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“Why are you answering the phones?” I counter. I could be an Olympic athlete with how high I jump over the sand comment. “That’s not your job.”
“It’s only eight-thirty here, boss. Reception doesn’t start till nine. So if the phones ring before then and I’m already sitting at my desk…”
“Shit.” I reach across and grab Mary’s arm, wrenching her hand from her pocket and checking the time on her watch. Eleven-thirty a.m. “I forgot the time difference. Does that mean Aubs isn’t there yet?”
“No, she’s here.” She moves from wherever she was sitting, the wheels of her chair rolling across the tile floor, then she opens a door so the seal creates that telltale sucking sound. “Want me to transfer you upstairs? I saw her waltz through about twenty minutes ago.”
“Yes.” Releasing Mary, I turn away and plop my ass on the edge of Felix’s bed.If only he knew. “Please transfer me up. I need to speak with her.”
“Someone dead?” Plastic wrapping crinkles along our call. The food kind of crinkle. Not the laboratory instrument kind.There’s a difference. “Did you kill someone?” She inhales a sharp breath. “Did you kill Detective Malone? Because I’m gonna be real with you right now… I can see it. He can be kinda needy sometimes.”
“No!” I flop back on the bed and drape my arm over my eyes. “Just transfer me up, Raquel. Jesus.”
“You’re awfully grumpy for a woman currently sailing the seven seas with a hottie.”
“I thought he was needy?”
“He is. But he’s also hot. They’re not mutually exclusive. Why’d you call the George Stanley instead of Aubree’s phone directly? She has a cell, Chief. Your recent pay increases mean we can afford those now.”
“Please transfer me up,” I groan. “I need to speak with her. Not you.”
“First of all, that was rude.” An elevator’s ding rings out on her side of the line. “Second of all, I am transferring you. Currently. Right now.”
“You’re walking the phone to her? Seriously?”
“Yeah. What can I say? I’m a romantic, and you’re on a honeymoon with a hottie who freakin’ adores you. You turned a badass homicide cop into aneedydude. That’s pretty romantic in my eyes.”
“He’s not needy.” Well… maybe. Sometimes. He’s needy in the bedroom. And when we’re on the couch at home. And when we haven’t seen each other or talked for a few hours. “Raquel?”
Ding!
“Aubs!” Raquel charges through the elevator door and across the tile floors I know too well. I see in my mind the glass walls that surround the entire ninth floor. The glistening panes reflecting off the sun. I feel the cool air-conditioning and I hear the comfortable silence. The doctors who work in the quiet… except for those using power tools to saw a vic’s skull open.
Raquel pushes through another door—the suck of the air releasing gives her away—then she steps into my office. “Hey. What are you doing?”
“Working.” Oblivious to my presence, Aubree’s tone is serious. Low. Concentrating. “I have this hunch that’s kinda bothering me. And I know Detective Fletcher is really under the pump on the Savese case, so I’m looking to get him the answers he needs.”
“You look pretty good there at the chief’s desk,” Raquel taunts. “Comfortable? Looking to oust the boss and take the throne for yourself?”
“No,” Aubs mumbles. It’s ridiculous that her denial releases the coiled knot I had no clue was twisting in my stomach. “I prefer it when Mayet is here.” Taking a breath, she seemingly pauses whatever it is her mind focuses on and makes her voice a little more enthusiastic. “What’s up?”
“Chief Mayet is on the phone.” Raquel tosses the cordless device, so I feel the thump as I land in Aubree’s lap. “Lucky you didn’t mention our rebellion while she was listening. Might’ve hurt her feelings.”
“For god’s sake.” Aubree fumbles the phone and straightens it in her hands. Then bringing the device up, she sits back inmy chair, so the frame groans in protest. “Hey. You okay? Why didn’t you call my cell?”
“I don’t have my phone, and I don’t know your number. So I called the building. What hunch do you have?”
“You called to discuss work?” She sits tall again, the chair squeaking, and types at my computer so I hear the clack-clack-clack. “Okay. So this guy, Martin Weston, was forty-seven years old and crapped out approximately ninety-six-ish hours ago.”
“Four days?”
“Right. But he lives in Augusta, Maine. He was otherwise healthy apart from the blood pressure pills he was prescribed a year or so back. Former track athlete, father to three. Those kids are all young adults now. One of them has a kid.”
“So he’s a grandpa from Maine. What about him?”
“He also dropped from what investigators believe may be poisoning. Autopsy reports, which are what I was reading before you came in, indicate several similarities between his and Arun’s deaths.”
“But…” I push up to sit and glance across to a perpetually patient Mary. “He lives in Maine. People poison guys in Maine too, Aubs. Doesn’t make it yours or Fletch’s problem.”
