The captain spends fifteen minutes berating me for “getting myself” into another jam with Charun by sending my only backup, Harmony, off in another direction. The next ten minutes are dedicated to discussing the delicate nature of DSI’s working relationship with the ICM, and why it might not be a great idea to step outside the professional circle into something more intimate. My face burns red hot during this part of the one-sided discussion. I feel like a teenager being shamed by a parent for sneaking out at night to have awkward, fumbling sex in a car with a short-term girlfriend.
Finally, at minute twenty-six, Riker has a leg pain flare up, and he pauses to take a few deep breaths in an attempt to manage the agony without his medicine. I try to stop myself from squirming in the chair during the heavy silence that engulfs the office, but in the end, I have to sit on my free hand because I can’t stop picking at a stray thread on my coat. Meanwhile, Ella Dean doesn’t waver: her steady, critical gaze bores into the back of my neck, and I fully expect her to continue my lecture even after Riker releases me into the wild.
The pain eases, and Riker sighs in relief, then continues his speech with what sounds like the start of a long-winded closing statement. “Look, Cal, while I freely admit that it is not my place to make decisions about your life outside this office, I do implore you to consider the potentially far-reaching implications of having an intimate relationship with a member of the ICM. Our rapport with them is strained enough as it is. I don’t want to give Marcus, or anyone else, a reason to attempt to dissolve what fragile trust exists between us. Furthermore, I feel the need to point out—”
Someone knocks on the door then, in accordance with what I assume is divine intervention. Even God realizes that this lecture is too damn embarrassing for anyone to survive for another five minutes, much less the hour and a half Riker seems to have in mind. At the sound of quick knuckles rapping on wood, Riker stops talking, and Ella, for the first time since we entered the room, leaves her corner space, heading for the door. When she opens it, she reveals a young analyst standing in the hallway, a few file folders clutched to her chest. At first, I can’t place the woman, but as she scuttles into the office toward Riker’s desk, I find her face in my memory.
It’s Brittany Regent, the analyst who was on duty at the evidence desk last night.
Brittany hands off the file folders to Riker and leans close to him, muttering out a list of the important case-related contents contained within her precious cargo. Riker nods in understanding and replies with a thank you, then nods for Brittany to leave the room. The analyst can sense the tension in the office, judging by her pensive face and darting eyes, and she scurries back to the door at a pace too quick to be called casual. On her way out, she mouths a greeting to Ella, who drops her frowny face (the one reserved for me) to give Brittany a warm, welcoming smile. But the tension in Ella’s body betrays her true feelings, and the smile comes off more menacing than anything else.
Brittany squeaks and quickly exits the office.
However, before Ella Dean slams the door shut and traps me inside again, I call out to the analyst, “Hey, Regent! Sorry about handing over that key so late last night.”
Brittany, halfway out of sight already, leans back toward the doorway, brows furrowed. “Key? What key?”
“The one I had Cooper give you.” I crane my neck to see her better over my shoulder. “Didn’t he deliver it?”
“Hm.” She blinks a couple times and purses her lips. Then it comes to her, and she snaps her fingers. “Oh, that key! Yeah, he filled out the paperwork for it, and he snapped a few photos for the file, but he didn’t actually give it to me for processing. He took it with him. Said it reminded him of something, and he wanted to do a bit of research. Seemed harmless—and you only need photos to work a trace anyway—so I let him have it.” Her teeth catch her lip, a nervous tic. “It wasn’t dangerous evidence, was it?”
“Uh, I don’t think so.”
“Oh. Good.” She sighs, relieved. “Well, if you need it for anything, you’ll have to ask him about it.” A strained smile forms on her uneasy face, and she inches herself away from the threshold until she’s completely out of sight. I hear her heavy boots tread across the hallway tiles as she flees the thick, tangible tension of Riker’s office. A second later, Ella shuts the door behind her retreat and turns to face me.
“What key?” she asks. “The one you had in the van last night?”
“Ah, yeah.” I tuck my hand farther underneath my butt and shrug my uninjured shoulder. “Jack Brendon was wearing the key on a necklace. It wasn’t for his dorm room, obviously, so I figured it might be for a hideout of some kind. Maybe where he stored the treasure. An old, abandoned house no one would think to check. So I sent it on to evidence processing, hoping they could do a trace—a long shot, given the age of the key, but I thought it was worth it and…”
I realize I’m rambling, but I can’t seem to stop. “Anyway, I snagged the key right before…before Charun killed Brendon with his favorite head-crushing hammer blow. Which was also right after I shot Betty Smith, by the way.” My body shudders at the memory of shooting Smith in the face, her blood and brains splattering onto the redbrick path beneath her.
It occurs to me for the first time that the medical examiner will yank those bullets from Smith’s body sometime today, if he hasn’t already, and the cops will list them as evidence in a shooting investigation. They’ll never trace the bullets to me—the fixers who keep DSI’s true nature in the shadows will ensure as much—and the shooting of Betty Smith will forever remain unsolved in the public eye. To me, however, the truth of the matter…
Ella’s hand lands on the top of my head, gentle fingers running through my hair. When she speaks, her voice has lost the edge it carried when we first entered Riker’s office. “Don’t think about it too much, Cal. You’ll drive yourself up the wall with what ifs, trying to figure out how you could have saved that girl, even though you logically know she would have died no matter what. It’s not healthy, that mindset, feeling like you should have done more. Trust me, I know. My first shooting was pretty awful, too, and I dwelled on it for months. Didn’t do me a lick of good, unless you count the extra psych sessions Nick forced me to attend.”
Riker, who was gearing up for another round of shaming, drops whatever speech he was mentally arranging. He dials his own tone up a few notches, to something in the vicinity of sympathetic. “Ella’s right, Cal. First shootings can be hard to work through, because we have this inherent tendency to blame ourselves for situations beyond our control. We—”
Ella lets out a loud, fake cough, and eyes Riker, accusing.
Riker meets her gaze, a challenge—about Bishop’s death, I realize, which is definitely not a topic I should wade into—but after an intense, minute-long staring contest, Riker backs off and adds, “My point is, Cal: If you feel you need to talk with someone about the shooting, please don’t hesitate to schedule some sessions with psych. We have well-trained doctors here. They can help you work through difficult thoughts and emotions.”
I consider his hypocritical advice and wonder how many times Ella has said those exact words to him, regarding France. (Many, going by her harsh glare.) A moment passes before I nod and reply, “Thank you, sir. I’ll look into it.”
Ella pats my head, then shifts her hand to my good shoulder and gives me a soft squeeze. “You know, sir, I think we’ve reamed Cal’s ass enough for the time being. Why don’t we let him go for now? If we need an irresponsible punching bag to pick on later, we know where to find him. Plus, I’m sure he has somewhere to be, something to do. This Etruscan case is still ongoing, after all. We’ve got the kids in the hospital to guard, the search for Charun and Tuchulcha in the city, unraveling the remaining questions about the Underworld heist, and so on. Cal’s able-bodied enough to contribute, yeah?”
“Well, I don’t…” Riker trails off, grinding his teeth, and averts his eyes from Ella. For the first time, I see clearly that the dynamic on
Riker’s team doesn’t follow the prescribed hierarchy. Riker might be the captain, but Ella has been fighting alongside him for so long that you can’t call the two of them anything but equals. She is his inferior in official rank only, not in expertise, not in strength of character or mind, and certainly not in confidence. In fact, Ella has far more of that last trait now than Riker because she hasn’t let Norman Bishop’s death drag her into the depression pit. At this exact moment, Ella Dean sits a peg above her own captain on the authority ladder. And he knows it.
Riker raises his hands in defeat. “Fine. Go on, Cal. You’re dismissed. I’ll set up another meeting with you later, if I deem it necessary. To discuss, for example, your conspicuously missing beggar rings. Again.” His sandy eyebrow arcs at a sharp angle, and he hums a note of rebuke, as if to say, Thought I wouldn’t notice, didn’t you?
Yes, I did think he wouldn’t notice, with both my hands out of sight. I didn’t know he could see through my sling, or through my ass, for that matter. Lesson learned: Riker has X-ray vision. Either that, or his intuition could beat Sherlock’s to death with a tire iron and stuff its broken body in a grimy dumpster.
Riker lets the criticism sink into my skin and then finishes with, “For now, though, go see Ramirez and get an assignment for the day. He’s organizing all the agent tasks while I tie up loose ends with Bollinger and, ah, the mayor’s office.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply and slip out of my chair before either of them change their minds. A second later, I’m out the door, replicating Brittany Regent’s panicked retreat, speed hampered by my lame ankle. When I turn the first corner, I collapse against the wall and let out a huge sigh of relief. And maybe a pained (masculine) cry. Another ten minutes in that room, and I would have suffocated under the heat of my own humiliation.
Remind me to make sure that I never, ever let Delarosa spy me in the presence of a date again. Because next thing you know, my captain will be lecturing me on the importance of condoms and lube.
Ugh. The mere thought makes me nauseous.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
On my way down to Archives in search of Cooper Lee—to ask about the key—I stop by the cafeteria to refresh myself with another coffee and a fruit cup (or four). I devour the last bite of strawberry when the elevator dings at the Archive level, and as the doors roll open, I finish up my coffee. You’re not supposed to have food or drink in the vicinity of the old and often fragile collections in the library.
I toss my trash into the sole bin next to the entrance of the cavernous room and saunter inside, gaze scanning the stacks for any sign of a slight man rifling through heavy books or mounds of parchment. But there’s no movement that I can see, so I direct my heading to the front desk, where Cooper was sitting last time I visited his station.
Except Cooper is not the archivist on duty today. A middle-aged woman with graying hair sits in his stead, typing away at the computer. She spots my approach and plasters on her standard how-can-I-help-you smile. “Good morning, Detective. Do you need something from the stacks?”
“No, actually. I was looking for somebody. Cooper Lee.” I halt a few steps from the desk, aware of how far my voice carries in the vast room nearly devoid of human beings most hours of the day. How do the archivists stand it, I wonder, that omnipresent, overbearing sense of solitude wearing on them from all directions? Then I recall that Cooper was listening to music when I ran into him the first time. That must be his management strategy. “Anyway,” I continue, “he must be on a different shift today. My bad. Do you know when he’s due in?”
The gray-haired woman adjusts her thick reading glasses and tilts her head to the left. “He was due in this morning, to tell you the truth, Detective. But he didn’t show. I was the on-call alternate, so they rang me up when he failed to materialize after the twenty-minute waiting period. Last I heard, they were still trying to get ahold of him. Not that I’m surprised. Somebody told me he was here working very late last night, doing extra research for Nakamura’s team. Poor boy probably slept through his alarm.” She shakes her head. “They shouldn’t work you young men so hard. It’ll wear you down too soon.”
My brain takes about forty-five seconds to process the full meaning of her words, and when it does, a lead weight settles in the bottom of my stomach. Fear. I try to rationalize it away. The lady archivist is bound to be right in her assessment, as Cooper didn’t leave the building until sometime after I did, and after a grueling day of tedious research for both the Etruscan case and Nakamura’s sea monster fiasco. More than likely, he’s curled up in his bed right now, snoring away.
But no matter how hard I try to banish it to the corners of my mind, I can’t shake off the creeping dread. I start to back away from the desk, toward the exit. “Have they sent anyone over to his house to check on him?”
“Hm, not yet, I don’t think. They usually don’t send someone over until lunchtime, if the person still hasn’t called in or shown up.” She plucks her glasses off her face and waves them my direction. “I wouldn’t worry too much about him, Detective. Agents miss work all the time. It’s the stress. Happens to the best of us.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it does. Thanks for your help.” The words slip out of my mouth on automatic, and I whip around, all but dashing to the exit. My fist slams on the elevator button, and my foot tap, tap, taps on the floor, impatient, as I wait for the box to arrive. It takes a minute and a half too long to reach the Archive level, and when I enter the elevator, I punch the garage button so hard the plastic cover cracks.
I know the security camera in the corner caught that on tape, and I’ll likely be fined for damaging office equipment later, but I can’t bring myself to care. The frothing panic in my gut grows stronger by the second, and a wave of nausea overtakes me when the elevator lifts upward, unbalancing me enough that I have to lean against the back wall for support. A childhood memory of a doctor’s visit surfaces, where a nice, elderly man in a white coat tells me to breathe slowly through my nose to calm my stomach. I follow his instructions now to keep myself from vomiting in the elevator.
Vaguely, I’m aware I’m having an anxiety attack of some kind. Which means I should head for the infirmary and not the parking garage. But if the worries underlying my attack are correct, then I don’t have the time to sit through another evaluation with Navarro. I put a cap on the panic as best I can, regulate my breathing, and when the elevator lets me out, I half-stumble, half-run to the garage exit.
A few agents loitering in the hall watch me go, curious or concerned, but none of them ask after me. Just as well. Answering them would stall me further.
Half an hour later, weaving my way through traffic like a maniac—how a cop doesn’t stop me for reckless driving, I’ll never know—I arrive at Cooper’s townhouse. Stumbling out of my truck, keys left in the ignition, I cross the busy street, hardly aware of the oncoming traffic. Someone honks at me, but I ignore them, reach the sidewalk, and then hobble up to the front steps of Cooper’s house. His little blue moped is parked in its usual spot, covered in the clear tarp, so whatever he’s doing, whatever state he’s in, he should still be in the house.
I tug myself up the steps using the handrail and then pound on the front door as hard as I can without breaking my knuckles.
The sound echoes down the hall inside, I hear, but there’s no audible response.
So I ring the doorbell instead, once, twice, three times.
But, again, there’s no response.
My stomach twists into a frayed knot, and I almost throw up right there, on Cooper’s front door, a blend of half-digested breakfast, crushed fruit, and coffee. But somehow, I manage to rein the nausea in enough to hold my food down. For the moment.
I reach out, hand shaking violently, and try the doorknob. It’s unlocked.
With the lightest push, Cooper’s front door swings open, an almost inaudible creak resonating from well-oiled hinges. As it moves in a slow arc, sunlight pours into the foyer beyond and chases the shadows away
. The lights are off. All of them. Except one.
To the left, past the living room still shrouded in darkness, blinds closed, a single lamp glows yellow in the dining room. But the small lamp isn’t anywhere a lamp should be. It rests overturned on the edge of the rug that surrounds the table, its crushed-flat shade on the wooden floor nearby.
The yellow glow illuminates the dining room, reveals a table pushed aside by a violent shove. The wall behind the table is cracked and scuffed, paint worn away, where the table’s edge sheared against it. Two chairs are overturned, and one of them has three broken legs. The other chairs were forced off in different directions, and each now sits in a corner where it doesn’t belong.
Half-hidden beneath a polished wooden side table, the only piece of furniture in the room left untouched, is the Archive book Cooper’s been using for research these past few days. It’s open to a page somewhere in the middle, but the contents are facedown, pressed against the floor. The cover, now bent and torn, points at the ceiling, gathering more dust for its collection.
A powerful tremor assaults my limbs as I stumble past the foyer, into the living room. There are too many obstacles in my way to navigate in the dark, so I fumble for the light switch on the wall to my left. For too many long, painful seconds, my fingers hit nothing but smooth, painted wall. My panic grows with each breath I take, eyes fixed on the mess of a dining room Cooper never would have left in that state. Willingly.
At last, I find the light switch, and—
“Hey, baby! Can I have your number?”
My knuckles ram the light switch, flipping it up, and then I reroute my hand to my belt as the living room lights flare on. Fingers fumbling, I tear the cell phone from its clip, tap the answer button, and hold it to my ear without bothering to look at the name on the screen. “H-Hello?”
City of Crows Books 1-3 Box Set Page 19
