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“For now.”
“Forever,” I growl. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”
“I’ll drop it for today.” Slamming his door and racing to catch up to my long strides, he reaches my side just a few paces before the front entrance of the building. “I’ll drop it for today, since I can see you’re really fucked up about it. It’s raw, you’re hurting, and I’m your friend who can tell you need to chill before you explode. But soon,” stepping onto the escalator a beat before me, he folds his neck to meet my eyes, “soon, we’ll talk it over. Because whatever it is, it’s poison. And you need to get the poison out.”
“I said I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“And I said I’m gonna drop it… for today.”
Turning back to the front, knowing even without looking that our ride on the moving stairs is coming to an end, he steps off the steel grate and onto the ugly laminate tiles that spread throughout our level of the station.
“We’re gonna put in a good day’s work,” he continues. “We’ll hunt this killer down and bring him in. We’ll close our case like the bosses we are, and then later, we’ll go to Tim’s and drink too much alcohol. You’ll tell me why your heart hurts, and I’ll tell you women suck and you were stupid for latching on to one. I mean, if we’re being completely honest, you probably shoulda learned from my mistakes. But here we are anyway.”
“Not doing the bit at Tim’s.” I walk past him and head toward the area commonly known as ‘the pit,’ where two dozen detectives and their desks were long ago crammed into one space, while our lieutenant has the privilege of escaping the stench of sweat and coffee by hiding in his shitty broom-closet-sized office.
“Closing the case first?” Fletch jogs to catch up. “Good plan.Greatplan. ‘Cuz we’re bosses, and just because we can’t solve Dowel’s case doesn’t make us crappy cops.”
“Uh-huh. Shut up now.”
“Sir?” A guy, maybe early twenties, six feet and a couple inches tall, steps in front of us. Then just a foot behind him, a second guy takes up his flank. The second is smaller. Shyer. Not quite as brave as the first. “Are you Detective Malone?”
I stop in front of the duo and catalog everything I’ve been trained to catalog in the space of a breath. Hair, eyes, skin, and height. Weight, stance, scars and ink and more.
Fletch stops beside me, studying the two the way I do.
“Detectives Malone and Fletcher?” the guy tries again. “That’s you?”
“I’m Malone.” I reach forward and offer my hand to the braver of the two. “You are?”
“Garret Mulroney, sir.” He takes my hand and shakes it with a firm pump, then glancing over his shoulder, he adds, “and this is Gage Steerer.”
“Okay, Garret and Gage.” I shake the second’s hand before taking a step back. “How can we help you?”
“We were told you’re the homicide detectives investigating Paul McGregor’s murder.”
Instantly, my brows furrow as I look the guys up and down once more. “You heard correct. What do you need from me?”
“It’s actually, uh, what you need from us, Detective. We hurt Mr. McGregor.” Garret offers his hands once more, but this time, they’re palm side up and in position for me to slide a pair of cuffs on them. “I killed Paul McGregor.”
“Well, hell.” Fletch moves forward to snap a pair of cuffs around the second guy’s wrists. “This was the easiest case I ever had to solve.”
