Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  Garcia sat down, propped his feet up on his desk, and casually took a bite. “Let’s see. One hot dog in exchange for saving your ass with our new lieutenant.” He shook his head and looked up at her. “No deal.”

  “Fine. Two hot dogs. Final offer.”

  He took another bite and proceeded to answer around a mouthful of hot dog, “I’m thinking more along the lines of a month’s worth ought to do it.”

  She set her hand over the Glock at her hip and unsnapped the holster.

  Garcia’s eyes grew wide. “Two hot dogs it is. A very generous offer.”

  Reid snapped the holster shut and let her hand fall away. “So?”

  “She took off a few minutes ago.” He threw a glance at Mug. “Said the car wasn’t big enough for the three of you.”

  “Where the hell is she now?”

  “Up your ass, picking daisies. How the hell should I know?”

  Hoping to find London waiting near the car as she had earlier, Reid returned to the parking lot. No luck. The rookie had mysteriously vanished.

  Had she driven London off after less than a day on the job? Instinct told her the rookie had more tenacity than that. She’d turn up. Eventually.

  Well, rookie or no rookie, Reid had a case to solve. She glanced at Mug. “The crime-fighting duo is back in business,” she said, leaning down to give him a high five. She held the car door open for him and then settled behind the steering wheel, determined never to take her solitude for granted ever again.

  * * *

  Reid parked, curbside, across the street from Beatrice’s house. Forensics was still inside. She climbed out of the car, and Mug followed suit behind her. She surveyed the surrounding houses as he sniffed at some brown grass on the sidewalk.

  This was an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Some of these residents were bound to have security systems with video cameras. Maybe she’d get lucky and find a recording of the suspect loading Beatrice’s body into a car.

  As if on cue, Beatrice appeared. Where have you been? she asked.

  “Working your case,” Reid answered.

  Have you caught him yet?

  “No, but it’s still early.” She looked around to make sure no one was watching her have a seemingly one-sided conversation. “Do you know any of your neighbors on this street?”

  All of them, dear. Why?

  “Do you know if any of your neighbors have security cameras?”

  Beatrice pointed to the house directly across from hers. That’s Paul and Marge’s house. When Paul died a few months back, Marge had a security system installed. It’s quite state-of-the-art.

  Mug finished his business and accompanied her to Marge’s front stoop. Reid rang the doorbell. She knocked loudly, without waiting. Since London’s whereabouts were still unknown, she was feeling a wee bit impatient.

  An older woman—presumably Marge—opened the door and scowled at Reid. She held out a tiny biscuit for Mug. He gingerly plucked it from her grasp. “You must be Detective Sylver,” she said, still scowling. She set a hand on her hip and opened the door wider to reveal the missing rookie. “Detective Gold here was just telling me how you mistakenly left her behind at the police station.”

  With a glass of milk in one hand and a cookie in the other, the rookie looked right at home.

  “You two know each other?” Reid asked.

  “We do now,” Marge replied. Her expression softened as she gazed adoringly at London.

  What was it with London and little old ladies?

  “You wait right here, honey,” Marge said, withdrawing farther into the house. “I’ll wrap up your cookies so you can take them with you.”

  “Mrs. Rugers, you don’t have to do that.”

  “Nonsense. It’ll take but a minute. Be back in a jiff.”

  London’s smile vanished as she met Reid’s gaze and joined her on the stoop. Mug greeted her with a quick lick to her hand. His scarred, furless tail wagged exuberantly.

  They stood, side by side, in awkward silence. Reid couldn’t stand it anymore. “How’d you get here?” she finally asked.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “What, are we in fifth grade, and you’re mad, so you’re pitting an old lady against me?”

  “I can’t help it if she likes me. That’s usually what happens when you’re a courteous human being. With manners.” She crossed her arms. “You might want to try it sometime.”

  Touché.

  Marge returned with a giant baggie of oatmeal cookies. Smiling, she handed them to London. “Let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help.”

  “We’ll be in touch. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Rugers.”

  Reid eyed the baggie with envy. Oatmeal cookies were her favorite. She’d skipped lunch and was starving. “Do I get cookies, too?”

  With one last disapproving glare, Marge slammed the door in her face.

  “Guess that’s a no?” Reid called out.

  London turned, jogged down the steps, and hurried along the sidewalk.

  Chapter Seven

  “Hey, where’re you going?” Reid ran to catch up.

  London stopped in front of a massive black truck with tinted windows. “Need a ride?”

  She felt her eyes grow wide. “Is this Boyle’s truck?”

  London nodded.

  “Holy shit. Did you steal it?” Boyle would have her head on a platter.

  “Of course not.”

  “Is Boyle dead?”

  “Not the last I checked.”

  “Then how the hell did you convince him to give you the keys?”

  “I didn’t convince him to do anything. He offered.”

  “No way.” The Boyle she knew would never part with his beloved Ford Super Duty F-450 King Ranch.

  “When he saw me outside, all abandoned and alone, he handed me the keys.”

  “So it’s a pity truck.”

  “Pity truck or not, it’s mine for the duration of our training.”

  Perfect. Boyle and London were now working together to make her life miserable.

  “See you later, Sylver.” London pressed a button on the key chain to disengage the alarm and unlock the truck door.

  “Hold up.” Clearly, this rookie needed some guidance. “We still have the rest of the street to talk to.” She waved a hand in the air. “Both sides.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  London slipped her cell out of her coat pocket and held it aloft. “I have everything we need right here.”

  “You have all the vic’s neighbors tucked inside that tiny phone?”

  “No one saw or heard anything on the night in question, but they all have security cameras.”

  Failing to connect the dots, Reid waited impatiently.

  “They’ve given me access to video surveillance from Saturday night.”

  “All of them?”

  “The whole street.” London nodded. “Beatrice has been organizing a neighborhood potluck for the last forty years. They want this guy behind bars more than we do.”

  Not bad for a rookie.

  “I’m heading back to the precinct now to review the footage,” London went on. She opened the baggie and held it out to Reid. “Just one,” she warned. “The rest are mine.”

  Without hesitation, Reid plucked a cookie from the bag and took a big bite. “I shouldn’t have left you like that,” she admitted, chewing. “My bad.” Whoa. This was, by far, the best oatmeal cookie she’d ever tasted.

  “Apology accepted.”

  Reid popped the last delicious morsel in her mouth and eyed the remaining cookies in London’s hand.

  London reached inside the bag, broke off a small piece, and slipped it to Mug. “I like South End Pizza on Tremont.”

  “Are we sharing random facts now?” she asked, wiping her hands on her jeans.

  “It’ll take hours to go through all of the footage from Saturday.” London checked her watch. “If you happened to swing by and pick
us up a pizza for dinner—green peppers, black olives—I could probably hook you up with another cookie.”

  Reid frowned. “Just one cookie for a whole pizza?”

  * * *

  Reid stepped off the elevator, pizza box in hand, hoping for more than one cookie.

  “Good. You’re here.” London stood, whisked the box away, and plopped it down on Reid’s desk. She set two pizza slices on a paper plate and handed the plate to Reid with a napkin. “I already started,” she said, pointing to an iPad beside Reid’s computer. “I split the videos down the middle and sent you yours.”

  “Sent them where?” Reid asked, taking a bite.

  “You’re all set up. Just press enter, and the first video will start playing automatically.”

  “How’d you get the passcode to my computer?”

  “Easy.” London rolled her eyes. “Anyone who’s known you for five minutes would’ve guessed Mugshot.”

  They ate together in silence. With perfect posture, London was perched on the edge of an old foldout chair. Reid almost laughed aloud when she saw the neatly folded napkin on London’s lap. This rookie’s manners were impeccable. Reid leaned forward and steadfastly made her way through each video, her stomach full. But she was finding it more and more difficult to focus with London sitting so close. She smelled amazing.

  Reid paused the video. Nothing of interest so far. She needed a break. Working this case the old-school way, without any help from the other side, was taxing. “What’re you wearing?”

  “Clothes?” London answered without looking up from the screen.

  “The perfume. What is it?”

  “Oh. Egyptian Goddess. But it’s not a perfume. It’s an oil.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Thanks,” London replied, her focus unwavering.

  “Can you stop wearing it?”

  This got London’s attention. She paused the video and met Reid’s gaze with a look of bewilderment. “Why?”

  Reid shrugged. “Homicide has traditionally been filled with smelly men, who burp and fart a lot.”

  “You want me to smell bad just to fit in better?”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” She glanced at London’s lap. “Might wanna lose the napkin, too.”

  London lifted the napkin from her lap and dabbed, quite daintily, at each corner of her mouth. “I’ll take that under advisement.” With a swipe of the screen, she resumed her scan.

  Reid looked over at Mug, who sat up and wagged his tail the moment their eyes met. She knew what he was thinking. A creature of habit, he somehow always sensed when it was the end of her shift, which meant it was time to go home and play fetch in the backyard before dinner. Ambivalent about leaving, she called him over and gave him her leftover crust.

  Her reluctance to leave wasn’t because of any desire to set a good example by working late. Reid just wanted more cookies.

  London paused the video once again. “You’re not one to sit idle, are you?”

  “Are you kidding? This, right here”—she opened her arms wide and forced a smile—“is my favorite part of the job.”

  London glanced at the clock and then at Mug. “Why don’t the two of you go on home? I still have another few hours in me. I’ll finish what I can tonight.” She lifted the giant baggie from her briefcase and handed it over. “Here. A deal is a deal.”

  “The whole bag?” Reid asked, already digging in. “But I thought you said just one,” she said around a mouthful of cookie.

  “You picked up the pizza and even threw in a compliment about me smelling nice. You’re making progress in the manners department, Sylver. That deserves a reward.”

  Munching her way happily to the elevator, Reid decided the rookie wasn’t so bad.

  * * *

  London watched Reid until she disappeared around the corner with Mug in tow. She smiled. This was only the first day, and she was already starting to break through Reid’s armor.

  She was excited by the prospect of gaining entry into the detective’s signature investigative world. She intended to make the best use of her time and soak up everything she could. The only thing that could potentially pose a problem was their chemistry. There was something between them. A spark. A flicker of attraction when they’d touched hands earlier.

  London decided she’d have to keep herself in check. Having a sordid affair with a senior detective just wasn’t worth the risk. She had more important things to focus on right now. Like her career. That took precedence over everything else.

  * * *

  Reid pulled into her driveway and cut the engine. Her cell rang as she was unbuckling her seat belt. “Sylver,” she answered, not bothering to check the caller ID. Probably someone from work. No one else ever called.

  “How was your day, Detective Sylver?”

  She paused. The caller’s voice was unfamiliar. He had a patronizing tone. “Who the hell is this?” she asked.

  “You can just call me The Giver.”

  An unpleasant tingle traversed the length of her spine. “This some kind of joke?”

  “The manner by which you solve cases is no laughing matter, Detective Sylver.”

  “You killed Beatrice,” she said, cutting right to the chase.

  “So why haven’t you caught me yet?”

  “I will.” Feeling exposed in her driveway, she opened her car door to step outside and survey the area.

  “Until now, you’ve had a perfect record in homicide. I’m here to change all that for you.”

  “How?” She laughed. “By being too clever to get caught?”

  “Liken me to a cat, Detective Sylver. A great hunter who shows his affinity for you by leaving dead mice on your doorstep. With each mouse you receive, you’ll inch closer to having your secret revealed. Closer to being truly free for the first time in your life.”

  There was no way he knew about her ability to talk to the dead. He had to be bluffing. Reid hooked the Bluetooth device over her ear, slipped her cell inside her coat pocket, and unsnapped her holster. She waved Mug to her side and gave him the silent command to heel. As if sensing her tension, he instantly obeyed and went on high alert. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re like me, Detective Sylver. You get your information from, shall we say, unconventional sources.”

  Sure sounded like he knew about her secret. She needed to draw him out more. “I still have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “A homicide detective—mind you, one who doesn’t much care for the living—solves all her cases by talking to the dead.”

  Her mind raced. How the caller could’ve possibly unearthed that fact was beyond her. “Let’s meet, face-to-face. I can get you the help you need.”

  “Admit it,” he went on. “You’re more comfortable with dead people than you are with the living.”

  Flustered by the truth of his words, Reid said nothing. She had always felt the most at ease when she was communicating with spirits. How could he possibly have known that?

  “I’ll let you in on a secret, Detective Sylver. I, too, am more comfortable with the dead. We just enjoy our time with them a little differently.”

  She hoped that didn’t mean what she thought it meant.

  “Like two peas in a pod, you and me.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Speaking of begging, I left you a mouse.”

  She felt her heart pick up speed.

  “Marge wasn’t very kind to you today. I informed her she should’ve had better manners.”

  How in the world would he know about that? Was Marge’s house bugged?

  “She sends her apologies, by the way.” He cleared his throat. “But I’m sure you, of all people, don’t need me to pass that along.”

  “Where?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “Where what?”

  “Where. Is. Marge.”

  “I expected more from you, Detective Sylver. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed.” He sighe
d. “Where does the cat always leave the mouse?” And with that, the killer hung up.

  * * *

  Reid drew her weapon and flashlight and started for the front porch of her house. But instinct told her the killer wasn’t there. He didn’t seem the type to risk a physical confrontation. He would survey the game board from a distance, carefully plan his next move, and then execute it with obsessive precision.

  Her front porch was uncharacteristically dark. The light was set on a timer. For some reason, it hadn’t come on. She directed her flashlight at the porch steps and then slowly upward. There, propped in one of four chairs surrounding a rectangular wooden table, was Marge’s body. She told Mug to stay and carefully ascended the stairs to get a closer look.

  Marge was wearing the same blue housedress she’d seen her in earlier. Her hands were cupped around a plateful of oatmeal cookies, as if offering them to Reid. Her mouth was fixed in a permanent smile, and her eyes had been removed, just as with Beatrice.

  He’s right. Marge was suddenly standing beside her, looking down at her own body. I am sorry, you know.

  “No need to be,” Reid assured her. “London shared. Best oatmeal cookies I ever had, by the way.”

  Marge’s gaze darted to the plate of cookies on the table. He forced me to bake those before he killed me.

  “Did you get a look at him?” she asked, knowing she’d never eat another oatmeal cookie as long as she lived. One of the hazards of the job, unfortunately. Other foods had been permanently scrubbed from her diet in much the same way—scrambled eggs, yogurt, her once-beloved chili cheese fries.

  Marge shook her head. I only heard his voice. He must have hacked the security system in my house. Before I knew it, he was controlling everything: the lights, TV, thermostat, my home phone, cell phone…everything.

  “Why didn’t you just walk out the front door?”

  I tried that. Marge shrugged. But I couldn’t. I have smart locks on every door. I couldn’t get any of them to open.

  “You never saw him?”

  Never.

  Reid stepped behind Marge’s corpse and pointed the flashlight at her back. She’d been stabbed, just like Beatrice. “Walk me through what happened.”