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Climbing out of the cruiser and eyeing the already taped-off scene outside the club, I shut the car door and look left, only to catch my partner heading my way.
Better yet, he’s double-fisting to-go coffee.
“Fletch.” I accept the caffeine the moment he passes it off. “Have you even slept yet?”
“Nope.” He wears a long, black coat like mine, and a hat that keeps his ears warm. His breath fogs ahead of him, creating white clouds and reminding me my balls are already fucking frozen. “I got back to my apartment at one,” he says. “Wasn’t quite done doing what I was doing when the call came in.”
I cough out a quiet laugh. “You left some woman lying in your bed unsatisfied?” Shaking my head, I start forward. “You’re an embarrassment.”
“We’re supposed to be taking the day off!” He throws a hand up for extra emphasis on his words. And maybe for warmth. “I had all night to bang, and all day to sleep. Why the fuck are we freezing our assholes off when we’re supposed to be off duty?”
“Maybe they ran outta cops.”
I stop at the yellow tape partitioning off the crime scene and show my badge to the waiting uniform. “I’m Detective Archer Malone.” I nod to my left. “That’s Detective Charlie Fletcher. What have you got?”
“Evening, Detectives. A single Caucasian female, early to mid-twenties, dropped dead just outside the club. The call came in around thirty minutes ago.”
“Who called it in?”
The officer shivers under his jacket and checks his little notepad. “A friend of the vic. Simone Kelly. Twenty-three years old. According to her initial statement,” he stops and glances up at me, “what we could get out of her, they were celebrating a birthday tonight.”
“Whose birthday?” Fletch cuts in.
“Vic’s. We’ve got the friend on ice, over,” he looks to his right, “there. She’s sitting in the cruiser.”
I frown. “Do you believe her to be a suspect, officer?”
“No, sir. I just thought she’d freeze if she stayed outside for too long. She’s pretty shaken up about this. Lost her dinner already, and won’t stop screeching. She found the body.”
Rough sight to find for someone least expecting it.
“Alright. Anything else?”
“Witnesses say she was having some kind of seizure seconds before death. Foaming from the mouth, involuntary spasms, blood in her eyes. That sort of thing.”
Narrowing mine, I look to Fletch. “An unfortunate death of natural causes, or something a little more sinister?”
“Sounds like a mystery, gang.” Fletch flashes a wicked grin and grabs the tape to lift it.
I step under, and half a beat behind me, he follows. We pass the officer and head toward a shadowed patch of sidewalk, but before we can get too close, Fletch turns back and asks, “Do we have an ID yet?”
“Her friend visually ID’d her as Kiera Chase,” the cop reads from his notebook. “She’s a server over by the precinct.”
Like a suckerpunch to my gut, a reflexive “Shit” escapes my lips as I turn back to the club. “Fletch.”
“We’ve got it.” He walks beside me now so our shoulders bump, and his solidarity keeps me moving forward. I’d rather go back to bed and pretend this isn’t real, but that’s not what we get. That’s not our reality. “We do the job, Arch.”
“Detectives.” A slim woman who can’t be more than a day older than the victim pops up from her crouch by Kiera’s body. For the second time in almost as many seconds, my heart stumbles. “It’s cold out, huh?”
“Hey, Aubs.” Fletcher breaks crime-scene protocol and pulls in the assistant medical examiner, Aubree Emeri, for a fast side-hug that ends with her undignified squeak because he squeezes so hard. Releasing her, he scowls down at her tiny frame and her lack of layers.
She’s wearing a coat, jeans, and boots, just like us, but she’s not wearing gloves—unless you count the rubber kind—and her ears are pink from the cold.
“You’re freezing,” he grumbles. Protective, he takes his hat off, twists it, and plops it down on her head. “Don’t make me worry so much.”
The entire time they interact, my stomach whooshes. My heart aches, and though I’ll never admit it, my hands sweat. Because wherever Aubree is, Minka must be cl—
“Detectives?”
