Beyond the Blue, page 3
Morgan dramatically snapped backward, hitting the ground in a pratfall. In all her years as medical examiner, Mei had never witnessed—or allowed—such buffoonery in her office. “They shot him again to be sure, blowing him onto his back. It would explain why we found his body in such a weird position and the fabric in the wound. We don’t have the whole story. Nobody executes a civilian.”
Ruiz stared down at her partner on the floor, seemingly unperturbed by this bizarre behavior from the high-ranking officer. “He was an upstanding citizen. Not even a moving violation. There’s nothing on this guy. The house was as WASP-y as it gets.”
“We know he let his killer in. We thought he was duped, but maybe they knew each other. Execution is personal.”
While Ruiz offered resistance, Mei observed the calculation in her dark brown eyes as she considered Morgan’s theory. “You don’t have evidence of a pillow, or evidence the victim held it when he got shot.”
“Yet.” Morgan leapt to her feet. “I don’t have the evidence yet. But what I do have is my tingling detective Spidey sense and an excellent investigative partner,” she said, throwing her arm over Ruiz’s shoulder. The sergeant shrugged her off, but Mei noted the fond half smile she failed to hide.
“We gotta go back to the house, don’t we?”
“Yup!”
Despite Morgan’s cheer, Ruiz groaned. “I hate the suburbs. Gives me the escalofríos.”
“Heebie-jeebies or not, we have to comb the house and see if we can find a pillow. I doubt our killer waltzed in or out of this home with a Bed, Bath and Beyond bag in their hand. Let’s re-interview the relatives. Look at his job again. Something about Mr. Solomon here isn’t adding up.” Morgan rummaged in her back pocket and withdrew a leather wallet. Sliding a card out, she handed it to Mei, who took it with a raised brow. “When you finish the autopsy, can you send me an email? Even his stomach contents could give us something to go on.”
“Absolutely, Lieutenant. I’ll be sure to pin down the materials I found and let you know as soon as I have something accurate and verifiable. And anything else I find in the ‘fun stuff,’” she said with a small smile.
In an instant, the professional engrossment in Morgan’s expression changed into genuine amusement, an infectious smile breaking on her face. “Thanks, Doc. You’re gonna be the one who breaks this case open. I can feel it.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Heat blooming on her cheeks, Mei waved in dismissal. “I’ll leave that to you and your spider sense.”
“My spider sense,” Morgan repeated softly, gazing at Mei with such an unexpected fondness it made her heart leap into her throat. Morgan’s unrelenting, penetrative stare caught her.
“Right, um. Well, I should get back to my autopsy,” Mei said, but she didn’t move.
“Yeah,” Ruiz drawled, glancing between the two women in vague suspicion. She nabbed Morgan by the elbow to lead her away. “We’ll leave you alone now, Dr. Sharpe. Thanks for your help. Let’s go, Lieutenant.” Escorting her partner as she would a perpetrator, Ruiz corralled Morgan toward the elevator.
Newly invigorated, Mei donned a fresh pair of gloves and dove back into her work. If a smile grew behind her mask, well, it wasn’t as if Frederick would tell anyone.
Chapter Three
Morgan became a good detective almost entirely by accident. When she solved her first homicide, her mentor at the time slapped her on the back and asked the popular question: how did you do it? The answer, Morgan realized, was easy. She didn’t know how not to do it. Solving crimes came naturally, like chefs to cooking or dancers to rhythm. She thrived in the dizzying labyrinth between the crime and the solve. Connecting dots, interviewing witnesses, collecting evidence, and constructing the brick-and-mortar foundation of an eventual arrest. Collars were fine and accolades dandy—her medals collected dust in a box somewhere—but the puzzle brought her the most joy.
Dozens of her childhood memories revolved around puzzles. Exhausted by Morgan’s boundless energy, her mother would sit her down in front of any available task—jigsaw puzzles, board games, or fixing a broken appliance—and she wasn’t allowed to get up until she finished. One time, she threw Morgan a ring of fifty keys and a safety deposit box, and told her she could only move after she unlocked the box. Years of this laissez-faire parenting incidentally gave Morgan the ability to funnel her overwhelming energy into patience, cunning, and focus. She realized every crime, every witness, every criminal, even just regular people—they were all safety deposit boxes, and Morgan just needed the patience to find the right key.
And so, by applying the coping mechanism she’d utilized as a kid to block out the noise of her childhood, Morgan developed into one of the best detectives in the state. Which worked well for her today, as Ruiz had asked her to comb the house for evidence in the Solomon murder. A tedious job for most—the other two officers grumbled in another room—but Ruiz knew she wouldn’t mind, so her partner stood next to her as Morgan sifted through the kitchen.
“This would go a lot faster if you were looking, too,” Morgan said, handing Ruiz two cans of tomato sauce from Solomon’s pantry.
“Nope. You’re reaping what you sowed by trying to show off in front of Dr. Sharpe,” Ruiz replied, stacking the cans on the counter.
Shoving cans of peas in her direction, Morgan glared. “I was not showing off.”
“Uh-huh. ‘Oh, Dr. Sharpe, you’re gonna solve the case,’” she mimicked in a breathless, high-pitched voice that didn’t sound a thing like Morgan. “Thought I was going to have to mop the floor after us.”
“Rude,” Morgan thought but did not articulate because Ruiz didn’t need any more ammunition, as she was already incredibly accurate. The moment she laid eyes on Dr. Sharpe she turned into a Looney Tunes character, jaw on the floor and pupils shaped into hearts. She recalled with perfect clarity the moment when the small smile broke out on Dr. Sharpe’s face and evacuated all the oxygen in the room. The opening bass to Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman” struck up in her head and her brains swiftly made for the exit.
Pulling out a value pack of cereal, Morgan casually muttered, “Whatever, Dr. Sharpe is cool.”
Leaning against the wall, Ruiz crossed her arms and stared down at her. Despite having at least five inches of height on her, Ruiz felt larger than Morgan. This intimidating stance worked well for interrogations, but right now it gave Morgan the disapproving-older-sister vibe she wanted to avoid. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, you hyped her up like she was gonna unhinge her jaw and consume us, but she was nice.”
Handing Ruiz three bags of chips, Morgan continued her search and Ruiz piled them into the section of Things That Are Not Pillows. “What are you getting at, Kelly?”
“Nothing,” Morgan replied immediately, diving back into the pantry to evade detection. One wrong look at Ruiz and she would be found out. Ruiz’s knack for seeing through any farce made her a great detective but a rather impossible best friend. Not that Morgan lied to her—she despised lying in general—but she couldn’t even keep her cards close around Ruiz. “Just making conversation, Sergeant Ruiz, gee whiz.”
Getting to her feet, Morgan perused the shelves, using a gloved hand to shove away boring bric-a-brac. Next to her, Ruiz shrugged and swung one leg over the other. “The officers don’t like her because she doesn’t suffer fools. They go down there and swing their dicks and she shuts them down. That’s why I like her, but I know not to fuck around and waste her time making her re-enact a murder.”
Jerking back out of the pantry, Morgan peeked at her friend. “Okay, but she was game, though? So, that’s something.”
“That’s nothing, Kelly.” As Morgan ducked back in to continue her search, Ruiz grabbed her by the shoulder and yanked her out. “Wait a second. You want it to be something, don’t you?”
“No,” Morgan denied immediately, her cheeks growing warm. “I’m just saying she wasn’t as bad as you made her seem, that’s all.”
Holding Morgan still with a surprising amount of strength, Ruiz inspected her with her unrelenting dark brown gaze. Within moments, Morgan knew she was doomed. The look of recognition rippled across Ruiz’s face and Morgan’s hopes for casually inquiring about Dr. Sharpe crashed to the ground like a cartoon piano. “Don’t even start with this one, Kelly. I see that look in your eyes.”
“There’s no look.” Pouting, Morgan dropped her gaze to the expensive tile beneath them and sighed deeply. “Okay, fine. I can’t help it. Gosh, she is gorgeous.”
“I knew it.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Morgan whined. “Not be attracted to her?”
“Yes!” Ruiz threw up her hands. “Kelly, for once think with your big brain and not with your pinga, please. Don’t go batting your big blue puppy dog eyes at her.”
“I am not batting anything, I—” Huffing, she turned fully to face Ruiz and implored her, “I felt the connection. Like, immediately.”
“You talked to her for five minutes,” Ruiz replied flatly. “And you said the same thing about that lady whose tire you swapped.”
“I felt it both times!”
At this point, many years into their friendship, Ruiz had to know her skepticism wasn’t a deterrent. “Look, I know it’s been a while since you had a girlfriend. You and Georgia broke up before Christmas, right? You’re dumb and horny right now—”
“I am not,” Morgan protested. “It’s not like that.”
“Okay. Whatever it is ‘like,’ Sharpe is straight.”
Morgan’s face fell. Knowing a woman’s sexuality presented a unique problem for her. On the one hand, compulsory heterosexuality meant some women turned out less straight than they thought and Morgan enjoyed guiding them on that journey. On the other hand, she rejected the notion of “turning” a woman gay. So, she optimistically pursued women who showed interest in her and hoped for the best. Her “date first, ask questions later” approach didn’t have a high success rate, but it beat being alone. “Oh. How do you know?”
“Besides the fact that she couldn’t ping a gaydar with a mallet and a gong?” Ruiz inquired, raising an eyebrow. “A while back I needed a stupid form from the examiner and instead of Sharpe it was some idiot who didn’t understand what I wanted, so I asked the sheriff why the hell I had to deal with this moron and he told me she was on bereavement because her husband died.”
Her heart ached and she felt the delicate string of fate slowly tying itself around the two of them. Despite their obvious differences, loss bound them in a way only those left emotionally bereft by death could understand. The tendrils of her grief slithered out to grab another, to pull them close and say: I get it; sometimes I’m in the darkness, too.
Darkness aside, Morgan knew her silly crush would go tragically unrequited. A woman like Dr. Sharpe—intelligent, poised, probably ate her dinners off a non-disposable plate—didn’t fall for oversized dorks like herself. “Right.”
“So,” Ruiz began slowly, “we’re not going to skirt-chase a straight, much older woman who showed no interest in you, right?”
“I don’t skirt-chase,” Morgan replied, grimacing. With her focus all but lost due to the mere idea of Dr. Sharpe, Morgan finally noticed the rumbling of her stomach. Food would be a good distraction from the discussion of her workplace crush, as well as restore the energy needed to search the rest of the house. “All right, I’ll check the fridge and then we can break for lunch. What do you think he’s got in here?”
“Hummus? Plain yogurt? A Tupperware container of unseasoned chicken breast? If you find a pillow in there, I’m quitting the force,” Ruiz stated, chuckling at the look of disdain Morgan shot her on the way to the fridge. Yanking the door open, Morgan stepped back in surprise as pooling water trickled out. This was a fancy fridge—one with a touchscreen on it and sleek stainless steel exterior—and it should not have been malfunctioning. Inside, the produce wilted and lay sadly soggy in the drawers. “Yikes. Did it get unplugged or something?”
“Or the condenser coils are clogged?” Morgan posited. Ruiz raised an eyebrow. “What? I know stuff sometimes. Help me move this.”
With a few grunts of effort the two women pulled the fridge away from the wall as far as they could, sliding it out of its fitted place between the counters. Lo and behold, their smoking gun in the form of a bloodied, now moist pillow stuffed between the wall and the back of the refrigerator. “How the fuck did this get back there?”
Morgan grinned. “Maybe the refrigerator was tired from running.”
“The only thing I hate more than one of your weird little mind palace hunches turning out right is your puns, and you know this.” With a heavy sigh and a shake of her head, Ruiz called over her shoulder. “Jensen, Fiore, get in here.”
Two uniformed officers rushed into the room, and stood at attention. Morgan technically outranked Ruiz, but this wasn’t her case and throwing weight around couldn’t be further from her nature. Besides, she relished the opportunity to see Ruiz boss around someone other than her.
Snapping off her gloves, Morgan stretched and got out of the way of the officers. “Okay, lunchtime, and you’re buying because you made me sad trying to dash my dreams of being Mrs. Doctor Sharpe.”
“I’ll buy you lunch every day if I don’t have to hear you pine after yet another of your femme crushes,” Ruiz replied, leading them out of the Solomon house. Waiting at the car, Morgan turned to regard the house as a whole. A little ostentatious for the block, she mused. Stucco exterior and pillars on the entrance, as opposed to the more cookie-cutter siding-and-screen porch of the others. After delegating to the officers, Ruiz approached her from the side. “What’s up?”
“Do you think the house is a bit much? Solomon was what, an accountant for a mid-level firm? How does a man like that make a salary to afford this?” she said, gesturing to the extravagant exterior.
“By being an overpaid, underachieving white man. Why?”
“We should look at this house. Where is this money coming from?” Turning to Ruiz, Morgan smirked. “Fifty bucks says the mortgage was paid off in cash.”
Ruiz looked from her to the house. “You think he was embezzling?”
“Not sure yet, but something doesn’t add up here. Anyway, fifty bucks?”
Ruiz shook her hand. “Fifty bucks.”
Pulling away from their scene, Morgan watched the suburbs roll by out the passenger window. She knew Ruiz would disapprove of her pursuing Dr. Sharpe. Negativity was the dialect of Ruiz’s love language, and Morgan spoke it well. After doggedly seeking her friendship at the academy, Morgan peeled away the layers of Anna-Maria Ruiz and found beneath her hard shell beat the steadfast heart of the greatest friend Morgan ever had. Their friendship forged itself in the fires of the academy and their subsequent police work, but it cured in the moments of life in between. No matter what nonsense Morgan pulled, through successes and failures, Ruiz lifted her up. Ruiz never wavered.
“Kelly, why are you smiling at me like that?” Ruiz asked, and only then did Morgan realize she’d looked over at some point and stared at her.
“Sorry, was just thinking about how long we’ve been friends.”
“Yeah, I still can’t believe I let you trick me into a friendship,” Ruiz replied, but she glanced at Morgan and smirked, her eyes soft. “Why were you thinking about that?”
“Because I’m mad at how good your advice is, and why you’re always right.” Ruiz pursed her lips, as if finding this incredibly reasonable. They parked outside a deli somewhere between the city and the suburbs in an upscale strip mall with a fancy white brick façade. Anchored on one end by a new Italian restaurant, Morgan glanced at the pretty alfresco dining area. “Aw, man, I wish we had time to eat outside. It’s such a nice day.”
“Lo siento. I’ll let you sit on the hood and eat, though,” Ruiz said, standing in the queue with Morgan beside her.
“That’s ’cause you don’t let me eat in the car,” Morgan lamented. “Not after the Incident of 2013.”
“It took me two weeks to get the gravy out of the car mats.”
Morgan frowned. “I know.” As they waited for their turn to order, Morgan wrung her fingers together. Normally she heeded Ruiz’s warnings against certain women, as her own romantic instincts often led her astray. In this instance, Morgan felt herself rebelling. “Anna-Maria, can you answer me honestly?”
Surprised by the intimate address, Ruiz grew somber. “I never lie to you, Morgan.”
“Do you really think I shouldn’t try with Dr. Sharpe? Because I don’t know if I can…not,” she admitted softly.
“Okay. I’m going to say this one time and that’s it, all right? This is not a tacit endorsement, this is an observation.” Morgan nodded. “I caught a vibe between you and Sharpe, too.”
Ruiz groaned aloud when she saw Morgan’s elated reaction. Admittedly, the elation she allowed to cross her face didn’t even measure up to the overflowing fountain of pure joy bubbling inside her. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Eyeing the way Morgan bounced on her heels, Ruiz reached out and grabbed her arm. “Just tread carefully, okay? I don’t know if Sharpe is hetero-flexible or what, but…she lost her husband, you know? She might be a tougher nut to crack than you think even if she is somehow open to your Sapphic energy.”
“I’m a great nutcracker,” Morgan replied immediately, brightening. “Not one of those chintzy Christmas ones, either. Like an all-year-round, solid stainless steel nutcracker.”
“Cristo, I hope she’s into dorks.”
“Me too.”
Chapter Four
Tucked away safely in the corner of a cheerful café, Mei read quietly amidst the morning bustle. With Shanvi due any moment Mei enjoyed the solitude, or as much solitude as one could expect in a busy corner bakery. Sipping on her tea, she leafed to a new page of her book and looked up only when Shanvi shouted to get her attention. After exchanging a wave, she continued to peruse her novel while Shanvi waited in line and received her order from a disinterested, blue-haired barista.
