Archer
ARCHER
F letch and I step out of the station, almost shoulder to shoulder, and with a pep to our step. Not only because tomorrow, we’re heading out to search for Danika Smith’s body, but also, simply, because walking out at five on the dot two days in a row is practically unheard of for us.
Though, things get even better when we’re met with a beaming face.
“Daddy!” Mia bounds away from her nanny’s side and catapults herself into the air. “Ms. Penny said we could meet you today, Daddy!” She smacks a kiss on his cheek, then another to the other side. She places all of her trust in the man not to drop her because she flails and wriggles, cupping his face and planting a kiss right on the tip of his nose. “Can you smell that?” She draws a dramatically deep breath, only to heave it out again and force the man to inhale whatever she’s blowing. “Caramel ice cream, Daddy! Ms. Penny and me found a new shop that had a bashillion flavors, even in the winter.”
“Well, shucks, baby.” He holds her close and backs up to lean against the wall of the precinct. “I can smell it. It’s making my stomach rumble.”
“We got extras!” She practically fucking shouts her news to the universe. “And we put it in the freezer for you. You can have it for dessert if you want.” But then she lowers her voice, conspiratorially staring into his eyes. “I was really hoping we could share it. It tasted so good the first time, and I know you like to share so much.”
No, he fucking doesn’t. I laugh to myself. But the sound draws Mia’s dancing eyes.
“Hey, Uncle Arch!” She jumps ship like the concrete won’t mess her up if she falls, tossing herself from her father to me. Then, she repeats her greeting. A kiss on my cheek, then another on the other. She cups my face and pecks the tip of my nose. But then she rolls in my arms and searches the empty space behind me. “Where’s Aunty Minka? She didn’t come today?”
“She’s at her own office.” But I fake a sad face and purse my lips. “You don’t even wanna hang out with me anymore, Little Girl? I remember back when you thought I was kind of amazing. But now it’s always, Where’s Aunty Minka? Where’s Cato? Where’s the cat ? No love for me?”
“All the loves for you. It was snowing earlier when I was at school, Uncle Arch. Did you see?”
Nope. Can’t say I did.
“Sure I did! The clouds were kinda gray, huh?”
“Yeah. Mommy must’ve been saying hello, dontcha fink? She always makes it snow to let me know she’s thinking of me.”
“She absolutely is.” Fuck it. Lies are okay if they’re to help instead of hurt. “How was school today? What did you learn?”
“I learned how to play the bongos!” She scrunches her face and spins to search for her dad. “Can we ask Santa for drums for my room, Daddy? Bongos are like drums, but drums are bigger.”
“And way noisier.” I tap her chin and grin when her eyes come back my way. “I bet if you ask Cato for drums, he’ll get them for you even before Santa gets the chance to.”
“That’s enough of that.” Fletch grabs his daughter and tosses her over his shoulder. Then he flips me off and makes it so she can’t see. “We’ll write a letter to Santa, Moo. We definitely won’t tell Cato what we want.”
“Just trying to help,” I tease, missing her already now that he stole her from my arms. But she has to get out of the cold before she freezes, anyway, and I have to go home to my wife because fuck, it feels like we’ve been apart for months. “Enjoy your ice cream, Moo Moo. Uncle Arch says you can have it before dinner, if you want. ”
“You’re a terrible friend,” Fletch grumbles, his eyes flickering with amusement. “Go home, Malone. Slam your head in the door, so I know you’ve been adequately punished for being a dick.”
“Daddy!” Mia tries to straighten on his shoulder, only to slump again and smack his back. “That’s a bad word.”
“Miss Penny.” I dip my chin for the watchful nanny and slowly back up. “Thanks for taking care of our girl today.” Then I flick Mia’s leg until she howls from the non-existent tickle. “See you tomorrow, Mia. We should get breakfast or something. It feels like it’s been forever since we did that.”
“Okay!” She reaches down and smacks her dad’s butt. “We’re getting breakfast tomorrow, Daddy!”
“We’ll discuss it.” He turns, rolling his eyes. “Say goodbye, Moo. Did you leave the heat on in the apartment?” He mock shivers. “I’m f-f-f-freezing.”
“We left it on.” She stretches her torso and waves my way. “Love you, Uncle Arch!”
“Love you too, Sweet Pea. See you when I see you.”
“Tomorrow! Breakfast. Tell Aunty Minka I said hello. And tell Cato about the drums.”
“No drums!” Fletch shouts. “Absolutely not.”
I start toward home, slipping my hand into my pocket when my phone vibrates. I catch Felix’s name on the screen, but I also see text alerts and Minka’s name mixed amongst them. So I dismiss all the rest and go to hers first.
‘ Ordering Thai ,’ she sent twenty minutes ago. ‘ Love you. See you when you get here. I’m starving, so don’t walk too slow. If you do, I promise to leave you some. Maybe. Walk fast! It’s infusion night, and I want to snuggle on the couch. The longer you take, the less time we have for that.’
Fuck yes.
The anxiety I’ve held in my gut all day dissipates. The worry I’ve had for the woman who gives her heart and soul always , but especially for the case currently plaguing New York, lessens. Because I thought she would become consumed by this. I was certain she would make herself sick with stress. I honestly feared her distraction last night was a hint of what our life could have been, if only we didn’t demand better of each other.
But she made a promise, and she’s clearly making an effort. So, with a smile and a stride that eats up the concrete, I type out a fast reply: on my way . Then, I walk blindly and check the rest of my communications.
An email from Warden Conroy assuring me that Tarran McDermott is already free of the SHU and happily living amongst his friends in Gen Pop, and his visits with his daughter and granddaughter, already reinstated.
Good.
Then my texts: Felix, checking in. Micah, aware of the current New York case and stating his concern for Minka. He’s too fucking smart for his own good . Cato, letting me know he’d be in class till four-thirty and then home right after. Though he sent that one a while ago.
Then I catch a text from Aubree that has my brows pinching in confusion and my steps faltering: I’m worried about Minka. Keep her accountable to where she is right now. Bring her back to today, to Copeland City, and to this life she lives. If you don’t, she’ll lose a part of her to the past .
“What the fuck?” I immediately dial her number. Screw the text back-and-forth bullshit and the risk of miscommunication. I bring the phone to my ear and wait just one breath before the line connects. “What are you talking about, Emeri?”
She sighs. Her low mood, more than enough to fling that anxiety straight back into my belly. “I’m worried.”
“Yeah! I caught that already.” I step around a slow-walking couple and pin my eyes to the neon sign out front of Tim’s as I cross a city block. “What do you mean, keep her accountable ?”
“I mean, she suffered trauma when she was a child. Seeing the Diane stuff on the news, being a kid home alone a lot, having parents who lectured her every damn day about the dangers of walking home alone, but not having any other option. She was thrust into hyper-alertness from kindergarten on and keeping herself safe even when, statistically, little girls her age rarely lived to tell the tale. Everyone was doing their best, talking to their daughters about stranger danger, but their best also came with a thick sheen of PTSD, and that PTSD compounded when she grew up to become an autopsy tech. The universe was cruel when she caught her very own Body-In-The-Bag case.”
“Aubree—”
“Now he’s back, and I’m concerned she’ll revert to the person she used to be. The one she had to be to survive. Hyper-independent, dissociative, unbending, and ultimately, incapable of genuine emotion.”
“But she’s not.” I cling to the texts she sent this afternoon. The ‘ we’re having Thai, ’ and ‘ hurry home. I want to snuggle. ’ “We talked about it this morning, and she’s remained in contact this afternoon.” I don’t run home. I’m not at that point of panic yet, but I sure as fuck quicken my steps. “She ordered takeout, Aubs, and we’re gonna watch TV and chill the fuck out.”
“She’s working the Sawyer case. Not officially,” she clarifies. “But she’s poring over the files and ignoring all other responsibilities.”
“Yeah, I know. But then again, so am I.” I move my phone from one hand to the other, so I can dig the first into my pocket to stop it from freezing and falling off. “She’s gonna involve herself in the case, Aubs. We can’t stop that. But I’ve been working on my own theories, too. And I’m calling her out and making sure she’s present with me. She’ll be distracted,” I concede. “Anyone who knows her knows she’ll be thinking about Diane and the others. But they’ve been on her mind since we met her. She’s capable of compartmentalizing and getting on with things.”
“She texted about dinner?” Finally, her certainty crumbles away to doubt. The dread she breathes into our conversation dials back to a milder concern. “And TV?”
“And infusion. And snuggling. She said I had to hurry home because she’s starving, and she was gonna start eating with or without me.”
“She skipped lunch.”
“Yeah,” I chuckle. “Figured she would. She’s gonna eat till she complains she ate too much, and by then, she’ll be too exhausted to do anything except medicate and stare at the TV. And listen,” I move around a crowd of people near the hospital front doors, crossing the driveway and stepping up on the other side to continue my trek home. “Fletch and I caught a break in a cold case today, which means tomorrow we’re going out to search for a body. We’ll need one of your kind out there to help. You available? ”
“I mean…” She exhales a breath of relief, I think. Humor. “Technically, yeah. The chief’s complete inability to focus today meant I delegated every DB out to someone else on the team. Which means she and I have no actives of our own. I’m not even sure she noticed.”
“Trauma creates a reaction in people,” I explain, if only to myself. “When that trauma is revisited, or worse, tossed in our face, it’s completely normal to respond physically and mentally. She hardly ate today, barely slept last night, and couldn’t focus at work. That’s all pretty standard for day one. But she’s ready to eat now, and her meds will make her sleep. The worst is past.”
“I wish I could be as certain as you.” She yanks a fridge open, the releasing seal echoing through the line, then grabs something from inside that starts the cat into a frenzy of meowing. Dinner time . “Keep me in the loop, please? My stomach hurts every time I think about her, and historically, that means nothing good is coming. But you’re right, too, in that this is normal for re-exposure to trauma. This is the first time she’s revisited this while married to you. That’s a break in the cycle, right? It’s a good thing.”
“I’m not gonna drop her.” I hunch against the icy blast of wind tearing along our street. “She might want to regress into shitty behaviors, and she might even get away with some of them, but I’m not gonna let her be who she was before. Back then, she was single and alone. She had no one calling her out daily and forcing her back to reality. Now she has us, and there’s no chance in hell I’m letting her down when she needs me the most.”
“Alright. Fine,” she breathes, shuffling the phone and scraping food into a plastic bowl. “I told you my bit. You told me yours. Chances are, she’ll end up somewhere in the middle. I’ll be at Tim’s all night, so if you need me or whatever…”
My fast pace turns to a damn speed walk, but I smile and blow past the bar and yank our apartment building door open, stepping into the cold, but at least the brick walls save me from the wind. Steve isn’t on guard duty today, so I don’t have to slow to toss out a hurried hello.
“I’m heading up the stairs now. I have a dinner and movie date with my wife, so if you don’t hear from me, you know all is well. ”
“I sincerely hope you don’t call me, then.” She opens the fridge again to put the cat food away. “Talk to you later, okay?”
“Yep. And don’t forget the team I need for tomorrow. Delegate your troops out, but save yourself and Mayet for mine. You’ll be playing in the dirt, so don’t wear your best shoes.”
She snorts. “Noted.”
“Good. Talk to you then.” I turn at the first-floor landing and continue up, then I drag the phone from my ear and ignore everyone else. The texts from Felix. The one from Micah. I don’t bother responding to Cato’s, and not even the mayor’s gentle curiosity can tempt me to open my emails. I slip the device into my pocket and charge up the remaining stairs, my body warm from the run and my heart pounding with anticipation. Because my wife needs me, and despite her normal instincts, she fights the thoughts that try to pull her in and orders Thai for us, anyway.
Infusion night typically means I won’t even get laid. An adjustment for the man who could come a half dozen times a day if she’d let me. But there isn’t a single shred of regret in my body that focuses on what I don’t get tonight. Because all of me obsesses on what I do get.
My wife propped against my side, the delicious scent of her hair in my lungs and her needle, more than likely, in my hand. Because fuck, she trusts me to administer her meds, knowing I won’t hurt her.
My blood tingles at the thought of carrying her to bed later because I know she’ll fall asleep watching whatever trash we put on the TV, and after that, pulling her onto my chest and falling asleep with her body wrapped around mine.
Because that’s where we find peace. It’s our safe space where no one can hurt us, and nothing can slide between.
But why, when I emerge at the top of the stairs and skid to a stop, do I spot a bag of takeout dumped on the floor by our door? Why does my baby brother sit right beside it, his head pressed to the wall, his knees perched high, and his elbows resting on top?
More importantly, why is the apartment door open, and who the fuck is my wife speaking to?
“Cato? ”
Slowly, almost lazily, he sets a silencing finger on his lips to shut me up.
“Methylcarbinol is a muscle relaxer,” Minka mumbles, her monotone like a serrated knife to my throat. “Ethyl hydroxide?” She says the words like a question, which means she’s answering someone else’s. “Old fashioned methylated spirits. It’s alcohol. It’s a cleaning agent. It’ll send a man blind if he drinks it.”
“Who is she talking to?” I keep my voice low and slowly bend, scooping up our still-warm dinner. Moisture builds inside the bag and drips back to the containers inside when I jostle it. “It’s not Aubree.”
Cato shakes his head and murmurs, “Some cop. Paxton something.”
“Gilbert.” Curious, I drag my lip between my teeth and pass my brother’s freakishly long legs, his shoes the perfect weapon to trip me up. Then, I move through the door and quietly cross to the counter to set our dinner down. The TV is off, but Minka is already on the couch. Which isn’t a bad thing, I suppose. Except for the fact I’m not there with her. “Hey.” I know she’s on the phone, so I don’t shout or demand attention. But I shrug my coat off and keep the back of her head in my vision. The way she holds the phone in her left hand and glances down into her lap.
Reading notes, maybe. Or her laptop, like last night.
“You left our dinner in the hall, babe. I was gonna?—”
“Shh.” She fucking shushes me, half turning, so I catch her face in profile and the tiny wrinkles fanning from her eyes to show her frustration. “Yeah, no. It’s . Sounds like his chosen cleaning-agent is metho,” she continues, completely fucking ignoring me in favor of her phone call. “He didn’t clean the girls, per se. But he cleaned his home because each of them had the chemical collection imbedded in the pads of their fingers. This was discovered pretty early on, Pax. It’s not new information.”
Pax?
My heart wrenches in my chest, the Malone madness sprinting through like a wildfire in the summer. Because maybe I escaped that godforsaken life and left behind the world I was supposed to exist within, but I am who I am, and my father is who he was .
Jealousy is like a fire hydrant let loose in my body, the taps released and the wash of anger like a furious flood in my veins.
But I tamp it down.
I fucking drive it down and force myself to remember I’m better than the world I came from, and Minka Mayet is nothing if not loyal to me. Her heart, her soul, her entire being. There’s no room for jealousy in my marriage, so I swallow the poison and turn to make a beeline for the fridge.
She needs her meds and dinner. This is not the first time I’ve walked in to find her discussing a case long after office hours, which means although she had plans to feed and medicate herself, they’ve gone to the wayside now that her phone is in her hand.
As her husband, it’s my duty to help remind her.
I pull the fridge open and select a factor pack from the middle shelf. Every pack comes with two vials, one with powder, and the other, liquid. Peeling the box open and snagging the small bottle of liquid, I hold it in my closed fist and breathe warm air into the tiny gap at the end so I can bring it up to room temperature.
The colder it is, the more it stings, sliding into her veins.
“We’re definitely looking for a male,” she continues, her body hidden by the back of the couch. But I see her shoulders—no hoodie—which is kind of a shame. I like it when she wears mine .
“The DNA left in the girls proves it, Pax. It’s not up for discussion. The M.E.s findings for each of the cases indicates penetration with a penis. Fingers, perhaps. But nothing else.”
Like sticks, I think to myself, though my brain and stomach reject the idea of exploring the thought further.
Bottles. Toys.
“I’m warming your stuff,” I try again. Because fuck it, this is my home, and she’s my wife. Pax can respect that, or he can fuck off and call during business hours tomorrow. “I know you’re starving, so I?—”
Growling in frustration, Minka grits out a tight, “Can you just wait a second, Pax?” Then she lowers her phone and twists on the couch to look me up and down. Her eyes are hard, the way they so often get when standing over a body, but she watches me like she’s surprised I’m here. Mildly curious, but not in the least bit bothered to understand. “What?”
I roll her medication between my palms and slowly meander her way. “What?”
“You said something?”
“Yeah. I’m warming your…” I show her, since I know she’s private about her hemophilia and firm in her stance against sharing that information with outsiders. Then I close my fingers again to keep going. “Can you wrap that up in two minutes? I’ll have everything ready for you by then.”
“No need.” She lifts her right hand and shows me the syringe held between her palm and fingers, her thumb on the plunger as she slowly pushes medicine into her veins. “I’m infusing now, but I’m not super tired, so I probably won’t crash right after.”
“Uh…” I stop at the back of the couch and spy her rainbow tourniquet hanging loosely around her arm. The used alcohol wipe on the coffee table and the butterfly needle taped to her skin. What the fuck? Irritated, I release my tight grip on the bottle, since I’m not sure if warming it already means I’ve wasted it, but then I glance back to the takeout still in the bag, then to Minka and her complete lack of… well, anything . Emotion. Warmth. Not even strewn about food wrappers littering the couch. “So we’re discussing that ,” I press, “with an audience now?”
“It’s just Pax.” She turns and continues what she started without me. “And I had a bunch of water when I walked in the door. Turns out I wasn’t starving. Just thirsty.”
You skipped lunch, you little liar. And infusing on an empty stomach will knock you on your ass.
“I’m serving up dinner.” Incensed, I spin on my heels and stalk to the kitchen, setting the diluent back into the fridge and taking down plates from the cupboard. “You’re eating, Mayet. It’s not up for discussion.”
“He sounds…” Paxton’s gritty throat clearing echoes throughout my home, growing louder as she switches the call to speaker. Then he adds with a soft chuckle, “ Friendly . Seems I’m interrupting something.”
“Yeah,” I snarl. “You are.”
“Janiesa Sawyer would disagree,” Minka cuts me off with a furious snap. “She’s in some asshole’s basement tonight. Starving, terrified, and chances are, he’s already violated her body, stripped her down, and destroyed her sense of smell because he drenches his home in methylated spirits. We’re gonna find her in eleven and a half months with random household products in her belly because she had nothing else to eat. But hey, if she’s lucky, she won’t have a baby in there. God forbid my dinner goes a little cold.” Then back to Pax. “Did you call the moms after we last talked?”
After we last talked?
How fucking often do they talk?
“I started down the list,” he rumbles, shuffling through papers on what I assume is his desk. Fuck knows, maybe he’s home too, sitting on his bed, and chatting with my wife.
Pissed, I tear the takeout bag open and peel the lid off a plastic container, the delicious scent of Thai spices wafting free of their packaging. She has two minutes until I get out an industrial-sized fan and blow the smell straight into the back of her head.
Three minutes before I pick her up and move her my damn self.
“I spoke to Diane’s mother first,” he continues, “since she was the first. But I figure that was a mistake since it was so long ago.”
“She forgot too much?”
“It’s not uncommon. It’s been so long, and she already buried her baby. There comes a point when loved ones just want to put it aside, right?”
Wrong.
“What did she say?”
His stiff shirt crackles through the line, so I see in my mind the way he shrugs. “She was emotional, of course, especially with Janiesa in the news. She tried to remember the places she’d been and the people she’d talked to leading up to Diane’s disappearance. She had some details wrong, so I ran her through her old statements to jog her memories.”
“Did it help?”
He grunts. “Made her cry, mostly. I spent about an hour on the phone with her, rehashing what we already knew, and needling for anything extra. She said she and Diane went to the fruit market every Saturday before the park, and although she’d mentioned the market in her original statements—which means the folks who worked there have been questioned already—it wasn’t a documented routine. So that’s new. She never worked in the hotel industry, didn’t apply for seasonal positions, and held a steady job throughout Diane’s life. Lowe ran through every single one of her coworkers two decades ago. So, in her case, nothing has changed.”
I move to the silverware drawer and take out a fork, focusing on my task and not on the rage bristling under my skin. The potent jealousy burning me up from inside.
“But the fruit market routine is new,” Minka argues. “He didn’t have to work there, Pax. Maybe he bought fruit. Maybe he worked at the place next door. Or down the street. That’s worth putting on the wall and looking into.”
“For what purpose, Min?”
I slam the fork to the counter and spin so fucking fast, my feet skid on the smooth floor.
Min?
“They didn’t have CCTV watching the fruit market back then,” he continues, completely unaware of the target I already see on his forehead. “Most folks used cash, not card. Cell phones weren’t like they are now, so no one is out there snapping pics of every Tom, Dick, and Harry like they do these days. Cars didn’t have dash cams, and asking the market stall cashier to remember someone who walked by isn’t gonna work out so well.”
“Who is the cashier?”
“Min—”
“Name, Pax!” She hunches over the phone and picks up a pen with her left hand. As in, the fucking arm with a needle in it. “Name and contact details.”
“They already spoke to her during the initial investigation.”
“So you won’t have a problem sharing her name with me.”
“For fuck’s sake.” He shuffles papers, his exasperation bringing a small smile to my lips and smoothing out the sharp edges of my temper. Because she annoys the shit out of him, too. That’s my girl. “Gloria Donohue. She sat for an interview in ‘98 and again in ‘99 when Diane’s body was dumped. In fact, everyone was revisited in ‘99 after the bag was discovered. But nothing changed, and then the investigation shifted to the next case, anyway.”
“What did the fruit lady have to say in her first interview?”
“Swear to Christ,” he spits through his anger, slamming a file box closed. “Hang on while I find it.”
“Good. And while you’re doing that, who’d you call after Diane’s mother?”
“No one! You,” he clarifies. “I was with her for the better part of an hour, Min. And then time ran out, and I had to update you. Are you forgetting that it’s after eight here?”
“No.” She glances at the clock no one has thought to change since her move more than a year ago. “Of course, I didn’t forget.” She did. “I just feel this is more important than banker’s hours. Fruit lady?”
“I’m looking. Jesus.” He flips page after page, licking the tip of his finger to get a grip on the next. “Here. Lemme just…” He grunts again and sets the box down. “Gloria Donohue. Thirty-two years old at the time. Two kids; one of each. She’d been married, but separated. Not yet divorced. She had her kids full-time. Father bolted about eighteen months earlier. Eleven-year-old son, six-year-old daughter. Notes Lowe left in the file say that she home-schooled her kids to better fit her work schedule since she had a few jobs to keep up after the husband left. Kids were well looked after, though, and school reports came out with decent grades. The girl, more than the boy. The uh…” Awkward, he clears his throat. “Yikes.”
“What?” Minka shoots tall on the couch. “What about the boy?”
“Lowe… he uh, he wrote something down,” he explains. “A word we don’t really use anymore.”
Silence hangs, even as Cato slowly wanders into the apartment, his hands dug deep into his pockets and his ears carefully trained on the call he’s been eavesdropping on since it began.
“What was the word?” Minka almost whispers. “What does it say?”
“ Retarded . Not my word,” he rushes to explain. “I’m just reading what it says here. Nothing else really added to the file, just that she worked the stall most mornings before heading off to her next job. The owner of the stall was more interesting to Lowe.” He hums while he reads. I see it in my head, the way he pores over the documents and speed-processes handwritten notes from two decades ago. “Andrew ‘ Andy ’ Stein. He was male, in the thirty-to-fifty-year age bracket, and he came with a history of DV and time spent behind bars. Lowe has his jacket in here and highlighted where he beat on his wife and neglected his daughter on a semi-regular basis. He busted the wife up pretty bad one time, so she ran off but left the kid behind. She came back and found her wildly underfed, though not violated… if you get what I mean. Mom snatched the kid up and went to the cops. Cops took him away since he already had a past, and she signed up for parenting classes and AA meetings, so the state wouldn’t take her daughter from her.”
“Where’s Mom and the kid now?”
“Living it up in Destin, by the looks of it. Daughter grew up to become an RN. Mom stayed clean and remarried a few years later.”
“And the dad? He did time, right? Though it’s obvious he was a free man when Diane disappeared since he owned the fruit stall and employed that other woman.”
“Yeah. According to Lowe, Andy found Jesus in prison, came out, and cleaned up his act. He was with his sponsor at the time of Diane’s disappearance, which is a pretty fuckin’ solid alibi to toss. He was cleared.”
“But alibis can be bought!” Finishing with her syringe, Minka sets the plastic down and peels the tape from her arm. “He fits the criteria, Pax. Have you pulled him in since Janiesa?”
“I would, except he died about seven years back.”
“How about are we talking?” she snarls, yanking the needle from her arm and tossing the plastic tubing to the coffee table. “Do you have exact dates? Because this almost sounds like he was taking little girls every year for seventeen years, perhaps to replace the daughter he lost, and then stopped after Elouise, because, ya know, he died ?”
“He died three months before she went missing,” he counters, almost smugly. “And you’re forgetting he can’t have risen from the grave to abduct Janiesa. Andy was a close fit—Lowe zeroed in and hounded the man for years—but if it’s not right, it’s not right. You gotta cut that fish loose so your reel is ready for the next one.”
“Your analogies haven’t improved with age.” Minka tosses her tourniquet aside and flops back against the cushions. Because she is tired, and fuck, but I guarantee she’s hungry.
So, I get back to scooping food onto a plate.
Sighing, Minka reaches up and drags her ponytail over the back of the couch. “Definitely not fruit shop guy?”
“Not him. His history paints him as the bad guy, but his actions after prison prove something else. He didn’t have a single ding to his file after his release, and he didn’t lose his cool once, not even with Lowe riding his ass the way he was. It wasn’t him.”
“Did you talk to the fruit shop lady today?”
“No,” he huffs impatiently. “And I know I can trust you not to look her up and interfere with my investigation. That M.E. badge you carry at work isn’t the same as the badge I carry. Yours doesn’t count.”
“Mmhm.” Little does he know she has a cop badge, too, just sitting in the drawer and biding its time until she breaks the law next. “So tomorrow you’ll work through the list and see if you can shake something else loose. Maybe start with Elouise’s mother, since it’s fresher?”
“That’s the plan. Can you explain the methylated spirits thing?”
“I mean…” Tired, she shrugs. “We could wonder if he’s made a habit of drinking it. But if he did, he’d be blind by now. And we can infer that he used it to clean, since the vics had it on their hands and trace elements showed up in tox and stomach contents.”
“Which implies?”
“It’s possible he washed his clothes with it, too? Maybe some got on the cotton material Alana was eating, which is how it ended up on her screeners. Kinda sounds like he’s a clean freak, which, from a psychological stance, isn’t out of the ordinary for someone apt to steal and defile little girls.”
She’s done infusing, and I’m done waiting. So I place a clean fork on Minka’s plate and start across the apartment. “Say goodbye to your little friend now, Min .”
She pins me with a glare and snaps her teeth in threat.
So I smile and offer her food. “Please, Min .”
“Sounds like you gotta go.” Paxton Gilbert is a smart man, at least. He knows when to fuck off, and aside from the Min bullshit, he’s yet to turn this conversation in any direction except work .
Lucky him. He lives another day.
“I’ll be in contact if and when I get something fresh,” he rumbles. “Thanks for your help.”
“Yep.” She skips over her goodbyes, taps the red dot on her screen, and ends the call, all without taking her eyes off mine. “Don’t call me Min.”
“Why not?” I set the plate on her thighs and make quick work of collecting the fallout of her infusion, balling the tape, and snatching up the tubing. I grab the needle, though I’m not nearly as careful with it as I used to be. Accidentally pricking myself isn’t a concern anymore.
We already share body fluids.
Pushing everything aside and clearing a spot for me to sit, I perch on the coffee table, my knees almost touching hers. “He can call you Min. I’m your husband. Doesn’t that mean I get to, too?”
“You don’t want to call me Min. You’re only doing it to annoy me.” Pouting and puffy-eyed, she looks down at her Pad Thai and picks at the noodles. “You’re making it into something it’s not.”
“Sorry, Min .” I earn another snarl and lean in to press a kiss to her kneecap. “I was listening to your conversation?—”
“Well, of course you were.” She rolls her eyes and yawns at the same time. It’s a frightening look and not in the least bit sexy. But she’s post-infusion and mentally completely fucking depleted. So I take her fork and help her load it up. “I wasn’t hiding it from you. So you can cut the Min shit before I hurt you.”
“Uh-huh.” I spin the fork and wrap it in noodles, then I offer the lot, knowing we only have a small window before she’s out. “I wanted to be mad at you, Minnnka. I was pissed when I got home on date night to find you on the phone with someone else.”
She opens her mouth and accepts her dinner.
“I was jealous when he spat out that lame-ass nickname. But then I remembered…” I draw the empty fork back and stare into her eyes. “You’re mine . You belong to me, and there’s nothing on the fucking planet that’ll break us. So then I stopped being jealous and started thinking that poor motherfucker . The best he’s got is Min . Meanwhile, you’re still here with me.”
“You’re making it into a bigger deal than it needs to be. I talk cases with Fletch. He calls me Delicious and actively flirts right in front of your face. Somehow, that’s okay, but a cop from New York made you jealous?”
“Only for a second.” I glance down and load her fork a second time. “That green-eyed fucker got me questioning things for a minute?—”
“Green-eyed?” She pops a brow high on her forehead. “Do you mean envy or Malone?”
She gets it. Finally. So I answer with a simple, “Yes.” And then I bring her fork up and make damn sure she eats. “Ultimately, I choose not to invite anyone else into our marriage. So once I moved past all that shit, I started paying attention to the details.”
“You heard the bit about the fruit stall guy, right?” She talks around her food, bringing a hand up to swipe beneath her bottom lip. “Right age, right rap sheet, right priors, and a massive coincidence that he died right about the time our killer stopped taking kids.”
“He died before the last one.”
“Maybe Pax was wrong! I was asking him questions on the spot. He was doing the math on the spot. A miscalculation is entirely possible. This could have been him, !”
“He said the guy died months before Elouise went missing, so there’s no mathing to do. And even if it was him, by that theory, we have another killer on the loose. Copying the first. Snatching girls. You said Soph said they’re the same guy because the cops have information or whatever that the public doesn’t. That means the fruit guy is out.”
“But he fits!” she pleads. “He was exactly who we’re looking for.”
“Can’t be perfect, because it’s not him. But I had a thought when you mentioned the methylated spirits.”
“Cleaning.” She studies the plate in her lap and selects a chunk of beef. “He likes a clean world.”
“Right. So we have someone who suffers with OCD, perhaps. Diagnosed or not. Taking five-year-old girls and then having sex with them also leans toward purity. He likes clean .”
She wrinkles her nose with disgust. “They’re five, . That’s not purity. It’s pedophilia.”
“There’s how our minds work, but we need to figure out how his does. He probably lives in a pristine environment, right? Hospital grade, almost. But the bodies are coming back to you dirty and unbathed.”
“Yeah, they…” She peers up and frowns. “That’s a contradiction. They should be spotless, no? Bathed in cleaning chemicals, even. But they’re not.”
“OCD and… a personality disorder? Jekyll and Hyde?”
“Like a split personality?” Cato inserts himself in our conversation—funny how that doesn’t bother me like it does with Pax —and folds his arms. “One half of him is a clean freak, control freak. Someone who lives a life of structure and strict planning. The other half is less so; dirty, impulsive, maybe?”
“So glad you’re attending those psych classes you’re not supposed to be in,” Minka grumbles. But she nods for me, at least. Considering. “Could be true. We discussed today how he raped the girls, but it wasn’t always . It wasn’t a chronic thing—if such a classification could be made. They weren’t all returned torn up, which means he abstained sometimes.”
“Clean freak Cletus,” Cato declares. “That’s his name for now. So Cletus liked the world to be ordered. He probably bathed the girls, brushed their hair, dressed them, and set them up like real-life fucking dolls. They were pretty and pure and, ya know…” His cheeks turn a light sheen of green. “Virgins. They were perfect in his eyes.”
“And then there’s the less controlled side of him.” I quickly re-load the fork and offer it to Minka. “Explosive rage, maybe, considering how beat to shit they are when they come home. They were dirty, so maybe he was, too. They were unfed, which might lean toward his more impulsive side where maybe he forgot to feed them.”
“Forgetful Fred,” Cato adds with a sneer. “That’s his name.”
“Right.” I hold Minka’s stare and wait for her to open her mouth. “It’s highly possible Cletus and Fred are two halves of one person. He’s functional enough to get a job, probably. Hold it. He can assimilate into society and go unnoticed. Which means what? He takes them when he’s Cletus?”
“But even the most in control, average-looking dude is gonna draw eyes if he’s hanging around at the park,” Cato argues. “I’ve taken Mia a few times. Just me and her. She’s twenty feet away on the swings or whatever, and I’m chillin’ at the edge of the play area. Those mama bears are still clocking me from the corners of their eyes. I don’t look dirty. My clothes are clean, and my shoes are expensive. My hair is brushed, and Mia isn’t afraid when she looks my way. Half the time, she’s screeching my name. Look Cato! Watch me, Cato! Those women know she’s with me, but I guarantee most could provide a detailed description if the police ask. Because that’s what women do. They log this shit away for the future, and then they move closer to their own kid to make sure I’m not gonna snatch them. A single dude at the park, even one as sexy as me,” he smirks, “is still noticed. So how does Cletus, who is probably, what? Fifty, now? Sixty? How does he remain invisible, even after all those cases and all that hyper-vigilance in New York?”
“He could have an accomplice?” A deep line forms between Minka’s brows. “Wife, girlfriend, sister, friend. A female who scouts for him?”
“But not a single file has mentioned an accomplice,” I counter. “Every DNA sample pulled from the bodies has matched, and they all say male. Nothing, to date, has so much as hinted at two people.”
“Could be a gay couple,” Cato ponders. “One dude at the park? No bueno. Two dudes at the park? Totally acceptable, especially if they have a little kid with them.”
“Two dudes holding hands at the park in New York in ‘98 probably would’ve ended with a beat-down,” I murmur. “They would’ve been noticed most of all, and they sure as hell would’ve made it into the statements given. You’re thinking of a gay couple today , when we need to apply the same logic to nineteen-ninety-eight.”
“I mean…” He draws a long breath and exhales with a huff. “Fuck. Fine. So not a gay couple, not a single dude alone, and there are no reports of an accomplice. Which means he’s fucking invisible?”
“It means he’s sneaky,” Minka sighs. “Like a chameleon, he blends in to the environment, so even if someone is looking right into his eyes, they’re not alarmed. They expect to see him there.”
“Ultimately, we’re no closer to figuring this out than we were when we started, and the one guy who fits the brief died before the last two vics were swiped.” But Minka’s eyes grow glassy with exhaustion. Swelling sits beneath each, and a warm blush fills her cheeks.
“Finish your dinner.” I offer her more, knowing she needs to sleep, and brutally aware tomorrow won’t be any better than today. “We have an early start in the morning, so I need you rested.”
“I wanna call the fruit shop.” Sleepy, she opens her mouth and chews slowly when I fill it with noodles. “The dead guy is pinging my sixth sense. Besides,” she blinks owlishly. “Why the early start tomorrow?”
“We’re heading out first thing to dig up a body; you and Aubree are on the shovels. And the dead guy from the fruit shop is dead,” I drawl. “He’s not pinging anything.”
“I wanna call the ex-wife.” She yawns. “The daughter is older now, too. Maybe they know something we don’t.”
“Maybe you don’t get to call anyone.” But I set the plate and fork aside, because Minka’s posture turns to shit and her slow blinks turn to mini naps. Leaning closer, I pinch her nose and chuckle when her eyes snap open. “Swallow so you don’t choke.” But then I stand and scoop her into my arms. “Time for bed.”
“I’m still working.” And yet, she curls into my chest and wraps her arms around my neck. “Still have to call the lady who worked for the guy. She still alive?”
“You’re not a cop.” I step around Cato and ignore his softened expression as jealousy peaks in my blood for the second time tonight. He’s way too emotionally attached to my wife. Everyone seems to get that way, laying claim to a woman whose affection is rarely pleasant but whose heart is big enough… I suppose.
“Bathroom first,” I murmur. “Brush your teeth, or you’ll hate yourself tomorrow.”
“Didn’t even get dessert.” She smacks her lips and snuggles in closer when I turn at the bathroom door, cautious not to bash her head on the framing. “I’m not ready for bed. It’s still early.”
“Early is good sometimes. And you didn’t eat nearly enough.” Carefully, I set her on her feet but keep one arm across her back so she doesn’t slide to the tile. Then I reach out for her toothbrush and smear a little paste onto the bristles. “Open up, pretty girl.” I tap her chin and slip the brush into her mouth. “Can’t say I ever expected to brush someone else’s teeth for them.” But I watch us in the mirror, her slumping posture and the deep line of frustration burrowing between her brows. Then I look at me, and the stupid grin I had no clue I was wearing.
Guess I like taking care of her like this.
I press a kiss to her cheek and scrub until her breath no longer smells of Pad Thai. “I like it when you’re post-infusion, all lazy and malleable and huggable.”
“Are you coming to bed, too?” Her words slur from sleepiness and the intrusion of her toothbrush, her lashes flickering down to kiss her cheeks. “Are you ready to sleep?”
No . But… “Yeah, I’ll come to bed, too.” Another kiss, and I swap the direction of the brush to make sure I do a good job. “I’ll help you change and tuck you in. You’ll be asleep before your head touches the pillow.”
“That’s not true.” She leans over the basin and spits, white foam splashing against the porcelain and a thin line sticking to her chin. When she notices, sleepiness makes way for a warm blush while she drags her arm across to clean it up. “Oops.”
Chuckling, I rinse the brush and drop it into the cup holder, then I wet my hand and bring it up to wipe her lips and chin clean. “You’re pretty fuckin’ cute when you’re like this, ya know that?”
“I’m not cute.” But her eyes close again, her lips dropping forward into a sleepy pout. “I’m badass. I’m strong.”
“You’re cute. And you’re sleeping while standing up. Bravo.” I lift her again and take her back into the hall, then to our bedroom at the end. Kicking the door shut to give her privacy, I lay her on the bed and carefully peel her shirt over her head to reveal a plain black bra. No frills. Nothing exciting. And yet, so fucking sexy, my cock twitches and my heart sighs.
If I knew ten years ago how stupidly in love I would be today, I might’ve tossed myself off the Bayview Bridge, if only to save myself from the trouble of being this fucking dependent on someone else’s wellbeing.
But here I am now, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing.
She has me, heart and soul. So it’s my mission to make her happy. To keep her happy. And to not lose my fucking temper, all because some guy named Pax is on the phone during our private time.
I slip my hands beneath her back and unsnap the bra to release her from its tight constraints, then I pull the cups forward and expose all of her. The supple globes and pretty pink nipples. I bite my lip instead of biting and waking her, then I toss her bra to the floor and scoop her up one last time.
Peeling the covers down and placing her head on the pillow, I set the blankets back in place and smile when she brings her knees up and cuddles into them. “Come to bed, too.” Her eyes close, long lashes fanning out to touch her cheeks. “I can’t sleep without you.”
And yet, she sleeps.
Snickering, I lean in and press a kiss to her lips. “I’m coming to bed, too. Promise.” But when her breath turns heavier, and I know she’s out, I turn on my heels and eye the cat squatting in the corner of the room. “Snuggle her,” I order. “She loves it when you do that. She’s just too proud to admit it.”
Stepping away, I quietly open the door and switch the lights out as I pass, then I move into the hall and close up behind me.
I’ll come to bed soon, just like I promised. But I need to eat first, or I might die of starvation. And it doesn’t matter how snuggly she is, there’s no way in hell I’m going to sleep at six o’clock.
“She’s totally adorable.” Cato drops onto the couch where Minka sat a moment ago, setting his feet on the coffee table, and spinning a fork in the Thai she and I were meant to share. “If you’re ever thinking about divorce, give me a heads-up first so I can get over here and slide on in before someone else tries.”
“Not happening.” I make my way to the kitchen counter to see what’s left for me to eat. “I’ll slit the throat of every divorce attorney in the city long before I even entertain a discussion.”
“But if you do, I just need a five-minute head start so I can call Cordoza. He can contact his judge and get the paperwork sorted out. I don’t even mind that she’s old, ya know? Seems I’ve got a thing for her exactly the way she is.”
“She’s a pain in the ass. More stubborn than a mule.” He left me the whole, untouched container of spicy beef salad, so I peel the lid off and grab a fork. “She’s more fragile than a lunchbox full of hexogen and completely incapable of taking care of herself in a healthy, sustainable way. ”
He glances over his shoulder, smirking when our eyes meet. “She’s cute, though.”
“Yeah. But she needs a man who’ll force her to slow down.”
He scoffs. “I guess you’re saying you’re that man, huh?”
“Obviously.” I toss chunks of beef onto my tongue. “Since she’s my wife. You, on the other hand, don’t get to be someone’s minder. You need one of your own, so you don’t end up dead because you pissed the wrong person off.”
He makes the psht sound in the back of his throat, twisting on the couch and switching the television on, immediately finding the sports channel and settling on the highlights from the last Knicks game. His second favorite team, now that he’s a shoo-in with the Condors. “Kinda wish she had a sister. I want me a Minka Mayet.”
“You really don’t.” I set the container on the counter and move to the fridge to take out a bottle of water. “Besides, she’s one of a kind, and she’s all mine. Touch her, and I’ll break your fuckin’ legs.”