Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Is he here?
I burst into the reception area outside the Chief’s office, and the young man behind the desk drops the papers he was filing. “Can I help you?”
The deep voice has disappeared, replaced by the grating Mid-Atlantic accent of the anchorman on TV.
My mystery dom isn’t here.
“I thought I. . . heard something,” I say. The assistant gives me a side-eye, but I ignore him, studying the news broadcast. The chyron at the bottom of the screen reads Billionaire Rex Roy hosts Miss Olympus Pageant.
I’m fooling myself, jumping at shadows. So pathetic, but I’m alert to any breadcrumb that might lead me to him. Just another sign it was a mistake to scene with the same person twice.
The assistant waves me into Chief Jordan’s office. I steady myself and stride in.
Jordan is a fifty-something male who looks twenty years older, and his thick hair is shockingly white against his darker skin.
“Detective Ramos.” He points to one of two chairs set in front of his desk. I sink into one, leaning to the right to see him through the stacks of paperwork. “Welcome. You’ve had a busy few days.”
“Yes, sir. The attack last night and the body—” I stop because I don’t know what to say. “It’s all just a freak coincidence” doesn’t cut it.
How can it be a coincidence?
Someone placed that body on my front doorstep. Someone is watching me.
The blinds on his windows stir, and I get a vision of someone standing there, staring out at the city. Someone large and intimidating.
I blink, and the vision disappears.
“Yes,” the chief is saying, “it’s a messy business, but I’m sure you’ll be clear of it soon. That’s not why I called you in.” He comes around his desk, dropping the stern disciplinarian then and taking on the guise of the wise, vaguely paternal figure. I don’t trust it, not for a second. You don’t get to be chief without playing politics, and anyone who plays politics is a shark.
“The Martin case. I know it hasn’t been long, but Mr. Martin was well respected in the community, and people want answers.”
Meaning: Mr. Martin was very rich and played golf/poker/real-life Monopoly with a number of powerful people who keep me in office. And if I don’t solve his case, those powerful people will fire me and replace me with someone who will.
“I understand, sir.”
“I hear you’ve had a break in the case? You found some footage of the killer?”
I hesitate. I’m not the main detective on the case, and if I give information he doesn’t know yet, I’ll be stepping on Bonds’ toes.
“I spoke to Bonds and Cuccinelli this morning,” Jordan says, solving that for me. There’s no way Bonds would meet with Jordan and not mention the footage. It’s our best lead.
“We did, sir. We’re not sure it’s the killer, but it’s likely.”
“Good, good. I want your full focus on the Martin case. Blinders on, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right.” He picks up some papers and shuffles them. “One more thing. There’s a gala tomorrow night.”
“A gala?”
My mind is jumping like a salmon headed upstream, fighting to keep up.
“Yes, a fundraising thing.” He waves a hand. “Annual. Big deal.”
“Oh.” The brass in L.A. loved to send me to fundraisers. Show off the freak like a shiny toy. Look what we have.
“Yes.” He chuckles, full grandfather now. “I hate these things, too. But they’re necessary. You’ll be there.”
It’s not an invitation; it’s an order.
“Understood, sir.”
“Excellent. It’s black tie.”
Which means I need a fancy dress. I nod to reassure him. “Typical fundraiser attire. Impress the suits.”
“Yes, yes, exactly. I’ll see you there.”
“Yes, sir,” I say and leave. He’s already turned back to his desk, a dismissal.
I keep my chin up as I walk out of his office. Gotta pretend that everything’s fine. Murders to solve, fundraiser to attend. The usual bullshit.
My cell phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my jacket pocket. I’ve got a voicemail from an unknown number with a West Virginia area code. I don’t know anyone from there, but I do know someone obsessed with routing her calls through different area codes, particularly ones with funny town names.
I hit the redial, and someone picks up instantly. “Hey, Mina.”
“Ram, what the fuck is going on?” she squawks loud enough for the grunts in the hall to hear.
“Shhhh,” I say and duck into the stairwell for privacy.
“I get a hit on your name in a bulletin outta New Rome. And then another a few hours later? What the hell are you doing over there?”
“You got a search on my name?”
“I have a search on all my friends’ names. And my enemies.”
I grin. That is so Mina. “Which one am I?”
“Friend, duh. Good friend. I still want you to come back to L.A.”
My breath catches. I don’t have friends. I’ve been so careful not to get close to anyone. “What, so we can get a beer after hours?” Mina and I have never met in person.