Minka
MINKA
I sit back at my desk and press my thumbs against my eyes. I crush them closed and count stars as they float across my vision. Phones trill non-stop, risking my mental stability and the callers’ safety. But then the swoop of my office door sucks the air from the room, forcing me to lower my hands and blink the dots from my eyes.
I expected to see Aubree—she’s so often the person casting shadows on my floor—so when it’s Mayor Lawrence himself, in a pressed black suit, salt and pepper hair, and a week-old stubble on his jaw, I startle straight in my chair and ignore my coworker’s stunned expression and face pressed unceremoniously to the glass at his back.
“Sleeping on the job, Chief Mayet?” Lawrence sets his hands in his pockets, so the ends of his jacket sit at odd angles and his sleeves ride up and expose both wrists.
He wears a watch on one.
And a leather band with a single charm on the other.
“Not entirely professional, I would think. Is your sleep schedule the reason my calls consistently go unanswered?”
“Um…” I glance at my still-ringing phone. And though I can’t entirely pinpoint which brain cell instructs me to do it, I pick up the handset, then drop it again, to end the call bouncing from one glass wall to the next. “I wasn’t sleeping, Mayor.”
“You were meditating?” He circles my visitor’s chair and slowly, elegantly sits down, unbuttoning his jacket and crossing one leg over the other. “I never picked you for a woman who takes the time.”
“I wasn’t meditating.” I pick up my ringing phone again and drop it down. Wildly unprofessional, I know. “I was thinking, actually. About one of my current cases. But the noise of the phone was intruding. And now?—”
“And now I’m intruding.” He grins. Handsome, devilish, even, and makes poor Aubree melt on the other side of the glass. Yes, she loves Timothy Malone. And sure, someday, eventually, they’ll probably marry and make a bunch of angry babies. But only ninety-eight percent of her loyalties lie with the Malone heir. The rest of her is dedicated to the formidable and objectively sexy Mayor Lawrence.
Former district attorney.
Father to two grown, married women.
Grandfather to… two, I think . I can’t remember.
“Does it surprise you that I’ve come all the way downtown to get eyes on you, Chief?”
“Um—”
“I feel as though we had an understanding,” he pushes on. “Once a week, you take my calls and assure me all is well. I want to know this building is running efficiently, and you, personally, are also healthy. As long as you hold up your side of our agreement, and I’m satisfied everything is fine, then I would leave you be.”
“Mayor—”
“But you haven’t taken my calls once in the last month.”
“I’ve been busy,” I choke out truthfully. “I’ve been?—”
“I left it alone, because you have a penchant for being on the ground and running cases of your own, despite being chief and leaving this building is not necessary. My wife reminds me that seeing you on the news while you save your staff from that same fate brings me the same outcome. Our deal, in the most technical sense, was being honored. Technical ,” he growls when I open my mouth to speak. “But the spirit was not.”
“Mayor—”
“Nevertheless,” he hits me with a fatherly look that, had I known the man in my teens, would certainly have preceded a stern talking to, and probably grounding. “That doesn’t mean you’re excused from communications altogether. You are well aware of the terms of our agreement, Doctor Mayet. So consider me confused when you continue to avoid my every attempt to communicate.”
“I’m often busy when you try to talk to me.” Sheepish, I clear my throat and link my fingers, laying my hands in my lap. “I don’t mean to avoid you. It’s just that, when you call, I rarely have the time to chat, and when I do have the time, I’ve forgotten you’ve reached out.”
“And as a result, I’ve had to schedule a meeting with you. In your building. Without informing you of said meeting in advance, for fear you would go out of your way to be busy someplace else.”
“You’re applying personal feelings to a professional relationship.” I draw a deep breath and try not to feel small under the beady stare of the man who, it seems, wishes to adopt me as his daughter. Since he already has such good practice with his other two. “I’m not avoiding you, Mayor.”
“Justin.”
My eyes pop wide, while in my stomach a ball of nerves ping-pongs like a nasty little troll jumping up and down on his bridge. “Hm?”
“My name is Justin. And this is not just a professional relationship. I care that you’re okay, Mayet. So if you insist I chase you down and hold you hostage in your own office, then I suppose that is what I will do.”
“You’re the mayor!” I shove up from my chair, skipping from small to indignant, and stalk toward the windows that overlook the city. “You’re the dude who came on as our city’s leader after an unfortunate incident between me and the last one. You think you get to interfere because I’m young and female? Like I can’t run my building without your thumb on my forehead?”
He scoffs. Which, in itself, is entirely irritating. “Am I interfering in your work, Doctor? Or am I requesting welfare checks to ensure you’re alive and safe?”
“I’m not your daughter!” I spin and snarl when I find not only Aubree pressing her face to the glass, but Fifi, too. And beside them, the blonde and beautiful and equally annoying Doctor Raquel. Because they’re nosy and rude. All three of them. Incensed, I drag my eyes to an amused mayor and sneer. “You have daughters. Two of them. They’re intelligent and successful. Married. And one of them, a parent. You have a wife. And a house. And an entire city to maintain. I insist you do not add to your workload by worrying about someone you didn’t even know this time last year.”
“And since we’re talking, I suppose I should inform you I insist on worrying about a capable, educated, married, successful woman I did not know this time last year. You can throw as many tantrums as you like, Mayet. I assure you, my daughters have performed many throughout their lives. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop calling your office and annoying your studious Ms. Lewis.” He doesn’t even look behind himself. Yet, he jabs a thumb in the trio’s direction and has Seraphina ‘Fifi’ Lewis’ eyes popping wide. “She gets exceptionally mad when I’ve called for a third time in one day and you still have not returned my call.”
“It’s not her job to get mad,” I grit out. “It’s her job to answer the phones, keep the media off my back, and do whatever else is in her job description.” Which, I admit, I don’t entirely know .
Lawrence’s lips curl up on the side. A tiny smirk I’m not sure many others in this world get to see. “You probably owe her dental expenses. I’m certain she grinds the enamel right off her teeth because of you.”
“Risks of the job. Now that you’ve established I’m both alive and well, and I’ve voiced my boundaries once more, I think that concludes our meeting.” I gesture toward the door. “It was a pleasure.”
He chuckles, shaking his head gently side to side and staying exactly where he is, perched in an exceptionally uncomfortable chair. “Your boundaries being not to worry about you. Because I am not, and I quote , your father.”
Maddened, I straighten my back and dip my chin. “Precisely.”
He clicks his tongue. An instant, galling denial. “I think I’ll stay a few minutes more. My next meeting isn’t until midday, which is,” he checks his watch and takes his time reading the hands, “twenty minutes from now. Heard you recently came into some real estate?”
“Good lord.” I drop my head back and almost thunk it against the glass. “You’ve talked to Archer.”
“I’ve made a phone call here and there. Oddly, the detective answers, even when he’s busy.”
“Because he’s dedicated to the ‘ let’s annoy ’ cause you’re so set on leading. I haven’t come into real estate, by the way. My husband has real estate. There’s a difference.”
“The fact that you’re married makes it yours, too.”
“Only when I divorce him! At which point, I’ll take half of everything he inherited and spend it on something that would aggravate him almost as much as Operation: Coddle aggravates me. Until that point, I have no desire to discuss the house he owns.”
“The one right beside mine,” he inserts. “You mean that acre of property up on the hills, with a house big enough to cater to anything you could ever wish for in the future, the gardens that could probably do with a little tending, and the lawn that is seen to every single week despite no one being there to enjoy it? That house?”
“As Copeland City Mayor, I find it disingenuous that you pay so much attention to my assets that you become familiar with a gardener’s schedule.” I roll my eyes, as though to make the man feel silly. Though I’m not sure I have the ability to affect him that way. “I’m confident you have other, more important things to occupy your time.”
He chuckles, completely unaffected by my pettiness. “I employ the same gardener, Chief Mayet. It makes for easier travel between jobs, and sometimes, when I work from home and have a few spare moments, Gustav and I manage an enjoyable discussion and tour of the grounds. Walking in the grass is good for one’s health.”
“Gustav?” I wrinkle my nose, though I’m not sure why. “That’s his name?”
My phone rings again. But it’s not Fifi attempting to connect a call, considering her nose is currently pressed to my glass wall. It’s not Aubs—same reason. It’s someone who has my direct line phone number. But it’s not Archer, because he calls my cell.
“You stare at it often?” Lawrence glances at the phone, grinning when I make no move to answer it. “I imagine there are many people left wanting when they try to contact you.”
“My job requires concentration.” I swallow the nerves in my throat and breathe a little easier when the trilling stops and the phone quiets. “Often, I’m solving a puzzle. And puzzles require uninterrupted thought. That stupid thing is the bane of my existence.”
“So it comes with negative feelings,” he ponders. “Anyone who attempts to communicate with you using it is already disadvantaged.”
I drag my focus from my desk and meet his eyes instead. “You could say that.”
“So perhaps I contact you another way. Text. Or email. That way, you’re not interrupted. You can respond on your own time. And the fact it’ll sit unread on your device until you’re ready means you’ll get reminders.” He picks a speck of lint off his pants and holds my stare. “Reasonable?”
“You’re really set on this—this…” I point between us. “You won’t take no for an answer?”
“I’m set on it.” His eyes dance with mirth. “Your refusal to let anyone care about you must surely irritate Detective Malone.”
“Like he didn’t already bitch to you about it,” I grumble, earning a scowl from the mayor-pleasing Fifi. God forbid I frown in the presence of her beloved leader. “I have no doubt you and Detective Malone secret away time to hold your meetings about how to most efficiently and effectively bother me. ”
Lawrence scoffs. But he doesn’t outright call my assumption foolish. “We could probably make logos. Sweaters.” His square jaw flexes with restrained humor. “It might even be time to open membership to Doctor Emeri and Ms. Lewis, since they, too, enjoy bothering you.”
I firm my lips and ignore my audience. Because if I tell them to fuck off on company hours, it’s possible I’ll be accused of meanness .
“Tell me about your current case, Chief Mayet.” Lawrence fixes the pleat on his pants and straightens his face. “Don’t give me the party line about confidentiality or active cases. You know I don’t gossip.”
“Except with Archer,” I interrupt.
“Except with Archer,” he amends with a grin. “She was young, wasn’t she? Barely out of high school.”
“She was eighteen,” I sigh, backing up to the glass windows and leaning on the cold pane. “Naomi Wallace was stabbed to death with a crowd watching and security cameras filming the entire ordeal. Objectively, it should be open and close, an easy case to solve, considering the detectives get to see the whole thing in high definition and with time stamps in the corner.”
“But it’s not easy. Because it was callous and cruel.”
“My job is done. I autopsied her. I’ve written my report and sent it to the lead detectives. She’s been pended , like so many are, as we await toxicology results. But the fact is, every case is a puzzle for me to solve, but this?—”
“This puzzle is already complete,” he guesses. “You’re no longer needed, and it bothers you that you become redundant once the report is written?”
“No. It bothers me that I had to autopsy an eighteen-year-old woman—a girl, really—and her unborn child. It bothers me that someone hated her so much that they set up a scene that borders on theatrical, ensuring she was not only murdered in cold blood, but it was done when her adrenaline was high and her last hour alive was spent in a state of fear. She doesn’t like scary things, Justin. She doesn’t enjoy her annual trip to the haunted house. But she goes, because her pals like it. That makes her a good friend. It makes her selfless. The fact that she was there was bad enough. But to die there, the way she did, was harsh and unnecessary.”
“Are you caught up on the details of her death? On the brutality?”
“Yes. And whoever wanted her to die, I think we’ll find was because he or she felt slighted. They were jealous and mean. This wasn’t a righteous murder, Mayor. This was petty and cruel.”
Surprised, his brows pop high on his barely wrinkled brow, despite his age. “You believe there’s such a thing as righteous murder? Like the vigilante?” he ponders. And just as quickly, my stomach tightens.
“The vigilante?” I swallow and pray he doesn’t hear the tremor in my voice. “Hmm?”
“Those deaths began before I was in office,” he continues. Calmly. Slowly. There’s no accusation in his tone, despite what the adrenaline in my veins would attempt to convince me. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t inherit that information once I arrived. The media have touted the killer a hero because of their targets.”
“Pedophiles.” I clear my throat and hope I don’t sound as guilty as I feel. “They killed predators and rapists.”
“And once word spread, the media labeled them a vigilante. Righteous murder . Does that mean you believe in the possibility of honorable killing, Chief?”
“I don’t…” I look over his head, stunned when I find Archer and Fletch stepping off the elevator. They exit with smiles. Archer’s turns higher when he spots the trio plastered to my glass wall. He looks past them to the mayor, still grinning. But then, like the flip of a switch, he catches my eyes and his smile vanishes.
“Chief Mayet?”
I drag my focus back to Lawrence and ignore the message screaming from Archer’s close-lipped expression. What the fuck is going on in there? “I-I don’t know how to answer that question,” I stammer, searching the mayor’s friendly gaze. “My job, literally, is to seek justice for those who’ve been hurt. I work closely with the homicide division to sweep killers off our streets. Morally, it’s my duty to denounce anyone who wishes to take the law unto themselves.”
“Morally…” He brings his hand up and scratches his stubbled jaw. “Professionally. But in reality?”
“I’m not sad that we have fewer pedophiles on our streets. Whoever ended their lives may have behaved unethically, according to the law. But personally, I’d prefer to autopsy a rapist’s body over the one that would have become his next victim. The second is never acceptable. The first…”
“Righteous,” he concludes thoughtfully. “Probably not the opinion you’re supposed to have while holding the position you do in our city.”
“Then I suppose it’s lucky I’m talking to the dude who wants to pretend he’s my dad right now, and not the mayor of Copeland City.” I clear my throat and force a grin onto my lips. “Justin. ”
He chuckles, then he turns in his seat when Archer pushes through the door and the air changes once more.
Archer’s eyes are all for me. Intense. Protective. But he fakes a smile for Lawrence and folds his arms. “Everything okay in here?”
“Of course.” Taking this as his cue to leave, Justin pushes up to stand and re-buttons his coat. Striding to Archer, he extends his hand and shakes when palms collide. “Detective Malone. It’s been a pleasure spending a few minutes with our Chief Mayet. I assume she routinely takes your calls?”
Looking over at me, Archer cautiously answers, “Most of the time, yes.”
“Fortunate.” Turning to face me, Lawrence dips his chin. Thank the baby gods he doesn’t attempt to, like… hug me or anything. “I’ll text, Doctor. And you’ll reply.”
I firm my lips. But I nod. Short. Sharp. Singular.
“And now I’ll leave.” He strides toward the door, scattering my employees like bugs when a light switches on. But it seems he’s used to immature twenty-something-year-old women scampering in different directions to avoid being scolded. “Ms. Lewis?” Acting as though he doesn’t notice my employees’ childishness, he allows the glass door to swing slowly closed and starts toward the elevator. “Will you walk me down? I’d like continue where we left our last discussion.”
“Of course.” She spins in his direction and matches his pace as they head toward the elevator. “But I believe I already made my thoughts clear. Respectfully, sir.”
“What the fuck was that?” Before Fletch and Aubs can barrel into my office, Archer moves across to where I stand. He folds his neck and forces me to meet his stare. “You were freaking out while he was in here. And it wasn’t the typical ‘ someone is trying to talk to me ’ freak.”
“He mentioned the vigilante.” Swallowing, I glance around his broad shoulders and check the door to make sure it remains closed. “I mentioned Naomi’s murder comes across as cruel and unnecessary. And he made the jump that if I feel that way, then surely I must support the vigilante’s actions.”
His face tightens. His lips flatten. Then he moves to the left to secure my focus once more. “What did you say?”
“That I’d rather a rapist’s body on my autopsy table over a child’s.”
“For fuck’s sake!” He drops his head back and growls. “That’s not the right answer!”
“It is the truthful answer. Means nothing more than what I said. It’s not an admission of guilt. It’s just… I would prefer to autopsy a dead rapist instead of a dead child. Who would honestly say differently?”
“Uh…” Fletch clears his throat and draws Archer around with a swing that could almost knock me out if his hand was higher. “Everything okay in here?”
“Yes.” Archer steps to the left, revealing the glass door as Fletch files in, and right behind him, Aubs follows. “Chief Mayet was discussing our case with the mayor.”
Stunned, Fletch’s eyes jump to mine. “You’re discussing my active case with someone who isn’t officially involved?”
I roll my eyes and ignore Aubree’s curious stare. Then circling back to my desk, I drop into my seat and pick up a pen, so I have something to fuss with. “He’s the mayor. He’s solid. And he’s spent his adult life trying cases just like this. He understands the importance of discretion.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong…” Aubree wanders to the leather couch pushed against the wall and plops down so the air in the cushions expels on a whistle. “But did I, or did I not, hear you shout something to the effect of ‘ you’re not my dad ’?”
Surprised, Archer’s beady stare warms the side of my face, though I make a point of not looking his way. “I shouted something, yes. It may have been something along those lines.”
“Real mature,” Fletch drawls. “Bet that worked out in your favor.”
“He’s not my dad! He’s someone else’s, and because he has daughters sort of in my age bracket, and my parents are dead, he thinks he gets to step in as proxy.”
“He cares about you,” Aubree murmurs. “It’s nice that he cares.”
“I’m not a four-year-old wandering the streets! I’m a grown woman who long ago grew used to the fact she didn’t have parents. Why can’t he just be a regular mayor who sometimes says hey when we pass on the job? He doesn’t have to know about my private life.”
“Because he cares.” Fletch heads to my desk and perches his ass on the edge. “Seems we have an overabundance of dads who care right now.”
Back to work. That is something I can get on board with.
“Naomi’s dad?”
“Still holding vigil inside the station,” Archer answers. For now, while we have an audience, he’ll let the vigilante stuff go. But later, when we’re all alone and the clueless, innocent Aubree Emeri isn’t within earshot, he’ll bring us back around. “The other daughter, Heather, has joined him now. And Mason’s dad?— ”
“Is a grade-A douchebag,” Fletch fills in. “He’s not wrong, I suppose, for protecting his kid the way he knows how. But he’s a douchebag all the same.”
“Lawyer, right?” I try to remember the players in our most recent case. It’s not my job to memorize family members. Careers. Relationships. It’s not my duty to solve a murder. My responsibility ends once I’ve written my final report and handed it over to the police.
And yet… “You spoke to him today?”
“We just left his place,” Archer answers. “We went to the Wallaces’ first. Talked to the mom and middle sister. Youngest went to school this morning—according to Patricia, she wanted normalcy, and no one had the mental capacity to tell her no—but I guess she dipped early because we’ve received word she’s with her dad now anyway. He hasn’t been home since yesterday. Mom keeps breaking down. The whole family is a mess.”
“Which is completely reasonable,” Aubree insists. “Parents are not supposed to outlive their children, and teens are not supposed to find out their sister and their niece were murdered on the same day.”
“Right.” Fletch brings a hand up and scratches his chin. “Middle sister has been the most helpful so far. She’s mature enough to express her feelings and thoughts. She’s grieving, but she’s able to hold herself together. She gave us insight into Naomi and Mason’s relationship, and the relationships between both families.”
“Then we went next door and chatted to Daniel Morgan,” Archer continues. “He was fast to get his family represented and hardly responsive when we had questions.”
I narrow my eyes and consider. “He thinks Mason had something to do with Naomi’s murder?”
“Muscle memory, Delicious. I don’t think he thinks Mason is guilty. I don’t think he particularly cares, in the sense that his actions would have been the same, no matter what. His priority was to shield his family. And seeing as how we’re dancing in his domain right now, he knew what to do, and how to do it, quickly.”
“So you got nothing from him?” Aubree questions. “Silence?”
“He softened a little. We’re not best friends or anything. But we established we were there to help find justice for Naomi, and we reiterated we didn’t think Mason was involved.”
“Which is true,” Archer adds. “Of all the people we’ve talked to so far, including my own brother whose observations were entirely objective, everyone vouches that Mason wouldn’t have hurt her. I’m not pointing fingers toward the dad-to-be at this point.”
“Which brings us back to… sweet fuck all,” Fletch grumbles. “Our vic has no enemies. Her boyfriend wasn’t sneaking around with other chicks. And she wasn’t cheating on him, which means he was happy, and there were no bitter women slinking along the side. Connor, the one with the knife, was known to everyone else, but there’s no motive there. And our own personal observations lean toward him being someone else’s pawn.”
“Is it possible Naomi wasn’t the target?” I sit back in my seat and steeple my fingers. “A knife is plopped down, and a teen picks it up. Who’s to say Connor would stab the right person?”
“It’s a possibility,” Archer agrees. “One we’ll look into. Naomi’s sister mentioned Kallie was sometimes dabbling in the school drama, so it could stem from there. But she and Brent have been together almost as long as Mason and Naomi. So again, rules out jealousy and bitterness amongst their peers. The guys have been friends since they were kids, likewise, the girls. The four of them have been tight for a long time. Naomi’s sister was only two grades behind the others, and she couldn’t pinpoint any issues or rivalries. She was more focused on the Morgans being snobby tools.”
“Which, we concur,” Fletch finishes. “They are snobby tools. But being a wealthy dickhead doesn’t make you a killer. Daniel and Dora Morgan were both home at Naomi’s time of death. Patricia Wallace was, too. Gordon Wallace was in transit, but he arrived at work on time. And his colleagues all report he was acting normal prior to us getting there. He was unaware anything was going down.”
“So there’s no one?” I push. Push. Push. “Absolutely no one you can think who might have motive?”
“The only big changes in their lives were college and the baby,” Aubree inserts. “Everything else was the same, right? Boyfriends and girlfriends. Friendships. Relationships. No one changed addresses. None of the four were living on campus, since they didn’t have to. Three of the four were self-funded with wealthy-ish, comfortable families. Naomi caught a scholarship, which brought them all back to the same level. Both guys got onto the basketball team they were aiming for, and the girls were doing their social thing. No one’s parents divorced. There were no changes on that front, and even Gordon’s extra job: that wasn’t new, right? He’s been working at the store for a year already.”
“The baby,” I ponder. “And the scholarship. Those are your motivations, assuming we rule out a different intended victim. If Naomi was the target all along, then those are two massive motivational factors in a non-wealthy family’s life. Babies cost money. And free college is not something one should give up.”
“But no one suffers if she loses her scholarship except Naomi herself,” Archer reasons. “And no one else was going to be responsible for the baby, except Naomi. This wasn’t suicide, so…”
“We have to widen the net.” Fletch’s phone rings, drawing his curious focus and a hand to dig deep into his pocket. Clutching the device, he yanks it out again and checks the screen. “I gotta…” Not entirely sure, he stumbles over his words. “Uh… I-I probably need to take this. But let’s keep thinking about Naomi. Who else was affected by that pregnancy? Who suffered if Naomi attended class? Or if she didn’t attend class?”
Accepting the mystery call, he brings the phone to his ear and pushes off my desk to move toward the door. “This is Charlie Fletcher.”
Not detective ?
“So you shouted at the mayor,” Aubs quips as Fletch moves through the door and stops at her desk, sitting down and running a hand through his hair. “Real mature, Chief. Now he’ll never give us more money in the budget.”
“Ugh.” I slump back in my chair and resume the very action the mayor interrupted when he walked in here. I press my thumbs to my eyes and count stars. “Shut up about it. I don’t like dealing with him.”
“You don’t like dealing with people in general.” Archer’s voice floats into my ears. I know where he stands, which way he faces, and the fact that he’s still cranky about the vigilante thing, purely by the tone of his voice. “You’re socially inept, Chief. Perhaps you need a babysitter whenever dealing with the media and politics.”
“Blah blah blah.” Eight stars. Nine. Ten. “Zip it.”