Ash slipped his phone from his pocket. Screen flare lit his face, sudden and stark. He turned it toward Eddie—Jimmy’s photo, smiling, careless. “Maybe your memory’s better with faces.”
Eddie studied the picture, brow furrowed, but in the end only shook his head. “Sorry, sweetheart. Nothing.”
Ash flicked his thumb, and Declan Frost’s cold eyes stared from the glass. He’d found his photo online, saved it to his gallery just for this. “What about him?”
Another shrug. “Nope.”
Ash clutched the phone, dismissing him with a faint curve of his mouth. The man was useless. “Thanks anyway, Eddie.”
“Anytime, sugar,” Eddie said, still smiling, as if the refusal itself was another kind of flirtation.
Ash let the bar’s soft music swallow him back into the polyphony of noises, a faint impatience pressing at his ribs, wondering where to dig next. He rose and slipped from Babylon into the night, smoke still clinging to his jacket with the glances of all those disappointed to see him go. One strikeout didn’t matter. This game was all persistence, and Calgrave had no shortage of dens to scour.
At the Mirage, with its gilt Corinthian columns rising over cracked vinyl stools, he met Marta, the barmaid, who leaned in with her usual smile that lingered a little too long. She studied the photos carefully, lips pursed, and finally sighed an apology. Next came the Boiler Room, thick with sweat and leather, the air steamed to opacity by the press of bodies grinding under red light. Cal flashed Ash a crooked grin from behind the counter, but knew nothing useful, lust turning to blankness the moment Ash asked his questions. The Metro came after, where a drag queen crooned low into the mic, torch songs slinking through the smoke, the room tilting toward cabaret. Ash slid onto a bench at the bar, chatting up Will, who once dated Tess and still greeted him with that soft, faithful gaze of a man who’d never stopped hoping. Will took his time with the photos, face tight before he passed the phone back with regret. Another no.
Time kept bleeding, each rejection sanding him thinner. The city’s underbelly had plenty of sins to offer, but none with Frost’s name attached. Drinks were pressed into his hands, cigarettes lit with trembling fingers, pleasures promised in dark corners. Sharp suits glittered beneath dim chandeliers, rough hands reached for his hips, honey-sweet voices whispered invitations he declined with practiced ease, but not one of them lit with recognition when he placed the phone before them.
The hunt was becoming mechanical—flirt, flash the screen, read their eyes, move on—but beneath the mask, discouragement gnawed. The night was burning away, and patience was a currency he was running out of. The quest that had started with determination now felt like a marathon through quicksand, every step forward met with the city’s indifferent shrug. By the time weariness began to claw at his edges, he’d hit six joints and had nothing to show for it but sore feet and a throat scraped raw by smoke and liquor.
He thought of Rick, probably neck-deep in warrants and phone calls, piecing the case together with things that actually held up in daylight. Meanwhile, Ash was out here chasing rumors with a borrowed smile and a battery at ten percent. The contrast stung more than he wanted to admit.
Midnight was creeping in. But he’d promised to help, and he meant to keep his word. So, he quaffed the rest of his drink, felt the burn steady him, and pushed away from his stool. Maybe he’d get lucky in the next one.
Chapter Forty-Six
(11:44 p.m.)
The hallway outside Frost’s Amberville residence reeked of wealth: burnished brass sconces, marble inlays catching the muted glow, geometric patterns thrown across lacquered doors. The place had Deco bones, all opulence and restraint, though the quiet tonight lent it a mausoleum air. Rick stood before the entrance, the squad arrayed around him in a half-moon, their movements clipped and professional. No machismo, no chatter. Just the kind of stillness that meant they trusted him to set the tempo.
He raised a fist, the motion sharp and economical, and the men leaned in without hesitation. “Two with me on the entry,” he said, voice low but steady enough to cut the hush. “The rest, sweep wide once we’re in—kitchen, study, bedrooms. Keep it clean. No cowboy shit.” Heads dipped in quick assent. Years on the job had carved the hierarchy deep: when he spoke, they listened.
Rick rapped hard on the door, three measured knocks that echoed down the hall. Then he let the silence hang.
Behind the hush, his mind retraced the chain of paper and signatures that had carried him here. How Mallory’s eyes glistened in his office, lips curling around a cigar stub as if he could already taste the promotion. How Danner, the DA, had folded his hands on his desk, expression grave, saying he’d stand behind the warrant so long as Rick could stand behind the evidence. And the judge, eyelids heavy with fatigue, ink smudged on her fingers, the scratch of her pen sounding louder than it should have in the quiet chambers. She hadn’t askedquestions, just signed, and this became real. Now, every permit, every nod, every ounce of pressure bore down on him in the weight of this moment. He flexed his knuckles against the wood, steadying himself.
A shuffle came from inside. Slippers dragging across hardwood floors. The door cracked open, and Frost appeared in a silk dressing gown, pale hair mussed, glasses betraying the long hours he’d spent at his desk. Polished even now, in his own home, as though lassitude itself were beneath his vanity. His mouth curled instantly into that familiar smirk. “Slade? To what do I owe this displeasure?”
Rick didn’t waste breath. He thrust the warrant forward, his words iron. “Declan Frost, you’re under arrest.” He gave the nod, and the squad surged forward, black shapes spilling past Frost like a breaking tide. The apartment’s entrance slammed wide, boots hitting parquet.
For an instant, Frost only blinked, his smile faltering into something wary. “Arrest?” His protest cracked sharp with surprise. “What the hell for?”
“Murder.”
Frost staggered a half-step as one of the officers caught his arm, wrenching it behind his back. Metal teeth bit down on his wrist with a snap. Frost twisted hard against the hold, fury flaring. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
The men fanned through the condo, shadows sweeping deeper inside, radios crackling as each room was cleared with brisk efficiency. Rick stepped in close, steady, immovable. “I’m starting to get the picture.”
“Hey, take it easy!” Frost hissed as another officer caught his other arm and secured it behind him. The double cuffs clicked home, his body bent now between two uniforms. “This is harassment—pure fucking harassment!”
“Cry to the judge, Hot Shot.” Rick’s reply landed flat, without sympathy.
Frost bared his teeth in a cold, mirthless smile. He turned his head, glasses askew, eyes locking on Rick. “I’ve heard rumors about you, Slade. And I’m flattered, really. Maybe late-night calls and playing rough work on some men. But you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Heat crawled up Rick’s neck, but he kept his face locked, stone-hard. The silence around him sharpened; he caught the quick sidelong glances, the tension. His tone came cool, dismissive. “Don’t flatter yourself, Frost. You’re not my type.”
The squad broke into short, rough snickers. Frost flushed deep red, spitting curses as he bucked against the cuffs, but Rick had already turned away.
“Someone read him his rights,” he said without looking back.
