“Jesus, boss, this couch,” he mutters, squirming against the sagging cushion as he sets his laptop on his knees. “My ass is filing a complaint.”
I don’t look up. “It’s not a spa. Sit or leave.”
He leans back on the couch like he owns the place. Wiry build, borderline gaunt, like caffeine’s keeping him alive more than food. His hoodie’s too big, sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing pale skin and faded ink on one forearm. Messy dark blond hair falls over his eyes, overdue for a cut, like the rest of him hasn’t seen daylight in days. Probably hasn’t.
His cargo pants are stuffed with God knows what—cords, tools, maybe explosives—and his sneakers look like they’ve walked through a fire and come out worse for it.
He taps the keypad, eyes flicking across the screen, quick and sharp above the shadows stamped under them.
“You want coffee?” I ask dryly.
“I always want coffee.” He waves a hand. “But not yours. You make that prison sludge. I want real beans. Froth. A goddamn swan on top.”
I don’t move.
Instead, I lean against the counter and nod toward his gear. “Dave Thornton. You get a location?”
Boris snorts, already typing. “You ask like I waited for instructions.”
He flips the laptop around. A paused feed of traffic cam footage. An auto-tagged sedan circling near Flamingo and 4th.
“Left his girlfriend’s place ten minutes ago,” Boris says, zooming in on the traffic cam still. “Third visit this week. She runs a spa; he is still sleeping with his secretary, too.Janice.If you’re curious.”
“I’m not.”
He tilts his head. “Huh. Weird. I thought that was your thing lately. Watching people you’re not curious about.”
I don’t take the bait. But my jaw tightens just enough for him to catch it.
“Ohhh,” he drags it out, smug. “So,thisis real. Lev wasn’t just high on floor mold.”
“She has nothing to do with this,” I say, clipped.
Boris quirks a brow.
“So you follow this woman to her grandma’s house, kill a man in her driveway, and now you’re tracking her phone like it’s casual. But sure. ‘Nothing.’”
I don’t respond, but my jaw shifts. Barely. He catches it.
He exhales, stretches one long leg over the other, and taps his keyboard like it personally offends him.
“Alright, let’s review. Since you clearly skimmed the file I already sent.”
He clears his throat, performs a fake-narrator voice like he’s auditioning for a documentary no one asked for.
“Full name: Mary Catherine Sullivan. Age: 29. Turns thirty in—oh, look at that—six days. State college grad with a Communications degree no one’s ever hired her for. Thirty-four thousand in student loans. Currently works at BrightsideNational as a personal banking associate, which is code for ‘does everything, gets paid for none of it.’”
He flips the screen toward me. “Lives alone in a unit barely bigger than my laptop bag. Pays most of her sick grandmother’s bills. Hasn’t left Vegas in four years. Not because she loves it. Because she’s stuck.”
He scrolls, tone flattening.
“Mother died in an accident when she was three. Father bailed, remarried, started over. Gave her the emotional support of a houseplant. Stepsister: Melissa Sullivan, influencer, face like a Barbie doll, and the business acumen to back it up. Beauty line, big reach. Grandma Morgan, seventy-three, ex-diner cook, Ménière’s disease. Still living alone. Mary won’t leave her.”
He lifts his head, grin sliding back into place.
“Yeah. Her phone’s on tab. You’re welcome.”
“How long?”
