3 CONNOR
“Nice place,” Bob said as he walked into the apartment. “The girl’s got good taste.”
“Did you bring the full list?” I asked, ignoring his wisecracks.
“Is she here?” Bob glanced around.
“Files, Bob,” I repeated impatiently. “No. She’s out.”
Bob set his backpack on the small counter and pulled out a dozen papers on the case. Last night he’d given me the broad strokes, but I needed to get my hands on these documents. To understand what I was walking into.
“Is this the full report on what you found?” He handed it to me, avoiding the images.
“Yeah. There was a lot of art in the warehouse.”
“How’d you guys find it, anyway?”
“We got an anonymous tip about the warehouse’s location right after I finished a podcast interview.”
“Podcast?”
“Yeah. They invited me on a true crime podcast to share war stories.”
I laughed, heading to the fridge to grab us a couple of beers.
“You were never the media type.”
“You should see how much the girls love it.” Bob grabbed the beer I slid his way. American beer was hard to find around here. “They went crazy when I told them I helped you on the Ammit case.”
“You’re using that story to pick up women?” I asked.
“Yep. You play the hand you’re dealt.”
“Like I told you on the phone… we got there and the warehouse was sealed. My partner and I broke it open and found all this stuff. At first I thought it was a dead end, but after digging around I found a hidden box, and inside was Ammit’s cloak—still had the bullet mark from the shot you said you fired. ”
“Any DNA?”
“Not sure yet. There’s organic material, but we don’t know if we can recover anything useful.” Bob took a sip of his beer. “I reached out to a contact in Alexandria. It’s not his specialty, but I’m sure he can get us answers.”
“What’s his specialty?”
“Veterinarian.” Bob laughed when he saw my expression. “Trust me, the guy knows his stuff.”
“What about that specialist you mentioned yesterday? Did you get his contact info? Some teenager who learned everything on YouTube?” I asked sarcastically.
“A friend’s gonna put us in touch. We’re meeting him tonight. I’ll send you the address later.” Bob leaned back on the stool. “So, did you two sleep together?”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“Stud.” He slapped the counter excitedly.
“Don’t be an idiot, Bob. I meant I stayed up keeping watch.” I took a sip of beer.
“So is she hot?”
“She’s just a girl,” I replied, trying to shut down the topic.
“You said she’s probably around twenty-five.”
“And you’re almost twice that. Same as me,” I shot back. “Besides, we’re not here to get distracted by every nice pair of tits that walks by.”
“So they were a nice pair of...”
“Robert!” I cut him off.
“Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”
“After we talked yesterday, I asked Gretta to check with her contacts about the records on this warehouse.”
“Did she find anything?”
“Not yet.” I scratched my beard.
“Think we’re chasing a dead end?” Bob asked, picking up on my unease.
“I keep asking myself: why now?” I stared at the photos in front of me. “Four years without a single lead, and suddenly you get an anonymous tip about the case from 5,691 miles away from New York.”
“I think someone got curious about the case and wanted to shake things up. You’d be surprised how fast this stuff spreads on social media.”
“I wouldn’t know. Never got into that stuff.”
“And I’m the old one?”
“We’re both old. But only one of us can admit it,” I shot back, and we both laughed.
After catching up on our lives—which quickly turned into a session of “Bob’s Weird Girlfriends”—we agreed to meet up later that day.
The heat was suffocating. I unbuttoned my shirt a bit to get some air, since I’d rather not be half-naked with Samantha still around.
The whole situation was absurd. Any other time, I would’ve done something about it, but I was trying to stay focused on the hunt. I couldn’t afford to get bogged down in bureaucracy, let alone expose myself at a hotel.
I heard the door open and instinctively reached for the Glock at my waist, but I knew from the sound of boots on the floor that it was her.
“Thought I was rid of you,” I said without looking at her.
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing on my way up,” she grumbled behind me, and I turned to look at her.
She was a pretty young woman. Short hair, amber eyes, and long legs. She didn't look athletic, but she wasn't out of shape either. Her leg muscles were toned, like she did a lot of walking—and I only knew that because I'd seen her at home, since she always wore loose clothing out on the street.
“We need to sort this out.” She stared at me. “I talked to Mr. Omar...”
“And he didn't help you.”
“Were you following me, Detective O'Brien?” she asked, catching me off guard. “Surprised I know who you are? You're not the only one who can dig into people. By the way, I found my file on your phone.”
“You went through my phone?” I felt violated and pissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I think we're even.” She took off her necklace and set it in a small old dish—like everything else she collected around here. Then she headed straight for the bathroom. “You should check your contacts. They don't know anything about me.”
I followed her to the bathroom door.
“You're right about one thing... we need to sort this out.”
“We can't share an apartment this small...”
We locked eyes and said it at the same time.
“So you leave.”
“I'm not having this argument, Samantha.”
“Neither am I, detective.”
“Then...”
“I'm not giving up,” she said before slamming the bathroom door in my face. I took a deep breath, trying to fight the urge to drag her out of this apartment by force.
The girl was stubborn as a mule that wouldn't budge. Incapable of admitting she was wrong. Determined to drive me crazy no matter what.
“You know... I've been thinking.” She was pulling books from her little library. “I could pay you back. That way you could upgrade your place. I don't make much at the antique shop.”
“I didn't know you worked at the antique shop.”
“I told you—you don't know anything about me.” She glanced at me over her shoulder.
“I know enough.”
“Like what?” She looked at me, curious.
“I know you came here claiming you wanted to reconnect with your roots, but you actually moved heaven and earth to find your parents—even against all odds after all these years.”
She sat down on the bed, hanging on my every word.
“You're too young to stop believing, but you carry the weight of someone who's spent too much time buried in books.”
“That's a bit obvious.” She set a copy of her father's book in her lap.
“I'm not finished,” I cut her off. “You act confident, but you wear loose clothes because you hate the way men look at you—like you're a piece of meat.
You don't have many friends because nobody understands your obsession, so you spend all your time reading romance novels instead of living one, falling asleep and waking up with those notes on the pillow next to you.”
She blushed, and for some reason, I felt victorious.
“That was pretty invasive.”
“I'm not trying to be subtle. I'm just telling you what you already told me.” I closed the file I'd been reading. “You're easy to read.”
“You're a terrible detective,” she grumbled, getting up. “I go on plenty of dates.”
“Is that why you spent your birthday alone wandering the desert, Dora the Explorer?” I taunted.
“Go to hell!” She turned away and started reading the book in her hand—one she'd probably read five hundred times already. “I take back my offer. I want you out of my house!”