Power of the Mind (Shadowy Solutions Book 2), page 22
“You know,” I said, switching gears, “if I take this to a detective, they’ll want to know why I need the reports. What am I supposed to say?”
Diem pressed his lips together, forehead creasing as he circled his desk and sat. He busied himself stacking the profiles, then folded his hands on top and stared at me.
Diem and eye contact was a finicky thing. Sometimes—most times—he struggled, and other times, like now, he locked on with daunting surety that made my skin come alive.
“You want to be a PI someday?”
I blinked, sat straighter, and adjusted my glasses. “Yes. Why? Are you—”
“Shut up and listen. Investigative work 101. Make connections in as many fields as possible. With authority, at the courthouse, the local jails, the city council, the school board, the hospitals, even with the fucking garbage collectors. You want as many people on the inside as possible willing to do dirty work for you. You make deals. You offer bribes. You get creative. Your connections will make or break you in this industry. If someone like me can do it, it’ll be a walk in the park for someone like you.”
I stared at Diem, who stared right back. It was the first time he’d insinuated I was or could be part of his practice. Did he mean it, or was he making a point?
When I didn’t respond, he offered me the stack of papers. “You have better connections in the department than I do. People like you. No one likes me. We need autopsy reports so I can eliminate the obvious.”
“What about your buddy Kelly?”
Diem’s jaw tightened. “I tried. Sometimes, your connections fail.”
“Did you call him an asshole?”
“Not to his face.”
“Baby steps.” I accepted the papers, pondering Diem’s words. “Is this nothing more than your creative way of getting information? Am I your bitch? Are you manipulating me, Guns? You know I have a boner for detective work. Are you playing me to get what you need?” I added a smile to dampen my jaded tone, but I couldn’t help wondering if I was right.
“No.” The eye contact vanished. Diem busied himself in a desk drawer but didn’t seem to know what he was looking for and rooted around endlessly.
“Are we partners?” I asked slyly.
Diem kept digging, a stitch growing between his brows, a flush rising in his cheeks. He blushed easily for someone so daunting and intimidating, and it was always a dead giveaway of how he felt.
“Diem?” I cooed. “Are we partners? Go on. You can admit it.”
“Get me autopsy reports.”
***
If the people in Rowena and Hilty’s files were deemed vulnerable, impressionable, or suggestable, I was the opposite. Nothing got in my way if I didn’t let it. Case in point: Diem. But the way he’d shut down and gone into work mode today told me I would be wise to respect his need for space. Now was not the time to push the man where our nonrelationship was concerned.
He was talking. He hadn’t kicked me to the curb. In fact, the way he’d dodged eye contact and sidestepped my question about us being partners were positive things. If anyone was feeling vulnerable, it was Diem.
So I accepted the assignment and left the man to his devices—likely smoking and drinking, but we all had to find ways of coping in this mixed-up, stress-filled world. Some people overate. Others worked ninety-seven million hours a day, and people like me usually ended up at Gasoline, looking for a warm body to alleviate tension.
Usually.
Lately, the pull of a random fuck had lost its shine, and it was because of the moody, brooding giant I’d gotten involved with months ago. My stalker. A man who deemed himself unworthy. Diem’s beautiful, wounded soul had done something to me, but I wasn’t about to get my hopes up. The chances of it becoming more, of him letting me in were slim. He was heartbreak waiting to happen. The kicker? My heart was never supposed to be involved.
I went home, ate a wholesome dinner of saltine crackers with peanut butter, and made a reluctant phone call to my cousin, Costa Ruiz, a man I’d been slowly rebuilding a relationship with over the past few months. The department’s head IT guy was a reformed homophobe. We’d met for coffee a handful of times, shared stilted conversation—mostly about his kids and family since we didn’t talk about our childhood—and when we passed each other in the halls at the office, I no longer ducked my head and raced away without speaking to him. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a beginning.
“Who in homicide can be bought?” I asked after we got the perfunctory hellos out of the way.
“Excuse me?”
“Okay, not bought. Bribed. Non-monetarily. Is that a word? The point is, I’m poor as shit, but I need info. Who would do me a favor for potentially little compensation? There’s a teeny-tiny off chance I have the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory in my back pocket, and I’d be willing to share.”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Let’s say I’ve been investigating… call it a suspicion, and should it turn out to be correct, I may have a doozy of a discovery to hand over to homicide. Like serial huge.”
Costa groaned. “You’re working with that meathead again, aren’t you?”
“His name is Diem, and I’m certain he could take you in a fight, so curb the name-calling.”
“Why don’t you admit you two are having a thing?”
“Sweetie, the day he admits it, I’ll admit it.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What? Sweetie? Eww. Yeah, that was creepy. I wasn’t thinking. Can you suggest anyone?”
“Serial?”
“Maybe. Or it could be nothing more than hocus-pocus. Do you believe in witches, warlocks, and the supernatural?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Anyone? Preferably not a homophobe. If they’re questioning their sexuality, it could work in my favor. I’m cute and not opposed to flirting.”
“I need to find normal friends.” Costa blew a gust of air into the phone as he exhaled. In the background, his girls sang along to a Disney movie as his wife, Tia, reminded them to keep it down because Daddy was on the phone, and were they almost ready for bath time?
“Are you coming to Maddy’s birthday party next weekend?” Costa asked.
“What? Next weekend?”
“Yes.”
“Of course I am.” I’d forgotten all about it. He’d invited me weeks ago. “I haven’t been to a princess party since college. I’m long overdue.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Relax, it was a Halloween thing. I went as Ariel. My shell-cup bra was stellar. I might still have it. Do I need a costume?”
“I’m officially uninviting you and hanging up.”
“Don’t you dare.” I chuckled. “It’s too easy. I hope Quaid bugs you like this.”
“All the freaking time.”
“Are kids still into Barbies, or has that fad died off?”
“Barbies are popular in my house.”
“Perfect. Can I buy her Queer Ken?”
“Is that a thing?”
“Yes, but he costs about a gazillion dollars, and I can’t afford him. If I could, he would go on my trophy shelf, not her toybox.”
“Too bad.”
“I going to pretend you mean that. Why couldn’t I be rich? Memphis is right. I need a sugar daddy.”
“Good grief, can we steer back to the favor?”
“You’re the one who changed the subject.”
“What exactly do you need?” Costa asked, then shouted, “Madeline Tianna Ruiz, get down from there right now before you break your neck.”
A little girl’s whiny voice traveled through the phone, but the words weren’t distinct.
“I don’t care how many mountains Elsa tries to climb. You aren’t her.”
“Anna climbs the mountains, Daddy,” a little girl shrieked.
“Anna, Elsa, same difference. Don’t climb the bookshelf.”
“You’re such a buzzkill.” I tsked. “Let the girl climb.”
“I do not want to spend my night in the emergency room. What did you need?” he asked again.
“Autopsy reports. Eleven of them.”
“Eleven? What the truck!”
I snorted. “Excuse me?”
“Get off my butt. I have kids. Eleven?”
“Yes. It’s a long story.”
Costa spit out a few Spanish curse words I assumed his daughters and wife didn’t know. “Send me their full names, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I wasn’t asking you to do it. That’s not what this was.”
“Are you sure? Sounds like you called for a favor.”
“Yes, but not from you. I promised I wouldn’t do that.”
A while back, Costa had rightfully put me in my place when I’d continually gone to him for favors, using our family connection and his past discriminatory behavior as a reason why he should help even when I refused to accept his apologies or meet him on even ground.
“I came to you for a recommendation.”
“Doyle’s your best bet. Don’t flirt with him, or I’ll never hear the end of it from Quaid. On second thought, let me ask for you.”
“Why?”
“Because that way, he won’t refuse.”
“But I have to build a connection. Diem said… Costa, I have to do it myself.”
Doyle hadn’t been my first choice when considering who to approach. The homicide detective hadn’t been impressed with Diem and me nosing around his case a few months ago.
“You sure?” Costa asked.
“Um… yes. I can talk to him.”
“Great. Have fun. I gotta go bathe my girls before bed.”
“Wait… Okay, maybe you could help bridge the gap. Cushion the blow.”
“Am I talking to him or not?”
I sighed. “Yes. Set up a time I can meet him and remind him there might be Oompa Loompas involved.”
Costa grumbled something unsavory in Spanish and hung up.
21
Tallus
Costa sent me a text the following morning, instructing me to meet Aslan Doyle at his house at ten thirty. Awkward. I barely knew the guy, and I was supposed to invade his personal space on a Saturday? It did not bode well for making positive connections.
I drove to the address Costa sent and parked outside a quaint brick house with an attached garage. A blacked-out department-issue Charger sat in the driveway, and a gray cat stared from the bay window.
I snapped a picture of the cat and sent it to Diem with a message.
Tallus: See? This is the kind of pet normal people have.
Instead of taking the bait, he responded with a Where are you?
Tallus: Doyle’s house. Gonna ask about those reports.
Diem: I discovered something interesting. Get over here when you’re done.
Tallus: What did you discover?
I waited for a response but didn’t get one. I sent a string of question marks but was met with silence. The man could be irritatingly obstinate at times. Giving up, I got out of the car and was halfway down the path when the front door opened.
Detective Aslan Doyle from homicide leaned against the frame with a smirk, shaking his head as I approached. He tsked several times.
I stopped a dozen feet down the path and crossed my arms. “What?”
“You’re getting me in trouble.”
“I’ve barely gotten out of the car.”
“Yeah… doesn’t matter. I’m deep in it, and it’s all because of you.”
“I’m confused.”
“I’ll need you to explain to my severely insecure husband why the ‘cutie down in records’—his words, not mine—wants me to be his bitch. He was about ready to have a coronary last night when Ruiz called and said you wanted to talk, but to be careful because you might try to distract me with flirting.”
“Is that what my cousin said?”
“I’m paraphrasing. He mentioned you’re in the market for an inside connection with homicide.”
“And did he say that it was him who suggested you? I would have happily taken any homicide detective. You’re not special, Doyle.”
“He failed to mention that. It would be a good launch point. Quaid’s been insufferable since he got the phone call.”
“Is your husband seriously threatened by me?”
“Quaid is threatened by everyone.”
“Well, he has nothing to worry about. No matter what my cousin said, I don’t make it a practice of flirting or schmoozing married men.”
“Excellent.” Aslan held the door open, inviting me inside. “So you’re working with Krause again, huh?”
“No. He’s working with me.”
“Is that a fact? You doing PI work in your spare time?”
I shrugged and looked around.
The house was nice. Meticulously organized with understated furniture and decorations. It emitted a quiet, comforting atmosphere that offered a welcoming vibe. The scent of coffee drifted from the kitchen down the hall. I heard the gurgle and spit of it brewing. The gray cat I’d seen in the window darted into the entryway and wound around Aslan’s legs, purring audibly.
The detective picked him up. “This is Oscar. The spoiled furchild of the moment.” He kissed and cooed the feline until it insisted on getting down and darted to the kitchen.
Several months ago, Quaid told me they were working on growing their family. To break the ice, since I didn’t know Aslan as well as I did his partner, I asked, “Any news in the baby department?”
Aslan’s face lit up as he guided me to where the cat had disappeared, and the scent of coffee originated. “We’ve matched with a surrogate, so we’re one step closer.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. It’s a long process, but we’re getting there.”
Quaid Valor, a detective with MPU and one of my cousin’s closest friends, was arranging coffee mugs on the counter when we walked in. He glanced over his shoulder and offered me a stiff smile. “Morning, Tallus.”
“Good morning.”
Aslan kicked my foot. “Quick, tell him you didn’t come to steal me away.”
“Az,” Quaid snapped, stabbing him with a look of venom.
“What? You said—”
“Az!”
Whatever this nonsense, I had a feeling I could settle it quickly and effortlessly. “Hey, Doyle. I’m curious. How old are you?”
Aslan frowned. “Forty-four. Why?”
I performed quick math and dramatically cringed. “You realize you’re technically old enough to be my father, and that’s super ewwy.” I turned to Quaid. “I assure you. Despite my severe daddy issues, I have definitely not come to steal or flirt with your husband. I like my men slightly older, but I have limits.”
“Ouch.” Aslan clutched his chest. “Christ. Go for the kill shot why don’t you. I thought you wanted my help.”
But Quaid’s scowl shifted into a grin. “Well played, Tallus.”
“Thank you.” I smiled back.
Quaid handed his husband a coffee. “You may help him now.”
Aslan, clearly scorned, mumbled, “Maybe I don’t want to.”
“How do you take your coffee, Tallus?” Quaid asked.
“Heavy cream. Lots of sugar.”
When Quaid winced, Aslan chuckled. “Annnnd you just lost all those points you gained. Should have stopped while you were ahead. Expect a pamphlet in the mail next week.”
I had no clue what he was talking about, but once Quaid had dressed my coffee, Aslan guided me to the kitchen table. “So what’s going on?”
My morning had been spent trying to decide how to explain my needs without sounding like a nutcase. I hoped those long hours paid off.
Without mentioning mind-control-killing psychics and sideshow hypnotists, I filled Aslan in as best I could, telling him how Diem and I had stumbled across a string of suspicious deaths that may or may not be related. I downplayed my concerns, making it seem like I was nothing more than a bored records clerk playing investigator in my spare time. The less he knew at this point, the better.
If Diem and I couldn’t find a connection with autopsies, we were left with supernatural bullshit no one was going to believe, and I wasn’t in the mood to be laughed at by two prominent department detectives.
“I don’t know what we’re looking for exactly, but if we find similarities in their autopsy reports, something the pathologist might have overlooked, then it’s possible it could prove there is a serial killer out there.”
Brows raised, Aslan shared a look with his husband. I heard how ridiculous it sounded.
“You think highly trained pathologists missed something?” Quaid asked from the other side of the kitchen, where he was fighting with Oscar to try and brush the poor cat’s teeth.
“No. I mean, yes. Kind of. It could be something they wouldn’t flag as important when found in a single case, but if it showed in all the cases, it could be significant.”
“Like what?” Aslan asked.
“I don’t know. That’s why we want to review them.”
He chuckled but tried to cover it. My reputation in the eyes of these two detectives plummeted. Another silent conversation passed between the couple.
“So you need me to request eleven files from pathology?” Aslan confirmed.
“Can you do that?”
“Yes. Easily. But I can’t hand them over to you. They can’t leave my care. If you want to view them, bring your partner in crime to the department tomorrow afternoon. I’ll give you guys an interview room for one hour.”
I was sure Doyle thought he was entertaining a child with a Fisher-Price detective kit, but I didn’t care. I agreed.
After finishing my coffee, I thanked Aslan again and took off, aiming for Diem’s office.
22
Diem
“Idon’t get it. What am I missing?”
A low growl resonated in my chest. “Look. Closer. Hilty singled out these twenty-six people for a reason. Why?”
I didn’t want to spell it out. Tallus was smart. If he used his brain, he’d see what I saw. It was right in front of him.
