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“The owner of The Stitch gave us a list of their contracts.”
I rest my elbows on the table, my head in my hands, as my partner eats like a fucking pig and divulges details of a case the M.E.s have no right to know.
“He coulda forced us to get a warrant,” Fletch says. “But he was totally cool about it.”
“Is that what this is?” Minka reaches across the table and snatches the printed list by Fletch’s arm. She studies the first page, then flips to the next, the next, the next. “Jesus. Seems like they service every little restaurant, café, medical practice, and first responder in a twenty-mile radius.” She flips another page. Then another. “How are we supposed to figure this out?”
“Wedon’t.” Reaching across, I snatch the sheets and hold them out of her reach. “Fletch and I do. That’s literally our job. Do you not have something else to do, Mayet? Maybe you should call the mayor and assure him you’re not planning to kill him.”
“Har-har.” She glances down at my lunch and steals a small cluster of forgotten beans. “I don’t make a habit of killing people, Detective Malone. How can I,” she tilts her head to the side, “when you insist on spendingallyour spare time in my space?”
“Don’t act like it wasn’tyouknocking on my door last night.” Snagging my Coke, I bring it to my lips and sip while the unflappable Mayet’s eyes grow more dangerous. “Don’t get too smug. I fight like I fuck.”
Aubree slaps a hand over her own mouth and gasps. “Like a dog? Is that… is that what you mean?”
Shaking my head and working to smother my smile, I glance to the middle of the table when a phone chirps with a call.
When the four of us sat down only fifteen minutes ago, each of us habitually reached into our pockets and took out our cells. It was funny for a moment. Then it was followed by rolls of our eyes as we tossed the devices to the middle of the table and left them.
Now, one of them trills.
Four sets of eyes go to the pile, but it’s mine that bleats, so I grab it up and bring it to my ear. “Detective Malone speaking.”
On my left, Mayet does a shitty job of acting casual, like she’s not leaning closer to listen in on my call.
“Detective. It’s McNamara here. I just got done with Perrone.”
“What did you get?”
If shrugs could be audible, I know the gentle sigh he releases would be the sound they make.
“The dude is a little fried. He says the guy is young, his face is kinda angular, his eyes are brown, but they’re blue, but they might be green, too.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. He could be five-seven, but maybe he’s five-ten. He’s probably a hundred and eighty, but maybe he’s a hundred and fifty, too.”
“What else did you get on the face?”
“Pointed jaw, soft skin.”
“Soft skin?”
“My take on that isyouthful,” he explains. “The guy is young.”
“Which plays into what we already thought.”
“Confirms your theory, at least.” Drawing in a deep breath, McNamara releases it on a noisy exhale and goes to work shuffling papers on his end. “No distinguishing marks. No sunspots. No frown lines. No crow’s feet. Imperfect smile, but Perrone couldn’t nail why. Perp has long lashes and a slightly pointed nose. But even that, Perrone couldn’t confirm. He had no clue his meet with the guy would someday be important, so he pushed it aside the moment it was over. And bringing what we have back to the surface is like pulling teeth.”
“Okay.” I glance around my table, having forgotten for a moment I was surrounded by my colleagues. My friends.Minka. It’s the last that feels so foreign, after weeks of silence. “So, have you got a face for me?”
“I’ve gotsomethingfor you, but even Perrone himself said it’s not right.”
I scowl at his words, then look down as Minka’s fingers touch the seam of my jeans. She’s merely exploring. Testing. It’s a touch, but it’s not sexual. “You’re saying heknowsit’s not accurate? But he’s running with it, anyway?”
“Yup, and no matter which angle I came at it from, he couldn’t figure out how to tweak it to make it closer. So what I’m sending you is rough.”
“Better than nothing. Can you email it?”
