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Tucker sat at Nicholls’s desk, a pile of papers spread out before him. As Barbara entered, he turned and stuffed something back inside his jacket pocket. Barbara couldn’t be sure, but it looked suspiciously like a flask.
Their eyes met. Damn it.
Barbara debated with herself. Tucker didn’t seem drunk. She hadn’t smelled alcohol when she walked in, and she had a nose for that type of thing. Growing up, she could tell you what her dad had been drinking just by entering the room. Beer meant a fast, furious blow-out, whiskey meant the rage would grow more gradually and often end in melancholy. Home-brewed moonshine and you got the hell out of Dodge.
“Something wrong?” Tucker asked her.
Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe it was just water. Barbara decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She didn’t have much choice. She needed him.
“No, just desperate for a coffee.” She smiled. “Can I get you one?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
She nodded. “What are you doing?”
“Just going over my notes from the Danes case.”
“Anything leaping out at you?”
“Not really.”
“Right.”
She walked over and peered down at his desk. There were photographs in the file: the crime scene, Todd’s body and one of Todd and Nathan together that she didn’t recall seeing before. Perhaps she had flicked past it, more intent on studying the details of the murder. You could be guilty of that as a cop. Too intent on death to take notice of the living. She hadn’t registered how similar in appearance Todd was to Marcus. Skinny, blond, a wide, easy-going smile. It was slightly eerie.
Nathan was different. He looked away from the camera. His hair fell over his face. She could feel his discomfort at being photographed. She stared at him, trying to see the man in the boy. Certainly, they shared an odd awkwardness. But she still felt like she was missing something. She put the photo down.
“How did it go with Marcus’s parents?” Tucker asked.
“Pretty terrible. Did you speak to the tattooists?”
“Yeah.” He sat back in the chair. It creaked worryingly. “I said I was looking to get a tattoo. Apparently, Be Damned Tattooists shut three years ago. But a couple of the tattooists take on custom work.”
“Like a Helsing symbol?”
“I asked about that. The guy got cagey. Asked me to leave my name and number. Said he’d pass it on and, if the tattooist is interested in the job, he’ll get back to me.”
“Okay.”
Of course, they could just be leading themselves on a wild-goose chase. The tattooists could have nothing to do with the Doc’s death. The Doc’s death could have nothing to do with Marcus. But why did Dalton have the card in his wallet? She didn’t like the coincidence.
“What about the Doc’s realtors?” she asked.
“Spoke to a nice lady called Tammy. Got the feeling my call livened up her day. Seems the Doc was planning on retiring to Ontario. Been over a couple of times to look at some nice lakeside properties.”
“How nice?”
“Around the three million mark.”
Barbara whistled through her teeth. “Doesn’t sound like a man about to kill himself.”
“Nope. Sounds like a man expecting a big payday.”
“But where from?”
Their eyes met, the answer striking them both at once. Barbara got there first.
“A cull,” she said, the idea so obvious it felt like a slap in the face. “A whole colony cull. That’s why the Doc paid the boys to fake the video.”
