Millie leaned against the column. “I don’t know.”
Aunt Mae snorted. “He was such a jackass.”
“His drugging you would make sense,” Valerie piped up, rubbing her bare lips. “In fact, it puts things into perspective. If you really didn’t like him, didn’t want to go with him, why did you? You know, I heard rumors about Clay years ago.”
“What rumors?” Millie asked, perking up.
Valerie tapped on her forehead. “I don’t know. There’s something. I swear this whole situation feels familiar.”
Verna frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you sure you didn’t just see a show or something? Sometimes you do that, Valerie.”
Valerie scoffed. “I do. I mix up reality and TV sometimes, but no, I remember rumors circulating when Clay attended law school. I attended nursing school on the same campus, and we had mutual friends. I recall speculation about Clay and a woman who accused him of assault.”
Heat rushed to Millie’s ears. “That’s at least something.” She’d need to dig deeper. The excitement quickly turned to a pit in her gut. Time was not on her side.
Chapter Eighteen
The eleventh floor of the Henry J. Daly Building smelled like wood polish, fresh coffee, and ink over a slight note of body odor. With Millie and Roscoe in tow, Scott maneuvered toward the back of the floor beyond several hubs. It had been a bit of an ordeal to get the dog through security, but Tate had called down and made it happen. Scott owed him yet another one.
They reached the first bullpen, also known as the homicide division, where Tate already waited with a file in his hand as he leaned against the wall.
“Hey,” Scott said, reaching out a hand.
Tate shook it. “Hi, Scott. Millie.”
Millie smiled and leaned forward for a hug. “It’s good to see you, Tate.”
Scott remained passive. He hadn’t realized the two had worked together before.
“You been practicing your game?” Tate asked, turning his attention to Scott.
“I’m ready anytime, boyo,” Scott said, smiling.
Millie looked from one to the other.
Scott shrugged. “We play tennis once in a while.”
“Huh,” she said. “Interesting. Tennis and football, huh?”
Tate grinned. “I’m on the football team, too.”
Yeah. One of the smartest things Scott had ever done was talking Tate Bianchi into joining their team about a year ago. Tate was at least six foot four and built like a linebacker, but he’d gone to college on a tennis scholarship and had natural grace as well. Besides being tall and broad, he looked like a badass with his dark skin, hard brown eyes, and bald head. He was quickly turning into one of Scott’s best friends and it felt right to be standing there with Millie.
Tate dropped to his haunches and vigorously rubbed his fingers through Roscoe’s thick fur. “Is he behaving himself?”
“No,” Millie said shortly. “He got into some Scotch the other night.”
Tate tsked. “Roscoe, when are you going to learn?” Roscoe licked his chin, panting happily. Tate chuckled and stood. “Come on. I have a conference room ready for us.” He turned and led the way down the hall and into a smaller conference room with gray walls, windows facing the building next door, and noisy white tiles. He tossed a file folder on the table. “Come on, Roscoe,” he called back when the dog hovered near a desk holding a platter of snickerdoodles. “No cookies for you.”
Roscoe snorted, took one last longing glance at the cookies, and started their way.
Scott shook his head. “I swear, that dog.”
All of a sudden, Roscoe paused, one foot up in midstride. He sniffed the air expectantly. He turned and looked across the bullpen, where a detective was taking a statement from a teenager. The teenager leaned forward with his hands in his pockets, his head up, and his eyes wide as he spoke. He took out his hands and gestured wildly.
Roscoe gave one short bark and leaped into the air, landing on a desk and scattering papers in every direction. His legs went out from under him and he scrambled, his nails clawing the desk. He toppled over a stapler and a cup of coffee, barked again, jumped on another desk and then another.
Several officers, both uniformed and in plainclothes, deserted their desks or areas near corkboards and rushed for the dog. One woman almost grabbed him, but Roscoe sprang gleefully onto a center table that held printouts, knocking them to the floor. He barked again and leaped straight for the kid in the blue sweatshirt. The kid was about seventeen with long black hair, angled features, and green eyes. He held up both hands, but it was too late.
