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She had the directions on her phone by the time she reached her car and was standing beside Lieutenant Renata Sanchez at eleven-forty, a mere thirteen minutes from the call. The hood of Sanchez’s windbreaker was down despite the steady drizzle, her short hair flattened against her thin face, making her eyes seem even wider. She blinked against the rain, then pointed to where a medical technician was working the body under lights set up to augment the full moon, still high in the night sky.
“What have we got?”
“Not much,” Sanchez admitted. “This rain isn’t helping the situation.” She scowled up at the dark, misty sky like a parent noting bad behavior. Then she nodded toward a uniformed officer who was talking with a male and female jogger, both of whom looked close to losing their shit. “Those two found the body. We’re taking statements, but they don’t know much. Hell, they don’t know anything.”
“Jogging this late in the rain?”
“Apparently it’s some social media challenge. So many miles every day. Break the pattern, lose the challenge.”
“And that’s why I avoid social media,” Sara said. “And jogging.”
“You and me both. They found him about twenty minutes ago. No TOD yet, but the rain hadn’t completely washed away the footprints around the body, so I’m thinking they stumbled in pretty soon after our vic died.”
“You got lucky on the footprints. Right here, the ground’s a mess.” Sara frowned at the muddy, trampled turf. “And we’ve got trees on the perimeter and a paved road into the park. Hard to know where the perp came from or what direction he took when he left.”
“I don’t disagree. I’ve got a K-9 unit on the way, but I’m not optimistic. Lot of traffic through here every day, and the rain only makes it harder. And we both know the odds of matching a shoe print are slim. Especially in these conditions”
“Tell me about the vic,” Sara said, as they continued to walk toward the body.
“Marcus Braddock. A mediator. Sometimes court-appointed, but primarily does private dispute resolution. Part-time. The guy doesn’t need the money. We haven’t dug deep yet, but his bank account is healthy. Probably family money. Does a lot of volunteer work, especially with troubled teens and young adults. And somebody decided to play like they’re a B-movie bad guy and take a bite out of him.”
“Which is why you called me.”
Sanchez looked at her sideways. “Yup. You ever going to tell me why neck wounds get your juices going?”
“I’m a prosecutor, remember? All murders get my juices going.”
Sanchez shot her ayeah, right, look, but Sara just shrugged. Maybe someday she’d tell Sanchez about the way she’d found her father’s body, his neck ripped open, his sightless eyes staring at the dark, moonless sky.
Maybe.
But not today.
ChapterFour
“Rain,” Detective Severin Tucker said. “You wanna tell me why we’re always getting called out in the goddamn rain?”
“Clean living,” Ryan Doyle answered, eyeing his partner with amusement as he slid his ’63 Pontiac Catalina in beside an LAPD black-and-white. The flashing lights cast eerie shadows over the thickly wooded park, illuminating an ambulance and two unmarked piece-o’-shit vehicles that had homicide written all over them.
“I just got this dry-cleaned,” Tucker continued, his fingers running down the lapel of his perfectly tailored suit.
“Screw your wardrobe,” Doyle retorted as he slammed the gearshift into park and killed the engine. “For once I’d like to do our job without the humes getting the jump.” He shot Tucker a sideways glance. “No offense.”
“None taken.” His partner reached into the backseat for a slicker,Division 6stenciled on the back. He slipped it on before exiting the car. Doyle didn’t bother. Wasn’t as if he’d melt in the drizzle.
They circled the car, falling in step together as they left the pavement for the squish of the park’s damp grass.
“My date last night has a roommate.”
“Are we in a fraternity?” Doyle growled. “Don’t make me put in for another partner.”
Tucker flashed his most charming smile, which was pretty damn charming. “You know you love me.”
Doyle scowled. They’d been partners for going on five years, and no one was more surprised than Doyle at the way his so-very-human partner had grown on him.
“Just pick up the pace,” he chided.
Tucker fell in step beside him, and they slogged toward an officer in a rain-soaked slicker who was standing in front of the crime scene tape. The officer stiffened as they approached, his eyes widening like a deer caught in the headlights as he held up a hand. Like that could keep them out.
