Archer #2
“He’s a smart kid.” He shrugs and flips the switch for our siren.
Not because we have to rush anywhere, and not because anyone is in danger.
But because it’s stifling out here, and our crappy cruiser has crappier air conditioning.
The faster we go, the sooner we can get out again.
“I think he’s got a pretty good handle on the dark, considering how much fucking light he brings into my daughter’s world.
For her, if no one else, I think he’ll choose right. ”
“I hope so.” I grab the dash, bracing myself as we glide around a busy corner. And since I have time, I open my messages and return Minka’s gift with one of my own.
“Molly Freemon?” Miranda sits back in her chair, her heeled feet atop her desk, and her long pencil skirt smoothed down to perfection.
She’s a model in every lifetime, and she’s intent on providing the best angles anytime she considers her visitor acceptable.
“Mousy little thing with a whisper voice and no backbone.” She studies her nails and gestures, faux-relaxed, toward the chairs opposite her desk. “Heard she landed in the hospital.”
“You don’t care?”
I’m reasonably certain she frowns. Though her quarterly Botox injections make it hard for her brows to move too far. “Care?”
“Ya know, like, give a shit about the mousy kid who followed you around for a month with stars in her eyes.” Fletch drops into his chair and rests his elbows on his knees.
“Like, at some point, in some dark, dingy corner of your soul, you felt a twinge of sadness for the girl who was shot, and whose boyfriend died.”
“I care for her as much as I care for the guy who makes my coffee in the morning.” She glances down her nose, smirking with smug satisfaction.
“I care about the coffee I receive. Or the tasks an intern completes. Nothing more. That doesn’t mean I wish them harm, but I don’t particularly think of them, either. ”
Bitch.
“We’d like to hear your impression of the mousy girl with no backbone.
” I take a seat and settle in with my arms on the rests.
If she wants to fake nonchalance, then I’ll do the same.
“Without your bitchy-wash over top, I want your thoughts. Molly planned to attend Copeland U next year and pursue her journalism degree.”
She dismisses the girl’s dreams with a simple quirk of her nose. “She reminds me of that other one. The mousy loser over on…” She considers. “Channel Seventy-Nine. Tiffany.”
The one who replaced you. Got it.
“There’s a certain level of confidence required for this job.
A self-assurance and dogged tenacity needed for those who wish to succeed in an industry where exposing uncomfortable truths is at the bedrock of what they do.
It’s not like people routinely volunteer their innermost fears and anxieties for public consumption.
It takes a skilled journalist to ferret out those words. ”
“Some might call it predatory.” I hold her hard eyes. “But that’s just splitting hairs, I suppose.”
“Tiffany doesn’t have what it takes for industry longevity. And frankly, neither does Holly.”
“Molly,” Fletch cuts in. “Her name is Molly.”
She shrugs. “My point remains. I’ve been around for a while now, and I’ve met many people.
Some are loud, but without substance. Some are quiet, but they’ve got a little something tucked away for when they need it.
And then there are the winners, the journalists who possess a knack for extracting information others can’t.
They’re in the right places at the right time, rubbing shoulders with the right people, and those people often open doors that would have otherwise remained shut.
To be successful, a journalist must have a nose for what’s coming, predict human behavior, and place correctly, so when the shit hits the fan and a story needs scooping, she’s already right where she needs to be. ”
“Kind of like a firefighter holding a box of matches.”
“She…” She stops, frowns… considers. “What?”
“Never mind.” I snicker. “Go on. And perhaps you could bring your rant back on point.”
Her lips peel back, revealing an unfriendly sneer.
“My point, Detective, is that mousy, spineless, shy girls like Molly Freemon will always be the researcher. The assistant. She’ll never be on screen, because she doesn’t have what it takes.
I told her so when she asked for my advice during her time here. ”
“She asked?” Fletch sits back and crosses his left ankle onto his right knee. “She specifically wanted your take on things?”
“Naturally. I told her what I told you just now, adding that she was welcome to continue her education in any direction she saw fit, but that it would be a monumental waste of her time unless she could find a little… what’s the word I’m looking for?
” She brings fiery eyes across to me. “Bitchiness. Gentleness does not pay in this industry, and passivity won’t get her through the doors she needs to walk through. ”
“What did she say to all that?” I pinch my lip between my thumb and forefinger and study the woman I once spent an evening with.
Pulsing in the back of my mind, questions blink like neon lights.
How? Why? Knowing what I know now, and having spent all this time with a woman like Minka Mayet, how could I have found the likes of Miranda London tolerable enough to lose my pants?
That was the Malone part of me, surely. The cracked, broken part.
“She said nothing.” Pulling her legs off the desk, Miranda sets her feet on the floor and straightens in her chair.
“Her boyfriend turned up and took her out to lunch. Which—” Scoffing, she drags her desk drawer open and takes out a stick of gum.
“Is another strike against her future success. She was learning stuff here, receiving valuable insight into the world she swore she wanted to jump into. But that boy turns up and tells her to move, so she moves.” She unwraps the gum and folds the piece—once, twice, three times—before placing the square on her tongue. “She changed when he arrived.”
My pulse quickens. My intuition niggling. “Changed, how?”
“Changed, like, she was mousy and quiet with me. That’s who she is.
It’s a personality trait she’ll never escape.
But she became a ghost of that person when he walked up.
He was the Pied Piper, and she was the dirty little rat, dancing to his tune.
You should talk to Perry.” She hooks a thumb toward the door.
“He was friendly with her while she was here. Not, like…” She wrinkles her nose.
“Not romantically. She’s still a kid, and though Perry’s kinda young, too, he’s got his head on straight and adheres to workplace boundaries.
But they were pals. They got along. Maybe he knows more. ”
“We’ll do that.” I file his name away in the back of my mind, but I don’t stand yet. I don’t move a single inch. “I have another question, if you don’t mind.”
She waits in silence, gesturing my way when the silence persists. “Go ahead.”
“I noticed you carry a Glock 42 these days. I don’t recall you doing so before.” Before last year. Before Ethan O’Dey injected her with a killer cocktail of drugs that didn’t quite finish their job. “Is that new, or was I simply unobservant in the past?”
Less arrogant now, she sits back in her chair, her eyes darkening and her pulse skipping in her throat. “I got it a while ago. Eight months or so.”
“You practice with it?” Fletch questions. “Attend the range weekly?”
“A few times a week. My hands shook at first, so I made it my mission to hit a center target the first time every time.”
“So you have a good aim now?” I press. “Confident with your weapon?”
“I am.” She twines her fingers together in her lap, quietly chewing her gum, so each movement makes her jaw flex and release. “I feel safer now, having earned a new skill. I maintain that skill with multiple-times-a-week sessions at the range, just as all responsible gun owners should.”
“Agreed. Can we see your weapon, Miranda?” I gesture toward her desk between us. “If you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” She tugs her bottom drawer open and rummages around for a beat, her easy acceptance messing with the direction I thought this case was heading. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, then straightens again and places a black cherry P365 on top of a well-worn notebook.
Surprised, my brows shoot high on my forehead. “Sig Sauer? I asked to see your 42.”
She snaps her desk drawer closed and settles back in her chair.
“If you did your job well, detectives, you’d know my Glock was reported missing three weeks ago.
I’m not the type to place all my eggs in one basket, so I trained with an extensive catalog of firearms while at the range.
My Glock was a favorite, but this is a close second. ”
“Missing?” Fletch’s eyes flash with danger. With determination. “Or stolen?”
She shrugs. “I had it, and then I didn’t.
I hesitate to say stolen, since I have no proof.
But I do know that in all the time I’ve owned a firearm, I’ve followed the same, strict routine.
I keep it on me when I’m moving, in my desk drawer when I’m here, and in my drawer by the front door at home.
” She goes back to studying her nails, grinning like this entire conversation is fun for her.
“I’m not the type to toss unfounded accusations around, especially not when they point toward a dead man.
But Molly’s boyfriend was here the last time I remember seeing it.
He took her out to lunch and did all that couple-y stuff, macking on her in the parking lot, and whispering whatever things teenagers whisper about when her parents aren’t around to supervise.
My day went on as usual, and it wasn’t until I was packing up for the evening that I realized my property was not where I left it.
I’m not saying it was him, but I’m not saying the coincidence doesn’t leave me with pause.
I did the right thing, filed the reports, and signed on the dotted line.
Then I invited detectives into my office and let them make a mess with the fingerprint powder.
He’s in the system, just as I suspected he would be, but the detectives couldn’t find his prints in here.
So that’s…” She shrugs. “That. I went home and unpacked my P365. Is that all?”
“What did Molly say about the gun?” I shuffle forward on my seat, holding her stare. “Cops walking around, asking questions, dusting for prints. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”
“It did by her. Molly had left for the day when they arrived, and they were gone again by the time she got back the next morning. The cleaners had come through and wiped away the powdery residue, and she’s technically just a child, not formally employed here at Channel Seventy-Nine, so I suppose no one really even thought to bring it up in front of her. ”
“But if you think her boyfriend stole it, how was staying silent on the matter the right thing to do?”
“I’m not a babysitter, Detectives. I’m not her parent, nor her therapist. I have far more important things to do than gossip with a literal teenager.
” She snags her pistol and places it back in her drawer.
“And now I’m done. So, unless you’d like to change the subject and talk about something far more interesting, then I’d say that concludes our meeting. ”