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“Tell me now!” she explodes. I swear, Ihearher feet pound pavement. “I’m hurrying, so tell me now.”
Entering my passcodes and alerting the system that I’m checking both little girls out of the fridges, I lock the computer screen again and make my way to the vacuum-sealed doors. “Archer told me that Tim went bananas because Felix was saying things about you.”
“What did Felix say?” Her voice comes lower, demanding, like this is the juiciest of all gossip.
“Something about how if you’re so interested in bagging a Malone, and Tim is apparently not interested, he—Felix—would be happy to take you off his hands.”
“Oh shit,” she hisses. “What did Tim say?”
“What do youwishTim said?”
“That he loves me and adores me and claims me for his own. I wouldn’t be sad if there was mention about my cute butt and killer work ethic, too.”
I shrug my coat off at the door and hang it for safekeeping, then I grab an apron and fumble the ties with one hand. “I don’t think anyone mentioned your butt. Except maybe Felix. But there was definitely talk of never mentioning your name againor else. And then Tim allegedly hit his brother and threatened his life.”
“Shut up! He hit him? For me?”
“Yerrrp,” I exhale, then I think of Franklin again, and how, according to him, men are the more superior, emotionally mature sex. “There was hitting and blood and bad moods.”
I go to Chelsea’s fridge and slowly roll her out to reveal a black bag with identification tags secured all over. Slowly, I drag the zipper down and find a little girl who deserves better than what she got. Better than even what Franklin is giving her.
He wants justice too, I’m sure of it. He wants Fentone in prison and a little girl’s death to mean something. But he’s too concerned about bureaucracy. He’s too caught up about being questioned and feeling uncomfortable on the stand to demand what’s right.
“How far away are you? I’m already in the fridge.”
“Five minutes,” she grumbles past a mouth obviously filled with spicy burrito. “Stopping to get you food too. What are we doing?”
“We’re going back to the start on Chelsea and Bella. Fine-tooth comb. We’re going to find the link that places Fentone with them at their time of death, because Detective Franklin wants this case on a platter. Unless we can deliver that, he won’t go to bat as hard for them as he could.”
“He said that?” she snarls. “He won’t even try?”
“No. It’s not so much that he won’t try. It’s just that he won’t stand up under scrutiny. He needs us to do the work for him, because he’s afraid of a big bad judge questioning his abilities.”
“Men,” she huffs. “They’re the biggest scam invented, I swear. They somehow claim to be the best sex, yet they’re useless without us.” She moves through a doorway that jingles when she enters, then requests, “Beef burrito, please. A big one with extra meat. You need the iron,” she says to me. “And the protein.” Then back to the restaurant worker, “Spicy. Extra guac. Extra beans. Those are good protein too. And as fast as you can, please. I’m running late for work.”
“You’re the best.” I study Chelsea’s peaceful expression, her lovely hair brushed back, and her plump lips, eternally set in a pout. Her lashes are longer than mine, and her cheeks still hold the chubbiness of what was, not all that long ago, baby fat.
Sighing, I leave her behind and move to Bella’s drawer to repeat my steps.
“I’ll see you in a few,” I mumble. “Let’s see how fast we can tie this up and get back to our apartments. First person to find something gets free lunch for a week.”
“And what exactly are you looking for?”
Carefully, I unzip Bella’s plastic enclosure. “Eyelash. Pubic hair. Saliva. Anything that ties Fentone to this body. We only need one, and everything else clicks into place.”
“Fine.” I hear her press her credit card to the machine, then thebeep-beepthat means I owe her money. “We’ll race for it. But, like, in a super professional, thorough way that’ll pass in court. No way do we risk our evidence being thrown out because one of us spilled burrito sauce on the body.”
Snorting, I step back so I see both girls. Both bodies. Both victims.
“We’ll do it right. On the record, everything by the book. Then tomorrow morning at seven, I’m sitting in on Fentone’s interrogation. I want to hear what he has to say. I want to look into his eyes when he talks of these babies.”
“Have you considered that Fentone just isn’t our guy? Thanks.” She speaks to the food worker, then the bell above the door jingles, and she’s walking on the street again, heading my way. “I mean, I’m not saying we’re wrong. Butwhat if, ya know?”
“That’s why we go through the steps. Every single one of them.”
Archer’s voice plays in my mind. His warnings. His demands.
“We collect irrefutable proof,” I say firmly. “Then we know we’ve got it right, and we can sleep at night knowing we put him away.”
