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October at Fernando’s injected a dose of much-needed perspective that helped steady Jo’s mind amidst the chaos of the previous thirty-six hours. The restaurant was modeled after a Mexican cantina, with faux-stuccoed walls, tiled accents, and chairs in bright, happy colors. But during October, they also decorated in aDía de los Muertostheme, with multicoloredpapel picadobanners, ornate sugar skulls, and elaborate skeletons throughout. An odd contradiction, she thought as she glanced around, that the theme of death should carry connotations of celebration and fun. But maybe that was the whole point of holidays likeDía de los Muertosand Halloween—to take back the power that death held over people, if only for a few days. To use the grim reality that mortality is inescapable as a reminder to eat, drink, be merry, and love the people in our lives while possible.
After adding her own and Arnett’s order to Marzillo’s and Lopez’s, she handed her menu to Alma, Fernando’s twenty-something daughter, and thanked her.
Lopez attacked the chips and salsa Alma had left behind. “So, what’s up with Bob?”
“We had a run-in with a suspect today.” Jo filled them in on Ossokov’s reaction to Arnett during their interview, but left out his overly cynical responses beforehand.
“Yeah, that’d probably rub me the wrong way, too.” Lopez sighed. “Some days it all gets to be too much as it is, let alone with a psycho breathing down your neck.”
Jo’s brows popped in surprise—that wasn’t like Lopez, at all. “Everything okay?”
“You mean besides the mind fuck of someone taking out law enforcement?” She cupped a hand under her chip to keep the salsa from dripping on the table during the trip to her mouth.
Jo took a sip of the Diet Coke Alma set in front of her. “You already looked a little strained when you got here yesterday.”
“Not gonna lie, Tony threw a little hissy fit.” She paused for a sip of her own soda. “I don’t know how you guys manage healthy relationships with this job.”
A sarcastic laugh burst out of Marzillo, almost sending iced tea out of her nose. “Whoever said we did? I’m hanging on to my marriage by the skin of my teeth.”
“Yeah, but you managed to get yourself married. At this rate, I’ll be past my childbearing years before I even move in with a guy,” Lopez said.
“I never pegged you for a married-with-children type.” Jo batted down an image of Lopez standing next to a husband and two kids in a Sears family portrait, all made up like zombies.
“Just a figure of speech,” Lopez grumbled into her next chip. “Andyoujust moved in with Matt. Everybody has their shit together except me.”
“It took Jo twenty years to get herself together,” Marzillo said.
Jo swiped at a drop of condensation on her Diet Coke. “And I’m not sure I did manage to get it together. As soon as he started moving in furniture and boxes, my skin felt like it was shrinking down too small for my body.”
Lopez waved a hand at her. “I feel like that every time I move. That’s just hating change.”
Jo tapped her finger on the side of her glass. “I hope so. But Janet’s right. This is a process. Lots of people don’t want to talk about rape and murder over dinner. And even the ones who say they’re okay with it turn out to not be able to handle it. But if you can’t talk with your partner about what you’re going through, you bottle it up until it explodes into something self-destructive. All that makes our dating pool pretty damned small.”
Marzillo waved a chip in the air. “Everybody says they want a partner with a meaningful career. But then when they have to put the time into the relationship because of that, it’s a problem.”
Lopez sighed. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to learn how to say no. I mean, look at Sandra Ashville. Her whole life was work, and she ended up divorced, then dead before she could retire. Is that what we all have to look forward to?”
They all stared down at their drinks as the comparison hit home.
Alma appeared, and set steaming plates of carnitas, chile rellenos, and nachos in front of them. They silently began to eat.
A text buzzed Jo’s phone. “Dammit, it’s Hayes. She wants to know when we’ll have the guns tested.”
Marzillo’s cheeks flushed. “We’re up against it enough as it is without her popping up to raise our cortisol levels. A good manager knows the best way to get things done is to back off and trust their team.”
Jo’s shoulders crept up toward her neck. “She’s pissed because Barbieri asked specifically for me. She wants them to know they made a mistake, and you’re caught in the crossfire.”
A voice rang out a few feet from the table. “Detective Fournier.”
Jo tensed at the familiar voice and looked up to find Lacey Bernard closing in on the table. She swore internally—she hadn’t returned Bernard’s call. But that still didn’t give Bernard cause to track her down and disturb her meal.
“Ms. Bernard.” Jo didn’t keep the annoyance from her face. “How did you know where to find me? Or is this just a very strange coincidence?”
“I went by your building and they told me you weren’t there. At first they wouldn’t say more, but when I told them I had important information about the Ashville and Sakurai murders, they told me you’d gone for a meal break, and your favorite places were Sal’s and Fernando’s.” She circled the table to Jo’s side while reaching into her cross-body bag. “I have something I need to show you, and you need to actually see it.”
Jo’s annoyance faded, and she turned to Lopez and Marzillo. “This is Lacey Bernard, the journalist I mentioned.”
