Page 79 of Dancing in the Dark

30

FLETCH

We didn’t get out to our vic’s office yesterday, since those port authority wankers rejected our formal requests almost as soon as we sent them, cited some bullshit erroneous numbering system, and made us start again.

I did not snap at Markum.

I fielded twelve—count them: twelve—separate emails asking for clarity on things anyone with a kindergarten-level education could have figured out on their own.

I did not snap at Markum.

And then I went home to my girl, only to answer my door forty-five minutes later to a beautiful Seraphina Lewis waiting on the other side, her long hair left to hang loose, her dress draped over a body built to model fabric, and with a box of colorful ingredients for a recipe she wanted to cook with Mia.

I informed her over dinner that even though I wanted to, I did not snap at Markum.

I’ve got this shit on lock.

Now I have an entire new evening with Sera and Mia stored away in my memory bank, their happy smiles tattooed to the backs of my eyes, their peeling laughter playing repeat in my mind, and the only sour part of the evening: watching Sera leave, because she’s not ready to confuse my baby by spending another night.

Lame.

Now I head up the hill toward Archer’s not-a-mansion in a crappy, dented, rusted-out police cruiser, with my foot pressed all the way to the floor, since the old engine isn’t up to the task of much more than a flat surface. It’s still relatively early, which means I’ve left Mia in Miss Penny’s trusted care. Hell, I’ve even cast Sera out of my mind. Mostly. Because we’re on day three of a homicide investigation already, and we don’t have shit.

Bureaucracy is a bitch.

Pulling off the road and into Archer’s winding driveway, I bring the hiccupping car to a stop at the end of a trio of shiny black SUVs. The one closest to mine is the one Minka rides in most days.

A single guard stands at attention by the wrought-iron gate shielding the front door. He’s not brandishing a weapon, visibly, nor is he wearing camo or all black. He’s just a dude in a suit, with a crew cut, a diamond-sharp jawbone, and a mean right hook. Probably.

Snatching the keys and shoving my door open, I ignore the groan of metal on metal, then, climbing out, I slam the door shut and dip my chin for the guard. “Archer in there?”

“Good morning, Detective Fletcher. Detective Malone is still here.”

“And Delicious?”

Curious, he lifts a questioning brow.

“Chief Mayet,” I clarify with a grin. “Doctor Death. Doctor Dimples. The Head Hoo Haa. She goes by many names.”

“She’s here, also.”

“Great. Thanks.” As his steely stare goes back to scanning the yard, I continue forward, moving from concrete to fancy Spanish tile, I think, then from there to the glistening inside tile that spans the entire bottom floor of a house that was once the main headquarters for some seriously shady mafia shit. “Archer?” I speak loud enough to make my voice travel, glancing right as I pass the base of an ornate staircase, then left to a large sitting room, complete with a grand piano, tall wing-back chairs, and a fireplace that won’t need to be lit until December, at least.

I follow the hum of conversation all the way to the kitchen, where I find Mary and Steve working on one side of the massive stone counter. Breakfast scents waft on the air, and now the duo cleans up in companionable cooperation. They rinse pots. Wipe pans. Stack the dishwasher. Archer sits at the counter, one foot on the floor while the other perches on the low bar of his stool, and six feet to his right, Minka paws around in her purse and pulls out a container of pills I know make him nervous.

Harrison, Mayet’s not-a-guard, stares, and Cato loiters by the back door, one foot kicked over the other.

He stares, too.

“I swear to God. If you people don’t find something better to do with your time, I’m going to blow.” She snatches a pill from the container and sets it on her tongue. Dropping the rest back into her bag, she strides across and steals Archer’s coffee, chugging half and sending the pill spilling along her throat and down, down, down to help her not die.

Hopefully.

“We’ve been doing this for a couple of weeks already.” Frustrated, she sets Arch’s mug back onto the counter with a noisy snap and pokes a pokey finger right in his face. “You’re making it weird.”

He grabs her finger and yanks her in, tugging her off balance and catching her in his lap. “I won’t apologize for worrying about my wife.” He drops a kiss onto her lips. Then a second. A third. “We’re on a whole new batch of medicine now that Jen got the go-ahead to make you more. Who’s to say she didn’t forget an ingredient?”

Minka rolls her eyes.