Archer
ARCHER
“ H ey.” I move toward the crime scene tech van parked on the street just outside the Masters’ home, but I slow my steps, because I want to hear her voice. “How’s it going?”
“I didn’t burn bridges or destroy friendships.” The space around her echoes, so she’s either in an elevator, or the morgue, or possibly even a bathroom. “But I talked to Fifi and the mayor. Got to argue with them both.”
“You argued and burned nothing?” I whistle as I walk. “Successful day. How’s Fifi?”
“She’s doing okay. Hurt, obviously. She saw some pretty horrible stuff yesterday, and she’s not ready to talk about it, but I think she’s starting to crack on her decision to stay away from Mia.”
“So you did break something.” I hand an evidence bag to a tech and sign the sheet when he sets it in front of me. “Thanks.” Then I turn on my heels and meander to the middle of the Masters’ lawn. “Do you think today, of all days, was the best time to crack her armor?”
“Do you think today, of all days, is the best time to deprive Mia of all the people who love her?”
“Well…” I scratch the back of my neck and look up at the house a couple once lived in. “No. But things are certainly tense right now. It’s not surprising that you brought a can of gasoline to an already established bonfire.”
“I didn’t pour it on.” She starts moving after the telltale ding of an elevator. “I merely discussed the possibility of setting grudges aside and reconnecting for the sake of a sweet little girl.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m sure you expressed your thoughts just as calmly and productively as you did just now. Is she gonna go see them?”
“Don’t know. Thank you.” She speaks to someone on her end of the line, entirely too friendly, considering I know who she is beneath the fake sheen. “The receptionist here thinks I’m aggressive and weird,” she explains. “So I’m reprograming her brain to replace what she thinks she knows about me.”
“Also known as gaslighting. Where are you headed now?”
“Probably to Fletch’s unless you want me somewhere else. Are you on a crime scene now?”
“I’m collecting evidence from the Masters’ home. Then I’ll head to the station and pull him out of holding, book him, and file it away for another day.”
“You don’t need a confession?”
“Not considering the poison sitting on his kitchen counter,” I chuckle. “The confession can come later when he wants to try for a deal with the D.A. He’s not the kind of guy that’ll do so well in Gen Pop, so he’ll squirm and want something a little more comfortable. At which point, he’ll sing like a canary and seal the case shut without me lifting a finger.”
“Will you deal?”
“It’s not up to me. I’m just the dope who presents a case to the district attorney. The rest is on them. How are you feeling?”
“Me?” She moves out of a building and onto the sidewalk, punctuated by the sound of humming traffic moving by. “I’m fine, why?”
“Too little sleep,” I bring my hand up as though to tick the answer off with my finger. “Late medication. Death of a person close to someone we love. Minor breakdown of that someone we love after said death. Informing a four-year-old her mother was never coming home. An anniversary we don’t talk about.” I drop my hand again and start toward the house. “Take your pick, Minnnka. Any of them are reasons for me to worry about you.”
“January eleventh is gonna come year after year, . Reminding me thirty-seven times in a twenty-four-hour period is hardly useful, and though what happened to Jada is tragic, and helping Mia and Fletch is our priority, someday, when things don’t hurt quite so much, I think they’ll realize they’re healing. She was a scab on their knees, constantly tearing herself open. But that scab will go now, and, in its place, fresh new skin will grow. I won’t say so to anyone else out loud, obviously, but Jada’s passing will finally allow Fletch and Mia a fresh start.”
“Yeah.” I head through the front door and turn right into the living room, bursting with CSIs sprinkling fingerprint dust onto every flat surface available. “Your instincts are right: don’t say that out loud to anyone else. Fletch is still floating in the holy shit, did that really happen? stage of grief. But that’ll turn to anger soon, right?”
She slips into a car, the slam of a door locking out the noise of nearby motors. “The literature indicates anger comes next.” So formal. So uncomfortable. “And then bargaining. I expect his anger to be loud and painful.”
“And probably dangerous. If Booth isn’t locked up before Fletch hits that state, shit’s gonna get messy.”
“Have you heard from the detectives today? This is no longer an assault case, . It’s homicide.”
“No, I haven’t heard anything.” But I exhale and look around at everything that still needs to be done. And yet, none of it is for me. Not really. I’m the guy who arrests our perp, and I commission the guys trained to come out and lift evidence for court. So I turn again and head back through the front door. “I don’t expect to hear from them, except on the off chance they call Fletch and I’m with him. Seems Sophia shut them down yesterday when they wanted to cast doubt over him, so even with this moving from assault to homicide, it’s not likely they’ll share their thoughts until the case is tied up.”
“The case should be an easy solve,” she growls. “If Sophia’s involved, then she’s handed them enough proof to finish it out.”
“Yeah, well…” I stop on the edge of the Masters’ porch and look out at the cop cars littering the street. The forensic vans. The men and women in bio-suits so they don’t incidentally leave their own DNA on a crime scene. Then, I cast my gaze further and find just one media van. Since a housewife dying in suburbia just isn’t a juicy enough story for the likes of Miranda London and her viperous need for gossip. “I don’t expect to be invited into the investigation, and if they’re good detectives, they won’t offer information to Fletch until an arrest has been made and the evidence has been tendered. I can dislike being shut out while also acknowledging it’s standard operating procedure. They risk the entire case if they blab too early. Are you stopping at home before heading to Fletch’s?”
“Nah. I don’t need anything from ours, and there’s no point being there while our friend could do with the company. Mia’s not in school today, and my office has been briefed in my absence. Aubree’s already at Fletch’s—she said she’d organize lunch. My afternoon will be spent sitting with my friend, even if it’s done in silence.”
“Your favorite kind of social gathering,” I tease. I slide my free hand into my pocket and prepare to head back to the station. Formally arrest Masters, send him through booking, and then have Lieutenant Fabian sign off on the files so I can pack it all away. “I’ll talk to Fabian and Bower about what’s happening with Fletch. That way, they can approve his leave, and I can make sure he’s still getting paid. He’s not gonna be thinking about these things right now, but I know he’s still got bills to pay and a daughter to feed, so I’ll take care of that.”
“Does the police force have some kind of bereavement pay for people in Fletch’s situation? A few extra dollars tossed their way, considering the next little while will be particularly expensive.”
“Dunno. But Felix is taking care of the financials for Jada’s funeral, and I’ll be sending a little bereavement money across to help Fletch stay square. You don’t mind, do you?”
Oblivious, she wonders, “Don’t mind what?”
“That I send him money?”
“Why would I mind?”
I chuckle. “Because it’s our money, Minnnka. If I’m giving away anything with more than a few zeros on the end, then I consider it common courtesy to discuss such things with the wife.”
“It’s your money!” she blusters. “Jesus. Give it all to him. I don’t care.”
“I mean… I care,” I tease. “A little bit. I’ve grown accustomed to a certain way of life, Doctor Mayet. I wasn’t built for poverty.”
“You have such princess energy,” she laughs. “God forbid you become regular comfortable, instead of mafia comfortable. Send him whatever you think is appropriate. But be prepared for when he smacks you in the face and calls you a pandering asshole for daring to give him charity. He’s a proud man, which is ironic, considering I called Fifi proud just a few minutes ago, too. They’re either perfect for each other or destined for a massive explosion. I can’t tell which way it’s gonna go just yet.”
“We’ll sit back and watch the fireworks.”
“Detective Malone?”
I turn at the top of the stairs to find a crime scene tech’s eyes burning into mine.
“A second, if you don’t mind?”
“Yeah, sure. Hang on. Minka?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs softly. Sweetly. “I’m here. But you’ve gotta go.”
“I do. I’ll finish this out and deal with what I need to do at the station, then I’ll swing by Fletch’s place and come find you.”
“How long?”
“Uh…” I glance down at my watch and count ahead. One. Two. “Maybe three hours, tops. Booking Masters will take a bit, and talking to my lieutenant isn’t likely to be fast.”
“I’ll hold the fort until you’re done. ?”
“Mmm?” I start back into the house and follow the tech wherever he wants to lead me. “Yeah?”
“I love you. Just wanted to remind you.”
A grin stretches over my lips and pushes my cheeks up. But I lower my voice as I walk through the home of domestic violence. “I love you, too. See you soon.”
I pull the phone from my ear and end the call with my thumb pressed to the screen, then I stop in the kitchen and raise my brow when four men stare back. “What?”
“We’ve found a cocktail of poisons down here, Detective.” One of the men , who isn’t a man at all, but a woman camouflaged in a shapeless bio-suit, kneels in front of the sink and carefully pulls out a basket of bottles bursting with warning signs and red poison labels. “All of them have been opened. Some have been used more than others. Figure it might be smart to have your M.E. pull tox results to see what else your perp might’ve been slipping into meals.”
“Yeah.” I bend and grab a quick picture of the basket. But then I look around and summon the crime scene photographer. Because I sure as shit won’t be presenting my phone as evidence in court. There’s no chance that’ll end well . “Get a picture of those, please. We want exact measurements too. See how much was used of each liquid.” I straighten out and put the phone back into my pocket. “Let’s not screw this up. Masters has been slowly killing his wife for the better part of a year. That’s not heat of the moment. It’s calculated and cruel. He deserves his time in jail.”
When I hear a round of, ‘ Yes, Detective ’, I spin on my heels and prepare for the next step on my long list of things to do today.