Archer
“If we trace it back, we have Ben eating lead late Monday night. Molly is shot at the same time and rushed into surgery immediately after. Detectives arrive around midnight, assessing the scene into Tuesday morning. Molly wakes later Tuesday.”
Fletch writes our timeline on the whiteboard in our war room, messy scrawling letters and uneven lines making for a chaotic line that leads to now.
But while I sit at the table, a laptop open in front of me and Molly’s smiling face beaming out from the screen, Fletch walks backwards to the pre-shooting period.
“Molly’s parents confirm she was safe and in her bedroom at approximately ten o’clock. By eleven, she was at the Bay.”
“Because Ben told her to.” I flick to Molly’s next post. Her next video.
Her next public diary entry. “Those were the words she said: because he told her to.” I push the laptop back, twisting it on the table.
“School’s out in June, and Molly’s internship begins the very next week.
She’s documented a bunch of her days, getting to the office.
Touring Channel Seventy-Nine. Meeting the staff. ”
Fletch’s lips curl into a taunting smile. “Meeting Miranda London.”
“Minka isn’t pleased.” I chuckle, but then I point to the video on my screen.
“Miranda had that run-in last year, right? It was scary for the woman accustomed to a cushy lifestyle. She’s attacked by a man and saved by a woman who doesn’t even like her.
She lost her job at a prestigious network while she was in the hospital, recuperating from her ordeal. ”
“None of which has anything to do with Benjamin Saxon…” He pauses. “Right?”
“Not directly. But indirectly…” I watch on in silence as, a month ago, Molly follows behind Miranda with giddy excitement and bubbling enthusiasm.
She bounces around the studio, fetching water and whatever the showrunner wants, and she documents most of it with a shaky camera hand and stilted imagery.
But always, Molly glows with youthful excitement.
“I ran Grant Freemon through our system, because I wanted to see who he was when he was Ben’s age.
Armed robbery. Grand theft auto. He got caught transporting drugs more than a few times and was picked up for intimidation when a buyer didn’t have enough cash.
Dragged in on dozens of crimes that weren’t his, purely because he associated with the folks who committed them.
His history is checkered and ugly, so by his last court appearance, it was ordered that he would never own a gun.
He couldn’t carry one, couldn’t keep one in the home.
Couldn’t apply for one, and if, at any point in the future, he was in possession of one, his ass would be back in court faster than he could blink.
The judge was lenient because Grant was young, and by the time the case was heard, he’d already turned his life around.
He was remorseful, he was righting his wrongs, voluntary community service, glowing reports from some of the toughest assessors on the streets, and at that point, he was holding down a legitimate job, turning up, clean and respectful, and his boss vouched for him. ”
“So… Miranda London and Grant Freemon are connected… how?”
“Molly. Chances are, Grant and Miranda have never even met. I just wanted to establish that Grant did not, and does not, have a gun inside his home.”
“So Grant didn’t shoot Ben. You’re emphasizing what we’ve already agreed on?”
“Merely laying down the facts. And in addition to those, it would be safe to assume Molly has never seen a gun before. Not up close, anyway. She’s never used one, never practiced with one, and she probably hasn’t learned a great deal about gun safety.
Grant’s the dad who’ll make the world safe for his kids.
He’s not the one who hardens his kids and makes them ready for the world. ”
“Right.” Fletch crosses his arms and spins the marker between his fingers. Restless. Close, but not quite where I am in my suspicions. “You’re gonna need to connect some more dots for me, Arch.”
“I had a few minutes between dropping Minka off at work and arriving here, so after you and I hung up, I called ballistics to see if we could get a rush on results.”
“Ballistics are typically weeks behind. But…” He narrows his eyes. “I’m gonna assume you got lucky, otherwise you wouldn’t be bringing it up.”
“I got semi-lucky. No official report yet, and they haven’t signed off on anything, but preliminary testing shows the round we recovered at the scene matches the round Minka pulled out of Ben, and those match the round that wounded Molly.”
“So, same gun. One gun.” Spin, spin, spin. He flicks the marker around. “Alright. And?”
“They came from a Glock 42.” I point toward my laptop screen again, and when Miranda steps into view with a pink 42 tucked into a holster at her back, I tap the screen. “Coincidence?”
“The fuck?” He tosses the marker and snags my laptop, dragging the whole thing closer. “Miranda London’s packing, and now she’s… what? A suspect in a case that, on the surface, doesn’t connect to her at all?”
“Guess we should go talk to her.” I stand and tuck my chair beneath the table, patting my hip and thigh as I count my weapons to make sure I still have them. “You wanna take the lead? Minka gets pissy when I hang around Miranda for too long.”
He sweeps up our files and slams them into a pile, snorting under his breath.
“You think you have problems? At least you have Mayet. The woman I kinda wanna kiss sometimes is painfully skilled at never being in the same space as me unless we’re surrounded by others.
” He straightens out and purses his lips.
“I might’ve said something about how I know she wants me, and I want her, and if she’d just let it happen, we’d possibly make a mess of each other. ”
“Smooth.” I turn and tug the door open, gliding out of a stuffy meeting room and into an even stuffier bullpen.
The power remains on across the city, but the grid is struggling, and the station’s cooling system is ready to retire.
When Fletch follows me out and closes the door, we head toward the escalators together.
“I can’t believe that line didn’t work, dude.
Since when doesn’t the ol’ you’re gonna fall head over heels in love with me, and you’ll like it work? ”
“Shut the fuck up. No one mentioned love.” He digs his hands into his pockets, only to come out again with a set of keys for a cruiser tucked up in the underground garage. “She’s scared, and God knows, Jada’s left me a little gun-shy. But Sera’s important. She matters.”
“But she won’t kiss you.”
“I never said she wasn’t a pain in my ass.
” He steps onto the escalator a single beat before me, leaning against the side and glancing back my way.
“She doesn’t even deny the bit about wanting me, too.
But she’s stubborn and set on removing every opportunity where we might find ourselves alone and maybe test things out. ”
“Sounds like a defense mechanism.”
He scoffs. “Ya think? She’s playing this game of being around Moo, loving on Moo, adoring Moo, but the second I walk in the room, she’s on her way out, and if there’s a willing victim within a fifty-mile radius, she’ll pick them up and put them between us.”
“Sucks to be you.” I flash a taunting smile, and when we reach the bottom level, I step off the escalator, head around to the next, and climb back on so we can go lower.
Not just ground level. We need below ground.
“If it’s any consolation, I’m dealing with a baby brother whose sex drive is likely to get him killed someday.
He’s in love with my wife, likes to fuck random women on my couch, isn’t afraid of a medical examiner with a sharp scalpel and a bad mood, and at some point in the last few weeks, he snuck out and started an epic ink piece that stretches most of the way from his shoulder to his hip. ”
Curious, Fletch’s honeycomb eyes flicker across to the tattoos marking the side of my neck. My arms. And so much more hidden beneath my shirt. “You don’t want him to get any? Kinda makes you sound like a hypocrite, to be honest.”
“I don’t care that he’s getting ink, but it’s kinda concerning he’s done it in secret.
That he didn’t talk about it, when he’s the kid who never shuts the fuck up.
The design is kinda sad, like…” I frown and step off the escalator onto a cold concrete floor, passing the elevator bank we could have used instead of moving stairs, then I head through a heavy door and into the garage.
“I care that he’s carrying a lot of dark shit in his head.
It scares me sometimes, because if he stumbles someday, if he realizes it’s all a little too heavy, I’m not sure what he’ll do with that. ”
“You mean, like shoot up a couple of kids taking a romantic stroll down by the bay?” He stalks toward the driver’s side door of our busted-up cruiser.
Sliding in, he turns the engine over and waits just long enough for me to set my ass on the seat before he’s rolling the car forward.
“Or maybe he’ll shoot himself, because at least then, the noise goes away and the heavy load becomes a hell of a lot lighter. ”
“Exactly.” I fix my seatbelt and drag my phone out of my pocket, tapping the dark screen and finding the same old stuff—Felix texting about something dumb, Micah texting about something not dumb.
Minka dropping rocks into my inbox, and emails overflowing with all the shit I need to tie up a case and send a killer away to prison.
“I don’t want him to choose the dark.” I ignore my messages and look up as we emerge into the sunlight instead.
“The fact he had that whole tattoo started without saying anything has got me wigging out, that’s all. ”