Betsy barked out a laugh. “What the hell, Sean. You think you can still save me? Doesn’t matter how many times someone cleans me up, props me up, dries me out. I’m always going to end up back down here. So I’m not even going to try anymore. The least I can do is stop hurting the people that wanna help.” She held her hand out and made grabby gestures with her fingers. “Give me the bottle.”
He did.
They left her to drink herself back to sleep on the couch with three quarters of a bottle of very mediocre whiskey, and Sean walked Javi back down the hall. The phone rang with no one to answer it. Sean picked it up and put it back down again.
“Did you get what you needed?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Sean shoved his hand through his dark hair. Silver showed through the dark brown at the roots, and he scratched at his scalp absently. “This. Birdie. According to the press, you found a dead body you can’t identify hidden on a building site. What’s going on in Plenty, Agent?”
“I appreciate your help with Ms. Murney, Stokes,” Javi said. “But you aren’t a police officer anymore.”
“This is still my city.”
Javi glanced at the framed story on the wall. “Why do you have a story you’re not even mentioned in on your wall?” he asked.
“Because Plenty PD weren’t just scumbags,” Sean said with a shrug. “Because unpopular cops don’t get name checked by their superiors. Because it looks good on the wall, and most people don’t bother to read past the headline. Take your pick.”
To Javi, Plenty was a pit stop on the way to a better career. He imagined his prospects as a line that trended steadily upward from Plenty to Washington, DC. Sean, despite the “tarred by association” crookedness of his old boss, seemed to actually care about the place.
“We found Birdie,” he said. “She’d died ten years ago.”
Sean swallowed hard…. “Damn. Poor little bird. So this—”
“This is an open case,” Javi said. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept the information about Birdie to yourself until we’re ready to inform the press.”
Sean stuck his hands into his pockets and rounded his shoulders. He nodded. “For her sake. Her family.”
That made Javi glance down the hall to the closed door. He wasn’t sure if he felt guilty, grateful, or just sad that Betsy had gotten to the point where she just gave up without even trying. It was something, though, enough that he asked, “Will she be okay?”
“No,” Sean said. “Ship sailed on that a long time ago. I’ll let her sleep it off in my office, give her money for breakfast, and pretend I don’t know it’s for drink.”
Javi supposed that was Betsy’s version of a happy ending, and it wasn’t his job to fix it. Or even to care.
“I appreciate your help, Stokes,” he said.
“Don’t get used to it,” Sean said. He straightened his shoulders and smirked. “I still don’t like Feds.”
“I think I’ll live. Stay on the right side of the law in your new career, Stokes.”
Sean curled his lip in a half-hearted sneer at the idea. “Didn’t do me any good before.”
WITHOUT THEHartley family and their suspect son at the Retreat, the density of the press outside had thinned enough that Javi could get through the gates.
“It’s too many coincidences,” he said, his voice pitched to carry to the Bluetooth. “Drew disappeared from here, and the girl that impersonated Bri lived up here for a while.”
Cloister grunted. “You shouldn’t go up there without backup. If Reed is involved, even peripherally, he could react badly. If you wait, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t need you to watch my back,” Javi said. “Half the deputies working Plenty are up here with the search party.”
There was a pause. Cloister didn’t say anything, but Javi could hear the echoes of their earlier conversation haunting the line. He grimaced to himself, but Cloister didn’t give him time to fumble over a cover-up.
“Frome sent a car to pick up Scanlon, the firefighter,” he said. “He should be here soon. I’ll let you know if we get anything useful.”
He hung up without fanfare, but that wasn’t new.
“…fire risk is high.” The radio DJ’s voice took over as the call cut off. Javi didn’t really need the warning. You could tell. The desert wind felt like sandpaper, and the air smelled like a box of matches. All it needed was a spark, and if Drew was still up here, Hector would have another murder to his credit.
