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I don’t have to see him to know he finds pleasure in my discomfort. I can feel his amusement in the air.
“He’s calling the nanny and getting her over to take care of Mia,” he tells me. “Then he’ll meet us on scene.”
“Can you call Aubree?” A long, noisy, wide-mouthed yawn takes control of my face and renders me unable to speak for almost thirty seconds. But at the end, I’m able to open my eyes and smile. “Four o’clock in the morning sucks.”
“I’ll call Aubree.” Standing in a tank top and holding his shirt, Archer reaches into his back pocket to snag his phone.
Meanwhile, I study his shoulder. His still-healing bullet wound from last month.
He isn’t back to normal yet, and if he ends up in a hand-to-hand altercation while on duty, I worry he’ll be at a severe disadvantage. But excluding anything strenuous, he’s recovering well. He can move his arm easily, rotate his shoulder, and do most of what he could prior to injury.
His time spent at the gun range, according to his best friend and partner, proves his aim hasn’t been affected by the bullet that pierced the muscle. His fitness barely took a hit, after such a short time off work, and now that he’s able to again, Archer spends an hour or two every day that he can inside the police precinct’s gym.
Finally, his time spent with me, in our home, especially in our bed, says he’s most of the way back to normal—and as though he has a point to prove, he’s more selfless than ever.
It’s like he feels he has to be strong, selfless, generous, to prove he’s okay.
“Are you sure you want to come? Babe?” Archer holds his phone in one hand, but his gemstone eyes lock onto mine when I glance his way. “You’re the chief, Mayet. You can assign someone else to the case.”
“I’m already awake.” And to keep my word, I slap the taps to turn them off just as my two minutes are up. “I’m here. My eyes are open.”
Chuckling, Archer brings the phone to his ear.
“What more do you want from me?” I scowl.
“Nothing at all.” Stepping closer and snagging the towel from the rack, he offers it and a kiss. “You want coffee to go?”
“Mmm. Yes please.”
“Got it.”
Releasing the towel when I take it, he turns on his heels and exits the bathroom. “Doctor Emeri. Wake up. Your boss is calling you up for a new case… yeah, I know it’s four in the morning.” He laughs. “She’s not pleased either. Meet us on the corner of Poplar and Twenty-Third. Suspected homicide.”
* * *
Dried, dressed, caffeinated, and professional, I step through the aftermath of a club that clearly parties hard into the early hours of the morning.
My brother-in-law owns a bar, too. It’s open until the sun threatens the horizon, but never is the sidewalk out front littered with beer bottles and used syringes. Broken glass. Used condoms. Tim’s is a respectable place that most cops on our side of the city frequent. But this place—Sarge’s—is a filthy excuse for adults who make poor choices.
Lips curled back, my colleague and best friend, Doctor Aubree Emeri, moves on my right and carries our crime scene bag of supplies, which we affectionately call themurder bag. “This place is disgusting.” She looks down at her shoes and growls at the used condom stuck to the bottom. “Who leaves this crap lying around?”
“Not it.” I stop in front of a tall brick building and look up at the signage that saysSar e’s.“Body’s in here?”
“Not inside.” Archer places his hand on the back of my elbow and steers me to the right. “The alleyway out back.”
“You take me the nicest places,” I tease.
“This one’s not all that violent.” Detective Charlie Fletcher rounds out our quartet of idiots who are on-call in the middle of the night. “No spilled blood. No defensive wounds. I’m no coroner, but I wonder if this one was actually killed a day or two ago and only just discovered and reported tonight.”
“Well, sinceweare the coroners,” Aubree hums, “why don’t you let us decide time of death?” She looks across to him and purses her lips. “We don’t tell you how to catch a killer, so how about you don’t tell us how to determine when someone died.”
“You got your cranky pants on today, Doctor Emeri?” Fletch flashes a playful grin and hip-bumps her as we cross under the crime-scene tape and pass a trio of uniforms securing the area.
“The alleyway only has one way in and out,” he continues. “There’s nothing at the end but a brick wall, which is part of the building behind. No windows, no fire escape ladders, nothing. Sarge’s club is known to dump their unruly customers on their ass in the alley to sleep off too much product.”
“Product?” I ponder. “More than alcohol?”
“Always more than alcohol, Dimples. Cocaine’s a given, and there are always new pills on the market that work their way through bars like this.”
