Chapter 40 #2
He still doesn’t answer, not even in reply to my “I’m covering for you” message. Yet for some reason, I’m still texting.
All of my things are packed and ready to be loaded. They don’t need me there for anything other than to unlock the door.
All the boxes are labeled with what goes where. They can text me with questions.
So yeah, if you wouldn’t mind telling them all of that, I’d be grateful.
Having self-immolated enough for one day, I slump against the wall and stare at my phone until the reply pops up.
Okay
That’s it. Just okay. And that’s, well, that’s okay. It’s how things should be between a departing tenant and her landlord.
Thank you.
He doesn’t respond, and as I stand in that powder room wondering if that’s the last exchange we’ll ever have, a snippet of conversation floats in.
“… definitely killed his wife.”
My ears perk up. Wife killers are high on my list.
“Shit, really? Is there a warrant?”
“Not yet. The story hasn’t hit the news, so Overton might think he got away with it.”
I listen harder now, piecing this cop gossip together with the strangulation death the nightshift picked up early this morning.
“Didn’t Ray skate on assaulting somebody recently?”
“Yeah, in October, at a women’s shelter. Some board member tried to get in the way of a marital spat.”
Women’s shelter.
“It was just a concussion.” The second man speaks again. “That pussy didn’t even press charges.”
Concussion.
“Too bad,” the first man says. “A guy like Overton should be off the streets.”
“I dunno, he knocked out that shrink, and apparently he figured out how to keep his bitch in line for good. I kinda admire a man who holds the line like that. The examined life, ya know?”
Shrink.
Hugo.
The other voice gives a noncommittal response as my phone slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers. I wince at the clatter, then move to the sink to turn on the water as if I’m washing my hands.
Fixing a professionally neutral expression on my face, I push the door open, step into the hallway, and come face to face with Officer Lester Timms, deep in conversation with an older uniformed cop I don’t recognize.
A smile oozes across Timms’s face when he spots me.
“Well, hey there, firebird,” he says, elbowing the guy next to him in a “check her out” motion as he runs his eyes down my body in a possessive sweep.
“Officer Timms.” I ignore the hint of bile that climbs my throat at having to stand here, pretending I don’t know exactly what he’s implying with that nickname.
Not implying. He’s all but shouting it and daring me to ask, the motherfucker.
“Betcha love this one, Bellamy.” Timms gestures toward the body. “Nice and cozy in a kitchen, and you didn’t even have to make any sandwiches.”
He turns to the other cop, clearly expecting approval. Instead the older man looks at him with distaste. He makes his quick escape when Timms gets back to eye-fucking me despite my shapeless jumpsuit.
Interesting. Ol’ Les is always in the middle of a circle of back-slapping cops when I see him on scenes.
Maybe even his buddies are getting tired of his macho bullshit.
I definitely am, but I’m trapped in the narrow hallway when he steps into my path, tucking his thumbs into his utility belt as he asks, “Any luck finding my stepbrother, or you been too busy with the pedo?”
Ugh, this man.
“No,” I say shortly. Is he really going to interrogate me while my brain’s busy chanting “Ray Overton” on a loop? Hugo refused to give me details, but I know the man’s name now, and my heart’s thrumming with that knowledge.
“Shit.” He smooths an agitated hand over his mustache. “I haven’t even been able to find his dog, and that little rodent’s microchipped.”
Not anymore he’s not, and I’ll cut this man’s tongue out if he refers to Cosmo as a rodent again.
“Any word from your boyfriend?” he asks, his flat, brown eyes fixed on my face.
God, why is he still on me about this?
“Greg is my ex-boyfriend.” There. I used present tense. Nobody’s dead here. “And like I told you, I haven’t heard from him since we broke up.”
“You haven’t, huh?” He’s smiling as he says it, but it’s brittle. “Not a single breakup fuck for Miz Rue Bellamy?”
“Not appropriate work conversation,” I say crisply.
“Ohhh, better call the police.” He looks left, then right, then down at the budget on his chest, guffawing at his own joke.
“Didn’t I hear that Greg’s replacement in the state’s attorney’s office is taking another look at your ex-wife’s case?” I ask sweetly. “Gosh, I wonder what she’ll find!” I shouldn’t be provoking him, but fuck Lester Timms for throwing his good-ol’-boy network in my face.
“Diversity hire bullshit.” His face twists, and he shoves his hands into his pockets, although not before I catch a slight tremble.
I look at him more closely. His mustache is shaggier than when he stopped by my desk the other week, and an even more aggressive minty smell clings to him, likely to hide the hint of last night’s brown liquor.
His uniform shirt gaps at the neck, and his gun belt is loose enough that he’ll need to go in another notch soon if he keeps losing weight.
Looks like the stress of the Paul Franklin case reopening might be getting to him.
Timms’s nostrils flare when he catches me studying him.
“Get a drink with me tonight, firebird. We can complain about our exes, maybe see what else we have in common.”
It’s a command, not a question, and my lip curls at the mere thought of it.
“No.”
Timms laughs, but his right eye twitches. “You sure about that? It occurs to me that some of Greg’s exes might have a bit of a grudge against him. And some of them might have the professional tools to do something about it.”
His eyes rake down my body again, but this time it’s not sexual. It’s speculative.
My heart lodges itself in my throat. “I have no idea what you mean,” I say with calm politeness I do not feel.
He tugs down the buttoned cuffs of his light-blue uniform shirt, showing me the letters STAY HARD tattooed on his knuckles.
“The detective looking into Greg’s case is back in the office after the new year,” he says with a phony casualness.
“Maybe he and I should have a little chat.” He smooths down his unkempt mustache and flashes me a nicotine-stained smile.
“But I could be persuaded to put that off with the right incentive. You sure that ‘no’ isn’t actually ‘yes, please, tonight’? ”
He drops his eyes to my mouth as he runs his tongue over his teeth.
Inside I recoil. My face stays still.
“‘No’ means ‘no until the heat death of the universe,’” I say. “And stop harassing me about my ex-boyfriend.”
I push past him, not bothering to hide my shudder when he refuses to budge and my entire backside brushes against his front.
My heart’s still pounding too hard when I rejoin Bart.
Lester Timms just threatened me.
I don’t care.
I have the name of the man who hurt Hugo.
When my shift finally ends, I drive to my shiny new townhome and let myself in with my shiny new key. Based on what I see on the main floor, the movers did a beautiful job getting my furniture set up, and the boxes are neatly laid out in each room, ready for me to unpack.
I sink onto my couch—which feels out of place in this high-ceilinged parlor instead of my cozy duplex living room—and I think.
I think and I think and I think.
Five minutes later, I’m back out the door and on my way to Felicity’s.