Chapter Thirty-One
Parker
I walk into the station five minutes before eight. For anyone else, that’s perfectly acceptable. For me? It’s at least fifteen minutes too late.
I should have been fine. Home by six thirty, a quick shower, ten minutes to braid my hair and put on the absolute minimum amount of makeup, another five for the coffee to brew. Out the door by seven.
Instead, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror replaying every minute of my time with Eliot this morning. More than once.
That left me so out of sorts, my coffee cup is still on the counter. Now I have to face my partner uncaffeinated.
Dropping my bag in my office, I pour glorified motor oil into a Department of Public Safety mug. Two steps from the hall, I stop, turn around, and find the creamer. Maybe it’ll help. Or maybe it’ll just remind me I’m better off alone.
Nate’s already in the conference room, three folders—red, blue, and green—spread out in front of him, and a collection of highlighters fanned out in his version of a color wheel.
“There she is.” He doesn’t look up as he uncaps one of the dry erase pens. This one isn’t orange or red, but some bastardized mix of the two.
“Six colors, Parker. Six. Do you know how excited I am?”
“Thrilled beyond anything us mere mortals can understand?” I sink into my chair, trying to avoid glancing at the empty seat beside me where Eliot’s been for the past several days.
Nate lifts his gaze, studies me for a moment, and puts the cap back on the pen. “You’re late.”
“It’s seven fifty-nine.” The first sip of coffee burns going down. Great. My tastebuds are gonna be dead half the day.
“That’s late for you.” He runs his hand through his shaggy black hair. “I figured I’d find you twirling around the break room with a bluebird tying a bow in your hair. Instead, you look like someone stole your emotional support sidearm.”
“I do not have an emotional support sidearm.” Out of habit, I touch the butt of my SIG, then wince. “Fine. I do, but it’s right here.”
All the sarcasm vanishes from Nate’s voice. “Seriously. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He stares at me, his dark brows pinched together. “You’re getting together with Grace, Emi, and Isabel tonight?”
I nod, unsure where he’s going with this.
“If you don’t want to talk to me, Parker, talk to them.”
He’s silent for the amount of time it takes him to drain what’s left in his coffee mug and pick up his dry erase marker. He doesn’t uncap it, just twirls it around in his fingers. “I got in half an hour ago. Do you know how many inspections the Aldrich building had to go through before it opened?”
“No, but I reckon you’re gonna tell me.”
His dark eyes take on a hint of excitement. This is where Nate shines.
“Aldrich is new construction, so it got the full range of the damn things. Framing, rough electrical, rough plumbing, insulation... Not to mention all the final walkthroughs. Seventeen in total, with nine different inspectors.”
Dropping the marker, he opens the red folder, and a full inch of paperwork spills out.
“I’ve got copies of all of them.”
I let out a low whistle. “And let me guess? Those other folders have every inspection for Cedar Park and Round Rock?”
“Bingo.” He digs through his messenger bag for a moment, comes up with a granola bar, and tosses it to me. “You win a prize for guessing what’s behind doors two and three.”
“Gee, thanks.” Despite my tone, I am hungry. And grateful my partner knows me better than most people.
I unwrap something called ChocoAlmond Protein Plus, and take a bite. It tastes like a cross between coffee grounds and a Snickers bar, but without fuel, I’ll hit a wall in under an hour.
“So, how many names do we need to run down?” I ask.
Nate stands, picks up a green dry erase pen, and uncaps it with a flourish. “Fewer than you might think.”
He writes Round Rock on the whiteboard, opens the green folder, and removes a copy of Eliot’s report on the fire.
“We know the building’s sprinklers, firewalls, and secondary egress maps weren’t up to code.
That narrows the number of inspections from eighty-seven—over a twelve-year period—to fifteen.
Of those fifteen, three were completed by our mystery inspector with the invalid license number.
Roger Haight handled seven of them. The other five all have different names and license numbers, but one thing in common. ”
“You fixin’ to tell me or am I supposed to guess?” I crumple the wrapper in my fist and arch a brow.
Nate pulls one sheet after another from the folder and lays them out in front of me. “I’ll go easy on you, Captain Curmudgeon. Check out the company name.”
“Apex Building Solutions.”
“I’d give you a gold star, but you’re already wearing one.”
I groan. “Your sense of humor is best experienced when one is fully caffeinated. Go easy on me, will you, Captain Catchphrase? I’m at least two cups behind you.”
Nate reaches for the blue dry erase marker next.
“Cedar Park. This is the oldest building of the bunch. The original inspections were done by three different guys—none of them associated with Apex. Fair to say the company probably didn’t exist back then, but your spectacular lack of sunshine this morning interrupted that particular search. ”
I scowl, take another sip of coffee, and wave my hand for him to continue.
“If it weren’t for the retrofit, those original inspections would still be standing today and we wouldn’t have as much to go on.
But any change in ownership or construction that touches more than fifty percent of the building requires new inspections.
” One corner of his mouth twitches, and he finally takes a breath.
“The column Eliot says was missing its fire coating? It wasn’t touched, so no new inspection.
But Apex handled everything for the retrofit, so this on them too. ”
“And the last fire? Aldrich?” I already know what he’s going to say. It’s in his eyes.
“The fire inspection that should’ve caught the ceiling-plane gaps, the final walkthrough that should’ve caught the incorrectly installed panic hardware, and the sprinkler acceptance test that should’ve caught the water pressure that didn’t meet spec were all signed off on by Apex Building Solutions.
” He passes me three pages. “We’ve got a suspect.
Time to find out what Apex knew, and when they knew it. ”
For two hours, we go over all of the inspection reports again. And then a third time.
I want to stab my eyes out with a rusty spoon. Nate, however, lives for this shit.
“You’re just making up colors now.” I nod at the eighth pen he produced from a small pouch on the table, reach for a hot pink one, and wave it at him. “This one’s exactly the same.”
“Fuchsia and hot pink are not the same color, Parker. I don’t expect you to understand the nuance, just respect the process.”
“I respect you enough to tell you that you need help.”
Nate grins, uncaps the fuchsia pen, and adds a note to the board about pulling the resale paperwork for Round Rock from the county clerk’s office.
“I’ll call the clerk’s office once I get another cup of coffee,” I offer.
We each have our strengths. Nate’s is patterns. Organization. Teasing order from chaos. Mine? People. Reading a room and understanding, without a second thought, which version of myself someone needs. Knowing when to push, when to back off, and when to let silence do the work for me.
I open the conference room door and almost collide with Eliot.
“Shit!” My boot catches the carpet as I take a step back. The folder of Round Rock paperwork hits the floor, and I’m about to go down, when he catches me around the waist.
Neither of us say a word. It’s worse than one of those slow-motion movie scenes where the hero shouts “Noooooooo!” and everything goes quiet for a heartbeat too long.
“Sorry,” he says, finally, releasing me and putting some distance between us. “The…suppression panel data came back on the Aldrich fire.”
Nate rounds the table, scoops up the scattered pieces of paper, and mutters something about his system before glancing up at us. “You two want a minute? Or should I pretend there isn’t enough tension in this room to give the whole station a headache?”
I give him the side eye, and he holds up the folder like a shield.
“What’s in the report?” I ask. Maybe if I keep us focused on the case, I won’t feel this…off balance around Eliot.
“Pressure readings.” He shakes his head, passing Nate a thumb drive. “Copied them for you. The system was running at thirty percent of the design spec.”
Nate freezes, the drive an inch from his laptop, brows arching into his hair. “Thirty percent? Did someone cut a water main that morning?”
“Nope. The system was activated twenty-three days ago and the pressure never climbed higher than thirty percent.”
Eliot rubs a spot on the left side of his chest—the same spot that was hurting him this morning—and my composure slips. “I…have to make a call. Excuse me.”
I can feel Eliot’s eyes on me as I reach for the door handle. But my steps don’t falter, and I don’t rush the walk to my office.
Once I’m alone, however—four walls and a door with frosted glass and my name on it between me and Eliot Flint—I sink down into my chair and drop my head into my hands.
We’ve been on one date. Had a night of mind-blowing sex, fell asleep in each other’s arms, and woke up to talk of a future that included breakfast in bed. That doesn’t make us anything yet. Not a couple. Not “official.” Hell, I don’t even know if I want us to be. And the fight…was it even a fight?
Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I pull up the group chat.
I’m going to need extra queso tonight.
It takes Emi less than two minutes to reply.
Emi:
Case going that badly? Never mind. I shouldn’t be asking. If you need a double batch of awesomeness, you get it.
Isabel:
I bought fresh watermelon. I’ll pick up a bottle of the good tequila on the way home.
Grace sends a thumbs up emoji, laughs at Isabel’s reply, and then the chat bubbles stop.
I don’t know what I need or even why I need it. But I do know I need it from her, and the silence stings.
“Stop it,” I mutter. “She could be in the middle of art class. Or throwing the tennis ball for Belle. Or just…busy.” Saying the words out loud helps enough, I bring up the city clerk’s number on my computer.
Before I can dial, my phone buzzes with a new message from Grace. Not in the group chat.
What’s wrong? And why don’t you want to tell Emi and Isabel?
Nothing, really. Just a hard day.
Bullshit.
Grace!
Parker! Out with it. This is about the arson inspector, isn’t it? Elliot?
Eliot. One L.
Ha! I knew it. If I was wrong, you wouldn’t have corrected me.
Shit. My poker face—especially over text—is usually a hell of a lot better than this.
Fine. It is. But I don’t know what actually happened. That’s the problem.
That’s worse than knowing. I’m taking a yoga class with Asha in ten minutes. But if you need to talk now, I can call Jasper to come get me. Or we can talk about it tonight.
I swallow the lump in my throat. Grace isn’t comfortable driving after…everything, and ride shares are too risky. There’s still a whole mess of former members of the Blessed Flock unaccounted for.
Tonight’s fine. Maybe by then, I’ll have figured out what happened.
If you change your mind, I’m here. Always.
She signs off with a flurry of emojis. Two hearts, a hug, and what I think is supposed to be a martini glass.
I’m not ready to go back to the conference room yet. Especially if Eliot is still there. So I pick up the phone and do what I do best.
My job.
Eliot
The door to the conference room clicks shut, and Nate picks up an orange pen bright enough to belong next to the neon yarn Marlene encouraged me to buy.
“I like you, Flint. You know your shit, take the time to deliver reports in person, and you’re pretty quick on the uptake.”
I’d thank him, but his tone is somewhere south of lethal, and I brace my hands on the back of one of the chairs, digging my fingers into the rough fabric.
“You want to tell me why my partner walked in fifteen minutes late this morning, without her coffee, wrecked, and you show up three hours later wearing that same wreckage?”
For fuck’s sake. He’s giving me the “dad” talk. I stare him down, though he’s at least two inches taller than I am.
“If she wanted you to know, she’d have told you.”
He inclines his head, makes a soft sound, and exchanges the pen for another—neon green this time.
“Conventionally, this is about the time I’d be getting in your face to say, ‘If you hurt her again, I’ll make you disappear.’ But there isn’t a damn thing about me that’s conventional. And Parker doesn’t need me to fight her battles for her.”
He leans a hip against the wall, staring at the whiteboard for a beat before returning his gaze to me.
“Parker owns four guns I know about and probably one I don’t.
Finding bodies and listening to murderers recount their crimes in detail is literally her job.
If you hurt her again, you won’t have to worry about me.
She’ll be the one to kill you. But she’ll rope me in to help dismember the body, dig half a dozen graves all over west Texas, and bury the pieces under endangered native plants.
So…fix whatever it is you broke, and do it quick.
Because my hands have never been softer, and the last thing I want to do is start gardening again. ”
Nate spreads his fingers in front of him, examining his nails and cuticles like he’s a fucking hand model.
“We on the same page, Flint?” he asks.
How the hell am I supposed to answer that? If I had any idea how to fix things with Parker, I would.
In the end, I give him the only answer I can. “Yup.”
Nate studies me, seems to decide I’m being honest, and tosses my thumb drive back to me. “We’ll relay this info to APD. Unless you have anything else to take care of here…?”
“Tell Parker—” I swallow the rest of that sentence, shake my head, and back toward the door. “I gotta go brief my boss and check on the lab reports. Anything else breaks, you’ll hear from me.”
“Flint?” Nate calls a half second before I cross the threshold. “Unless Parker says otherwise, next time, send an email.”