia sat down beside her with their drinks.
“How’d it go, smooth operator?”
Garcia smiled back. “Better than I thought it would. Apparently, when you’re friendly, people talk to you.”
“Who knew?” Harry lifted her cup to her partner. “What did you learn?”
Garcia raised a finger. She had pulled out her pad and pen and was scribbling furiously onto it. Her normally impeccable handwriting was ragged, but Harry could still read it better than she could ever read Cal’s.
Harry sipped her coffee and waited. When Garcia had finally finished, she put down her cup and waited for the younger woman to start.
“Millie Hamlin and her group, Write Away Southeast Texas, meet here every Tuesday night, and sometimes on Saturdays. The group as a whole is usually only here about three hours, but a couple of them – namely Millie and her friend Betty – usually stay longer.”
“Nice work, Garcia.”
Garcia tapped her pen on her pad, and while Harry drank, she didn’t touch her fancy frappe. Finally, the younger woman turned to look at Harry’s cup. “How do you drink so much coffee without getting jittery?”
“Drinking coffee settles my nerves.” Harry didn’t mention that it was a helpful aid in cutting down on the amount of beer she drank, and Garcia didn’t pry. “Besides, I’m used to it. I’ve been drinking coffee since I was at my grandfather’s knee.”
Garcia finally took a sip from her straw, and nodded in appreciation. “The barista was right. It’s good.”
“Eh, I’ll pass on the sugar,” Harry said. The thought of a sugary coffee drink sent a pang of longing through her heart that would knock her off her guard if she let it. “I got our group’s contact details,” she said to change the subject. She thumbed over her shoulder at the poster on the wall behind them. “Maybe we give them a call.”
“Fine with me,” Garcia said. She grabbed her cup and slid off her chair and onto her feet. “As long as we do it from the road. I want to get back to my desk and type some of this up.”
“I never met anyone as eager for desk duty as you, Garcia.”
...
The call to the contact number led to a voicemail. Harry left her name and number while Garcia typed her notes into her computer. When they finished at nearly the same time, Harry was impressed.
“I’ve only seen one other person type that fast,” she said, rubbing a hand above the pocket on her shirt.
Garcia pointed it out. “Do you have a rash or something?”
“What?”
“You were rubbing the same place on her chest when we were at the coffee shop.” She half-stood, leaned across the desk, and tapped a finger on Harry’s hand. “Do I need to make you go get some shots?”
Harry dropped her hand. “No, it’s not a rash. It’s -” What could she say that didn’t sound insane? “It’s a tic.”
“A tick?”
“A tic. An unconscious gesture.”
Garcia nodded, then glanced from the pocket to Harry’s face. “I’ve never noticed it before.”
“It doesn’t happen very often,” Harry said. She didn’t add, “Only when I think about my ex.”
Garcia studied her a moment longer, then turned back to her screen. She scrolled down the page again. Then she looked back at Harry.
“We don’t have much, do we?” Harry asked, knowing the answer.
“We do not. We have bodies, a blogger with a source too close for comfort, and a bunch of questions. No DNA, no witnesses.”
Harry wondered what kind of person it would take to pull off something this close to the vest. She had seen the conniving it took to disappear a number of shifty, rootless teenagers no one was quick to miss, but the women in this case were different. They were the kind of women who showed up to work on time every day, who made friends, socialized, and didn’t go for long periods without checking in with their friends and family on social media.
“What do we do now?” Garcia asked.
Harry sighed. “We keep digging.”
Don’t go yet...
I appreciate you for taking a chance on my work, and want to ask you for a quick favor. Could you leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or the retailer where you bought this book? Books like mine live and die by reader ratings. Thanks!
– Adan
Adan Ramie is a Texas native who lives with her wife and children in a town not unlike Andy Griffith’s Mayberry. She loves coffee, cats, and binge-watching Netflix.
People in my Constant Readers group get to stay in the loop on when I publish new books, launch giveaways, or discount my previous works. Join in and grab your free goodies today!
MORE BY ADAN RAMIE
