Chapter Fifty
Parker
By nine a.m., I’m sitting outside Judge Nesbitt’s chambers, the two proposed court orders tucked inside a manila folder on my lap. Her assistant, Leanna, offers me a sympathetic smile. “She’s on her way, hon. I promise.”
I nod, and check my phone again. Nothing from Eliot. Nothing from Nate. I send him a text.
You hear from Todd yet?
Nope. But I parked myself in Apex’s waiting area. The guy behind the desk keeps looking at me like I’m going to run off with the whole damn company.
To be fair, they only have seven full-time employees. If you decide to go for it, lift with your legs.
I’m not lifting anything heavier than my green smoothie.
I wrinkle my nose. Nate’s idea of breakfast is wheatgrass and bee pollen.
Which means my morning is about to include one of his weird nutrition facts whether I want it or not.
I asked him once how bee pollen was collected, and he told me, in great detail, how the very narrow openings to beehives cause some of the pollen on the bees’ little legs to fall off into a trap.
Ever since, I’ve had this mental image of poor little bees being half strangled just to get where they’re trying to go.
God, I’d kill for another cup of coffee. But sitting in a judge’s antechamber with a giant cup of black coffee while I’m waiting for her to review my paperwork isn’t a good look. So I sit up a little straighter and tuck my phone back into my pocket.
Judge Nesbitt breezes in a few minutes after nine thirty, takes one look at me, and frowns. “Captain.”
“Judge. I was hopin’ we could chat about the requests for court orders we sent over last night. Only if you’re free, of course.” I give her my most conciliatory smile. This part is always a game, and knowing how to play it is half the challenge.
The judge pulls a key from her pocket, and unlocks the door to her chambers. “Come in and have a seat, Captain. Let’s go over what you have.”
Ten minutes later, she squares the stack of paperwork against the edge of her desk. “Every time I sign one of these, your partner sends over another. I do have other items on my docket.”
“I know, ma’am. Our unsub has burned down four buildings so far, with three deaths. We suspect they’re tryin’ to draw attention to a long-running pattern of inspection fraud across Austin and the surrounding counties. Every answer leads us to more questions.”
She studies me for a moment, head tipped to one side, eyes narrowed.
“That’s not an apology for all this extra work.”
“No, ma’am.”
Her lips twitch, the closest thing to a smile I’m likely to get out of her. She removes her reading glasses, folds them carefully, and sets them on top of the stack of paperwork.
Shit. She’s prioritizing. There’s no way I’m walking out with all three requests. I’ll be lucky if she signs any of them.
“Walk me through what you actually need today. Not what you’d like. What you need.”
I ran through my speech twice already—once over my morning coffee at home, and a second time in the parking lot. I give her the short version.
“We know for a fact someone altered the inspection records in brYCER for the building on Rutherford Lane. The inspector of record for the new construction on Aldrich Street wasn’t in the state when the inspection occurred.
We’ve confirmed with another inspector that he actually signed off on that building, so we have strong reason to believe that record was altered, too.
“The second and third requests still outstanding are for details on the people behind Lonestar Holdings Company, LLC and Apex Building Solutions. Both corporations have the same registered agent in Austin. The first, Lonestar, owns both the arson site in Round Rock and the Rutherford Lane building. Apex Building Solutions is the company performing these fraudulent inspections.”
She’s quiet long enough that I dig my fingers into my palms until one of my damaged nerves fires. The pain helps me focus.
“I’ll sign the first order,” she says, reaching for her pen.
“The scope is narrow enough, and you have corroborating evidence that will hold up in court. But that’s all I’m willing to give you today.
You haven’t made your case for the corporation ownership records yet.
Keep working on it, and if anything changes, contact Leanna.
She’ll work you into my schedule if possible. ”
If possible. Shit.
I remind myself to take the win, but apparently I don’t school my expression quickly enough. The judge levels me with a stare that must terrify anyone who dares to be guilty in her courtroom.
“I’m not saying no, Captain Elmore. But I’m also not rubber-stamping these requests without sufficient evidence. If I do that for you, I have to do it for every Ranger and detective who walks in here convinced they need a court order without proper justification.”
She runs the signed brYCER order through a small scanner next to her desk, then slides the paper copy across to me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m due in court in an hour.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be in touch again very soon.”
I tuck the court order into my bag—the electronic copy will be in my email by the time I get to the station—and text Nate from the hallway.
brYCER approved. She’s not budging on Pruitt.
Well, shit.
And???
I made Todd cry.
Nate!
It wasn’t my fault. I told him we thought someone was setting him up to take the fall, and he had a minor emotional collapse.
The man’s got all the backbone of an octopus.
With only one brain. At least he used it.
Got two APD uniforms escorting him home, and Vern’s setting up round-the-clock protection for the whole family.
Well, that’s something. On my way back to the station. You can work the brYCER angle. I want to call Kessler. He’s had enough time to take care of his business.
I’m stopping at Alabaster’s. You want your usual cup of darkness and despair?
Yes. But have them add a splash of hemp milk.
…Well, okay, then.
I’d tell him to mind his own damn business. That my coffee order isn’t up for commentary. But that would just encourage him. Instead, I tuck my phone back into my bag and head for the parking lot.
The fact that I’m adding hemp milk to my coffee because of Eliot should probably feel like a big deal.
It doesn’t. It’s just something that connects me to him.
And the tension currently twisting my stomach into knots has nothing to do with him.
It’s the case. It’s the feeling that we’re running out of time.
Eliot
I’m updating Nate’s spreadsheet of many colors with the two buildings the Laredo inspector cleared this morning, when Kurt stops at my desk with a legal pad tucked under his good arm.
“I’ll take the middle school, the call center, and that urgent care clinic on Villasco Street. I should be able to get through them all by the end of the day.”
No hello. No small talk. Not that I have time for casual conversation anyway.
I save my changes before I glance up at him. His cast has seen better days. Plaster doesn’t stay clean when you’re climbing through ceiling access panels and dirty utility closets.
“Kurt, no one expects you to take the biggest buildings on the list. Let the young guys from El Paso handle those. Take the nail salon on Burnet. Less time overhead. Fewer crawlspaces. You can’t brace on that arm.”
“I’ve been doin’ this job longer than you, Eliot. I know what I can handle.” He sets the legal pad at the edge of my desk, squares his shoulders, and flexes the fingers poking out from the dirty plaster.
“And if you make the arm worse? If you can’t inspect anything tomorrow? Then I’m fucked. A hell of a lot of people could end up fucked. I’m runnin’ this sweep, and you’re takin’ the nail salon.”
His jaw works for a moment, his gaze pinned to his work boots. “I gotta feel useful,” he says, finally, his voice almost…tiny. “At least let me take the urgent care clinic, too. It’s small. Single story.”
“Fine. Those two only. Nothin’ more until tomorrow.”
“Eliot…”
I push to my feet, gritting my teeth to hide my wince.
Every muscle in my body aches. I thought I’d pass out the second I laid down last night, but after an hour of staring at the ceiling, I got back up and started measuring for the acoustic tiles in the bedroom.
When I heard Umberto leave at four this morning, I grabbed the drill.
I’m running on fumes. Worth it, though. Tonight, I get a night with Parker.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I remind myself I gotta get through the day first.
“I ain’t questioning your skills, Kurt. I’m sayin’ you’re injured. There’s a difference. Hell, if I thought you’d listen, I’d put you on desk duty so you could help me review the photos comin’ in from the other inspectors. Some of these guys are green as fuck.”
His body language is damn clear. He ain’t happy about any of this.
Neither am I. My body hates me, and I haven’t seen Parker in almost forty-eight hours.
After another tense moment, he sighs. “I’ll take the urgent care. Give the call center and the nail salon to someone else. After that, I’ll come back here and take some of the shit off your plate. Fair?”
I briefly wonder why he’s suddenly so agreeable, but my phone rings, one of the Fort Worth guys reporting in. So I nod, answer the call, and turn back to my spreadsheet.
A few minutes later, I reach for a pad of Post-It notes and knock Kurt’s legal pad off my desk.
“Dammit. Like I don’t have enough shit to sort through,” I mutter as I retrieve it from the floor.
The top page has the two buildings he got to yesterday checked off, with the Lutheran church next on the list.
I grab my stuff, drop the pad back off at Kurt’s desk, and trudge out to my truck. By the time he’s done with the urgent care clinic, he’ll cool off.
Except, I don’t quite believe that, and I got no idea why.
I’m almost to the Lutheran church when my phone buzzes and the in-dash display lights up.
Morning, hot stuff. We still on for tonight? Your place or mine?
I smile, make a right turn onto Claxton, and pull into the parking lot. Before I kill the engine, another message flashes across the screen.
brYCER records didn’t tell us much. Got a change log for Rutherford Lane, but no user associated with it. We’re headed out to Bastrop. Kessler never called. Worried he’s gonna rabbit.
I keep the truck—and the AC—running while I quickly type out a reply.
Hot stuff, huh? Does that make you Pookie?
Five seconds later, a reply comes in, but it ain’t from Parker.
Pookie? I can’t unsee this.
Fuck. Parker’s first message was just to me. The second…included Nate. I’m so damn tired, I didn’t even notice.
After a full minute of wanting to crawl under my truck and stay there…forever, I stop worrying about Nate and his native plants long enough to send them both another message.
Nate, did you think Pookie was Parker’s nickname? Fuck no. It’s yours. I don’t have a death wish.
Parker replies on the original text thread—the one that doesn’t include her partner.
Nice save there, hot stuff. But you never answered my question.
Yours, if that’s okay. After the past couple of days, my apartment is a disaster.
I don’t tell her that disaster has nothing to do with the hours I’m working and everything to do with the half-installed acoustic panels stacked against my bedroom walls.
Nate sends one last text. This one is just to me.
You’ll fit in just fine, hot stuff. Love, Pookie.