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Fletch walks out beside me and offers a low five. “I think brain juice is cool as fuck. And solving a five-day-old murder in three and a half hours was nothing short of genius.”
“The maggots don’t lie.” I slap his hand and wander the hall beside my husband’s best friend. “Guess we’re going to Aguero’s now?”
“Wait!” Archer dashes out of the room Cardine guards and into the hall, his eyes wild with adrenaline… “Armando Aguero? Really?”
“That’s what the shirt said,” Fletch shrugs. “It’s one thing to say Adrianna borrowed her husband’s shirt to kill him in. It’s something else entirely to say she snuck Aguero’s shirt, massacred a man, tossed it, and hoped someone would read the no-longer-existent name label.”
“This one’s gonna piss you off.” Archer closes my door out front of Aguero’s Auto Body garage and waits as I fix my shirt. The bay doors are closed, the business not operating today. But it’s easy to see an apartment above, and curtains already moving despite the fact we only just arrived. “He’s a misogynistic, wife-beating, man’s man who thinks it’s cute that William kept his wife in line with a few love taps here and there.”
“He sounds charming,” I drawl. Licking my dry lips, I work to prepare myself for the man I wouldn’t mind introducing to a baseball bat—via the face. “He knew William was beating her?”
“Almost seemed to encourage it,” Fletch inserts, coming to a stop on my other side. “Sure as hell didn’t put a stop to it. His general opinion of Adrianna is that she was good only for cooking, making babies, and sucking dick. The fact she was looking for further education was a bother to him. And if she dared speak up or, god forbid, disrespect William, my general belief is that Aguero would not only encourage good ol’ Billy to deal with things their way, but he’d probably reward him when it was done.”
“So you’re saying I’m gonna want to stab the guy twenty-nine times in the chest and stomach?” I press my palm to my belly and allow myself this moment to feel disgust. To feel anger. And to wish he was our bad guy, all so we could lock him up for the rest of his miserable life.
But I don’t believe he is.
I mean, he’s a bad guy. He’s a poor excuse for a human being and an even worse excuse for a man.
But I don’t think he slaughtered his favorite little pet abuser. He especially didn’t do it to protect Adrianna or her daughters.
Exhaling a deep breath, I lower my hand and nod, which lets the guys know we can start forward. “What are you here for? Alibi?”
“Yeah.” Archer walks with his hands at his sides. His shoulder brushing mine as we move. “Just wanna get a feel for things before we tie this up.”
“And you’re aware he didn’t kill William, right? You know that?”
“Also yes.” He angles left as we approach the front of the shop and slams his fist against a heavy door that rattles on its hinges. “Just gotta cross all our t’s before I make an arrest and hand the file over to the DA.” Stepping back, Archer places himself in front of me as thudding footsteps echo along a concrete stairwell. He doesn’t block my view completely. But his shoulder sits ahead of mine. His arm, ready to swing out and grab me if the need should arise. “Get ready,” he murmurs. “Don’t punch him in the face.”
I gurgle out a laugh, though I swallow it down and school my expression as Armando Aguero—or at least, I assume it’s him—opens the door just two inches and shows us a single, ugly eye. “What?”
“Mr. Aguero.” Archer lifts his badge. “Detective Malone, again. Detective Fletcher is also with me.” Then he leans just an inch to the left, as though to expose me. “And Chief Medical Examiner, Minka Mayet.”
“Why is the medical examiner here?” His voice is ugly. His face. His entire existence, ugly. “No one is dead.”
Never mind my wishes to lock this rotted carcass up in prison. He’ll need a medical examiner in a year, anyway. Two, if he’s lucky. He lives a life as rough as William did. His skin is yellowing, his eyes, an unhealthy red. Capillaries are broken all across his face, and as he releases the door to scratch his arm, I send up a silent ‘not it’ for when the time comes and this man dies all alone, his liver giving out on him.
I can already see the call when it comes in. Unattended death. Patient died alone, his absence unnoticed until the shop began to stink of decay.
“She’s merely consulting on the case,” Archer explains. Truthfully-ish. “We’d like to come in and speak with you about William Alves, Mr. Aguero.”
“Have you solved his case?” Huffing, he opens the door the rest of the way and shows off an overweight body, but one that is already losing mass. Some might think he’s making positive changes in his life, but I see the muscle his liver disease is causing him to lose. I see the clothes swimming on his body. The scabs on his arms from scratching, and the blood under his nails from when he breaks the already brittle skin. “And why are you consulting with her?” He looks straight at me, then through me. “Cold day in hell when a man should ask a woman for help to do a man’s job.”
“Oh, well…” Archer steps in front of me again, shielding the ugly, dying man from my clenching fists. “I don’t always consider myself the smartest person in the room. And Doctor Mayet, often, is. We were hoping to ask you a couple more questions about William’s final days, if you don’t mind. Just to clear up his movements for my notes.”
“Fine.” Unhappy, he takes a step back from the door, then turns on his feet and trudges up the cold, hard concrete steps that lead to his apartment. He has to work extra hard to catch his breath, holding on to rickety rails screwed to the walls on each side.
He’s an exceptionally unhealthy man, and knowing he is, knowing he’s suffering, makes it easier for me to let his transgressions go. He supports, he even celebrates, domestic violence. He considers himself superior, purely because of his gender. But he’s dying, and he’ll do so without his little wife-beating trainee by his side.
Apt punishment, I think. And one that brings a small smile to my lips.
“What?” Fletch comes up close behind me, whispering, though not so low that Archer doesn’t glance over his shoulder. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing.” I remain patient, my steps entirely too slow as we wait for Aguero to arrive at the top of the stairs, but when he does, shuffling left, I come up and angle right, my sandwich of cops on either side of me.
Sometimes, I suppose, they’re protecting me. Other times, like today, I think they’re protecting the other person. “Mr. Aguero?” I take a single step forward, removing myself from the detective duo and standing on my own as our fourth heads to his battered fridge. He yanks the door open, bottles rattling, and takes out a beer before slamming it shut again.
As a doctor, I should stop him, right? I made a vow years ago to do no harm. To stop harm from taking place if I was able. And to heal those who need healing.
