Текст книги "Sins of the Demon"

Автор книги: Diana Rowland

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 8

“I can’t think of a better way to start the day,” my aunt’s boyfriend said as he looked down at the corpse before him.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “You really need a life.”

A smile ghosted across his lips, which on him was equivalent to a full-belly laugh. Carl was the morgue assistant to Dr. Jonathan Lanza, the parish pathologist. Tall and lean, with short, almost colorless hair and hazel-brown eyes, he managed to avoid looking like the archetypical morgue worker by having a semblance of a tan and a fairly athletic build. However, he was reserved to the point of appearing emotionless, which tended to swing him right back into the stereotype. In the past few months I’d had the chance to get to know him some, and I’d come to learn that he was anything but emotionless. He was a keen observer and tended to think carefully before speaking, but moreover, he was my aunt’s boyfriend—and that right there told me there was something very special about him. My aunt was…odd. But he seemed to understand her. Better than I did, to be honest.

We were in the cutting room of the St. Long Parish Morgue. On the metal table before us was the naked body of Barry Landrieu. The scent of formalin and Pine-Sol mingled, and my stomach gave off an unfamiliar twinge of queasiness. I’d only been wearing the cuff for a few hours, and I was already feeling the effects. As long as I don’t puke during the autopsy I’ll be all right, I tried to reassure myself. I would never live it down if I lost my breakfast.

“You don’t normally come to autopsies of natural deaths,” Carl said as he readied instruments on a side table. Scalpels, scissors, syringes, a bone saw. And one that always made me wince—long-handled pruning shears, used to cut through the ribs so that the pathologist could better examine the internal organs.

“Two deaths with nosebleeds in the same day?” I said. “I tend to be suspicious of coincidences.” Out of habit I tried to shift into othersight to give the body a once-over and silently cursed as it proved impossible with the stupid cuff on.

He gave a mild nod. “It does seem odd,” he agreed. “And you sometimes have more reason than most to dislike what appears to be coincidence to others.”

I was silent for several heartbeats. “I knew them both. Barry here was the one who gave me heroin.” Carl knew about that incident already. “And the other one, Evelyn Stark, was the drunk driver who killed my dad.”

“Ah,” he said, and in that one syllable was a paragraph’s worth of meaning.

“Plus, Eilahn and I encountered a graaearly yesterday morning,” I added. Carl knew a great deal about the arcane and demons, but I didn’t know if that was because of his relationship with my aunt or if he had prior knowledge. I knew that wards didn’t seem to have any effect on him, and he’d once been attacked by an assailant with the ability to suck out a person’s essence, yet he’d been completely unaffected. But despite not knowing a damn thing about him, I trusted him.

But should I?I was suddenly suspicious of any sort of blind trust. Yet, Tessa cared deeply for him and clearly, she trusted him. And I’d never seen the barest whisper or hint that Carl had anything but fond adoration for my aunt in return. Maybe there were times when blind trust was necessary. I sure as hell needed to be better about trusting people.

His hazel brown eyes flicked to me. “Should I assume it was not a pleasant encounter?”

“You could say that,” I replied with a dry laugh, “though Eilahn’s convinced it wasn’t trying to kill me.” I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “Obviously, I need even moreweird shit in my life.”

A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “And yet you weather it well.”

“I’d hate to see what my life would be like if I weathered it badly!”

“And you don’t think your aunt summoned this demon?”

That hadn’t even occurred to me. Why the hell hadn’t it? She was a strong summoner. She was the one who had trained me. “I’m pretty confident that she wouldn’t send a demon to attack me,” I told him. Still, I should have asked her. What if the attack had been some sort of misunderstanding? “ Didshe summon it?”

His eyes held mine briefly before he looked back down at the instruments. “No.”

Carl was a hard man to read, but I could have sworn I’d seen relief, or something awfully close to it, in that brief look. I let out a breath and resisted the urge to ask him why the hell he’d implied that she had. Carl usually had good stuff to say, but he didn’t always come right out and say it—usually preferring for me to come around to it on my own. “I don’t know if it had anything to do with the deaths of these two people,” I said, “but it sure as hell got my attention.”

“Interesting,” he murmured, then turned back to the body and began a meticulous search for scars, tattoos, or injuries. “If the graawasn’t there in connection with the two victims, why would it be there? Do you think your aunt can give you advice or counsel about that?” He didn’t look up at me, but I still felt pinned down by his attention. I resisted the urge to squirm.

“I don’t want to worry her,” I finally said. “She’s been through a lot of shit lately…most of it my fault.”

“It is the role of parents—and guardians—to worry about their loved ones,” he pointed out.

My throat felt tight. Was I keeping things from my aunt to protect her or to protect me from her ire? My relationship with her had been a tempestuous one for most of our time together. She was acerbic, and odd, and generally didn’t care what people thought of her. And while I could appreciate that mentality more now that I was older, back when I was young it was yet another hurdle to overcome. It was bad enough that both my parents had died, but now I had to live with my crazy aunt who did weird shit and didn’t seem to care that the other kids at school laughed at her—and me. Tessa hadn’t cared about fads—in fact she tended to hold anything that was fashionable in complete disdain, and had subtly, and not-so-subtly, pushed me to be “unique” and to “forge my own path.”

But as a thirteen-year-old, I wasn’t ready to be unique. What I’d needed was to fit in, to be a little invisible until I could find my comfort zone. That was impossible with Tessa. Was it any wonder that I’d rebelled and found a different way to hide and feel comfortable? Or at least, what felt like comfort.

Carl remained silent, but it didn’t feel judgmental. It simply seemed as if he was waiting for me to digest his comment on my own, and he’d be there to pick up the conversation when I did. I felt an odd surge of gratitude toward him. I had a few friends who knew that I summoned demons, but somehow talking it out with Carl was different, and it felt oddly freeing to be able to discuss bizarre shit like this.

“She’s different,” I said at last.

“That she is,” Carl agreed.

I shook my head. “No, I mean…since she woke up.” My aunt’s essence had been stripped from her body by a serial killer, and it had taken me several weeks to find a way to call her back to herself.

His eyes met mine. “I know.”

“I don’t think she wants to summon anymore.”

“I think you’re right.”

I tilted my head. “Do you know why? I mean…has she said anything?”

“Not to me.”

Our conversation was cut off by the entrance of Dr. Lanza. A slender man about my height with distinct Italian coloring and features, he had an easygoing manner that had done much to put me at ease when I was still learning the ropes of investigating homicides. And now I’m an old hand at this whole find-the-murderer thing, I thought with mild amusement.

Dr. Lanza shot me a warm smile as he pulled protective clothing over his jeans and New Orleans Hornets T-shirt. “You must have some dark suspicions, Kara,” he said, his smile teasing.

“C’mon, Doc, I alwayshave dark suspicions,” I replied with an easy grin, automatically slipping away from the confiding and open mood of the conversation with Carl and into the tone that I maintained with everyone else—the ones who had no clue that there was more to our world than what was apparent to the usual five senses. I was used to it. Humor, and lots of caution about what I said and asked. But I was damn grateful that there were people with whom I could discuss the more bizarre details.

“Luckily, that’s part of your job description,” Doc said as he lifted a scalpel and started in on the Y incision. “So, yes, your two victims both had nosebleeds, but those can be caused by a lot of things,” Doc said as he filleted the skin and flesh away from the ribs. I retreated even farther as Carl stepped up to cut through the ribs with the pruning shears. “I’d be willing to bet that the second victim’s was caused by the air bag.”

I simply gave a nod and a slight shrug. I had no intention of sharing the other, more personal connection. At least not until I knew more.

I waited patiently while Doc went through the procedures, and I did my usual escape from the room when Carl used the bone saw to cut through the skull. He wore a breathing mask for this part, since the saw kicked up all sorts of bone dust—which, of course, had blood and other yuck in it. Not only did I have no desire to breathe it in, I didn’t want it in my hair or anywhere else. Nasty.

As soon as the brain was revealed, though, I ducked back in, not hiding my eagerness very well as I waited for Doc to do his examination.

He took the brain from the scale and began to slice it into neat sections. I watched as he narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Well, this one definitely stroked out.” He let out a low whistle. “Fucking hell. Looks like he had several at once. I’ve never seen anything like this. This guy never had a chance.” He motioned me over with the bloody scalpel. “Come see, Kara.”

I really didn’t want to see it, but I knew I had to look, for my pride as much as for my own personal education. I moved to his side and peered at the pink and grey convolutions. He didn’t even have to point anything out. I had no trouble seeing the damage and clots of blood. “What could have caused that?”

He blew out his breath. “Not sure. Perhaps a cancer…” He trailed off, mumbling under his breath about occult large cell carcinoma and some other stuff I couldn’t make out. His brow drew together in a frown as he continued his examination. “No obvious sign of cancer, though. I’ll have to take a look under the microscope later.”

I wasn’t surprised when he asked Carl to preserve the brain, and the sections he’d cut, in formalin. Doc seemed perplexed but also a little excited, as if he couldn’t wait to dig into the mystery of why this man had died this way. Heck, it was probably a welcome change from the usual boring parade of drug overdoses and heart attacks. Doc continued the autopsy, peering carefully at the quick test that showed if any of the most commonly abused drugs were in the victim’s system.

“Clean,” he muttered. “But I’ll order a comprehensive toxicological screening.”

He retreated to write up his notes while Carl put the body of Barry Landrieu back into the cooler and got Evelyn Stark prepped and ready to go.

Carl laid the woman’s body out on the table and snapped pictures, then removed her clothing and took more pictures, expression emotionless and clinical. He wiped away the blood on her face, but I could still see it clotted up in her nostrils. Evelyn had been an attractive woman, but it was clear she’d been awfully close to that point in life when even the best of genetics weren’t enough. She had a slim, leggy build, but the skin of her belly sagged and her thighs were flabby and had no muscle tone.

He glanced up at me after he set the camera aside. “Can you give me a hand?”

“With what?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him in distrust. He had a habit of asking me to do gross and nasty things during autopsies.

He silently held out a syringe. His face was expressionless, but humor danced in his eyes.

He was asking me to get the vitreous—the fluid in the eyeball. The process for this involved sticking a needle into the side of the eye. Needless to say, it squicked me out big time. I usually shied away from this. Emphatically.

But this time I took the syringe from his hand. He cocked an eyebrow at me in mild astonishment, then smiled and gestured to the body. “You know how to do it?”

I gave him a stiff nod. I’d seen it done a few dozen times. Time to stop being a weenie.The needle slid in with barely any resistance. A shiver raced down my spine at the sight of the needle tip going through the pupil, but it came with an absurd sense of satisfaction. I’d finally won a round of “make Kara do something nasty.” I carefully drew out the fluid, pulled the needle back out, and then carefully handed it to Carl.

“Don’t everask me to do that again,” I said.

He burst out laughing, then quickly squirted the fluid into a tube. “I won’t. I promise.” He put the tube away, then turned back to me. “Do you want to try cutting the head open?”

“No!”

He grinned. “Your loss,” he said.

“And on that, I will gladly accept defeat,” I told him.

We suspended our banter as Doc returned to the cutting room. He remained largely quiet during the autopsy of Evelyn Stark. I had the feeling that his mind was already running through possibilities on why Barry Landrieu’s brain had exploded, so to speak.

I watched his face as he began to cut through Evelyn Stark’s brain, could see the instant he saw it from the way his face went still and pale. He gave his head a slight shake of disbelief, then yanked his gaze up to me. “What’s the connection?” he asked. “There has to be some sort of connection. This isn’t possible.”

I could completely understand how he felt. “I don’t know, Doc,” I said, the lie bitter in my mouth. “But I gotta say, I’m glad to know my hunch was right.”

His gaze grew hard for an instant, then he shook his head again. “That was one hell of a hunch, Kara.” He gave me a smile, but it had a guarded, curious edge to it.

I spread my hands and tried to look baffled.

“Hunh.” He turned his attention back to the body. “Maybe it’s some sort of designer drug. Something that’s not showing on the quick test. Or a virus.” He grimaced. “Of course, if it is a virus, we’re all fucked.”

“I was on both scenes and gave CPR to her,” I jerked my chin toward the body. “And my brain hasn’t exploded yet. So we’re probably all right.”

Doc gave a humorless chuckle. “It’s also only been one day. Hardly enough time for anything to take hold.” He blew out his breath. “I have a feeling I’ll be spending the rest of the day looking through a microscope.”

“Barry Landrieu was a known drug user,” I said. “And Evelyn Stark was an alcoholic.”

He gave a nod. “My investigator told me that Landrieu went to jail a few years ago, and when he got out he supposedly cleaned up and was doing the whole straight-and-narrow thing.”

“You don’t see that very often,” I said.

“Well, apparently his little sister died of an overdose while he was in prison. Guess that was his wakeup call.”

Shock and regret coiled through me. I made it out of that life and never looked back.But what could I have done for her? Given her pep talks? Pressure her to get into rehab? No way to know if anything would have helped, but once I had my own act together surely I could have tried.

Doc was still talking, thankfully oblivious to my reaction. I yanked my attention back to him and did my best to shove down the guilt.

“Anyway, I’ll put a rush on the tox screen. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that’s what it is.”

I gave him a dutiful nod in response. He had his avenues of investigation, and I had mine. Now I knew for certain that the two deaths were related and not simply by coincidence. My next hunch was that the presence of the graawas connected. Now I simply had to hunt down a summoner.

Easy.

Chapter 9

I left the morgue, still wondering how the hell I was going to accomplish my grand goal of finding this other summoner. We were private people out of self-preservation, and there wasn’t exactly a local directory. I fully intended to check and see if my aunt had any leads, but other than that I didn’t know what else I could do except wait for the summoner to tip his or her hand again.

By the time I made it to the station the sky had cleared to the kind of brilliant blue that only happened in southern winters when it was stupid-cold outside. No snow anymore, which was a relief, but the chill wind that swept around the building was anything but brisk and refreshing. Stabbing-icy-knives-of-death wind was probably a better description.

I made sure the cuff was concealed under my coat sleeve as I hurried up to the building. The last thing I wanted was to deal with questions about it. Actually the last thing I wanted was to have to keep wearing the damn thing. This whole mild nausea thing was a real downer.

I gave myself a mental slap and scowl as I entered the door marked “Investigations.” Yeah, I didn’t care to feel crummy. But getting summoned to the demon sphere? That was a whole ’nuther level of Do Not Want. I could deal with a bit of queasy stomach.

Warm air wrapped pleasantly behind me, and I quickly pulled the door closed to block out the wind.

“Damn, Gillian, afraid of a little cold weather?”

The nasal tenor startled me. I spun to see Detectives Boudreaux and Pellini sitting in the cramped waiting area usually reserved for people who had appointments to see one of the investigators. I straightened, instantly annoyed that I’d allowed my surprise to show.

“I’m a delicate southern flower, Boudreaux,” I said to the detective who could best be described as weasely. Skinny to the point of emaciated, he looked like a meth addict, but not as healthy. It didn’t look like he’d shaved in at least two days, but he was in no danger of growing anything resembling an actual beard. The patchy stubble on his chin looked like a fur coat left for a month in a moth factory. The stains on his khaki pants indicated he was in the long habit of wiping his hands on them instead of a napkin, his shirt had more wrinkles than a smoker’s lips, and his tie looked like it had been knotted with a square knot. Yet despite his complete lack of professional demeanor, he managed to close enough cases to stay on in Investigations. He was lazy, couldn’t investigate worth a shit, and was annoying as all hell, but rumor had it that he was a brilliant interrogator and could finesse information and confessions out of the most hard-core and stubborn types. “The chill does terrible things to my sunny disposition,” I added.

Pellini shifted on the ancient couch and pulled his belt further up under the pudge of his belly. “Delicate, my ass,” he said with a snort of sour amusement from beneath his mustache. “You could take Boudreaux here down with your eyes closed.”

I blinked. Had that been a compliment? From Pellini? Our conversational exchanges usually involved various insults, not-so-veiled slurs, and generally disagreeable banter. I had no doubt that he would have been more than happy in the “old days” of police work when respecting a suspect’s civil rights was a laughable concept. “What are you two doing sitting out here?” I asked, deciding to pretend the possible compliment hadn’t happened. Too many weird things were happening lately. A Nice Pellini would put me right over the edge.

“Our office is about thirty degrees,” Boudreaux said, face twisted in annoyance. “Maintenance is supposed to be coming by ‘any minute now.’ They said that an hour and a half ago.”

And I had no doubt that they intended to avoid all semblance of work until the climate control was fixed. I decided to not point out that they could have brought their laptops out to the lobby so that they could get caught up on their reports.

“I hear you had a fun weekend,” Pellini said.

“Yep,” I said. “A guy died out at the Nature Center. Barry Landrieu. Then a lady crashed her ride into mine and dropped in the middle of the parking lot out here.”

Pellini’s mouth pursed beneath his mustache. “Nature center guy…you said his name was Landrieu? White guy? Blond hair and a mustache?”

I nodded warily. “You know him?”

A frown curved his already dour face. “Neighbor of mine. Was it a thirty?”

He was asking me if it was a Signal 30. A homicide. “Nah. Just got back from the autopsy. Natural death.” It wasn’t a complete lie. It did look like a natural death. I wasn’t going to tell him that the woman had died in the exact same way. Pellini and Boudreaux already thought I was plenty weird. No sense giving them more reason to think so. I was probably already pegging out their “whackadoo” meter. I also wasn’t about to mention my own history with him. “Buddy of yours?” I asked.

Pellini shook his head. “Nah. Just a guy who lived down the street—about four houses down. Big-time jogger. Every fucking day, rain or shine.”

I tried not to show my surprise. Maybe it wasn’t the same guy?

“Dude was an ex-con,” he continued, putting the lie to my brief suspicion that it was someone else. “But he didn’t seem like a bad guy. Looked like he was trying hard to start over.”

I did my best to hide my shock. Pellini was being understanding? Showing a measure of actual empathy? “That’s pretty cool,” I said.

Pellini shrugged. “Yeah, but this week he got weird. Had issues with some of the neighbors.”

I leaned against the doorframe. I was pretty sure this was the longest conversation I’d ever had with Pellini where I didn’t have the urge to throw something heavy and dangerous at him. “Any issues with you?”

Pellini gave a low bark of laughter. “He tried. I was in my garage the other day and he comes walking up the driveway, stopped right before the door and starts going on about how the Saints didn’t deserve to win the Super Bowl, and that Green Bay was going to take it all the way this year.”

Boudreaux gave a snort. “Did you bust his ass?”

Pellini shrugged. “Nah. I kinda wondered if maybe he was trying to bait me and get me to take a swing at him—figured he probably had a buddy of his ready with a camera.”

I was more than a little impressed at the level of restraint and understanding Pellini had shown, but then he spoiled it by continuing.

“Instead I went by his house later that night, let all the air out of his tires, and pissed on his front mat,” he said with a satisfied smile.

“Okay, even Ithink that’s funny,” I admitted. “Well lemme go write this shit up so I can get out of here and leave you two to your little camping trip.”

“You only wish you were cool enough to hang out with us,” Pellini called after me as I continued on down the hall.

My office was frigid as well, but unlike Boudreaux and Pellini I was used to having a shit office and was prepared for it. Luckily it was about the size of a utility closet, which meant that it only took about ten minutes for the space heater in the corner to bring the ambient temperature up to the point where I could shed my coat. I pulled off the cuff as well and stuffed it into the pocket of my coat, breathing a deep sigh of relief as the simmering queasiness eased.

I plopped into my chair, then swept a frowning glance around the office as a sudden urge to rearrange the furniture seized me. I’d had it in the current configuration ever since getting this office. Maybe it was time for some change?

Easier said than done. I stood and spent several frustrating minutes trying to figure out how to turn the desk ninety degrees before realizing it was physically impossible. The desk had probably been assembled in the office, and I had a feeling that it would have be completely taken apart in order to change its position. I sat back down, annoyed at being thwarted by geometry. Maybe this weekend I can bring some tools up here and get that done.

In the meantime, I had things I wanted to check on. Ruthlessly pushing aside a stab of guilt at what I was about to do, I pulled up a search engine on my computer and typed in “Saratoga Springs, New York public records.” Within a few minutes I found records stating that a Ryan Walker Kristoff had been born to Julius Kristoff and a Catherine Rathbun Kristoff. Okay, birth records successfully faked. But how deep did the history go? Would a bit of scratching reveal the charade?

Pretty deep, I began to realize after about fifteen minutes of searching. He had a full genealogy that went back at least four generations—which was as far back as I bothered searching before giving up and looking for other details. There were school records and assorted newspaper clippings for Ryan, his parents, and his cousins, one of whom had been arrested twice for driving under the influence. A bit of finagling pulled up Ryan’s college transcript and his yearbook pictures, and more public records searches turned up name checks for various cases he’d been involved in.

In other words, it was, in every way, shape, and form, as real a background and history as anyone could possibly have. I sat back, baffled. There’s no way this is faked. So what the hell does this mean?

I glanced up at a tap on my door, surprised to see Roman Hatch standing in the doorway, carefully balancing a box that looked like it might very well contain donuts, with a coffee cup on top of that. “Morning,” he said with a wide smile. “This is the proper sort of gift for a cop, right?”

Grinning, I motioned him in, then accepted the coffee cup he handed me. “It’s a good start,” I said, pulling the lid off. It already had cream in it and I glanced at him. “You added sugar?”

“Sure did,” he said, setting the box on the desk. “I remember you used to like it pretty sweet.”

“Just like me,” I said with a bat of my eyelashes. Taking a sip, I discovered our definitions of “pretty sweet” were quite different. At most there might have been three sugars in it. More likely two. Still, it was a nice gesture, and I wasn’t about to throw it in his face or anything. Besides, it was heaps better than the coffee here at the station. “Have a seat.” I indicated the beat up chair that was squeezed into the corner of my tiny office. I leaned forward and tweaked open the box. Donuts, though not my favorite—the chocolate kind. Still, I was cool with regular glazed as well. “And now you will get to see me at my most glamorous,” I said as I snagged one out.

“How long have you had this office?” His gaze swept the miniscule area.

I had to finish chewing and swallowing donut before I could reply. “Almost a year. I don’t mind how small it is since I don’t have to share.”

“Sure, but don’t you believe in decorating?”

I made a show of looking around. “It is decorated! See, I have a poster.” I was quite proud of my fake “Magic Eye” poster. I’d lost count of the number of people who struggled to see a 3-D image in it that didn’t exist.

He chuckled but didn’t rise to the bait of the poster. “I stand corrected. You should consider opening your own interior design business.”

“Nah. I like being a cop. I get to drive fast and tell people how stupid they are.” I licked icing off my fingers and grinned.

“Anyway,” he said, shifting to a smile that he probably thought was disarming. “I was wondering if you could help me out with something?”

I gave him a properly inquisitive look, though the slight curl of disappointment in my belly already had a good idea of what he was about to ask. Some sort of trouble with his neighbor maybe, or a ticket that he was hoping I could help him take care of.

He tugged a folded piece of paper from his pocket. A ticket. I hated that I’d been right. No real interest in me after all. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Back in college he’d always seemed more interested in having either a hot girlfriend he could show off or a super smart one he could use for free tutoring. I hadn’t really fallen into either category, which was one of the reasons I’d been astounded that he’d asked me out in the first place.

Unfolding the ticket, his expression morphed into “sheepish.” I wasn’t buying it. He probably practiced these expressions in the mirror in order to get what he wanted. He was smooth.

But I’d been dealing with demons for the past ten years.

I didn’t say anything as he set it on the desk. Didn’t even look at it. Just continued to gaze at him with the same inquisitive, slightly puzzled expression. Two could play this game.

He broke first, tapping the ticket with a finger and clearing his throat. “There’s this road near my parents’ house with a hill, and I didn’t realize how fast I was going. He got me for sixty in a forty-five.”

“Okay,” I said as guilelessly as possible. “You need to know where to go to pay it? Or are you going to contest it in court?”

He leaned back, rueful smile still in place. “It’s a pretty hefty fine,” he said. “I was wondering if you knew any way I could get it reduced?”

“You want me to see if I can fix it.” I didn’t make it a question. “You want to see if you can spend a few dollars for donuts and coffee to see if you can save over a hundred.” If I was more of a bitch I’d throw the coffee right back at him.

Now he winced. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I just wanted to see if it could be changed to seatbelt or—” He let out a choked cry and staggered to his feet, staring down in shock at the coffee covering his front.

I stared in shock as well, then yanked my eyes to my right hand—which was holding the empty coffee cup. I barely even remembered throwing the coffee at him, but I knew I had. I’d thought about it, then done it. No hesitation.

“Oh my god, Roman. I…I…” I dropped the empty cup on my desk and yanked open my top drawer to grab out some tired napkins from a long ago fast food meal. I thrust them toward him, and he eyed them almost uncertainly before taking them and making a futile attempt to blot up the coffee.

“I guess that’s a ‘no’ then” he said, mouth twisting in a grimace.

“Shit, Roman, I swear I—”

“Everything cool here?”

I jerked my head around to see Cory, my sergeant, standing in the doorway of the office, frowning beneath his mustache, brown eyes taking in the details.

I opened my mouth but suddenly had no idea what to say. I threw my coffee on him because he asked me how to get a ticket reduced.So fucking what? That kind of stuff happened all the time.