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Harlan produced a small carved horse, making both Kit and Baz frown. It wasn’t a bird. They both always got birds.
“It’s for Luna,” Harlan explained. “She saw me carving the last time you brought her out to the farm and asked if I’d make her one for her birthday.”
Baz’s face softened at the mention of his five-year-old granddaughter. “She’s going to love it, Harlan. Thank you.”
“Well.” Harlan cleared his throat gruffly. “You’ve been there for us more times than I can count. So thank you.” He held out a fourth carving. A bird. “For you.”
Harlan had started giving Baz and Kit carvings at the same time. Kit, so that she could remember Wren. Baz, so that he wouldn’t forget about the victim whose murder he’d never solved.
Baz didn’t try to aw-shucks his way out of the gratitude. He’d been the detective who’d worked Wren’s case and was not as callous as fifteen-year-old Kit had assumed.
Wren’s murder had been Baz’s very first homicide case. It had shaken him, and his attempts to distance himself from their grief so that he could do his job had come off as cold and unfeeling. He’d been anything but, having helped them track down every lead ever since.
That they hadn’t found Wren’s killer was not from lack of trying.
Baz slipped the carvings into his own pocket. “I’ll make a video when we give Luna’s to her. Be prepared for squeals that could break glass.”
A door opened behind them and their lieutenant’s voice cut through the bullpen noise. “Constantine, McKittrick. With me. Now.”
A chorus of ooooh came from their fellow detectives, like they were all in middle school. Which wasn’t far off for many of them—behaviorally speaking—despite being mostly middle-aged men. It was how they coped.
“Gotta go,” Kit said. “Sorry, Pop.”
“I need to pick up your mom and our new kid. Wish me luck.”
“You won’t need it,” she said. “I give the kid a week before she’s calling you Pop.”
“Unless she’s like you,” he teased. “Then it’ll be four years.”
“I was a little stubborn,” she admitted.
Baz snorted. “A little?”
“Shut up,” she told him without heat. “Pop, I’ll be there on Sunday for dinner.”
Harlan gave her another rib-crushing hug. “See that you are. Your mother worries.”
Betsy McKittrick did worry about her. She and Harlan had been the only ones who ever had.
“I’ll be there.” She started walking backward toward her lieutenant’s office, not turning until Harlan had passed through the double doors.
Straightening her spine, she slid both carvings into her pocket before opening the lieutenant’s door. “What’s up, boss?”
Reynaldo Navarro gestured to the chairs across from his desk, handing them each a sheet of paper. “Transcript of an incoming call. Audio’s been sent to your email for your listening pleasure.”
Kit scanned the transcript before looking up with a frown. “He mentioned me?”
“In particular,” Navarro said. “Listen.” He hit a button on his computer and the voice of a very nervous-sounding man filled the air.
“Hi. This message is for homicide detective Kit McKittrick. I have reason to believe you’ll find the victim of a murder in Longview Park at the following coordinates.” He rattled off a string of numbers and the call ended.
Kit tried to place the voice but came up empty. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him before.”
Navarro shrugged. “Well, if he hasn’t met you, he at least knows of you. I want you two to check it out. Report back. Baz, you can go. Kit, stay.”
Damn. Kit had a feeling she knew what was coming.
When Baz was gone, Navarro sighed. “You skipped your appointment. Again.”
