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“It’s drinkable, I promise.” He leaned toward Dante and continued in—for Morrison—a hushed tone, “Have a cup so you don’t hurt Carol’s feelings.”
Wondering what the fuck was happening in his world that a senior citizen had charmed Ivan Morrison, Dante grabbed a cracked but clean-looking mug and filled it with coffee. Then he proceeded to add three creamers and three sugars. Morrison watched with disgust.
“How do you drink it like that?” He shuddered.
Dante ignored him and took a sip of the hot brew. The cream and sugar masked the bitter flavor.
“What’s the news conference this morning about?”
Was André going public about being shot at yesterday? That would surprise Dante. Taking a second sip of the doctored coffee, Dante waited for Morrison’s reply.
The big man sat down first, one elbow on the scarred table. Rolling his eyes, Dante sat down as well.
“I assume you know about the remains that have been discovered over the past few months? Today was the first I’d heard about them.”
Dante nodded.
“Right. Well, it’s about them. André told me the mayor arranged for a forensic anthropologist to come in and help excavate and identify them. Turns out he’s her son—not André, the anthropologist guy. Anyway”—Morrison waved a large hand, almost knocking over his own mug—“he arrived about an hour ago, and he and André are holed up nailing down what to say and how to spin it.”
“Huh.”
It had been a long night for Dante, with little sleep. His skin felt twitchy and too fucking tight. He needed to lay eyes on André, to prove to himself firsthand that the man was still in one piece. Last night he’d forced himself to focus on Daniella instead of texting André, but it had been close to impossible. Having Morrison around to keep an eye on André made Dante feel slightly better—even if that’s not what Hatch had intended by sending him to Cooper Springs. The issue was that Dante wanted to keep watch over André himself, forever and always.
Fuck. Fucking hell.
Dante rubbed his chest, directly over his pounding heart. He could almost hear Simone in his head, laughing her ass off at his predicament. She’d teased him forever about being a player, using his job as an excuse not to settle down.
“When you fall,fratello mio, it’s going to be fast and hard and forever. I kind of feel bad for whoever it turns out to be. The man will need the patience of a saint.” She’d paused, watching him closely over her glass of merlot. “No, actually, I feel sorry for you. You aren’t going to have the first clue what to do. I’ll give you a hint—try not to be a caveman.”
Morrison cleared his throat and Dante looked across the table. He must have been quiet for too long.
“What?”
“How do you want to play this? The news conference is in twenty minutes.”
As much as Dante wanted to protect André himself with his own body, to stand menacingly at his side, he did not want to end up with his face on national TV. That was not lying low. If that happened, he would deserve the scorn André would shower on him.
“You stay here with André.”Guard him as if your life depends on his survivalwas implied. He drained the last of his coffee in one sugary rush. Rising from the table, he rinsed the cup out in the tiny sink and set it on the counter. “I’m going to check in with him and then I have a few things I want to follow up on today.”
“Anything you’re willing to fill me in on?”
Dante shook his head. “Nope. Not yet, anyway.”
Abandoning Morrison in the tiny room, Dante went back out and around the front desk, then down the corridor where he assumed André’s office was. The first door he opened, however, was not what he was looking for. The space wasn’t much bigger than the breakroom, but instead of a table and chairs, there were sets of shelves and each one was packed tight with cardboard boxes. The boxes had dates marked on them with permanent marker or ballpoint and were labeledEvidence. There was no room for more.
“Jesus Christ.”
He shut the door and continued to the last door along the hall. Just past it was the exit to the parking lot. Without knocking—that way, André couldn’t say no—he twisted the handle and pushed it open, nearly banging the door into the back of the occupied visitor’s chair.
“Oh, hello, Dante.” André’s lips did something complicated, hinting he was amused by Dante’s entrance, and he glanced at his watch. “I’m impressed it took you this long to get here. Ethan Moore, this is... an associate of mine, Dante Brown.” Dante felt his hackles rise at André’s use of the word associate. “Dante, this is Ethan Moore. He’s going to be leading the team recovering and identifying the remains.”
Ethan Moore looked to be in his forties. His dark hair was just beginning to go gray at his temples and he had the skin tone of someone who spent time in the sun. Crow’s feet had formed at the corners of his eyes.
“It’s a pleasure,” Ethan said, standing up and offering Dante his hand. “Well,” he amended, “the reason I’m here isn’t a pleasure, but closure is important, and that’s why I do this.”
Against his better judgment, Dante immediately liked Moore.
During his career in law enforcement, Dante had found that the forensic community could be roughly divided into two categories. The first were those who created a thick wall between themselves and the work they did. They were not compassionate; for whatever reason, they couldn’t afford to be. Remains were a job to them, and one they wanted to get through as quickly as possible.
