Chapter Twenty-Five
Parker
Nate’s leaning against the Impala when I pull into APD’s lot, legs crossed at the ankles, a cup from Austin City Smoothies in one hand, his phone in the other.
“About time,” he says, the straw rattling against the bottom of the cup. Whatever’s clinging to the plastic looks a lot like pea soup. “I was about to send out a search party.”
“I’m three minutes early. Next time, get them to add carrots instead of wheatgrass to…whatever that concoction was.” I wave a hand in the general direction of the cup.
“Banana, wheatgrass, bee pollen, and arugula.” He straightens his shoulders like I should have known better. “Don’t judge it ’til you try it, Captain Chocolate Milkshake.”
“Oh, I’m judging it. Arugula doesn’t belong anywhere near a beverage. Now are we gonna ruin this asshole’s day or not?”
Nate tosses the cup into the trash. “I vote we ruin his whole goddamn year.”
I grin. “Even better.”
The desk sergeant takes one look at the stars pinned to our shirts and rolls his eyes. “Can I help you, Ranger?”
I step close enough to the partition, my breath leaves a small circle of fog on the glass. “Phil Mallon. Where is he?”
Without a word, the idjit presses a button under the desk. The buzzer’s loud enough, I dig my nails into my palms until the pain runs all the way up my arm. But I manage not to flinch or make a sound. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.
“Back corner of the bullpen,” the sergeant grits out.
Nate keeps his voice low as we pass through the security door. “Excellent service. Five stars. Would totally let that guy snap at us again.”
We find Mallon at his desk, a messy stack of file folders in front of him and his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear. He doesn’t acknowledge us. Doesn’t even bother to look up until Nate clears his throat and I drop Roger Haight’s case file in front of him.
“I gotta call you back,” he says, returns the receiver to its cradle, and stares at the folder. “What the fuck is this?”
“A John Doe. At least that’s what you called him when you found him off Burnet Road last April.” I flip to one of the crime scene photos. “Recognize him?”
Mallon’s hazel eyes narrow. “You wasted your morning comin’ down here, Captain. One phone call and I could’ve told you that guy got drunk and fell off a fire escape.”
I don’t bother reminding him about the voicemail from yesterday he ignored. “That guy has a name,” I grit out. “But you never bothered to find out what it was.”
“He was a homeless drunk who was squattin’ in the building next door with half a dozen bottles of vodka and a pile of piss-stained blankets. No ID. The man didn’t even have shoes.” Mallon shoves the folder back toward me. “Get outta here. I got work to do.”
“No.” Nate leans a hip on Mallon’s desk, slides the file back toward him, then crosses his arms with one of his patented glares.
The kind he’ll follow up with a joke or some witty, dry comment that’ll leave the detective wondering what hit him.
“Gotta hand it to you. Skipping the detecting part of being a detective is a bold strategy.”
“You Rangers think you’re better than everyone else. I didn’t skip shit. I closed a case that needed closin’.” He tries to push the file away again, but I snatch it back and pull out the medical examiner’s report.
“His name was Roger Haight. Fifty-four years old. No family. But he had a car, an apartment, and a job. You never even bothered to run his goddamn prints.”
“So?” Mallon lumbers to his feet. He’s got at least ten inches on me, with the build of a linebacker.
Nate matches his movement, a lean wall of coiled strength between me and a guy who could probably crush both of us without breaking a sweat.
Except guys like him always underestimate how fast my partner can move.
“So…according to the autopsy report, this homeless drunk ended up with bruises to the soft palette, marks on his jaw that are consistent with someone forcing his mouth open, and duct tape residue on his socks and his forearms. Oh, and his stomach was fuckin’ empty.
A blood alcohol of point-one-four and no food? He’d have been unconscious.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” Despite his defensive tone, Mallon’s starting to figure out how fucked he is.
“I’m just spitballing,” Nate drawls, “but I think it’s called police work? Help me out, Parker. That sound right to you?”
“I’ve heard of it. Doubt Phil has, though. If so, he’d have read this report and figured out that someone duct taped his John Doe’s arms and ankles, forced alcohol down his throat, and then threw him over the side of that fire escape.”
Mallon stares down at the report, his bravado fading like someone stuck a pin into a balloon and is letting out all the air. “Look, the guy didn’t have ID. I was buried under ten other cases that needed closing. I didn’t have time—”
“You’d have made time if you’d looked past the vodka bottles,” I say.
Nate gets right in Mallon’s face. “Here’s where we’re at, Phil.
Roger Haight’s death is now connected to an active Ranger investigation.
We’re taking the case. I need everything in your original file, as well as access to any existing evidence you or the Medical Examiner have.
Today. With full chain of custody documentation. Got it?”
“You can’t just walk in here and demand—”
“Yes,” Nate says. “We can.”
I smile sweetly. “And if you have a problem with that, take it up with Captain Vern. I’d be happy to show him what’s in this file.”
“That conversation won’t go well for you, Phil.” Nate smirks, his posture so loose and relaxed, most people would assume he was about to flop down in a chair and take a nap. But three years has taught me this is exactly when my partner’s at his most dangerous.
Mallon stares at us, his mouth opening and closing twice before his shoulders slump. “Fine. Take it. See if I care.” I pass him the form I filled out before I left the station last night, and he scribbles his signature at the bottom. “Done. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
As soon as we reach the parking lot, Nate pulls his keys from his pocket. “I want it on the record that I did not make the very obvious joke about Mallon not being able to see what’s right in front of him. It took real restraint.”
I laugh hard enough, I almost double over. “So noted. By the time you get back to the station, we’ll have your commendation laminated and everything.”
He unlocks the Impala, and a wave of heat escapes from the interior of the car while I hit the remote start button on my key fob. “Go ahead and laugh, Captain Speed Limits Are Merely Suggestions. I always get there in the end.”