Chapter Twenty-Two
My two J’s are at the door right where I left them like good boys. At least someone is being good since I’m fairly certain that I’ve been bad from the day I was born, and about to get worse.
“Can I see the body?” Jack asks, pushing off the door where he’s leaning, his eyes ripe with excitement. “I know there’s a body.”
“You’re a sick fuck, Jack.”
“Coming from you I’m not sure if that requires a reply of ‘thank you’ or ‘ouch,’ but either way, it works for me. It can work for you. I’m good at my job. Can I see the body?” he repeats.
He’s like a kid asking to go to the swimming pool only in his case, I’m the parent who wants to drown him. “I am forensics.”
“The FBI has jurisdiction.”
“I get that. I do. But if I can just take a look—” His brows deep dive. “And why aren’t they here already?”
“That’s just one of the questions of the day,” I say, not sure what to do with the idea that right now I trust Jack more than anyone else who might work this case.
Adams wants a consultant in me, fine. He’s getting me and Jack.
“When they get here,” I say, “prove your weirdness works, Jack. Prove it really fucking hard. You’re officially consulting, while working with me and my badge.
Nothing happens you don’t see or know. Tell them I said so. If anyone gives you trouble, find me.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” he says, and the look on his face is pure orgasm, his fingers curled into the fist pumps he’s now initiated. “I’m going to make-up for what happened at the diner. I’m going to prove myself.”
I shake my head in disbelief at how empty-headed a smart guy can be. “Do you really think bringing up the pie you used as a weapon that I then slipped on while I tried to kill a killer is smart?”
Jack holds up his hands. “Forget I said that. I got this. I promise.”
“I don’t want to see the body in case you think I’m on Team Dead Body,” Jay interjects, making his presence known again. “Actually, I don’t even need to hear the details.”
“And for that, Jay,” I say, “you get two hands, but not mine. Go find the two hands.”
His face goes slack. “Wait. What?”
“The body has no hands,” Jack supplies, figuring it out on his own, or trying to, at least. “Mob?” he queries but he doesn’t wait for an answer.
“No. No. That makes no sense. The mob wouldn’t go to the trouble of cutting off the hands, only to leave a body we might otherwise identify.
Does the victim have teeth we can use to identify him or her? ”
“That’s up to you to find out when the team gets here. “
He’s moved on or rather circled back. “Why cut off the hands if you don’t ditch the body?” His brow knits. “Michael from Halloween—”
“Do not finish that sentence, Jack,” I warn. “Every time I try to take you seriously, you go down that rabbit hole. This isn’t fiction, but it is a horror story. Focus on this story. This victim who may well have had his hands chopped off while he was still alive.”
“I do not want to hear this,” Jay grinds out.
He’s not acting like he works for Kane Mendez, let alone, Lilah Love-Mendez.
Is he traumatized, too? And if so, what the fuck is going on?
Whatever it is, this isn’t the time or place for me to figure that out.
I ignore him and his wussy behavior and charge onward, “If the hands aren’t here,” I say, “they could have been taken as trophies. If they are here, they may well be posed somewhere, a part of a killer’s game he’s playing with law enforcement.
Find the hands.” I start walking toward the stairs and as I reach the bottom step, I turn and add, “And bootie up.” I reach in my bag and pull a pair out. “Do either of you need these?”
“I have booties,” Jack offers, reaching for his bag, only to have an action figure fall out.
He scrambles to grab it. I don’t wait for the explanation which will be a lot of words that end up meaning he’s a geek and I don’t even care.
If the motto becomes geeks have more fun and geeks catch more killers, I’ll live with it.
If he will just stop talking. I walk up the stairs, the area around me already contaminated, but better to cover up, than not.
Once I’m on the top step, I find far too many people walking everywhere, and meandering about a cluster of desks and sitting areas both left and right. What fuckery is this?
A tall man with a bulldog face and sporting a decently expensive black jacket stands directly in my path, hands on his hips, his weapon on display. “A big guy with a big gun,” I say. “Pocher does like his playthings.”
He scowls at me. “I’m not—”
“Do you work for Pocher? That was the question you clearly didn’t understand.”
To this, he keeps the same scowl, but the lines in his forehead dip a little deeper. “You didn’t ask a question.”
“Just because you didn’t hear it, does not mean I didn’t ask it.” I hold up my badge. “Do you work for Pocher?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We made progress. Before I go on, do I need to speak slowly for you to answer some questions?”
His eyes glint. “You’re a bitch.”
“True, but the badge does keep most people from telling me. Those who work for Pocher seem to think they can do anything and more though. Even cut off someone’s hands.”
He folds his hands in front of him, allowing his weapon to slide out of sight. “It wasn’t me.”
“Is ‘me’ your name or did your parents like you more than that?”
“Mickey Smalls.”
“In other words, your parents hate you. Were they mouse fans?”
He grits his teeth loud enough that I think he might crack one. “Funny. Ha Ha.”
“You don’t sound like you think it’s funny. You get it, right? Mickey—”
“What is your question?” Impatience tinges his voice.
I tsk at him. “Testy, aren’t you? Were you here when they found the body?”
“Yes.”
“Who found the body?”
“I did,” he replies tightly, a hint of defensiveness in his tone.
“Did you touch it, Mickey?”
“Of course not.” He sounds genuinely disturbed at the idea. Figures a guy named Mickey Smalls would have an emotional side.
“Did you squish on the wet carpet?”
“Yes,” he bites out. “I had no idea it was wet.”
“Good thing I haven’t decided if I want to insult you, arrest you, or call you useful or I’d be telling you that you might want to fix that radar.”
His lips pull tight across his teeth. “I wanted to be sure he wasn’t breathing.”
My brows shoot up. “You thought he looked alive?” I hold up a hand. “Spoiler alert. I know the answer.”
“Agent Love-Mendez, I’m aware he was stiff and well past dead, but I’m former military police. There are instincts that say try. We try. We always try.”
Military police may or may not make him a good guy but being dead is just being dead. “I thought you said you didn’t touch him?”
“I didn’t touch him. I jolted to my senses the minute I stood in front of the body. He’d been dead since well before our arrival.”
“Which was when?” I ask.
He glances at his watch. “Two hours and five minutes ago.”
“Why so early?”
“Your father was freaked out about safety,” he replies. “I’m not privy to what caused that freakout.”
“And yet, you’re right here, with him.” It’s not a question.
“See no evil. Speak no evil. That’s the motto around here.”
Which he wouldn’t know, if he didn’t know.
“Are you still wearing those same shoes?”
“I bagged them. Adams has them.”
“And you just happened to have extra shoes to put on?”
“I’m expected to be on property in seventy-two hour shifts. I came prepared. And just to be clear, agent, I told at least four people to stay outside, that are now inside, even after we knew a dead dude was hanging up with no hands. No one listened.”
I tilt my head. “You sure you work for Pocher?”
“I work for your Dad.”
“Why’d you say you worked for Pocher?”
“Two sides of one coin. What Pocher wants, Pocher gets.” He lowers his voice. “It’s all about who has the money.”
“Rich people become beggars for richer people,” I say dryly. “At this point, those who stayed, may wish they left. They aren’t going anywhere until I know all their bad habits. You’re included. Right or left to talk to my father?”
“Right and down, cut right again. Double doors. I don’t have bad habits that require law enforcement intervention.”
“I do. You’d be good to remember that. So would my father.” I cut right as he’s indicated and walk four steps before I pause and turn back to him. “If you haven’t seen any evil, how do you know there’s evil at all?”
“I—ah—I don’t know what you mean.”
“See no evil. Speak no evil. That’s the motto around here. That’s what you said. You probably should have just kept your mouth shut. But I’m glad you didn’t.” I turn and walk toward the den and root of said evil.
My father’s new office.