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And yet, I fold my arms and watch the man crack his beer open.
Drink yourself to death, Armando.
I’ll place a flower on your grave in thanks.
“Were you aware Mr. Alves suffered cirrhosis of the liver?”
Aguero sips his beer and acts almost as though I haven’t spoken. His greasy hair flopping over his forehead, and his weak arm coming up to support the very thing that will kill him.
Finally, he looks at Archer. “What?”
“His liver was diseased,” I press, forcing the asshole to focus on me. “Additionally, his white blood cell count indicated leukocytosis. This is not always something to cause concern,” I step to my right, following Aguero’s eyes when he’d prefer to look at the wall. “Does your garage deal in tires, too, Mr. Aguero?”
“Tires?” He takes another sip, dismissing me. “We’re a garage, Ms. Mayet. We trade in all sorts of things to do with cars.” His reddened eyes swing to me. “Typically, women ask their husbands to deal with that stuff.”
Sure. And the husbands can deal with the lymphoma, too.
“Have you had blood tests recently, Mr. Aguero?” Off script. Way off script. “Might I suggest it?”
He scoffs and looks over my head again. “Detective? What is this?”
Archer pushes forward and comes to a formidable stop on my left. I’d bet, in his mind, his answer centers on ‘I have no fucking clue’. But out loud, he hums in the back of his throat and takes out a notepad and pen. “Had William been unwell lately, Armando? Cold-like symptoms? Unexplained absences?”
“He came to work every damn day, Detective. He was one of the best in the business, so if you’re thinking of sullying his reputation now that he’s not here to defend himself, then I?—”
“Not sullying,” Fletch moves forward, too. “We’re looking for a fuller picture, which is why the doctor is here. Was Billy unwell at all? Sniffly nose? Headaches?”
“Runny nose, I guess.” Armando sniffs, like thinking of his friend triggers the action. “He was scratching it a lot the last few days. Lots of snot. Tissues.” He takes another sip. “That sort of stuff.”
“Anything else?” Archer draws a picture of an island on his paper. Water splashing against the land. A little palm tree poking out of the center. “Any other medical issues?”
“Hives,” he grounds out. “On his arms. He said he was itchy a lot. Said the wife probably changed detergent or something.”
Archer draws a fruity cocktail beside the island, the angle of his notebook excluding Aguero from looking, but tilting it so I see it exactly. “Hives. That’s interesting.” He glances down at me, his eyes glittering. “Right, Doctor?”
“Interesting,” I agree. “Thank you, Mr. Aguero.”
“Is that it?” He steps forward when I step back. Expectant, like I haven’t provided him exactly what he would demand from a meeting like this. Perhaps he needs me to dance for him too, to assuage his entitlement. “There are no more questions?”
“No. I’m done.” I flash a pleasant smile and peer at my colleagues. “Are you guys done?”
“Yep.” Archer flips his notebook closed and clicks his tongue. “I’d say that about clears us up for now. Oh,” he looks to Aguero, “when, precisely, was Billy suffering from these symptoms? The day of his death? Or perhaps the week before? A month before?”
“I dunno…” He backs up to lean against his ugly gray counter. “About a week before, I reckon. I didn’t catch anything from him, though, and no one else at the shop caught it.”
“That’s because it wasn’t a cold,” I inform him, smiling when his bloodshot eyes swing to mine. “He wasn’t contagious. Thank you, Mr. Aguero. I hope you enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”
Turning on my heels and letting myself through the door, I hold my breath to avoid inhaling the stench of a grown man’s rot and charge down the stairs until I burst outside, July heat smacking me like a wall, and yet, I savor the fresh air as I greedily suck it into my lungs to replace the stale decay that was inside.
“What was that?” Archer follows me toward the car, striding to keep up with my brisk pace. “Mayet?” He presses his hand to the doorframe before I can open it and slide in. “What?”
“Aguero is a disgusting man. And chances are, if his liver doesn’t take him out in the next year, cancer will. I call that karma.”
“Are we ready to go back to Adrianna yet and finish this?” Fletch strolls closer, kicking rocks as he meanders our way. “We all know she did it, right?”
“I’m going on a honeymoon,” Archer sings under his breath. “Mayet’s gonna wear a bikini.”
“Shut up.” I shove him out of the way and yank the door open. “You got lucky this time, Detective. But luck doesn’t typically count in a homicide investigation.”
