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“Luminol,” Sam realized.
They’d sprayed his walls with luminol. Looking for blood. Because they thought he’d killed someone. Or several someones, from what McKittrick had said.
“Oh my,” his father said faintly from behind him. “This is... wow.”
His mother took Sam’s arm, gently pulling him from the bathroom. “You can’t stay here, honey. Get a change of clothes and bring them back down to our place. I’ll get some food for Siggy. You can stay in our guest room until this is cleaned up.”
“It’ll take me days,” he mumbled, numb.
“No, it’ll take a crime scene cleaning service days,” his mother said, leading him down the hall to his living room. “Bill, take him and Siggy back to our place. I’ll make some calls.”
Sam had the presence of mind to be surprised. “Mom, how do you know about crime scene cleaning services?”
She sniffed. “From TV.”
“True-crime shows,” his father said mournfully. “She’s gotten addicted to them.”
Sam couldn’t help it. He laughed and laughed and laughed until his eyes leaked tears. In his mind, he knew this was normal—a release of endorphins after a traumatic experience. So he let it all out, laughing until his gut hurt. When he finally caught his breath, he found himself sitting on his sofa, his parents hovering, their expressions worried.
He wiped at his eyes. “Sorry. I guess I have some sh—stuff to work out.”
Ann raised a brow. “Nice save, son. Now go. You’ve been up all night. Get some rest and we’ll figure all of this out.”
“I have to have a suit for Monday.”
“I’ll grab one and call the dry cleaner’s for pickup,” she promised. “Go, Sam. Sleep.”
Heaving a sigh, he lurched to his feet feeling like he was walking through molasses. “Thanks, Mom.”
Standing up on her toes, she kissed his cheek, then swiped gently with her thumb to remove her lipstick. It was such a familiar, sweet gesture that his eyes stung again.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered.
“So am I,” she whispered back.
Blinking hard against a sudden wall of fatigue, he leashed Siggy and followed his father downstairs.
SDPD, San Diego, California
Saturday, April 9, 8:30 p.m.
Kit tugged on her uniform cuffs as she hurried down the hall toward the bullpen. She hadn’t worn her uniform in a long time, but it was clean, so that was a bonus. She caught up with Baz, who was opening the door to Homicide.
“What’s going on?” she asked, because Navarro had only told her to come in right away and to wear her uniform.
“I’m assuming some sort of statement from the captain since we’re in uniform. Navarro didn’t say.”
There were several detectives in the office, none wearing uniforms. All of them looked up when Baz and Kit entered. After a split second of silence, Howard Cook started to clap. The others joined in and Kit knew the story had broken somehow.
“Jig’s up,” she murmured to Baz.
“Did you really think we could keep something like catching Driscoll quiet until the autopsy came back? It was bound to get out.” Baz gave their colleagues a dramatic bow, drawing chuckles and snorts. “Thank you, thank you.”
Connor Robinson poked Howard in the shoulder—harder than he’d needed to if Howard’s wince was any indication. Howard was one of their oldest detectives, nearing retirement, and his partner was big, brawny, and brusque. Kit didn’t think Connor even realized he was being so rough. “Howard’s just happy you closed a case so we can have cupcakes.”
Because that was how they rolled here in Homicide. Solved murders got cupcakes, and it was Howard’s turn to hit the bakery.
Howard shrugged. “It’s true. But congrats, guys. This is a big one. Huge.”
