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The kid comes to us, just as Minka ordered him to. He knows nothing, he saw nothing, he touched the evidence a fuck of a lot, and he’s really fucking sorry for disappointing the beautiful new chief M.E. he’s enamored by.
Enamored. That’s the word he used.
Fletch earned himself a boot to the leg because he couldn’t keep himself under control while interviewing our sort-of witness. Then after O’Dey left, he nearly earned himself a fist in the mouth.
“You’reenamored.I’menamored.” He sits back at his desk and lifts his feet to rest on a stack of files on top. “We’reallenamored by the lovely Doctor Dimples. How was your night, Romeo? Romantic?” He pauses. “Satisfying?”
“You’re gonna wanna stop, Fletch.”
“I dropped by your apartment last night to hang out and watch the footage with you. But I, uh, overheard some stuff.”
“I’m about to shoot your fucking face off.”
His chest bounces with laughter. “Thesqueak-squeakkinda stuff. So unless you got a confession to make to Delicious, I’m gonna assume she was the one with you.”
“Stepping over the line, Fletcher.”
“Sounded like she was enjoying it.”
“Fletcher!” I shove up to stand, and draw eyes from across the pit full of detectives. “It would be bad form for me to commit murder inside the homicide division of the cop shop. But I’m willing to cross that line.”
“You’re super sensitive.” Giggling, he drops his feet to the floor and steals the top-most folder from the pile. Pushing up to stand and grabbing his coat from the back of his chair, he swings it on to cover the two guns strapped to his chest.
He likes to keep them there—for show, maybe. Probably for practicality. But I prefer to keep mine a little more accessible.
To live the life I’ve lived teaches a man to be just that little bit faster on the draw. And the difference between living and dying often rests on microseconds and whoever’s hand was quickest.
“Come on,” he continues on a laugh. “We’re going for a drive.”
“Where?”
“We have two stops. Opulus first.”
“Why?” I follow him out of the pit and onto the escalators that dissect the bowels of the building. “What did we miss?”
* * *
It’s barely past nine in the morning, which means clubs like Opulus should still be soggy from the night before. The place sure as shit shouldn’t be open to the morning drinkers, but Fletch walks through the front doors without pause, only to slow and look around for a moment before locking his gaze on to the single occupant sitting at the bar.
“Garzo?” I keep my voice low so only Fletch can hear. “What?”
“I heard he wants to talk to us. And when Garzo calls…”
“He’s looking for a cash infusion,” I sneer. “Fletch!”
“Anthony Garzman.” Ignoring me, my partner wanders forward and shakes the middle-aged rat’s hand. “You look… necrotic. New haircut?”
Garzo’s entire two hundred pounds of hard life jiggle with quiet amusement. He sits with a half-consumed beer on the bar, but the bartender is nowhere to be seen. “I deserve that, I ‘spose.”
“Ya think? The last time you said you wanted to talk, you took our money and gave us bullshit information.” I slide onto the stool on the man’s left, while Fletch moves in on his right. “Kinda makes me think you owe me fifty bucks, Garz. That why we here?”
“I don’t have money for you.” He picks up his beer and takes a slow sip so the froth stops to rest above his top lip. “But I heard some stuff down at the bay last night.”
Already, he has my attention. But I sure as shit don’t show him that.
“You heard some gossip and thought we might pay to hear it?” I scoff and glance along the bar. Still, no bartender. “Not interested, but thanks for wasting our time.”
