He sighs audibly, and I bite down a retort. “Sure.”
“Can you find out who visited Connor Maddox at the prison?”
“I can request the visitor logs, no problem. Why?” His detective hat is back on, and I see his thoughts whirring.
“Just curious.”
He nods. “Alright, Dr. Murphy. I’ve got a case to build. Beer soon?”
“I’d like that,” I say. And I meant it.
Jonesy is waiting outside the door, one foot resting on the wall as he leans back, scrolling through his phone. I’m tired. All I want to do is sleep, preferably with him. If only he could do it without acknowledging it in any way.
He slides his phone into his pocket, looking me up and down before nodding.
“Come on, Dr. Murphy. Let’s get you home for a well-deserved afternoon off.”
Chapter Fourteen
Jonesy
The waiting is the hardest part. We won’t have access to Maddox’s backyard, which has become the crime scene of the year, until they’re certain all the remains have been removed. Then there will be autopsies, although given the state of decay, I’m not sure autopsy is the right word. I’ll have to ask the she-devil for the correct terminology.
Speaking of which, we’re sitting around her kitchen island, drinking coffee and having an okay time. And by that, I mean we’re not clawing at each other’s throats or making snide remarks. Sure, we’re not cuddling with my fingers stroking the undersides of her tits, but we seem to have found a middle ground which is uncharted territory for us. We’re both quiet, probably to avoid bursting the mutually respectful bubble we’ve somehow created in the last few weeks.
Most of the work we can do has been done, and we’re currently on standby. I should head back to base to catch up on my regular duties, buthonestly, I don’t want to face another interrogation from Colonel Rogers or Sergeant Major Tilly. My presence in this case is purely symbolic. I’m not adding anything useful except a second pair of eyes.
I take a sip of coffee, watching Katie flip through the interrogation notes from the initial interviews. Taking a look around her unfinished kitchen, I keep thinking about how maybe she would sleep a bit better if her environment weren’t a construction site. Half-built walls, exposed wooden beams, no tiles behind the stove, rooms unpainted. It’s a mess in here, and I wasn’t kidding when I said it looked like a dump. Whether she likes it or not, this is going to take a lot of work.
“What room are you working on at the moment?” I ask, curious, as every room needs work.
“Oh, well, I called off the renovations afterThe Posercase started. I was too busy to oversee anything, and I just delayed it.”
Jesus, she really has been living in this space for a year with all this equipment lying around. “So, what were they working on at the time?”
“They were doing the kitchen. It’s basically done. I just need to fix the wall, plaster everything, and then it’s pretty much all cosmetic.”
Right . . . she just needs to fix a wall.
“Do you have the materials?”
“Yeah, I mean that wall isn’t a supporting wall; it just needs to have the plywood secured,and then I can add the drywall, plaster it, and then I can prime it and paint it. But it’s just finding the time to get it done.” Her tone is calm, as if it’s not a big deal to do all of those things, but if that were true, why hasn’t she done it?
I glance around the space again, spotting the plywood. “We have this afternoon.”
“Right now?” She scoffs, her eyes rolling.
“Why not?”
She pauses, looking between me, the wall, and the materials, biting her lip.
“Obviously, we can’t do everything today. We could just fix the wall,” I say softly. Maybe it’s the enormity of the project that’s bothering her. Maybe it’s that I’m the one suggesting it. I want to ask her why she hasn’t made any progress in a year, but more than that, I want her to offer up the information freely to me. I don’t want to have to pry the information out of her like she’s the one under interrogation.
“Okay,” she concedes, lifting her chin with determined grace. “Let’s attach the plywood.”
She jogs upstairs to change into something appropriate for construction, and I take the time to roll up the sleeves of my uniform and inspect the materials. The plywood is a little dusty, and I wipe down the top of it with my thumb. She’s got a nail gun and, fortunately, all the nails we should need. Given that the structure of the wall is built, it's just a case of nailing in the plywood, which appears to be cut to size already. Thisshould only take a couple of minutes to attach. Maybe more if she were doing it alone, but still. It wouldn’t have taken more than an hour. The drywall and the plastering will take time as they’ll need to dry out, but again, once it’s done, you’ve just got to plug in a dehumidifier and let the dry air do its thing.
I hear her shoes clomping down the stairs and turn to her. She’s wearing skin-tight leggings and an old flannel shirt unbuttoned, a tight white tank top beneath, her ample cleavage providing me with just enough of a show to give me a construction kink. Damn, she looks good. She’s tied her wavy red hair back, but the shorter strands at the front have fallen loose, framing her face.
