Page 22 of Wrong Way

"These are all people who use neon prominently in their business presentation and market themselves with enlightenment or guidance language," he said. "Anything in the top ten you'd flag specifically, Kowalski? Anyone with a higher profile, a bigger sign, a more prominent location?"

Kowalski studied the reduced list for a moment. "The top three on the street presence alone would be the Celestine spot, obviously, which is already gone. Then there's a woman on East Sixth who runs what she calls an aura photography and healing studio. There’s a big custom sign, a prominent location, and she's been written up in a few local lifestyle pieces. And there's a wellness center on South Congress, six blocks south of the Celestine shop, that has a full window display of neon pieces. They run a high-end clientele, expensive sessions, spiritual life coaching and energy work."

Miles wrote both addresses on his phone. "We'll start there when we contact them." Miles looked at the list again. Yes, they had narrowed it by nearly half, but they were still talking about nearly fifty people. His gut pulled at him gently, and before he knew he was going to say it, he said, "I'm going to reach out to Kim and send her this list. She can work remotely and it'll speed up the process considerably."

Vic nodded and then, looking to Kowalski, she said, “Agent Kim is pretty much a research wizard.”

Miles stood, took the printed list, and walked out to the precinct lobby. It was quieter than the bullpen, a waiting area with a front desk staffed by a civilian officer on a call. Miles took a spot near the window, the afternoon light coming in at a low angle, and called Sarah.

She picked up on the first ring. "Hey," she said, and her voice had the particular warmth she seemed to reserve for when it was just him.

"Hey. I need to read you in on where we are. We’re going to need a bit of an assist here if you can manage it.”

“What have you got?”

He ran her through it, the theory about the victim profile, the list they'd compiled, and the fifty remaining names. She asked two sharp questions partway through and he answered them. It was all very professional—very cut-and-dry and to the point. When he finished, she was quiet for a moment.

"That's solid," she said. "I can start an hour or so from now. I’ve got some other small, task force-related fires I need to put out first.”

"I'll send our list as soon as I'm back at the table." He paused, and then, for no specific reason except that the lobby was quiet and he was tired and she was the person he actually wanted to talk to, he said: "How are you doing?"

She was quiet for a moment that lasted slightly longer than it should have. "I'm fine," she said. "I'm just…" She stopped and tried again. "Can I be real?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I miss you,” she said flatly. “I know that's a strange thing to say given that we're also talking every day for work, but it's not the same."

Miles wasn’t sure how to respond. He looked at the front desk officer, who was still on the phone and paying him no attention.

"I think about you a lot when you're not here," Sarah continued, and her voice was careful and unhurried, as if she had been deciding whether to say it for a while and had now decided. "More than makes sense given the circumstances."

"It makes sense to me," Miles said. He was aware of how he sounded, and he didn't walk it back. "I think about you, too. Probably more than I let on."

“Well, how about that?” she said. He could hear the grin in her voice. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm not sure what to do with it yet. But I'm not pretending it isn't there." He leaned against the window frame and looked out at the street. "When I get back, maybe we should actually talk about it. Not around it.”

"I'd like that," Sarah said. He could hear something relax in her voice, a slight loosening. "I'd really like that, Miles."

"Okay," he said. "Then that's what we'll do."

There was a brief, comfortable silence between them, the kind that didn't require filling.

"Send me that list," she said.

"Will do. Thanks, Agent Kim.”

“Shut up.”

He ended the call and stood in the quiet of the lobby for a moment, holding the phone. He gave himself exactly ten seconds to bask in that one positive note of the day—as well as the expectation of what that conversation might lead to.

But then he took a deep breath, turned around, and got right back to work.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The room was small and the light was low. A single lamp on the worktable pulled a warm circle out of the dark. This was how he preferred it. Overhead lights flattened everything and made the work feel like something else, something administrative and dull. The lamp made it feel like what it was: careful, considered, and close.

He had Catherine Valdez's website open on his laptop and had been reading through it for the better part of an hour. Not because it required an hour to understand, but because he found that sustained reading eventually stripped away whatever effect the language had been designed to produce. That left only the structure underneath.