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“He’s not a regular guy.” I bring my gaze back to the detective duo. “Torture is usually the MO of organized crime bosses, not your standard murderer. Detective Malone?” I step away from the body while Aubree calls in transport, then I grab the recorder from my pocket and switch it off. “Can I speak with you before we part ways?”
“Of course.”
He has his own recorder. His own process for documenting a crime scene. So he hands the small device to Fletch, slips his notebook into his back pocket, and his pen in his breast pocket. Then, setting his hands on his hips, he falls into step beside me.
But he doesn’t touch. He doesn’t give anything away, since, fifty feet ahead of us, every news station in the city films our every step.
“You’re in pain, Doctor Mayet. You need to set this one down, go home, and catch some rest.”
“I need to be out of the apartment before I go insane,” I respond, my lips hardly moving, lest a lip reader is watching the news right now.
Coming to a stop about twenty feet from Aubree and Fletch, I turn on my heels and look up into my husband’s perfect emerald stare. “His eyes are missing, Detective.”
“I know.” His brows pull in tight in concentration. “I saw.”
“No,” I grit out. “I mean, his eyes are missing, DetectiveMalone. This was a professional hit, from entities well-practiced in their art. The killer isn’t afraid of leaving behind a clue… atell, if you will. And we’re both painfully aware that the Malones of New York are both organized, and collectors of eyes.”
“Wasn’t them.” He shakes his head instantly, without even a moment of hesitation. “It’s not their style.”
“Are you sure? Because the Malones have ties to missing fingers, too. There’s a connection there, Archer. And Felix isn’t here for me to supervise right now.”
“Felix is in Cuba,” he chuckles, like talk of his murderous, mafioso brother is something to laugh about. “And like I said, it’s not his style. Malones are known to take eyes,” he concedes, lowering his voice. “But none of the rest fits. The tooth extraction is wrong, the chair is wrong, the fingers don’t fit, and no Malone would toss a body off a bridge in broad daylight like a chump. Theyespeciallywouldn’t do it in Copeland, where they know you and I might land the case.”
“Comforting response,” I drawl.
But I’ll be damned if I don’t look up at my husband and fall a little more in love. His sharp jaw, with stubble coating each angle and plane. His short brown hair. His broad shoulders—the very same I get to lean on every single day.
Archer Malone was once a mafioso’s son. The second youngest of five brothers, and a beneficiary of what could be considered an empire, if only he’d stayed in New York to reap the benefits that his father set up before him.
So long as he was willing to accept the beatings and cruelty, too.
Archer left way back when he was sixteen, and eventually, landed here in Copeland, where he worked hard to become a homicide detective.
Timothy Malone the Third, the oldest of the five boys, followed Archer here. He turned his back on the throne intended for him, and instead, set up a bar in town, becoming the official alcohol supplier for most of the city’s first responders.
That left three Malones back in New York, Felix being the next oldest and the one in charge. Now, their father is dead, and thefamily business—which is the polite way of saying they’re a bunch of criminals—is being run by the one brother who, in my personal experience, has no scruples about killing a man, or tying him to a chair and leaving behind a calling card of sorts when he’s done.
Taking eyes istheirthing.
“I think you should make a call,” I insist. “Be certain this isn’t what I hope it’s not.”
“I am certain.” He looks down at my mouth, unable to ignore the impulse. But I know he controls himself, to an extent, because if we were anywhere else, if there were no press vans nearby, he’d lean in and drop a kiss on my lips. “I’ll call Felix and check in,” he assures me. “But I know this isn’t the handiwork of a Malone. I promise.”
I consider him for a beat, and the confidence in his stare. Then I nod.It’s not like I have any other option than to trust him. “I’ll take your word for it.” Our meeting finished, I turn on my heels and start back toward Fletch and Aubree. “How are things between you and Charlie at work?”
“Better.” He drops his hands into his pockets as we walk; his way to stop himself from holding my hand. Or supporting my weight. Or saving me from my obsessive need to work instead of rest. “Sometimes we hear ‘vigilante’ in the station, and things get kinda tense.”
“I imagine it’s an old reflex,” I mumble, fifteen feet from the pair. “He’s still processing. At least he’s not mad at me anymore.”
Archer snorts and gently knocks my good arm with his elbow. “There’s that. You heading back to the George Stanley now? Or home?”
I come to a stop ten feet from Aubree and peer across to Archer. “You know I’m not going home, Detective.”
“Worth a try,” he rumbles, while just a few feet away, Fletch smirks. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Lunch.” I catch sight of our transport van approaching from my left, still a hundred yards away. “Doctor Emeri bought us subs, and filled mine with meatballs and cheese.”
“They were so good,” Aubs moans. “Like, next-level,orgasmicgood. And I’m saying that now only because the recorders are off.”
