Authors: Mica Stone
T
HIRTY
-F
IVE
Monday, 6:30 p.m.
It was dinnertime before Miriam and Melvin were able to leave the murder scene and meet the uniform who’d been stationed outside Autumn Carver’s house. Ballard and Branch had spent most of the day doing interviews. No one who worked for the garage or in any of the offices housed in the building’s upper floors had noticed anything suspicious.
Of course they hadn’t. No reason for things to start going her way now.
Autumn’s place was at the edge of downtown, a section of Union Park undergoing heavy revitalization with an emphasis on eliminating carbon footprints and going green. The homes were within walking and riding distance of coffee shops, a produce stand, a bakery, a butcher.
The area, known as Crosstown, had the same amenities as Miriam’s warehouse in the industrial district, but the houses also had yards. It was a part of town Miriam had thought she might want to move to someday. If she could sell her place. If Thierry could get back into his . . .
“All quiet?” Melvin asked of the officer stationed at the curb. The two shared another few words while Miriam headed up the walk to the door, pulling on gloves and booties before reaching for the evidence bag she’d brought with her that held the victim’s keys.
Entering the residence of the newly deceased was never easy. Miriam closed her eyes for a moment before turning the knob. Even after she’d pushed open the door, after the smells from inside had rushed out—burned cinnamon toast and spicy air freshener and laundry soap and dust—she counted to ten while returning the bag and the keys to her pocket.
This was the home of someone who would never return to wash the breakfast dishes or clean out the toaster, or throw the wet laundry into the dryer before it soured. The dust would never be wiped away. The air freshener would grow stale.
She didn’t know why she couldn’t cross the threshold without this moment of silence, but it was the same every time. Melvin knew it and waited patiently for her to go inside.
The living room was pin-neat. The floor hardwood, the furniture casual and cozy. There were two love seats arranged at a right angle. Both were the same deep-maroon floral and covered with throw pillows of green and gold. A leather recliner in a matching reddish-brown, sans flowers, shared a lamp table with the one closest to the big-screen TV.
Miriam walked through and turned down the hallway for the bedroom, leaving Melvin to look through the kitchen. Similar to the main room’s furnishings, those in here were well made.
The bed was queen-size and covered with a peacock-and-navy-blue comforter. Coordinating pillows were tossed against the headboard. There was a vanity dresser with a mirror and bench, and an armoire to match, along with a floor lamp in one corner next to a cushy overstuffed chair.
“That answers that,” she said to herself, standing in the open door of the huge walk-in closet. A closet that had been appropriated for a home office—desk, chair, lamp, file cabinet, laptop docking station—leaving the second of the two bedrooms free to use as a nursery.
What the closet didn’t hold was clothes.
Miriam returned to the armoire. The door on the left opened to reveal skirts, jackets, blouses, and dress pants. On the right, drawers held jeans, shorts, T-shirts, and underthings.
Autumn Carver had been frugal. There wasn’t more than a week’s worth of any item save panties. Miriam thought she might actually own more, though looking at the labels in the blouses and suits, Autumn’s quality beat her quantity hands down.
Their victim had invested in suits that would remain stylish for years. She’d bought sensible but fashionable shoes; Miriam found the same pair in black and brown, and thought Autumn might have been wearing a third in navy.
“Find what you were looking for?” Melvin asked from the bedroom’s doorway.
“Not exactly.”
“Because you were expecting what?”
“She had good taste. Expensive, but in an investment sort of way. Quality. These shoes,” she said, waving an arm. “They’re not cheap, but they’re going to last, and they can go from the office to the opera to the pediatrician’s office. And she doesn’t have fifty pairs.”
“I don’t know anyone who has fifty pairs,” Melvin said with a huff.
“I know several women who do.” Miriam thought of her sister, who had to one-up their mother, though since the two wore the same size, it was hard to say who did most of the buying.
Melvin scratched at his forehead as if the idea alone was making him rethink closet space. “So, she would’ve had enough money for a private adoption.”
“I’ll need to see her financials to know, but she bought smart. And she had good taste. No obvious reason for needing a bailout from Gina Gardner.”
“Or the still-unavailable Sameen Shahidi.”
After Melvin’s visit to Chestnut Grove Pediatrics had netted zip on that front, Miriam had contacted Helen Hudson. The office manager hadn’t been comfortable giving up information on Sameen without a court telling her she didn’t have a choice. Miriam had sucked up the extra paperwork hassle and obliged, but nothing she’d learned from the missing nurse’s file had told her anything.
Her car hadn’t moved from where it was parked behind her apartment. Her neighbors still hadn’t seen her. Her passport hadn’t been used. Miriam was waiting for access to her phone records, credit cards, and the mysterious bank account from which she’d written a $40,000 check to Franklin Weeks. The longer she remained unavailable, the higher Sameen moved up Miriam’s list.
The next hour had Miriam and Melvin looking through more of Autumn Carver’s things. As with the items in her closet, the rest of her belongings had cost good money but weren’t extravagant buys. There was no jewelry other than a strand of pearls and a cross pendant with a diamond in the center. She wore designer—not drugstore—perfume and makeup found in Nordstrom, not Walmart.
Makeup Miriam couldn’t afford on a regular basis. Makeup Nikki couldn’t live without.
There was nothing at the residence to raise a red flag. Karen Sosa or one of the other scene investigators would go over the house more thoroughly, but Miriam and Melvin were done, knowing more than they had at the murder scene, but not nearly enough.
Nothing to point them to Darius and Corky.
Twelve hours after leaving the station this morning, she and Melvin made their way back. They rode in silence, entered the building in silence, headed to their desks exhausted, not saying a word. She wasn’t sure she had any words left in her. Words required a working brain, and hers was out of fuel.
She was so run-down, in fact, she wasn’t even surprised to find Augie at her desk, the case files in front of him along with the photo of the Scripture she’d e-mailed him from today’s scene.
She dropped into her extra chair, too tired to transcribe her notes or download reports from her e-mail, or anything that involved using her eyes. “I see you got my e-mail.”
He didn’t even look up, just flipped to the next page. “I did. Thanks for sending it.”
He was entirely too at home. As if her desk was as comfortable as wherever it was he worked. “You had nothing better to do with your evening than look at photos of dead bodies?”
This time he peered at her over the rim of his stylish black glasses. “I’ve been gone for five years, Miriam. I got thrown from the frying pan into the fire. Figured a refresher course wouldn’t hurt.”
“You know you’re not here to solve crimes, right?” She needed to hear him say he knew that he wasn’t here full-time, even though he’d set the rules. “Judah just wants whatever you’ve got on the verses.”
He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked at her as he folded them and slipped them into his shirt pocket. “Are you trying to run me off? Or are you afraid I’ll come back?”
“Neither,” she said, pulling her crossbody close in her lap. She wasn’t afraid of anything.
Augie gestured toward the photos of the bloody Scriptures. “I’m looking at the verses in the context of what you’ve discovered about the victims, though I’ll need to know more about Autumn.”
Miriam was pretty sure the killer was pulling the verses out of his ass. “We haven’t discovered much of anything so far. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway.”
Save for that $40,000 check from Sameen Shahidi to Franklin Weeks.
“Knowing what your caseload must be like, the fact that you’ve had three connected murders in two weeks and have still found as much as you have is impressive.”
She started to say she’d learned from the best but stopped herself. “Melvin’s got a good eye. And Ballard has stepped up. Judah’s reassigned our cases until this is done. Branch’s, too.”
Augie sat back then, hooking one arm over the chair’s frame. “Still haven’t learned to accept praise, I see.”
It was strange seeing him here like this. The picture she’d carried so long of him in the station was one of a man who was much more worn. A man who was tired and weary and angry. A man she’d never been sure had it in him to hold on.
This wasn’t that man, and it was more than the collar that she liked in ways that would probably send her to hell. “I’m just doing my job.”
He nodded, waited a moment, then said as he turned toward her partner’s desk, “I’m going to grab some dinner. Melvin? You interested?”
“In food? Absolutely.” Melvin slammed his desk drawer and got to his feet. “But Violet’s got fried chicken waiting, so that’s where I’ll be.”
Augie twisted around to look at her. “Want to come along?”
“I could eat,” she said before she thought too hard about it. “How about I meet you somewhere? I want to look at something in the files first.”
“Del Pueblo?” He looked at his watch. “Say, nine?”
It was eight thirty. “I’ll be there.”
T
HIRTY
-S
IX
Monday, 9:20 p.m.
“I was about to give up on you,” Augie said, his gaze on Miriam as she slid into the booth opposite him. It was a small booth, one of several in the cozy Tex-Mex restaurant, with low-hanging lamps casting enough light for reading the menu and little else.
When the hostess had seated him, he’d started to object. Sitting in such close quarters, such dark quarters, their feet touching, their knees, their hands, as they reached for their drinks . . .
He’d changed his mind.
He didn’t want to share Miriam with the rest of the restaurant’s patrons. He was having an inexplicably hard time sharing her with the work. He was being stupid, but at least he recognized his faults for what they were. Once this case was put to bed, he’d have no reason to see her again. That had to be a good thing.
Closure. Finally.
“I was about to give up on myself,” she answered at last.
Thankfully, before he could embarrass himself by asking if she’d really been trapped at the office with the investigation, as her text had said, their server was at their table.
Miriam didn’t wait for the man to say more than
“Buenas noches.”
“I’d like an
elegante
margarita, please,” she told him. “On the rocks. No salt. Large.”
“Sí, señorita.”
Hands clasped behind his back, he nodded and smiled, turning to Augie. “And you,
señor
?”
“I’m fine with water,” he said, adding, “and we’re ready to order.”
Miriam frowned. “I just got here, you know.”
He shrugged. “You always get the same thing.”
She held his gaze while telling their server what she wanted. She chose exactly what Augie had expected her to.
She looked good tonight, not as harried as she sounded. Her hair was down rather than swinging in the tail she’d had it in earlier. And the circles beneath her eyes weren’t quite as dark as he’d assumed they might be with the day she’d had.
Maybe that was just the table’s lack of good lighting. Could be that was the whole point of eating in the dark. Pretending things weren’t what they were.
“Be glad I didn’t suggest we meet at the Paisley Cricket,” he said, shaking out his napkin over his thigh.
She stopped in the act of reaching for hers, her eyes going as still as the rest of her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He shrugged. “I like their menu.”
She snorted at that. “That’s right. You weren’t there for the stoning.”
“I’ve seen the photos,” he said, knowing the pictures never fully depicted the reality of the scene. The smells were missing. The sounds. The burst of the camera flash. The click of Miriam’s pen.
“I’ve never eaten there,” she said, once her drink had been set in front of her. “And now I never will. Anyway, I thought maybe tonight we could forget about work.”
Though he hadn’t said that when he’d asked her to join him, and she hadn’t suggested it when she’d agreed. “If we don’t have work to talk about, we don’t have anything.”
He wasn’t sure why he was goading her. Unless it was that he didn’t want to get comfortable. He was already feeling a pull he was afraid would leave him torn once he returned to Saint Mark’s, and for the second time in his life, put the UPPD—and Miriam—behind him.
It took her a long moment to answer, emotions like a slide show in her eyes. “Is that really what you think?” she asked. “After all this time?”
He picked up his water glass. “What else did we ever have in common?”
It was all he got out before their server returned to let them know their meal would be right out, which was a good thing. The way his heart was racing was not. He’d write up a report for Chris Judah tonight, let the deputy chief tell Miriam he was finished and wouldn’t be back.
She leaned forward, her words delivered in a harsh whisper. “I’m not going to let you reduce those years we had together. We had a lot more in common than sex. You know that.”
Did he? “Such as?”
“Food, for one thing,” she said, reaching for her glass. “We agree that vegetables other than onions and olives do not belong on pizza. And that a burger isn’t a burger without bacon and cheese.”
He snorted and dug into the chips and salsa that had arrived with their drinks. “It’s a wonder we’re both not dead of a heart attack.”
“I have the cholesterol of a newborn,” she said.
Smiling, he asked, “You still doing yoga?”
“Not often enough. I’m getting stiff.” She rolled her head in a circle. “It hurts to get out of bed.”
“I’m surprised you spend time in one,” he said before he thought better of it. “I lost count of how often I found you crashed on your couch or my recliner when a case had you wired.”
She frowned, toying with the stem of her already-empty glass. The day must’ve been worse than he’d thought. “You know, I’ve been living with someone for a while.”
He nodded, his jaw tight. “The ER doctor from the night of the shooting.”
“You kept up?”
“I came by. Once.” He shrugged it off. “It was a couple of months after I left the department. I wanted to see how you were. I saw him.”
“You could’ve called,” she said, the words a pointed accusation, then sat back as their food arrived.
He waited until they were alone again before speaking. “I wanted to
see
how you were. And I did.”
She held his gaze a long moment, finally glancing down as she spread her napkin over her lap. “Rebounds. They never last.”
Her indifference fell flat. “But you still live with him.”
“You’re still keeping up?” When he dug into his enchiladas instead of answering, she went on. “Why do you care what I do, anyway?”
He was trying to convince himself that he didn’t. “I’m pretty sure you asked me if I was seeing anyone when you came to Saint Mark’s the other night.”
“Whatever,” she said, then cut through her chile relleno and changed the subject. “Have you ever regretted leaving the force? Or the change in vocations?”
“Not even once.” And that was the truth.
“I guess your dad’s a lot happier now,” she said, signaling to their server for another drink. “I know he wasn’t a fan of you being on the force.”
Happy
had never been a word that fit his father. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I’m sorry.” She frowned at her food as she said it. “I thought things would be better between the two of you by now.”
Sadly, things between the two of them were what they were. “Pretty sure that ship has sailed.”
“You can’t believe that,” she said, and looked up.
Her eyes saw too much and too clearly. They were a deep brown, bottomless. He’d fallen into them and drowned more times than he could count. He didn’t want to do that now, and shrugged. “I keep trying. He keeps making me wonder why.”
“Because it’s what you do. It’s what you’ve always done. That’s never going to change,” she said, back to attacking her food.
She was right about that. Trying was why he was here now.
“What about your folks? Bet they were glad to see the end of me.”
She finished chewing, then reached for her drink and said, “They were, but not because it was you.”
He didn’t believe her. “Oh?”
She nodded. “My mother thinks it’s bad enough that her youngest daughter’s a cop. Her youngest daughter who’s a cop
dating
a cop nearly gave her apoplexy. My dad’s a lot more logical. He wants me happy.”
He felt the jump of his pulse in his temple. “And I didn’t make you happy?”
“You did.” She followed the words with a sigh. “That’s what he didn’t understand.”
He fell quiet then, going through another bite of his enchilada as the ramifications of what she’d said had his chest tightening. “How are Esther and Erik?”
“Pretty much the same as they were the last time you asked,” she said, her tone as exasperated as it was impatient.
“No more kids?”
She smiled then, her expression softening. “Esther’s got another little girl, Lori. She just turned two.”
He remembered Miriam’s infatuation with a couple of her other nieces and nephews when they’d been that age, and smiled, too. “And you’ve had the time of your life playing auntie.”
“Yeah, but Haven’s still my favorite.”
“He was the one who was born right before we”—
well, crap
—“broke up.”
“Broke up.” She repeated the words with a disgusted huff. “Is that what we did? Broke up?”
He hadn’t meant to bring it up, but now that he had . . . “What would you call it?”
“What it was. You walking out of the ER, handing in your gun and badge, and vanishing without a word.”
“It was an officer-involved shooting, Miriam.” Something she knew. “IA had to investigate. I was just making it easier for them.”
“And me?” she asked, the words sharp, her eyes cutting.
He looked down at his plate and shrugged, knowing she deserved better. Then and now. “Like I said before. The straw and the camel. But, yeah. I should’ve gotten in touch. Done things the right way. I just needed to settle things for myself first.”
“You left me hanging for days, Augie.”
“Days?” Was she kidding him? “You and the ER doc barely waited hours.”
“He saw what you weren’t there to.” She glanced around, leaning toward him and dropping her voice. “That I was fucked up. That I needed help.”
“Help?” He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Is that what he gave you?”
At that, she tossed her fork to the table. Once she’d wiped her mouth, her napkin followed. Then she got to her feet.
“Miriam, wait—”
“No. I’m done here.” She dug into her bag for a twenty, a ten, and a five, and placed the bills on the table, reaching for her glass and draining her drink. “You fixed your life by walking out on me. Let’s see if I can do the same for mine.”
He watched her head toward the front door, then closed his eyes for a moment, thinking it was for the best that she go. He shouldn’t have asked her to join him. She’d had a long day. He’d forgotten how ragged he felt after seeing violence, or the aftermath, firsthand.
Miriam wasn’t great at processing it, either. She internalized. She had this insane need to make sense of actions that by definition had none. It was a hopeless endeavor, but the drive made her a good investigator, as did her degree. She’d always been a better cop than he.
But he didn’t like her methods, so it was hard to admit they worked.
Hard to admit he’d been wrong. That he still was.
When the server came by to clear the table, he asked about Miriam’s plate. “Would you like me to box this up for you?”
Augie thought about the uneaten food being thrown away. He couldn’t deal with more waste. Not tonight. “That would be great, thanks.”