Chapter 5 – LISA
LISA
The precinct smells like burnt coffee and greasy dinner leftovers. The Styrofoam containers are stacked on top of the bin and not in it, because none of the men in this office will lower themselves to empty it, so the smell is making my stomach roll.
Despite getting a solid eight hours of sleep last night, the headache I can't shake continues to tighten its vice-like grip until my temples throb, and my eyes burn. I’d walk to the pharmacy to pick up some cold medicine but that means walking past Beau’s office.
And even though I have seen more than the back of his head walking down the street since the last time he was here, I can’t risk it.
"Why the long face, Harris?" Morrison taps his knuckles on the corner of my desk as he passes. "You didn't want to join us for breakfast. Now you're too busy to come and say goodbye to Tony?"
Lifting my head, I force myself not to wince as the pain increases. Any sign of weakness or illness will be pounced on, not empathised with.
"I'll be over in a minute. Just want to send this off before I forget."
“You’re not helping yourself,” Morrison mutters, giving me a weary look before sauntering back over to the circular table in the corner where my colleagues have been camped out all morning, apparently to use Tony's retirement as an excuse to take the day off and neglect their mounting workload.
Like the Amber Reeves case, which they’ve all but abandoned. Every time I mention it, I get eye rolls and deep sighs, as if reminding them of their obligation to keep looking for her is an inconvenience.
Ignoring the urge to glare at my chuckling colleagues, or march over there and tell them all to get back to work, I return my attention to my screen, scrolling through incident reports from last night while the bullpen hums around me with the usual phones ringing, keyboards clattering and raised voices drifting through from the reception area.
Nothing out of the ordinary yet today, and every sound is like nails on a chalk board to my sensitive brain.
Sitting back, I sigh, tossing my pen onto my desk in frustration, and rub my eyes.
Nothing. Every day, I scour the reports from the shift before me, looking to see if there's anything that might give me a clue about her location, but it's like she’s disappeared off the face of the earth.
My colleagues insist she’s already dead, that too much time has passed now, and the only way her family will get closure is the accidental discovery of her body.
That’s too bleak and defeatist for me, so every spare moment I have, I continue to search, despite my chief insisting I move on and give my other, newer cases, my undivided attention.
Picking up my pen again, I tap it on my desk, my agitation rising.
I need to get up and move, get the hell out of this place.
Do something besides this busy work I keep getting assigned.
Stolen bicycle. A dispute about a gate. It’s insulting.
Do they think I can’t see how the boys get all the juicy stuff?
My headache builds as I let their bullshit rile me up. At first, I thought it was just a right of passage as the newest detective, but it quickly became clear that no, they just think I’m doing this as some kind of hobby to keep me entertained instead of needing the job like they do.
Mercifully, the phone rings, Holt’s line flashing on the phone in front of me, distracting me from my murderous thoughts.
Holt and Morrison glance in my direction when it doesn't stop, like I'm their secretary and they can't understand why I'm not jumping to answer it so they can continue to chill out.
"Will you grab that for us? That is, if you're not too busy…" Holt sneers.
My brain feels like someone's stabbing it with a knitting needle, and the combination of being in pain and pissed off makes me want to turn around and scream at them.
I snatch it up, annoyed with myself for doing what they want me to, but also, slightly grateful for the distraction. "Detective Harris."
Flipping open the notebook beside me, I rest my chin on one hand, pen hovering over the blank page.
"Detective, this is Margaret Holloway from Holloway Printing and Packaging on Maple Street." The voice is older, female, and slightly shaky. "I spoke to Detective Holt a few weeks ago about some missing funds from my business account."
I remember him mentioning this. She was distraught, convinced her longtime employees were stealing from her but unable to figure out how or what money had been taken.
"Yes, Mrs. Holloway. What can I do for you?"
She was advised to gather up as much information as she could without tipping them off before coming back to us. A hunch unfortunately wasn’t enough to get Holt moving.
"I have the evidence now." Her voice steadies, gaining strength. "I hired someone to go through all the paperwork and pull everything together. The falsified invoices, fake companies, all of it. I want to press charges."
Her son has been less than convinced that this was actually happening, but it looks like she was right all along.
"That's good news, Mrs. Holloway," I say, keeping my tone polished and professional. "I can come by this afternoon to have a look at what you’ve found and take your statement. Can you make sure your forensic accountant is present for me to speak to?"
Holt and Morrison continue to laugh and joke, not the least bit interested in this new case that's come in. Or any of the others currently piling up on their desks. In fact, I know they'll be happy they dodged this one too. Far too much paperwork and not enough action.
"Thank you, Detective. Thank you so much." She sounds close to tears. "I just want this over with. These are people I trusted. My lawyer says I can't fire them just yet… not until you’ve had a look."
I’m glad she’s proceeding with caution and not confronting anyone alone. If they could steal from an old lady, they might be capable of hurting her if they think she’s involved the police.
"I understand. I'll be there within the hour. Make sure your son or your accountant stays with you and please don’t discuss it with anyone. Not yet."
Grabbing some painkillers from my desk drawer and tossing them into my mouth, I make a face as I swallow them dry. I throw on my jacket and snatch up my keys, eager to get out of here.
"Stealing my case, Harris?" Holt calls after me as I weave through the packed office tables and chairs. As if he really wants to do actual work.
"Doing your job, Holt," I reply, pulling my keys from my pocket and heading for the door.
The drive is short, thankfully, as I have to roll down the window and gulp down some fresh air to help my queasy stomach.
As I turn onto the street, I spot the printing firm halfway down the block.
It's a large, warehouse-type building, with a small reception office building over to one side.
It's been here for decades and hasn't changed one bit apart from the odd lick of paint.
When I pull into the parking lot, I come to an abrupt stop smack back in the middle of the huge, practically empty space.
Because Beau Lennox's truck is out front, right under the Holloway sign.
Driving into a space three spots down, I kill the engine, and for a moment, I just sit, hands on the wheel, staring at that damn truck. He’s not here, is he?
Of course, he is.
We should just stay out of each other’s way.
If I didn’t feel sick to my stomach, I’d laugh. The universe has a twisted sense of humour, but right now, I am not amused.
Although, I have to admit that a pathetic, traitorous part of me is happy to see it, the part that remembers how it felt to have the full weight of his intensity directed solely at me.
That’s the same part that still wakes up some nights with the memory of his hands on my skin burning me up, and the evidence of how needy I am making me damp between my thighs.
Even now, butterflies take off inside me, and I feel slightly giddy with the anticipation of seeing him.
Except the rational, realistic part of me knows exactly how this is going to go. Badly. Because while my pathetic pussy longs for him, he hates my guts.
And even if I hadn’t already fucked things up beyond repair, he’s right. I can’t date a Lennox.
I press my fists against my eye sockets and silently scream in the safety of my vehicle. Cursing, I force myself to sit up straight, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. Then, I apply a fresh slick of lip balm and pull my hair down from its neat bun.
Something I never normally do on the job.
Getting out of the car, I feel like a fool for still being this affected by him, but I’m determined not to act like it. Shoulders squared, I push open the door, head held high, and march right on inside.
The reception area is small but tidy. A middle-aged woman behind the desk looks up when I enter, her expression shifting from polite and welcoming to guarded when I flash my badge.
"Detective Harris. I'm here to see Mrs. Holloway."
My nose twitches as I take a deep breath. I swear, I can smell him.
"Of course. They're expecting you." The receptionist rises, gesturing toward a door at the back. "Through there and down the corridor, the last office on the left."
The corridor is lined with framed photographs of the company through the decades.
Holloway Printing and Packaging in the sixties, the seventies, the nineties.
A family business built from nothing and passed on from generation to generation, where loyalty and tradition are more than important, but a way of life.
I bet some kids of the people in these pictures even work here now.
That's why this theft, if it's true, will have been so hard for them to fathom.
The door to Mrs. Holloway's office is slightly ajar. I can hear voices inside, one female and wavering, one male, low and reassuring. And achingly familiar.