Minka
Istride—and by stride, I mean limp—into the George Stanley a single step ahead of Aubree, while the other two peel off to go about their work.
They have a rap sheet to scour and a detailed list of folks Ben Saxon pissed off in the last year or two, which makes for a pretty good place to look for shooters.
So while they’re doing that, I cross the ground floor lobby and make a beeline for the elevators.
“Ben’s autopsy is complete, pending labs and ballistics.
Neither of which is in our hands. We’re shuffling him to the side and moving on to what I damn well know is a whole stack of bodies just waiting for us to process. ”
“I mean…” Clearing her throat, Aubree moves just a little faster than me and taps the elevator call button. Since her knees are fully functional and not in pain. “Raquel did mention something of an influx when we last spoke.”
“Color me surprised.” I stare up at the numbers above the steel doors and count them down.
Third floor. Second. First. I take a step back instinctually and wait for the doors to slide open, then I start forward, only to stop again when a little old lady looks up at me with heavy shadows under her eyes, pink where they should be white, a million wrinkles making her skin sag, and hair grayer than it was yesterday, I swear. “Mrs. Beecroft?”
She’s weak and shaking. Frail and seemingly smaller than the last time I saw her.
Without hesitation, Aubree strides forward and takes the woman’s arm, lending her strength and standing in the way of the doors so they can’t close again.
“Chief Mayet.” Donna Beecroft’s eyes sparkle with fresh grief, her breath escaping on a hitched exhale. “I was worried I wouldn’t find you today.”
“Are you okay, ma’am?” I back up, and because Aubree is intuitive as hell—plus, that gift she has—she leads the woman out of the elevator and into the lobby, then she brings her across to a chair, one of a half dozen I have never, in all the time I’ve worked here, seen anyone sit on.
She helps the woman lower, then moves into a crouch and looks up into her eyes. “Do you need some water, Mrs. Beecroft?”
“You look different today.” She twists in her seat and grabs my wrist, pulling me around.
I’m not crouching with stitches in my knee. I refuse. So I drag a chair closer and perch on the edge.
“Such pretty dresses,” she murmurs, bringing her gaze back to Aubree. “You’ll be an exquisite bride, Doctor Emeri.”
“Donna.” I trade her grip and take her hand in mine instead. “Is there something we can do for you?”
“Teddy…” She draws a shuddering breath and cups her mouth with a shaking, aged hand marked with sunspots and saggy skin. “I miss Teddy.”
“He’s not here, Mrs. Beecroft.” Aubree straightens out and stalks to the water fountain tucked into the corner of the large room. Pouring a half cup, she brings it back and mirrors my pose, sitting on the edge of another seat. “Teddy’s in the hospital morgue. He’s not here with us.”
“Will he come here?” She focuses on the water, studying the rippling lines as they create circles. “This is a morgue, too, right? How ironic.” She weeps, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist. “That doctors from the morgue would help us yesterday.”
“I don’t think he’ll come here.” I tuck a loose lock of hair behind my ear, waiting for Donna’s glistening eyes to come up again.
“The hospital has a morgue of its own, and I expect Teddy’s file will be closed quickly.
They have no reason to stretch this out or request an in-depth investigation.
If you like, I could help connect you with the hospital liaison.
They’ll walk you through your next steps. ”
“H-he can’t come here?” Her jowls bounce with every tremoring breath she releases. She’s a mess. Who the hell is watching out for her? “Maybe I could talk to someone and have him transferred here?”
“Do you have family, Mrs. Beecroft?” Aubree rests her hand on the woman’s knee, long, thin legs exposed beneath a dress of ugly florals and a single loose stitch. “Can we call someone for you?”
“No, I…” She drops her gaze again, back to the water and rippling circles. “It’s just us. Just me and Theo.”
“Did you and Theo live independently before this?” I straighten my bad leg, lessening the tug on my sutures now that a fresh pain throbs through the limb. “You were living at home?”
She nods.
That’s it. That’s all she gives me.
“We’ll make some calls for you,” I decide. Or, well, Callen will. That’s her job. “There are social workers trained to help people in your situation.”
“My situation?” She looks up with droopy eyes.
“I’m not in a situation, Chief Mayet. My husband died.
I just want him to come here.” Tears dribble onto her cheeks, over soft bumps and through deep valleys, then they drip off the edge of her jaw.
“You both tried so hard yesterday. I even heard the ambulancemen say how you knew he was gone already, but that you kept going.” She sniffles and swallows, staring down at her water again.
“You didn’t have to help at all, but you did.
Because you’re nice girls who care. Is it so bad that I want him to come here, to the girls who care, before it’s time to bury him? ”
“Jesus. That was rough.” It takes twenty minutes, a kind security guard, and summoning Callen from her office before Aubree and I can escape Donna’s sad eyes and shaking hands.
Stepping into the elevator and smacking the button for the ninth floor, I stare straight ahead, not at the elderly woman off to the side, and wait for the doors to close again.
“She might need to go into a home or something. Even if she comes out again eventually, right now, she needs help.”
“She’s grieving.” Aubree twines her hands together, linking her fingers. “I don’t think Grant Freemon hurt Ben, either.”
I glance her way. “Hmm?”
“Molly’s dad. Maybe he’s good at hiding his feelings, maybe he’s playing me.” She shrugs and looks up at the numbers above the doors. “We’re all thinking it, aren’t we? That maybe he wanted Ben out of her life, so he bought a gun and took care of things.”
“I mean…” I lift my chin and straighten my spine, so when the doors open on our floor, I emerge as the chief medical examiner.
Formidable, unflappable, and definitely not limping.
“Maybe he suspected Ben was dealing, too. Maybe he didn’t want her messed up in this stuff, so he offed the kid.
It’s reasonable, and he lacks a credible alibi. ”
“Exactly.” She follows me toward my office, with glass walls and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. “I think it’s an intelligent first question to ask. Daddy is protective, and he comes from a life where he not only knew those types, but he was one of those types.”
“He’s not a typical suit hanging out in a cushy office.
” I push my door open and stride in, knowing my time is limited.
Soon, my staff will know I’m here, and once they do…
noise. So much noise. “He’s successful and comfortable now, but by his own admission, he knows that world, he knows those streets, and he’s done some of the same things Ben has done.
If Archer and Fletcher hadn’t considered it yet, they wouldn’t be the detectives we know them to be. ”
“Agreed.” She shadows me all the way to my desk, but while I keep going to the other side, pulling out my chair and tapping the button on my computer to power it up, she slumps onto my visitor chair with an unladylike harrumph.
“So I touched him.” She lifts her hands, like I don’t know what she means.
“I grabbed him and tried to… ya know.” She drops them again.
“I tried to see. Either he’s good at hiding his truths, or he didn’t hurt Ben.
And if he didn’t, then that brings us right back around to the start.
Probably a supplier wanting payment. Or a user, or the family member of a user.
Or it could have been any number of people who live by a different set of rules on the streets.
Maybe he sneered at someone’s girl, or he didn’t say hello when he was supposed to.
Hell knows, those teenage gangs run on ego and a lack of common sense. ”
“So…” I wiggle my computer mouse and fire up the screen, and while the internet takes a moment to connect and my email inbox populates, I peek at my desk phone and the myriad lines flashing red. “Busy day already.”
“It’s actually almost time to go home.” She tips her head back, snickering. “Sleeping in till ten o’clock means four o’clock still feels early.”
“Part of me wonders why I haven’t been fired yet.
” I lean to the side and drag my cell from my back pocket, my intuition niggling at me, only to discover a missed call from the mayor’s office.
Just one. Which is good, I suppose. Ten missed calls mean he’s pissed.
One means he just wanted to chat. “Am I being ridiculous, or is he allowing me to keep a job I probably don’t deserve?
Turning up to the office late, taking off for a weekend away without notice, flying to New York without briefing my staff beforehand. ”
“Working in the middle of the night,” she counters, lifting a finger.
“Cracking unsolved cases Doctor Chant never could.” Two fingers.
“Running a functional building on budget—to the dollar,” she smirks.
“While paying your techs appropriately. You’re the chief, Chief, which means you could keep your butt here, in this office, and delegate bodies to the minions, but you never have. You never do.”
“Makes me an underperforming leader.”