Much to our annoyance there isn't much luck locating Angelica's husband in Albuquerque. We put out a BOLO for one Rafael Montes but. discover when questioning his friends and family that he returned to El Paso, Texas not long after the courts approved the restraining order. Chances look good he's innocent, but El Paso authorities will pick him up, anyway. He might have information regarding the case and was still the only suspect we had.
But my reservations regarding him as this one is strong. Rafael might be an abusive piece of dung. But a sly murderer? I don't see it. The kid was killed clean. How could a simple immigrant worker break in and do that damage without making a sound or a mess? I don't know. It seems a bit too complicated for any Joe Schmoke to accomplish. Plus, how can he have done something nearly identical to what occurred with my daughter not just years, but miles away? It makes little sense, and if it makes little sense no matter how long I dwell on it, chances are, the theory is shit.
Certain all we will end up doing is scratch him off the list, I steel myself to keep digging. I crave sensible answers, and that boy needs justice. However, twelve hours of work doesn't prove to be fortuitous. In fact, by the end of the shift, I'm frothing at the mouth from the lack of information being sent our way. No witnesses. The apartment was littered with fingerprints from Angelica and Diego, even Angelica's mother, but no one else.
No DNA.
No blood.
If it wasn't for the fact I saw Diego's body with my own eyes, I'd almost believe a crime never took place. It's maddening how empty this case seems to be. How do we solve a case built on fucking nothing?
Jimenez and I sit at our desks, facing one another as we type out our paperwork for the night, on separate laptops. We are silent, as usual, absorbed in what we're doing when a flash of blond hair catches my eye.
Michelle Corbin, a forensics lab tech, sashays through the room, leaving the chief's office and relief touches me. I can finally hand her my baggie of questionable materials and perhaps get some feedback on who broke into my condo.
As I observe her walking between desks, I notice that every man in there has spotted her as well. She's a knockout. The tall, slender, blonde, with shocking blue eyes and perfect skin is hot. She took the geek mentality and melded it with the model beauty, and nobody with a cock knows how to handle it. If she notices the men stopping to ogle her in some form or fashion, she ignores it, walking through giving no one a single glance.
I risk a quick look at my partner and see even his eyes flash her way momentarily. His attention travels smoothly along her body, taking her in, before looking back to his screen. My jaw drops a little, for it has never occurred to me that he has a sex drive.
Ugh!
I don't want to consider why him giving the Poindexter Penthouse Playmate a once over bothers me. He isn't mine and considering the way I am, and have been, he never will be so jealousy isn't a right I get to have. Yet, it's still there, burning inside me, reminding me of just how alone I am.
Would it be so bad if he looked at me like that? Just brief once over? A second to memorize me before taking the image home with him? God, I'm pathetic.
Uncouth as it sounds, I reduce myself to rolling my eyes as I slip away from my desk to follow the nerdo-Aphrodite out of the cop shop. Despite my annoyance, I still need a word with her.
I find her by the front doors and call out her name, my voice echoing through the lobby. She glances back at me, and greets me with a red lip-lined smile.
"Cobalt, it's good to see you."
"Yeah," I murmur with a slight bite. I still sting from witnessing my partner checking her out. I shove the jealousy to the side and fall into step with her, following her out into the parking lot, which is cast in the night's shadows and appears fairly empty.
"I've got something here, if you don't mind."
With quick fingers, I pull the baggie from my pocket, I hand it to her. Michelle gingerly takes it from me, before casting me a gaze of confusion.
"Sandwich bag," she questions, holding the baggie up in the streetlight, trying to focus on what lays inside the clear plastic.
"Yeah, it's a bit unorthodox, but I need to know what that is."
Michelle lowers the baggie and eyes me for so long I grow worried she might not do this for me.
"I'll let you know in the morning what I find. Let me guess, you want the paperwork first?"
I shake my head at her question. "No paper trail on this one, please. It's important."
Michelle frowns. I can tell she doesn't like this one bit and finally speaks after a long contemplative moment of silence.
"Look, detective, remember something here. I won't risk my job. A personal favor for a case is one thing, but what you're doing is something else entirely. If it isn't work related, I could get written-up. I don't need that in my file."
She moves to return the bag and I step back, meeting her stare head on.
"Someone broke into my condo. That's what they left behind." I speak coolly, pointing towards the bag," That's all. Curious about what the hell it is, you know? Trash it if you don't want to help me. I don't give a fuck."
The blond erection beacon looks startled by my demeanor. She opens her mouth to respond, I cut her off by turning and walking away. I don't know if she'll trash the bag or scope it, but I'm way too pissed-off and high-strung to care. I need tomorrow to happen and today to end. The day absolutely sucked so badly that I stride to my computer, press 'send' so my report will find its way to my boss's inbox in the morning, before jerking my jacket from the back of my chair.
I need air. I need normalcy. I need weed.
Without offering Jimenez so much as a 'fuck you,' I walk out, seeking freedom from everything and everyone.
I never storm out like this. I always wish him a good night but screw him. I just want to go home and find myself again. It's like a collision of the past and present, slamming hard inside me and causing me to hover in a state of moody confusion.
The night is cool and the sky a deep ebony as the waning moon cycles towards the new. The city lights appear brighter, almost ethereal, and far away. I reach into my jacket pocket to pull out a cigarette, my body jonesing for its dose of calming nicotine, when the hair on the back of my neck stands and my senses flare to life. Those bitch-senses tell me that the world around me sits quiet.
Too quiet.
I am not alone.
Freezing in mid-stride, I slowly slide my hand from my pocket and move it to the piece under my jacket, snuggling at my side. There's a certain vulnerability to standing out in the open, unsure which direction the watcher dwells and what direction to go if I'm required to run.
Anxiously, I rest my hand on the butt of my weapon as I scan the semi-dark surroundings. There are many streetlights throughout the parking lot, their amber hue lighting up sections of the area. But where I linger the lights don't work. Never did, but I didn't think twice about parking in the secluded part of the lot. There were never issues in the past, but I suppose there's always a first time for everything.
I will most assuredly be parking under the working lamps from now on.
Feeling like a giant target is painted on my ass I glance towards my SUV longingly. If I move too fast, will it anger the watcher? I slowly take a step towards my ride, paranoia pumping through me, the sound of my panicky heartbeat almost deafeningly loud in my ears. I grip my weapon but don't pull it as I glide slowly, ever watchfully, across the parking lot. The closer I get to my Mazda the stronger the feeling of being watched becomes.
And then I hear it.
The hiss of a snake. To hear that sound in a dark fucking parking lot, knowing you are completely alone, is freaky as hell especially considering I'm in the city, not out in the desert. Why in the hell should I be hearing a snake? What's the deal with me and snakes lately?
I glance in the direction the sound seems to come from, and immediately draw my piece. I loathe snakes. They slither, and flicker, and wriggle and fear ripples across me, causing my skin to pucker in revulsion. I'm a city girl through and through and have no qualms emptying my weapon into the little bastard.
Then, I find it…I see it, and it sees me!
I stumble to a stop, my jaw dropping in shock, I watch it, waiting for the worst to happen. Half hidden in shadow and shrubbery I spy those glowing green eyes, its pupils elongated, watching me with a cold stare that chills my blood. The thing eyes me, hissing and writhing almost hypnotically. I study the snake as it studies me and I come to a startling conclusion; It had thought. Its eyes reflect pure intelligence. I once read an article that snakes don't see very well. They can only either sense warmth or see body heat through infer-red vision. But this one appears thoughtful, contemplating my every move from quite a distance away.
Am I prey?
Before I'm able to examine the situation any closer, the sound of my name being called echoes around the parking lot. I turn my head and spy Jimenez jogging towards me and I sigh. The last thing I need is for him to witness me standing out there with my piece drawn and my face reflecting my borderline hysterical state.
As he strides to me, his attention falls to my drawn weapon and his movements slow as he pulls his own gun, his body at attention. I turn back to where the snake hides and much to my annoyance; the fucker has vanished. Great. Now I'm going to look even more psycho to Jimenez.
Fuck me twice, I groan inwardly, wishing for a nice drive by right then to end my mortification. My partner reaches me in a matter of seconds.
"What is it, Lindsey," he whispers, scoping out the area where my attention rested moments before. Feeling like a fool and overloaded with too much internal bullshit, I angrily holster my weapon and march to my vehicle, leaving him to wonder what I'm doing. I refuse to have an emotional discussion with him right there in the parking lot. Besides, I'd feel like an enormous asshole telling him I believe I saw a huge snake in the bushes with big, glowing, intelligent, green eyes. How in the hell does someone start that conversation?
Better he thinks I'm a bitch than irrational. Insane cops are frowned upon.
I'm pretty hopeful he'll leave me alone. It's not as if we're friends or anything. We never exchange life stories and have weekend sleepovers. But I find that my assumptions are made in folly for he does something no one has ever dared to do.
He holsters his weapon, following me with determined strides. With an iron grip, he grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. He appears annoyed and concerned all at the same time and that stuns me. The annoyance I can handle, but the concern I loathe seeing. I despise sweet stuff. It gives me that weak sensation I hate so much. That loving thing…that false hope…that detrimental caring. It lies covered in syrup. Roses sitting in shit.
I attempt jerking my arm from his grasp and escape his hard stare, but he refuses to diminish his grip. Instead, the stubborn fucker drags me back to stand in front of him and face his bullshit.
Goddamn it! Can't he see what he does to me?
"Christ, Lindsey, what is wrong with you? You've acted strange all shift," he ground out with frustration. With a glare, I relinquish his hold on me before opening the door to my SUV and slide behind the wheel. Pretending I'm not bothered by the fact he holds onto my vehicle door, staring at me, and presumably waiting for a response, I start up the engine.
"I'm going home," I reply in a cold voice. "You want a new partner, talk to the chief. The others, and he gave them what they wanted the same day. I don't want you to have to work with a fucking whack job."
His expression softens, regret touching his gaze, his voice calmer.
"I didn't call you that, and it's not like that, Lindsey. I don't want a new partner. Just talk to me. I know Diego is your first and I know this is a difficult cherry to pop. Just let me help you get through this."
The image of my daughter crosses my mind, blurring my vision. Difficult cherry to pop? He has no fucking idea what he's talking about. "The cherry was popped long ago," I mutter unaware I said it aloud.
"Lindsey," he whispers, gaining my attention, uncertainty etching across his face. "What do you mean?"
My answer is silence. Things are getting personal, which is well beyond my comfort zone.
"Lindsey, just talk to me." He speaks softly, almost in my ear. The strange intimacy of the moment snaps me into motion. Embarrassment burns my cheeks, as I quickly say in a dismissive tone.
"Goodnight, Jimenez."
Revving my engine, I reach for the door handle, giving him no choice but to step away. I slam it shut, metal, and fear a wall between us. With gritted teeth, I jerked the stick to gear.
As I drive away, I see him through my mirrors, watching my escape, shadows and distance obscuring him from view. Feeling guilty, an alien emotion for me outside my past, and I consider turning around to explain everything. He is a good partner and I have never worked with someone who pushed me to do my best. He teaches me and does it in a way that makes him seem arrogant, I suppose. But with him at my back, I want to go further, do better, and find the answers no matter the cost.
But I can't tell him. I can't. I keep driving, speeding as far and as fast from him as possible. The reality is, I don't want his concern or his understanding because I don't deserve it. I live my way, and there is no room for understanding or weakness. I learned long ago where I rate in the eyes and minds of others, and I never want to go back to that broken mess I once was. Love dies. It is a lovely fucked up façade I dabbled in before.
And never will again. Jimenez is my partner, for now at least, and that's all I want from him.
But even as I make my way home, my dick voice whispers in my head.
Liar.
I light a smoke and exhale slowly, laying down the cancer as I drive into the city lights far beyond the cop shop. The distance between he and I doesn't ease me as I'd hoped. But tomorrow, I muse in that bitchy Scarlett O'Hara manner, I will have myself put back together again. I scoff at my ignorance. Sure' I'll be all glues back up.
About like Humpty fucking Dumpty.