He waved to the officer on the phone behind the plexiglass partition and pointed toward the door to the bullpen.
“Weber?” he mouthed.
He nodded, and Nick flashed a salute as he headed inside.
The building was old, and so were the furnishings. It smelled like stale coffee and industrial cleaner. The faded linoleum floors had been covered with a budget-level commercial carpet. The windows still sported the dingy film that persevered through the cleaning crew’s best efforts.
Phones rang. Conversations rumbled. A rainbow of perps waited their turn for processing.
He almost missed it.
Almost.
He spotted Weber at his desk, crammed into the corner between the old file cabinets and the restroom. The man was wearing yet another tie from his endless collection, and since it was early, he’d yet to roll up the sleeves of his wrinkle-free shirt. He had his cell phone cradled between shoulder and ear and was typing, the keys on his ancient keyboard clicking loud enough that he kept having to ask the caller to repeat themselves.
Nick’s old desk was occupied by a new detective. She was young, Asian, and wore a suit.
“Nicky Santiago,” Sergeant Mabel Jones, a good cop and a nice ex-girlfriend, appeared at his elbow. She was short and curvy, with dark skin and thick hair she’d tamed into a low bun for the day. “Surprised you didn’t get struck by lightning walking in here. You’re not gonna headbutt anyone, are you?”
Nick glanced in Weber’s direction. The detective held up a finger.
“I can’t promise anything, Jonesy,” he said. “But I might make an effort if you share one of the good K-cups you keep stashed in your bottom drawer.”
She pursed her lips, pretending to consider the offer. “Fine. As long as you make me one too.”
“Deal.”
He commandeered the coffeemaker and went to work on two cups while former coworkers swung by to lay odds on whether he was asking for his job back or if he was taking another swing at his old partner.
Nick delivered Mabel’s coffee before taking the chair in front of Weber’s desk.
“You look like you’re on vacation,” his ex-partner noted, hanging up the phone.
Nick glanced down at his shorts and t-shirt. He’d come straight from the gym after he’d attempted to work out his frustrations via a few hundred reps and four miles on the treadmill. “You look like you’re choking to death on regulations,” he shot back.
“You miss it,” Weber guessed, shuffling papers.
“Like hell.”
“You here to rough me up again?”
Nick took a hit of coffee. “I can’t. Jonesy gave me the good coffee. I have to behave.”
“You know I wouldn’t ask her if it wasn’t important,” Weber said, cutting to the chase as he shuffled files and sticky notes.
“Riley’s going to say yes.”
“Already did. I’m picking her up in twenty to revisit the scene and interview the husband again.”
Nick felt his nostrils flare. His girl worked fast when she was pissed off. “I don’t want her doing this.”
“You made that abundantly clear during your temper tantrum yesterday.”
“She got shot.”
“She threw herself in the line of fire to make sure a bullet hit you in the ass and not the head,” Kellen pointed out. “She handled herself better than some of us do in a fire fight.”
Nick shook his head. “I don’twanther to have to handle herself in a fire fight. She had to throw a gun at that fuck because she didn’t know how to shoot one. She’s not trained for this shit.”
