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“Archer.” Miranda London, former hotshot news reporter and the woman Minka Mayet loathes most in this city, purrs on the other end of the line. “Long time no speak, handsome.” I see the smile I’m certain crosses her lips. The fire-engine-red lipstick she wears, and the cruel twist of her grin that says she’s about to make a mess of someone’s life. “I saw you on Channel Nine this morning.”
“Ms. London.” I say her name, not to acknowledge her, but so Minka knows who has called—which, as predicted, leads to a menacing line forming between my wife’s brows. “Can I help you with something?”
“It is actually I who can help you, Detective.”
I pull the phone from my ear and hit speaker, and rubbing a hand through my stubble, I stop barely short of sighing audibly. Because Miranda London is back and wants attention, and though Minka literally saved her life once upon a time, it appears the favor has gone forgotten for the sake of taking up our time instead.
“What?” I ask her. “What do you think you can help with?”
“I caught that segment this morning and remembered the time you asked me to run a similar piece. You had a dead body and no identity. The pregnant woman whose child was taken.”
Melissa Boyd.
“That case was long ago closed, Miranda.” Fletch stalks closer to the desk and glowers down at the phone. “You missed the train on your round of applause.”
Shetutsin the back of her throat. “Am I to assume you have another dead body, Detectives, and no identity?”
“You’re to assume nothing,” I bite out. “You’re a civilian, and we don’t speak about active cases with those.”Except Minka and Aubree.“How are you feeling, Miranda? Last I heard, you were still in the hospital after your run-in with the Opulus Killer. Are you back to normal?”
“Back and better, handsome.” She makes her voice roll, and her words come out on a vibration. “So now I figure it’s time I boot Little MissSweet-and-Humblefrom my chair and take my job back.”
“Well, that was a fun catch-up,” Fletch growls. “We’re busy, so we’re gonna—”
“Luckily, some folks still remember me as their number one news reporter,” she cuts in savagely, in spite of Fletch’s dismissal. “My face is hard to forget. My existence, not one easily set aside.”
She stops for a beat and lets her words hang. In response, Minka’s eyes come to mine.
It’s no secret between us that Miranda and I once shared a bed. It was a long time ago, a meeting of two bodies and absolutely no feelings. It was neither satisfying, nor something to be repeated, no matter how desperately Miranda wishes it would be.
Minka knows all of this. And she and I are stronger now, better than we were when Miranda was last present in our lives. We’re untouchable, and I’ll be damned if Miranda gets to reprise her role and drive a wedge into what we have.
“I’m hanging up, Miranda.” I snatch up my phone and turn it my way in preparation. “I’m glad you’re feeling better and out of the hospital.”
“Don’t end the call yet, handsome. I still haven’t told you my reason for making contact.”
“I know,” I drawl. “Yet you’ve been on the phone for three minutes already. We’re busy, and it sounds like you’ve got plans with your life. So I wish you w—”
“Aaron Davies.”
I can practically hear her smug satisfaction when everyone on my side of the line stills.
“Got your attention now, don’t I, boys?”
“Who is Aaron Davies?” Fletch grits out.
“He’s dead,” she simpers. “But according to his lovely wife, that’s the identity of the man you have in your morgue today.”
ARCHER
“Hi there, Mrs. Davies.”
Fletch and I find ourselves inside yet another woman’s living room. She has a well-lived-in home, in a neighborhood of mid-income families who can afford their mortgage and car payments, and maybe one vacation a year, but that’s it. There’s no extravagance here. No boats in driveways. No BMWs parked outside.
We’re a fair distance from the bay, and nowhere near the hills where the wealthier retreat to look down over their city.
It’s just… midline here, with manicured lawns, and kids who are neither elitist, nor below the poverty line.
But it would be a lie if I said I didn’t check the dining chairs I spied across the room upon our arrival. None have the ornate scrollwork to match the one fished from the river. Additionally, an even number of them, eight, remain tucked around the table.
