Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  “A demon dog I summoned up from the depths of hell, so I’d stay put if I were you.” With Mug standing guard, Reid could now turn her full attention to the conversation at hand. The governor had clearly gone to a lot of trouble just to get her on the phone. Instinct told her she couldn’t afford to be distracted. She pressed the phone to her ear.

  “Detective Sylver, this is Governor—”

  “Sullivan. I know. Let’s move this along.” Reid checked her watch, itching to hit the road. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Some patience and time to finish a sentence, for starters,” the governor replied, clearly not accustomed to being hurried along.

  There was a long pause. Sounded like the governor was waiting for an apology. She didn’t offer one.

  He cleared his throat. “What can I offer you to make you stay on with the BPD?”

  She was surprised by the question and impressed by the governor’s ability to cut right to the heart of things. “Nothing.”

  “Everybody has a price,” he countered.

  “Not me.” She couldn’t believe the governor was actually attempting to bribe her. She knew stuff like this happened all the time in politics, but it still came as a shock. She couldn’t fathom why her resignation would matter so much to the governor. Did she make his numbers look good? Couldn’t be that simple. Something told her this ran deeper. Much deeper. And she had a feeling she wouldn’t like what she was about to hear.

  “Let me cut to the chase.”

  “Thought you already did.”

  “Either you tell me your price—and benefit nicely from our friendly chat—or you refuse and lose your pension.”

  She tightened her grip on the phone. “You can’t do that.”

  “Indeed, I can,” he said with the arrogance of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. “Especially after you aided and abetted your former captain’s suicide. It’d be a pity to see an exemplary career flushed down the toilet because of one reckless mistake.”

  Helping the captain near the end of his life was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. It wasn’t a mistake at all. She took a deep breath to compose herself. It was a good thing the governor wasn’t standing in front of her. She’d have clocked him across the face hard enough to break his nose.

  Reid thought for a moment. There was no way the captain had gotten into bed with this guy. He never would have betrayed her by sharing her secret, at least not with this prick. “I’ll cooperate on one condition,” she said finally.

  “Name it.”

  “You answer my questions. Truthfully.”

  “Easy. Shoot.”

  “How did you find out?” she asked, intentionally vague and not wanting to tip her hand about anything.

  “About what you did for your captain, or about your aptitude for talking to ghosts?”

  “Both.” But she feared she suddenly knew the answer. He’d had Cap’s office bugged. It was the only answer that made any sense. Which would also explain how he’d learned about her resignation. Every fiber of her being told her Boyle had kept his word and informed no one of her plans to resign.

  “Suffice it to say,” the governor whispered, “when it comes to worthwhile departmental assets, privacy is a thing of the past.”

  Her status as a human being and homicide detective had been reduced to worthwhile departmental asset? Reid felt her self-esteem growing by the second. “Why does whether I stay or go matter so much? What’s in it for you?”

  She heard him hesitate on the other end. “The truth,” she reminded him. “Or I walk—pension or no pension.” She needed him to lay all his cards on the table.

  “The Golds are friends of mine. They were big contributors to my campaign, and I owe them a favor.”

  London’s parents? Reid failed to make the connection. What did London have to do with this? The rookie said she hadn’t spoken to her parents in over a decade. “They’re not even on speaking terms with London.”

  “They’ve maintained their distance, yes, but they’re still her parents. They want to do everything they can to help her succeed.”

  “London doesn’t need any help.” She laughed, remembering how London had dished it out just as hard as Reid had given it. “Trust me, she’s perfectly capable of forging her own path.” Bulldozing was more like it.

  “Nevertheless, they’re adamant. They want you to be the one to train her. They know your record for solving cases is unparalleled.”

  “Did you happen to share with them how I solve my cases?” she asked, failing to understand why they’d insist she train London after learning the truth.

  “My job is simply to give them what they want. I intend to do just that.”

  “In other words, you didn’t tell them.” Reid was relieved they didn’t know but frustrated that withholding the truth from them kept her firmly in place as a pawn on the game board.

  “Revealing such sensitive information isn’t in your best interests, Detective Sylver. I would think you’d be grateful.”

  “Your sudden concern for my welfare warms my heart.” Feeling her anger rise to the surface, she started pacing. “You just figured this was an easy way to pay off your debt to them. Who cares about the truth, right?”

  “If you care so much about the truth, why have you withheld it for so long from your colleagues at the BPD?”

  It dawned on her that Boyle was the one who’d thrown the rookie in her lap. Could Boyle be working with this prick? She didn’t think he was, but she needed to know for sure. “How’d you make it so London landed with me?”

  “A quick call to the chief got that ball rolling.”

  She let out a breath. At least the governor didn’t have Boyle under his thumb.

  “My offer still stands, Detective. Name your price. I’m feeling particularly generous this morning.”

  Reid hung up. She’d never taken anything she hadn’t earned. She wasn’t about to start now.

  She relieved Mug of guard duty, tossed the cell to the bearded man, and locked up the RV. Their road trip would have to wait.

  * * *

  Reid called Boyle on her way to the precinct.

  He picked up before it even rang. “Two weeks, Sylver,” he said without skipping a beat. “That was the deal.”

  “Boyle, I don’t need two—”

  But he had already disconnected the call. She glanced at Mug on the seat beside her. “Is this hang up on Reid day or what?” First the killer, then London, and now Boyle. Mug returned her gaze, looking equally baffled. She dialed Boyle again.

  “We can do this all day,” he announced. “I kind of enjoyed hanging up on you.”

  “I changed my mind,” she blurted before he had the chance to hang up again.

  Momentarily silenced on the other end, Boyle cleared his throat. “About what?”

  “I can’t, in all good conscience, keep calling you Lieutenant.”

  “Does this mean you’re coming back?”

  “On my way now.”

  “You can still take the two weeks if you need them.”

  “I don’t. Head’s on straight. I just want to close this case, Boyle.”

  “Good.” He sighed. “Heads-up: the FBI’s setting up shop as we speak.”

  She’d expected as much. “Who’d they send this time?”

  “Barnard.”

  “The whistling germaphobe?”

  “Yup.”

  “Damn.” Special Agent Barnard was obsessed with cleanliness. He carried a bucket of Lysol wipes wherever he went and sanitized the surface of every single object before he actually touched it. He also whistled. Incessantly. It had taken Reid weeks to scrub her brain of his last song, “You’re Welcome” from the movie Moana.

  And now the song was back with a vengeance. Shit.

  Boyle interrupted her thoughts. “Oh, and Sylver?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Call me Boyle one more time, and I’ll move our morning workouts to three thirty.”

 
“Roger that, Lieutenant.”

  “In case you were wondering, Gold’s at your desk, looking all lost and abandoned.”

  She felt the first stirrings of guilt. “Really?”

  “No. She’s kicking ass on this case. Might wanna put the pedal to the metal and get here before she solves it on her own.”

  * * *

  Reid stepped off the elevator and headed for her desk, scanning the room as she went. Each desk was now adorned with a Purell hand-sanitizer pump. Barnard’s touch, no doubt.

  London was sitting in the foldout chair beside Reid’s. As she drew closer, she could see that London had covered her desk with a timeline of events and information pertinent to the case. It was organized, detailed, and thorough. The one thing that jumped out was Reid’s name, circled in red, with arrows pointing to both victims. Had the rookie also come to the same conclusion: Reid was the killer’s main target?

  The more she’d thought about it, the more she suspected finding Beatrice was no mere coincidence. The beginnings of a theory were starting to take shape. But she didn’t like her theory. Not one bit.

  London glanced up with a look of surprise as Reid approached. “What are you doing here?”

  “I grew a pair. Let’s go.”

  “Where?” London asked, reaching for her coat.

  “Computer Crimes.” She had to find out if her car and cell phone were bugged.

  London stood in place. “I’ve already consulted with them. They’re working with victim number two’s alarm company to see how the breach occurred.”

  She stared at London. “You know about the breach?”

  “Mrs. Ruger was pretty rattled by her neighbor’s murder. When I interviewed her, she said she’d be arming her security system at all times from now on. I heard it activate when she closed the door behind us.” London shrugged. “Deductive reasoning suggests either the killer abducted her when she was outside her home—which she wasn’t, by the way, because I already checked—or he hacked his way inside somehow. Mrs. Ruger had audio and video cameras installed in every room. I already reviewed the footage—”

  “Did you see the killer?” She couldn’t help but ask, even though she knew he was too clever for that.

  “It recorded everything right up until the killer set foot in her house. Looks like he deleted all audio and video recordings thereafter.” London paused and narrowed her eyes. “Wait a minute. How did you find out about the breach?”

  Reid didn’t have an answer prepared. She shrugged. “Just a hunch.” Boyle was right. London was kicking ass.

  London gestured to a desk that had been added to the room. “We’re working in tandem with the FBI now.”

  And just like that, Barnard came a-whistling around the corner.

  Reid grabbed London by the arm and bolted for the nearest exit.

  “What are you doing?” London asked as they entered the stairwell.

  “Avoiding.”

  “Special Agent Barnard is our liaison. He’s very capable of—”

  “Sending me to an early grave,” she whispered. “Murder by way of whistling.”

  “I think his whistling is beautiful. It gives us some nice background music.”

  Reid rolled her eyes and sighed. How this rookie would survive in Homicide with a sunshine-and-rainbows attitude was beyond her. “Do you have your phone?” she asked.

  London nodded.

  “And the keys to the truck?”

  “Right here.” London fished around inside her coat pocket and held them up. “Why?”

  “Shut off your phone. Follow me.”

  * * *

  London grimaced at her new pager as they made their way to the undercover parking lot. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into trading in my iPhone for this.”

  “You’ll get your precious iPhone back when we catch this bastard.” Computer Crimes had already determined Reid’s cell was compromised. They were checking London’s now, too. Part of her was relieved to find out the killer had hacked her phone. At least it put a dent in her theory that he was psychic. A ridiculous theory, she told herself. In all her years on the job, she’d never met one, and—in spite of her own ability—wasn’t even sure they existed. There must be more people out there who could do what she did. But she’d never made any effort, whatsoever, to find them. She had no desire to network with people who could talk to the dead. All weirdos, most likely.

  She unlocked the door to her Camaro, grabbed Mug’s leash and portable water bowl, and tucked the keys behind the visor. Computer Crimes would do a sweep of the car and let her know if a listening or tracking device had been installed. They’d already checked Boyle’s truck—it was clean.

  London led the way to the truck, and they both stepped to the driver’s side. Reid held out her hand. “Keys, please.”

  “No way. My truck. My keys. I drive.”

  “This isn’t your truck. It’s Boyle’s. And I’m training you. Not the other way around. Trainer always drives.”

  London crossed her arms, unyielding.

  “Besides, I said please,” she added, in a last-ditch effort to get her way.

  London nodded. “True. That was a big step for you.” She thought for a moment. “Okay, I’ll make you an offer. If you can get through one whole day without cursing, these keys are yours.”

  “Shit. A whole day? Like, twenty-four hours?” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone that long without dropping the F-bomb. Maybe never.

  “One whole day. Starting now.” London glanced at where her Apple Watch would have been if she hadn’t turned it over to Computer Crimes.

  At that moment, Reid realized she hadn’t heard London swear—not once—since they met. Was this rookie actively trying to tarnish the image of a proper Boston cop? “Have you ever cussed?”

  The rookie shook her head. “Never.”

  “Never ever?”

  “Nope.”

  “So shit, fuck, bitch, and asshole”—she watched as London visibly flinched with each cuss word—“are totally absent from your vocabulary?”

  “Totally.”

  This Goody Two-shoes thing ran way deeper than she’d imagined. London might, in fact, be beyond her help. Reid shook her head. She definitely had her work cut out for her if London had any hope of sticking it out with Homicide. “Tell you what. I’ll let you drive for the next six months if you promise to expand your vocabulary to include the words I just listed.”

  “That’s hardly worth compromising my values for. And let’s not forget, I’m the one with the keys. I get to make the rules.”

  Reid was tempted to wrestle them from London’s grasp, but something told her the rookie would give her a run for her money.

  As if reading her mind, London added, “I grew up with an older brother who practiced his wrestling moves on me. Don’t even think about it.”

  “Fine.” Reid walked around to the passenger’s side and helped Mug climb into the back seat.

  Chapter Ten

  London slipped behind the wheel of Boyle’s truck as Reid fastened her seat belt. “You only get one chance.”

  “For what?” Reid asked, her thoughts already on the case.

  “These.” London held up the keys before starting the ignition. She tapped the dashboard clock. “If you can make it until ten thirty tomorrow morning, I’ll happily relinquish the driver’s seat.”

  Reid tried to remember how long it had been since she was a passenger in someone’s car. Sixteen, she realized. The day she’d gotten her driver’s license. She’d bought a car with money saved from her lawnmowing and snow-shoveling jobs, filed for emancipation, and was living on her own before her seventeenth birthday. The last two years of high school were a sleepless blur. She’d managed to graduate on time while working a full-time job to pay her own bills. She’d never accepted a drop of money from the state. Those two years were, by far, the most challenging of her life. But it had all been worth it. She would’ve done just about anything to get out from
under her grandmother’s thumb.

  London extended her hand across the empty space between them and waited.

  “What the hell?” Reid asked, jolted from memories of the past.

  “Shake on it.”

  “Shake on what?”

  “Our no cursing in exchange for keys to the truck deal. And hell counts, by the way.”

  Sighing, Reid slipped her hand around London’s. “There. Now drive.”

  “I will. If you ask nicely.”

  Reid brought her fingers to her temples. She felt a headache fast approaching. “Would you please be so kind as to provide transportation to my place of residence?” she asked, doing her kick-ass impression of a British accent.

  London sat up straighter and answered in the clipped accent of a fellow Brit, “Oh yes. It would be my pleasure, Inspector Sylver.”

  “You just dropped me down a rank.”

  “I know, but we were in England. Inspector just sounded better.”

  Reid turned away to hide her smile as London threw the truck in drive and pulled out of the lot. This rookie was something else.

  * * *

  London was glad to be back in Reid’s company. The detective hadn’t offered any explanation as to why she’d decided to return, and London didn’t press for the details. Something told her Reid’s decision had less to do with her desire to solve the case and more to do with some unforeseen outside circumstance.

  With Reid a reluctant passenger, she felt more in control behind the wheel of Boyle’s truck. No matter what happened with Reid—regardless of whether she was in or out of this investigation—London promised herself she would see this case through to its rightful conclusion.

  Even if that meant compromising the detective beside her.

  After Marge’s murder, one thing had become clear: the killer was focused on Reid like a hungry predator tracking wounded prey. If Reid had a secret that the killer knew about, which appeared to be the case, then perhaps it would be best for everyone if that secret came to light.

  * * *