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“Black, but thinning and graying.”
“Eye color?”
I say nothing, so the silence carries between us and brings Tiffany’s scribbles to a halt.
“Detective?” she prompts.
“No comment. Run what I said, and include contact details so the public can reach us. I’ll send Brody’s drawing over the second I have it. Thanks for this.”
“No problem. Oh, and, Detective?” she calls out as I pull the phone from my ear.
Frowning, I bring the device back and wait.
“Um…” she hesitates. “I just wanted to pass on my well wishes for Chief Mayet. We were all witness to the bank robbery last month and Doctor Mayet’s resulting injury. I know she’s back at work, which implies a certain level of healing, but a blind man could see the sling holding her arm and the pain she thinks she’s hiding in her eyes. I just… I hope she’s doing okay.”
“She is.” And even if she wasn’t, I’d protect Minka’s privacy long before I engaged in small talk with someone I hardly know. “I’ll talk to you in the next ten hours and get that image across. Thanks for running the story. We appreciate it.”
“I appreciate the scoop,” she counters with a grin. “I’ll set it up right and get you the information you need.”
“Thanks.”
Tugging the phone from my ear and forgoing the polite goodbyes most folks think necessary, I toss my phone on the countertop and drag my laptop closer instead.
I don’t use it all that often, because it’s slow and clunky and annoys me even more than the shitty computer I have at the station. But Fletch already mentioned Interpol and NCIC, and I took a spin through N-DEx before leaving the station. Those three alone hold a lot of intel cops can pull from. But there are still a dozen more databases available to us, and I have time. So I’ll sit here for a bit and see if I can pull something together by morning.
Then I’m going to bed and dragging my wife closer so we can both sleep the way we need.
Together. Touching. Forever.
MINKA
Iwake with a start and a dull throb in the ball of my shoulder that leaves me mildly nauseous. It’s still dark out, but hints of sunrise tease the edges of our curtains, so I know we’re only an hour or so from a brand new day of tracking down a killer.
Better yet, I’m fresh off my Factor infusion, so the ache in my shoulder is the only complaint I have. Which is a pleasant surprise, considering the brain fog I was battling during the second half of yesterday.
Archer’s heavy leg pins mine to the bed, and his arm squishes my stomach. His lips sit against my good shoulder as though permanently plastered there, and his breath bathes my arm and sends tingles throughout my body that compete with the sting of an overfull bladder.
I turn my head to the left and catch the welcome sight of a glass of water on the bedside table, right beside the tiniest shadow I know is a pill.
Because this is what Archer does. He takes care of me.
Slowly, with difficulty and using only one arm, I scooch to the left, edging my way toward the side of the bed. The fact I’m not naked, which is abnormal for our usual sleeping arrangement, makes getting space from my husband that much easier, since our skin doesn’t stick together.
Carefully, I inch out from beneath Archer’s leg and gently lower it to the mattress, then I lift his arm and set that down second. Fully free, I sit up with a muted groan, and close my eyes when my head swims and my body sways where I sit.
I’ve done this every single day for a month. I’m used to sneaking out of bed, grabbing my pain pills, and breathing through the nausea, grateful for the knowledge that a single tablet and a little breakfast will clear the cobwebs away. So I crack one eye open and grab the medication between my finger and thumb, and tossing the little pink capsule onto my tongue, I reach next for the water, and drink the whole thing in one go.
I don’t know where my phone is. Or my briefcase. I don’t know where my belongings are, or what day it is, but Idoknow Archer is safe and asleep behind me, and a dead body awaits me at the George Stanley. So I swallow my medication, confident that the worst of my pain will be gone in minutes, and the rest can be managed with willpower and a hearty meal.
Pushing up from the bed and stretching my toes when my feet tingle against thin carpet, I hold my arm tight against my belly and pass Chloe sitting by the door. Awake. Vigilant. Arctic-blue eyes shine, even in the darkness, and her bright white coat provides a beacon.
Because she gets off on annoying me, she bounds to her feet in my wake and chases me into the hall.
She probably wants me to feed her. Maybe scoop her shit and cuss her out. But I turn left into the bathroom instead, and flip the shower on the second I can reach the taps. I don’t touch the light switch.
Hugging my bad arm close and using my good one to unhook the button of my pants, I make my way to the toilet and plop down with a grunt to take care of business. And while I do that, I reach up and undo my poorly positioned sling.
A hiss sprints past my lips as my arm droops and my shoulder works to catch the weight, but I set the fabric aside and kick off my pants while I’m going.
