“The artist is pretty consistent, using clear references to well-known paintings. But whoever’s helping them is leaving behind inconsistent clues. Like it’s a different person each time.”
“And the technical stuff…? What’s that about? Like, hackers?” he asks, and it reminds me of that WhiteHat group who helped us find the dad and the buyer in the first place.
It’s probably against department policy for me to join a group like that, but the fact that they called Joni directly about the little girl makes me doubt I’d be the first member of law enforcement to do so.
Returning my attention to Maverick, I answer his question. “Exactly like hackers. Whenever the artist hits, every camera in the area goes out. The only video we could find came from a closed-circuit system instead of Wi-Fi.”
“Still, that’s good, right? I mean, whatever was on that video led you here, I’m guessing.”
I pocket my handcuffs, shrugging. “We were able to piece together a weird angle on a black sedan, but haven’t yet worked out the make or model. After scouring city cameras for anything that would fit the description and timeline, we found a potential match in this district.”
“So you don’t even know if it’s the same car?”
I dip my chin, shifting on my feet. “No.”
“What else do you have to go on?”
I cross my arms over my chest, dimly aware that we’re close enough to touch. “One of our initial witnesses, a little girl, said the guy had a funny accent.”
Maverick stares at me, horrified. “They killed someone in front of a little girl?”
“No.” I gesture toward his building, and we resume walking, shoulders bumping against each other. “In her case, one dropped her off at the police station while the other stayed behind to kill two men who, frankly, needed killing.”
Maverick lets out a whistle, and I grimace. “Probably shouldn’t have said that.”
He shrugs, unconcerned. “Honestly? I get it.”
I wonder what he’d think about the more than two decades’ worth of unsolved cases concerning very bad people dying or disappearing without so much as a swab of DNA to go on.
Not for the first time since Joni told me about the rumors, I wonder if she was testing the waters with me.
And I wonder if I passed.
“So…yeah,” I say, needing to change the subject. “The little girl’s mom called a couple of days ago because they had been rewatching her comfort movie, and one of the characters had an accent like one of the men she saw.”
“What was the movie?” Maverick asks as we arrive at the gated back entrance. Two visible cameras triangulate on us and zoom in.
I let out a small huff, almost embarrassed to tell him. “Elf.”
“As in Buddy the Elf?” he asks, laughing as he turns to face me.
We’re awfully close, but I don’t have it in me to pull away. The fading light still fires his halo of rich black-brown curls, the tips bleeding out into caramels and summer wheat.
“Yep,” I say, a beat late.
Even though he’s looking right at me, he blinks as though he’s lost the thread. “Huh?”
He posts often about the issues he has with reading and language processing, so I’m gentle as I remind him, “You asked if I meant Buddy the Elf, and I said yes.”
“Oh yeah. That’s one of my favorite movies. That little girl has good taste.” Maverick grabs the gate with a thoughtful expression. “Wait, then what was the funny voice? Did he sound like one of the elves?”
I chuckle. “That would’ve been hilarious, actually.” Rubbing the back of my head, I answer, “But no, he sounded like the older guy. The dad.”
Maverick scrunches his nose, way fucking cuter than an internationally known influencer has any right to be.
“Like a New York accent?” he asks after a moment.
“Yeah. I asked if the man was the same age, and she said that he ‘wasn’t as owd as Buddy’s dad.’”
