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“But then she told you to go to hell,” Fletch seethes. “She rejected you, and you don’t like that shit. Two birds, one stone. You’d remove him. You’d punish her. And now your newest damsels become those little girls.”
“You’re doing society a favor,” I tell him. “Protecting the innocent and ridding the streets of the unworthy. It’s literally what you swore you would do when you got the badge.”
“You were fired,” Fletch grits out. “You were removed from the squad, your ego was smashed, and your self-worth was taken from you. But protecting Adrianna became your newest thing. You could feel good about yourself. You could kill an abuser. And you could justify your rejection by having the woman sent to prison and the little girls tossed into the foster care system.”
My phone trills in my back pocket, startling me out of our barrage against the man I could so easily toss on the stand in front of a jury and force him to defend himself against a murder charge.
It would be so easy. So gratifying. And yet…
I grab my phone and swipe to answer, then I take Minka’s elbow and pull her away with me. No chance I’m leaving her with Jones with my back turned. “This is Detective Malone.”
“Detective Malone, this is Officer Clay. We caught a break.”
“What break? Fletch!” I stalk an easy twenty feet across the lawn and leave Jones and his dog to themselves. Then when my partner catches up, I bring my attention back to the phone and set our call on speaker. Not too loud, but enough so the three of us can hear. Jones can stew for a minute. He’s not running anywhere. “What have you got, Clay?”
“The clothes, Detective. I’ve been trampling through trash for days, sorting garbage from every can and receptacle in a twelve-block radius. I got to the pile from West and Eighteenth today, which turned up the clothes our killer wore, soaked in blood.”
Minka’s eyes widen. Her pulse thunders in her throat, visible to anyone who dared to look. “Did you send them to the crime lab, Officer?”
“Um…” Surprised by her presence, but not necessarily thrown off by it, Clay audibly swallows. “Yes, Chief Mayet. I sent them off immediately. Now I’m calling you guys.”
“What kind of clothes?” I ask. “What sizes? Who do they belong to?”
“Men’s,” he answers quickly. “Three-XL. Black sweatpants with knotted drawstrings, and a shirt, dark blue, with Aguero’s Garage logo printed over the left breast.”
“Aguero’s?” Minka questions. “William’s boss?”
“Let’s head over to the crime lab,” I decide. Bringing my hand up, I roll my bottom lip between my fingers and consider. “Aguero was large enough to warrant that size.”
“But so is William himself,” Fletch inserts.
“Or Adrianna…” Minka adds thoughtfully. “Wearing William’s clothes.” She looks down at her shirt—her own—but I know she remembers those she wears at home. Mine, more often than not. “We’re not any closer with this discovery.”
“We’re closer. Thank you, Officer Clay. Keep an eye on that evidence. We’ll head on over there soon.”
“Yes, Detective.” He doesn’t say goodbye. He doesn’t chat. He follows instructions to the T, ends our call, and in my mind, at least, I imagine he gets his eyes on those clothes and refuses to blink.
“One thing we know for sure,” I murmur quietly, “is that Jones is not a three-XL. He doesn’t have easy access to Aguero clothes, and he doesn’t have the balls to stab a man twenty-nine times.”
“Wait,” Minka glances up at me. “What?”
“He’s a pussy.”
“So you don’t think it was him? And you let me go off about retribution and small egos?”
“Yeah.” I flash a taunting grin and prepare for her retribution. “I honestly can’t stand the asswipe, and I like the thought of him sweating on a Sunday. He might fit for motive, and chances are, he thought about it. He would’ve been pissed at Adrianna, while simultaneously wanting to protect her.”
“And he could pick his way through a door,” Fletch adds, “easily.”
“But he’s not our guy. He’s not emotionally invested enough to murder Alves. He might sign his email up to a million mailer lists just to be a bother, and if he still had his badge, I bet he’d pull the guy up every damn day for the rest of his life just to inconvenience him. But he’s not a killer. Not for someone else.”
“So you think he’s capable of murder?” Minka presses. “But not this murder?”
“I think he’s an egomaniac who considers himself overly important and displays several narcissistic behaviors. I think he’s absolutely capable of snapping someday when his feelings are hurt and his temper spikes out of control. But it won’t be twenty-something stab wounds in the middle of the night and clean enough to point toward someone else. He’ll run someone down with his car or shoot them in the back when they’re trying to walk away.”
With that, all three of us glance across and find the man standing right beside his dog. Pissing his pants in fear. If he truly thinks I married Minka for power over the city, then he believes I’m powerful enough to have him tossed into jail for a crime he didn’t commit.
The moment he’s handed a pile of orange jumpsuits and showering with other men, his life is over.
