Four Detective Olivia Newhouse
Four
Detective Olivia Newhouse
I cradle my coffee. Can’t get warm. Last night the temperature dropped to almost freezing.
It’s cold as hell this morning. Blackberry winter or one of those crazy little cold snaps that disturbs the spring warm-up each year.
I can definitely do without an encore of last winter’s unusually cold temps and all that extra snowfall.
I consider the names on the whiteboard in our joint cubicle.
Even a detective as senior as Walt doesn’t get an office in the Criminal Investigations Division.
Not enough offices. But we do get a larger cubicle, one big enough for our desks to sit face-to-face in the center of the small square.
On one side we have a row of filing cabinets with anything else we need to store stacked on top; on the other side of our work area we have a whiteboard and an extra chair for anyone we want to entertain with our scenarios and progress on a given case.
The cramped digs aren’t such a big deal.
We spend most of our time in the field anyway.
“So we can’t actually confirm that Sanchez is in Mexico?
” I say this knowing my partner is well aware of our current dilemma.
What I don’t say is that the name is somehow familiar to me.
It’s a feeling I can’t quite put my finger on.
A knowing, some small, fleeting flare of recognition that just won’t be captured and assimilated.
Sanchez doesn’t have a criminal record, but somehow I’ve encountered him before.
Or maybe it’s only that I’ve run across someone with that same last name.
Walt shakes his head. “Both of his buddies, Lassiter and Watkins, are single with no significant others that I’ve been able to locate.
I’ve called all three cell phones and left messages.
Lassiter doesn’t have any extended family that we know of, so there’s no one to reach out to for confirmation on his whereabouts.
The other guy, Watkins, has a mother, but she only knows that her son is on vacation in Mexico.
She confirmed the trouble with cell service in the area where they’re supposed to be. ”
I glance at my notes. “The three men drove in Sanchez’s SUV, so we can’t easily corroborate travel.”
“Nope.” Walt scrubs at his chin. “I’ve put in a call to the feds to see if we can confirm whether or not their passports show they’ve left the country.”
That could work. “Any ideas on when we’ll hear back?”
He shrugs. “Soon, I hope. You never know with the feds.”
I can’t argue that point. “Moving on.” I scan the names on the board.
“Considering the second blood type, we can no longer assume Fanning is the vic and not some kid he nabbed off the street.” The idea makes me sick.
Walt and I don’t talk about it too much, but we both hope the scumbag is dead and the second blood type belongs to his killer.
“Based on the report Reynolds faxed over this morning”—Walt passes the single page to me for adding to the case board—“the blood found at the scene was maybe thirty-six hours old, give or take. I checked for any kids who went missing over the weekend. Got two, but they were both found. Checked on missing adults as well. Only one came up, and her body was discovered this morning. Took a bottle of sleeping pills and went to Centennial Park. A jogger noticed her body near the kids’ playground.
Downed the whole bottle of pills and went night night for the last time.
Her baby girl died in her sleep about a year ago.
SIDS, according to the report. The husband says she couldn’t learn to live with it. ”
I shake my head. “Damn.”
That’s another aspect of pregnancy I find terrifying.
With my parents gone, I only have me to worry about.
I’m an adult and entirely responsible for the steps I take as well as the consequences of those steps.
The idea of having a tiny human who depends on me is totally terrifying.
If I make a mistake, he or she could pay the price.
That’s one hell of a scary thought. Like that poor dead woman, how do you live with the death of a child even if it isn’t your fault?
Vaguely I wonder whether the fact that I failed to include David in the scenario is an indication that I’m not as committed to him as I should be.
That perhaps I don’t love him as deeply as I thought.
Maybe I’m in love with the idea of being in love.
Hitting thirty jarred my reality. Or maybe it was losing my father, the only family I had left, that knocked me over the edge.
I don’t like the prospect of being alone.
And yet lately I seem to be pushing David away more often than pulling him toward me.
I assuage my guilt with the notion that it’s hormones. Or maybe this whole moving-in thing has pressed me into some emotional corner. Now that I’m pregnant, perhaps I’m turning on him the way the female black widow will sometimes do her mate.
You are losing it, Liv.
Chalking up the ridiculous thought to yesterday’s headache, I force my full attention back to the case.
“Since we don’t have any other possibilities, for now, I guess we stick with the assumption that Fanning is the vic and move on to the next person of interest on our revenge list.” I look to Walt.
He’s the senior detective. We’ll do this whatever way he feels is the best route.
The list seems the only logical one to me.
“I don’t see a better strategy at this point,” he admits. “Let’s do it.”
I toss my empty Starbucks cup and grab my jacket. Walt gets a call as we cross the bullpen. If we’re lucky, it’ll be Reynolds with an update that will give us something more to go on.
When the call ends, Walt doesn’t say anything, so I guess it wasn’t Reynolds.
“The vet,” he says in answer to my unspoken question as we push out into the brisk morning air.
“Vet?” My stride lengthens to keep up with my partner’s long legs. I’m not exactly short, five seven, but Walt is six two, and when he’s distracted, he hustles and forgets all about me. “Is Sandy sick?”
“Nah. It’s time for her annual checkup and shots.”
“Oh.” I smile. “How’s she doing?”
Sandy is Walt’s yellow Lab. I love that darn dog. As big as she is, she’s the most lovable creature. I’ve never had a dog of my own. Maybe it’s time I did. Dogs can be good for kids, I think. I dismiss the notion. Way too early to go there.
“Sandy’s doing great.” We load into his black Tahoe. “What’s the address?”
I rattle off the west side address of the elementary school where the next name on our list teaches and then review the few details we have. “Shelley Martin, thirty-two. At nine, she was one of Fanning’s first known victims.” I pull my seat belt across my lap and snap it into place.
Walt exits the lot, heading across town.
He drives for a while without speaking. Whenever he’s quiet like this, something is up.
Since he’s generally an open book when it comes to what’s going on in his life, it must be about me.
Then again, there’s a very good chance I’m being paranoid.
In any event, he has something besides the case and Sandy’s vet appointment on his mind.
He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, glances repeatedly at me. Oh yeah, it’s about me.
“What?” I finally ask, unable to bear the suspense for another second.
“You’re feeling better this morning?”
I glance at Walt and wonder why he didn’t ask me that question when I arrived at CID this morning, bearing both our favorite coffees from Starbucks.
I distinctly recall asking him if he’d had another rough night.
His eyes are bloodshot again, and his shirt is wrinkled—the latter is totally out of character for my partner.
No matter that we’ve only been partners for two years, I’ve known Walt since I started at Metro.
Everyone knows Walt. He’s top-notch. Always on his A game.
One of the most beloved detectives in all of Metro.
Whenever there’s a particularly sensitive situation that rouses emotion in the community, the chief of police inherently wants Walt on the case.
Nashville loves him. Maybe it’s the cowboy boots and the extra-heavy Southern drawl or his plainspokenness.
Whatever it is, folks adore him. I was damn lucky to be chosen to fill the shoes left by his longtime partner when he retired.
All that said, I’m not ready to spill my guts about the pregnancy or my misgivings about the wedding just yet.
I still haven’t processed all the confusing emotions myself.
Right. I’m kidding myself. What I really am not ready for is to confess that I may have jumped the gun on the decisions in my relationship with David.
I made mistakes, and he is the one who’s going to be hurt.
I’ve really screwed up.
“I’m okay.” I stare out the window, watch the passing landscape.
I also have no desire to talk about how I lost the entire evening and night when that damned headache got its second wind, either.
Total amnesia is never a good thing. And if that isn’t enough, I certainly feel no urge to discuss how the hangover the headache left me with is determined to try to ruin my day.
Instead, I decide to ignore it and hope it’ll go away. Very mature.
“You were in pretty bad shape yesterday. Is there something you can take when that happens?”
He slows for a left turn. “Sometimes the pills work, sometimes they don’t.” This is true, except even if I had the necessary medication, I wouldn’t be able to take the pills because I’m pregnant. Last night my only choice was to sleep it off.
“What about Preston? Does he understand and help when this happens?”