4. June
4
JUNE
W hen someone knocks on my office door, I jump a mile. I’ve been jittery all morning, and sudden noises do not help. “Come.”
To my not-at-all surprise, it’s the guy I turned down last week. Carlos Perez. He is handsome in a slick lawyer way. His hair is too black and too perfect. His teeth are too white and straight. Every suit he wears is designer, and his shoes gleam. He is well-built and has a flirtatious way about him. If I had been single when we met, I might have taken him for a spin.
But I’m not, and he doesn’t seem to care.
“Good morning, June.”
“Good morning, Carlos. What can I do for you?” Please get out.
His gaze hones in on my hand. “No wonder you did not want to see me Saturday night. You were busy getting engaged.”
I smile, happy to have the taken label out there loud and clear. “Yes, I was.”
“Congratulations. He is a lucky man.”
Those words hang in the air for too long. When I met Carlos, he had been perturbed that I got the corner office. Since then, he’s been trying to get under my skin. I do not like it.
“Is that all?”
“I thought perhaps you would like to know the coffee machine is up and running again, given how many times I have seen you run to it today. Something troubling you? Fiancé not letting you sleep? I can understand such an urge.”
“It’s Monday, Carlos. Everyone drinks more coffee on Mondays.”
He lifts a shoulder and smirks. “Did I hit a nerve?”
“Is there a reason you’re making a note of when I go get coffee because it sounds to me like you need a heavier workload? I’ll be happy to let Andre know you’re volunteering for the next case.”
His mood shifts. Seems I’m the one who hit a nerve. “I am a naturally observant?—"
Someone knocks on the door, and this time, it’s Carlos who jumps. So much for his observation skills. Two men in suits walk in, escorted by one of the assistants from the lobby. She says, “Ms. Devlin, these officers are here to see you.”
Oh my god. All the blood drains from my face, and I go boneless for all the wrong reasons.
Carlos smirks. “Seems you’re busy enough for the both of us, June.” He saunters out of my office.
I somehow manage to stand up and force a smile. “Officers?”
One flashes a badge. “I’m Detective Banks. This is my partner, Detective Wachowski. Homicide unit. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I blink at them and try not to pass out. I nod at the assistant, and she scurries off, closing the door behind her. “Please take a seat. I’m happy to help in whatever way I can, gentlemen.” I sit when they do and sip my water. Coffee is no longer needed. Not with this amount of adrenaline in my system. I take a deep breath but try to keep it steady.
“Do you know a Mr. Neil Johnson?”
“I did. Yes.”
“Did?” His brow lifts.
“I saw the news. Just terrible what happened.”
“And what do you think happened?”
I shrug. “Well, they said his body was found in the harbor. That foul play was suspected.” I leave it at that.
“How would you describe your relationship with the deceased?”
Adversarial . I sigh. “I didn’t really know him all that well. We met at a bar after I went through a breakup and got laid off, so I wasn’t exactly in the best headspace to be meeting someone. We texted some, and then I went back to working at my old bar?—"
“O’Mulligan’s?”
And with that one word, I know they know way more about me than they’re letting on. I am dying inside. But I roll with it. The only way through is through. “Yeah. I used to bartend there back in college, and when I got laid off, I went back to it for a while.”
“Seems you’ve bounced back,” Detective Wachowski says, glancing around my office.
“Thanks.”
“Go on,” Detective Banks tells me.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, one night, he shows up at O’Mulligan’s, and he hangs out. It was a little strange. I mean, we’d hung out one night at another bar, and then he stays for hours when I’m too busy to talk to him?” I shrug. “I dunno. Guys are weird. But he was nice enough to offer to walk me home after my shift, so I took him up on it. Getting out of the bar late, you never know what might happen. He walked me home, and we said goodnight. I didn’t hear from him after that.”
Detective Wachowski pulls out his phone and reads off of it, “Several eyewitnesses said Mr. Johnson put his scarf on you and kissed you before you left the bar. Can you corroborate that?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Wow. They have better memories than me.” Those fuckers.
“Do you kiss enough men to forget the dead ones you kissed?”
Whoa, what the fuck? “I beg your pardon?”
“Seems to me the news report shoulda jogged your memory of that kiss. Don’t you think?”
I sit back and try to rebuild the smile I had going a minute ago. “Tell me, Detective Wachowski, have you ever been a bartender with a killer rack and a flirty side? Because I have. Frequently. Random kissing happens. I won’t apologize for having some fun with a guy, and you won’t make me feel uncomfortable for forgetting about a measly drunken kiss. Slut shaming should be beneath a man of the law.”
“Where is the scarf now, Ms. Devlin?” Detective Banks asks.
Oh, you want me to admit to having evidence? “I don’t even remember the scarf. I have no idea where it’s at now. This was months ago.”
“Why didn’t you text him after that kiss?” the other one asks.
“What girl does that?” I laugh as if the mere thought is absurd. “If a guy wants to talk after we’ve kissed, then he can text me . Let him prove he’s interested. Let him stick his neck out. I am done chasing men. I do not waste my time. Life is too short.”
“And did he text you?” Detective Banks asks.
I huff and give a little pout. “No. I mean, it all worked out in the end.” I flash my engagement ring, which is coming in handy more times than I thought it would today. “But at the time, I was kinda bummed Neil didn’t text after that. He was really cute.” Saying anything nice about that monster makes me nauseous, but I hope I’m selling this. “He seemed like he liked me … wait. The news said he was in the water for a long time. Do you think that’s why he didn’t text me? He was dead?”
They both look at me like I’ve lost my mind. Detective Banks says, “It’s possible. Why do you sound happy about that?”
I laugh nervously. “Well, I mean, if he was dead, then it’s a little less of an ego hit that he didn’t text me. I can’t blame him for his bad choices if he was dead. Does that make me the asshole if his being dead is a relief?”
Banks smirks at that, but Wachowski looks appalled. He grunts, “You sure you don’t know anything else?”
“I wish I knew more. He was nice enough, I guess. A little odd, but no one deserves whatever happened to him.” If I can send them down the path of finding any of his other victims, then I will.
“He was odd how?” Detective Banks asks.
“Well, the night he walked me home, he said some strange stuff about women. About how he didn’t like it when women were mouthy or told him what to do. I didn’t know where he was going with all of that. It sounded misogynistic to me and made me uncomfortable. I mean, I think a lot of guys feel that way, but they don’t say it out loud. Not Neil. He just put it out there like it was a normal thing to say to a woman. I dunno.” I shrug. “He was weird.”
Detective Wachowski says, “You remember a random comment like that, but not kissing the guy?”
I smile at him. “Kissing isn’t a big deal, but a guy going on about opinionated women is a big deal. Considering most men know better than to say that kind of thing to a woman, it sticks out.”
“And there’s nothing else you can tell us about him?”
“All I know is he said he was a hedge fund manager, and he was from Nebraska. Oh, and he liked sci-fi novels. That’s about it.”
They share a look before standing. Detective Banks passes me his card. “If you remember anything else, please give us a call.”
I nod and smile. “I’d be happy to. Can’t have some crazy person going around attacking cute guys in the city.”