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“Hell no.”
I blow past the police building and instead move into the massive driveway beneath the George Stanley. This is supposed to be a thoroughfare for cars passing through and moving along, but I park anyway.
Killing the engine, I snag the keys and slide out of the cruiser, then the moment Fletch climbs out his side, I meet his eyes across the roof. “Not a fucking word.”
His lips curl into a grin anyway, his head shaking as he slams his door shut. “Didn’t say a thing.”
“Keep it that way.”
I don’t snatch the bagged doll away from my partner as we head through the revolving doors, though I want to. I don’t run toward the elevator, though I want to do that, too. I keep my shit on lock, but anticipation sends adrenaline firing through my blood.
Anticipation to see Minka.
But more to see what’s inside the doll.
“Straight to the ninth floor?” Smirking, Fletch steps into the elevator on my left, and hitting the button, he forces the doors to close.
Exiting again on the ninth, we head toward Minka’s rapidly changing office.
Last week, it was Chant’s haven. Weird-ass chandeliers and too many couches to sit back and sniff whiskey on. The connected bathroom was where Chant—allegedly—spent time with figureheads who could advance her career, and the wall-to-wall windows is where she stood to look out over her city like some kind of evil empress.
Now, barely more than twenty-four hours after Minka takes office, it already reflects her personality. The chandeliers are gone, the couches repurposed and the one that remains, shoved to the side. The dusty old books in the bookshelf have been dumped, and the visitor chair no longer welcomes visitors.
Where Chant wanted to host her little powwows, Minka would rather everyone leave her the fuck alone.
Not an unwelcome change in administration.
“They’re not here.”
We stop at the glass walls and find Minka’s office empty, and beside us, Aubree’s desk vacated, so we turn and head toward the autopsy room instead.
“What exactly are you looking for while here?” Fletch asks. “Why here and not the precinct?”
“Because if we’re gonna start screwing around with evidence, it’s better we do it on the record and with a couple of witnesses whose credibility will stand up when Tribble comes at us. In here.” The moment I catch sight of Minka’s lithe body cloaked in a white coat, her hands wrapped in gloves, and her eyes covered in protective glasses, I take a sharp turn and stop at the door.
Aubree is dressed the same as her boss—coat, gloves, glasses. Together, they work over the little girl we’ve all been tasked with finding justice for.
“Let the record show Detectives Charlie Fletcher and Archer Malone are entering Autopsy Room One.”
Fletch and I remain completely silent, but Minka’s voice still makes my heart skip. She sets down her tools and glances up, and just like that, she holds me captive with the electricity in her gaze. She makes my stomach trip and my pulse run faster when she looks through those same eyes she does when we’re fucking, but now she’s Doctor Mayet, seeker of justice through science.
Swallowing the odd nerves in my throat, I push the door open and move into the sterile room so the smell of disinfectant tickles my nostrils. It’s better than the smell of death, I suppose. Better than the stench of the destruction put upon a little girl.
“Detectives?” Minka’s attention drops to Fletch’s hand. To the bagged doll. “Can we help you?”
“We’ve got something we wanted to take a look at, but thought we should all do it together.” Making his way forward, Fletch’s jaw tics at the sight of a dead ten-year-old lying on the table, cut open from the top of her chest down.
“On the record, Detective Fletcher?”
Nodding, he sets the bagged doll on a table by the wall, then he steps back and raises his hands as though to indicate ‘clear’. “On the record. Detective Malone and I have just come from the Thoma residence. Garry Thoma, Carlene Thoma, and Mayor Tribble were all there. As were the Thomas’ two remaining minor children, in addition to a handful of grieving guests.”
Scowling, Minka steps away from Louisa’s body and slowly peels back her rubber gloves, balling them, then tossing them into the trash as she passes.
My eyes narrow at a bruise that wraps around Minka’s wrist the way a watch band might, but before I can ask about it, she snags a fresh pair of gloves and moves closer to the bag.
“Chief medical examiner Minka Mayet, investigating evidence placed inside Autopsy Room One by Detectives Fletcher and Malone. I see a soft doll stuffed in a police department standard-issue plastic baggie. The doll has cream-colored arms and legs, a purple dress, and purple hair. The doll has blue eyes with cartoonishly long lashes, and a single line of stitching to indicate a small smile. The dress is predominantly purple, but with little pink and yellow flowers.”
Rolling her wrist as though to work through a deep ache, she looks across at me and asks, “Am I to assume this doll belonged to Louisa Thoma?”
