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“So you’re confident Adrianna Alves is your killer?”
“No.” I reach up in frustration and scratch the stubble coating my jaw. “It appears too easy. Too obvious.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” Jones murmurs. He stops bouncing his leg and rolls his lip between his fingers instead. “Maybe she went for the obvious, wanted her abusive husband out of the picture, and is counting on your flair for the dramatic to take the heat off her. No one wants a boring homicide, Malone. There’s always got to be a twist. A mystery. Intrigue sells papers.” He releases his lip and flashes his hands, almost like “ta-daa!” “Maybe it really is as simple as it appears and you’re running yourself in circles just so you can feel important.”
“And maybe you wish you could cut it as a cop.” Fletch bristles. “You failed, Jones. Punked out. You tried to fuck with the mob, screwed your case, and now you teach.” He wrinkles his nose, mocking. “Those who can’t do…”
“You came to me for help,” he grits out. The smug satisfaction in his eyes is gone now that his failures are up for public fodder. “You came to me!”
“We came to Adrianna Alves’ college,” I insert. “We came to speak about her. You’re just a coincidence that’ll leave a stench on us for the rest of the day.” I turn my nose and sniff my shirt. “OCS, investigating cops in their own precinct, smell just as much as I.A.” Another sniff. “Gross.”
“You’re the mob!” He shoves up from his chair, the old leather peeling from the cushion and sprinkling to the floor when the chair hits the wall. “You were the fuckin mob, Malone! I was doing my job.”
“And now I’m doing mine.” I meet his anger with calm. His uncontrolled fury with confidence. “It sucks you got boo’d off the force for sucking so bad. But that’s on you. Talk to us about Adrianna Alves. Your name will be included in our files when this goes to trial.”
“Who knows,” Fletch taunts, “maybe you’ll get an attaboy for helping us out.”
MINKA
Istalk through my building around three o’clock and pass the hordes of technicians I think I’ve found peace with. Doctors who care about their patients. Medical examiners who cherish the idea of learning. Experts in one of the countless specialties surrounding death.
I inherited this building from a woman who didn’t give a single shit about her job or the bodies that rolled through. But she sure cared about the paycheck. She cared about the things she could buy, using the budget provided by the city.
That meant the team she led consisted of either overworked and underpaid staff who were on a fast track to burnout, or doctors just like her. In it for the money and their name on the news.
Thankfully, the latter have been removed from their positions of power and sent along to the Social Security office to claim their new paychecks. And the former… well, they’re who work for me now. And hell, I’m thankful for each one of them.
I pass through the ninth floor, made up of glass walls, glass windows, glass, glass, glass everywhere. Which is both handy and annoying.
Handy, because I know everyone is where they should be, doing what they should be doing, and no nasty surprises await me as I go in search of coffee.
Not so handy, because that means everyone can see me.
And I’m not exactly the type who enjoys chatting.
“Doctor Mayet! Hey!”
I drop my head back and glance at the ceiling with a groan as heels click-click-click across the tile floor. Seraphina ‘Fifi’ Lewis is a taskmaster who never seems to give up. She’s my public relations… person. And whenever anything hits the news and just so happens to have my name attached, she becomes my newest Velcro accessory.
“Minka,” she tries again, striding across the floor and following me to the heart—a.k.a: the coffee room. “Hey, I need to talk to you about the Alves?—”
“You need to talk to the detectives.” I lower my head and finish my trek, since I’m already close to the shiny, new machine the city bought us. Grabbing a plain white mug from the cupboard, though I’m at least ninety percent sure it belongs to Tim’s bar, I place it beneath the spout and ignore the section of the machine that allows you to grind your own beans and make your own coffee by hand. Instead, I hit a different button that automates the process, and simply watch in awe as magic is performed right in front of my eyes. “I’m not making a statement on an active case, Fifi. You know I’m not.”
“Channel Seventy-Nine won’t stop calling.”
“Channel Seventy-Nine is annoying at the best of times.” I move to the fridge and take out a small creamer. Though I know the snobs down at the coffee machine factory wouldn’t approve of me ruining perfectly good Italian roasted beans with something—anything—sweet. “Ask the detectives for a statement.”
“Could you…” The always confident, always uptight Seraphina’s voice trembles. “Could you call them and ask?”
Curious, I peek over my shoulder and meet her nervous stare. “Why?”
But when she crosses the small break room and snatches up the creamer I didn’t put back, I grab my coffee and turn to lean against the counter. She thinks she’s slick, placing the carton back in the fridge like the action would somehow distract me from my question.
“Fifi?” I bring my coffee up and smile behind the lip of the mug. “Why can’t you call the detectives yourself?”
“What do you mean?” She’s slow. Deliberate. Perfect in her skirt suit and silky blouse, sky-high heels, and long, cascading hair. “I could call them any time I like.”
“Well…” My lips curl higher. “Do it then.”
