I stop watching steam float under the bathroom door when Brandon’s groggy voice sounds down the line. I’m shocked by the huskiness in his tone. He sounds as if I woke him. With Theresa’s team dwindled to half a dozen men, I thought she’d have all available agents working on my case. It’s what I’d do for a fellow agent. You don’t rest until the case is solved. That’s why my sleep has been so lacking the past five years.
Deciding to end one pandemic before starting another, I say, “We fucked up.”
Although I could place all the blame on Brandon’s shoulders, some of it belongs to me. I was so caught up unlocking years of frustration, I didn’t adequately assess what was happening. We didn’t go to Regan’s ranch for a naughty weekend. We went there because Regan’s life was threatened. Her safety should have been my only concern. Instead, years of restlessness and unrealistic promises were on the forefront of my mind.
I’ll never regret a single moment I’ve spent with Regan, but I’ll forever regret that my stupidity almost cost me everything. I’m not talking about my life, either. I’m referring to Regan’s.
“We agreed the assailant was five foot eight with sandy blond hair and a waif-like build.”
Brandon murmurs, either in agreement or because he’s still in the process of waking up.
“Danielle was recorded as five foot seven on her arrest documentation. . .” Brandon attempts to talk, no doubt to assure me an inch difference in a mental calculation of a perp’s height is not uncommon, but I continue speaking, foiling his endeavor to lessen my anger. “. . .and she has mousy brown hair.”
“She could have dyed it.”
I work my jaw side to side. “It was also noted in her file that her hands smelled of bleach—”
“Because she cleared Regan’s apartment of evidence Friday night,” Brandon interrupts, speaking to me as if I am an idiot. “That shows our case was thorough, not done in haste.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I furiously shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Danielle smells like bleach because she works at a poultry farm. Her main task is to clean the feeders each day—with bleach.”
Brandon takes in a sharp breath, but I can tell he isn’t one hundred percent persuaded by my evidence. That’s okay, I’m confident the next fact I hit him with will have him climbing over the fence.
“The constant wet conditions her hands are immersed in is the reason they’re covered with dermatitis. They’re scaly and red—nothing like the electrician’s hands we captured on surveillance.”
“Fuck,” Brandon murmurs, the truth smacking into him as perversely as it did me when I stared at the angry red welt on Regan’s pasty white skin last night. “But we arrested Danielle. Her fingerprint was in the glove canal. That evidence can’t be undone.”
“The evidence is right: Danielle was in Regan’s apartment Friday night. She just wasn’t alone.”
I give Brandon a few minutes to absorb the facts. I’m not doing it because I understand sometimes you need a breather. It is because I also need a moment. The facts were right in front of me, staring me in the face, but I ignored them. Even with my job on the line, and Dane’s livelihood at stake, it was the most idiotic thing I’ve done this week.
After a few silent seconds, Brandon asks, “What do you want me to do? I could run video evidence back through an analytic recognition software via an expanded search. Even without his face, shoulder width, height, and the way he walks, we could discover a match.”
My lips twist, impressed. I didn’t know we had software capable of tracking someone by their swagger. If I did, Isaac would have been arrested years ago. You can’t have attitude like his without the pompous walk to back it up.
Realizing I’m reflecting my anger in the wrong direction, I return my focus to Brandon. “Run the data, but use the footage obtained last night. We may have his face on camera.”
“Footage?” Brandon asks, clearly confused. “I don’t know what footage you are referring to.”
“From the incident at HQ. . .”
Silence—lots and lots of silence teems between us.
“Where I was assaulted. . .”
More silence.
“I was jumped on my way out of the office last night. How do you not know this?”
“You were assaulted while on duty?” The shock in Brandon’s tone exposes his confusion is authentic.
Even though he can’t see me, I nod. “They took my gun and badge. I don’t even have my cell.”
I’m not sure why I added the last comment. Probably more to ensure he’s aware my phone is compromised than wanting it cited in my report.
“When did this occur?” Brandon’s words are barely heard over the stomping of feet.
“Approximately 11 PM. I was out cold for a few hours, so I could be a little off on the timeframe. I was found in the alley by Regan just before 1 AM.”
