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Sam didn’t know what showed on his face—he suspected some pleasure at the thought of a well-delivered smack to a man who’d treated so many so badly—but Mila gave him a chastising look. “I can talk to Mr. Lawrence.”
“You willing to let him ogle you and call you that li’l Mexican gal Maria?”
She grimaced. “I’ll call him.”
“What if he tells you to work or you’re fired?”
That word, fired, brought a reaction from her again. “I can find another job.” She didn’t look excited by the possibility, or even convinced of it, but he didn’t have any doubts.
“How…” This was one of the hard parts of conversations like this. “What is your financial situation like? Can you afford to miss a few days?”
Her gaze shifted past him to the street, and he became aware of the raindrops hitting the glass. “I’ve got some money saved.”
Define some, he wanted to say. Enough to cover her living expenses for a month or a year? Enough to pay for her hospital visit and Poppy’s safe-from-the-bad-guy checkup? He had some saved, too, quite a bit considering what he was paid, but if he lost his job tomorrow, he would get antsy pretty fast.
She laid her hand against the glass as if she could feel the drop in temperature the rain brought, the rise in humidity, the sticky start of the drops that would turn sweet and fresh soon. “I’ll be okay. I have some savings, and Gramma would never let me starve.” She said the last with a smile.
“You’re lucky to have your gramma.”
“More than you know.”
Amid the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, Jessica spoke for the first time. “What time did you tell your boys to be here, Sam? Everything’s ready except the eggs, and I only do eggs to order.”
He glanced at his watch. “They should be here—” A rap sounded at the door, and he headed that way. “I told you, Jessica, don’t go to any trouble.”
“I love cooking, so it’s no trouble at all.”
He opened the door to Ben Little Bear, Daniel Harper and Lois Gideon. The detectives both wore T-shirts and cargo shorts, the baggy pockets providing plenty of carrying space for pepper spray, handcuffs, extra magazines and anything else they didn’t carry on their belts. Lois, the only one actually on the schedule for today, was in uniform. She wore her department-issue slicker, while the guys were splattered with rain.
Sam provided introductions, then gathered them around the table. Jessica had already laid out platters of hash browns, pancakes, bacon and sausage patties, biscuits, and toast. On the island were glasses, coffee mugs, creamer, milk and juice. “Jessica, this is too much,” he protested.
“There’s no such thing as too much. How do you want your eggs?”
“Over easy,” Daniel answered, and Ben’s “Sunny-side up” was right behind. Daniel caught Sam rolling his eyes and said, “Hey, my many talents do not extend to cooking. I’ll take an over easy egg wherever I can get it.”
“Yeah, Sam,” Lois jumped in. “Your mom still cooks for you whenever you want. Most of us don’t have that pleasure. Mine over easy, too, Jessica, please.”
Sam wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing, inviting the team for a meeting. Maybe it would have been better to talk to Mila alone, to press her about the note left on Poppy’s collar and its meaning. But he wasn’t the most unbiased soul in the room, and he also wasn’t the detective in charge of the investigations. His role was on the periphery, and he liked it that way.
He waited until most of the food had disappeared as if a horde of hungry vultures had fallen on it. Jessica cleared the dishes, and Daniel refilled everyone’s coffee, then expectant silence fell over the table. Mila, sitting between him and Jessica, looked acutely uncomfortable. She’d drawn into herself, her head ducked, her shoulders rounded. He was half-surprised she didn’t draw her feet onto the chair, hug her knees and try to squeeze into an even smaller space, the very picture of forlorn.
Sam nodded to Ben, who cleared his throat. “We went by the house yesterday, secured the window temporarily, made sure everything was locked up. Daniel stopped by this morning to get some clothes—” Sam had forgotten all about those “—so if nothing matches, it’s his fault.”
