“Bishop. Sit,” Austin said softly.
“This isn’t what we came here for,” Bishop insisted.
Austin ran one hand over his beard. He was looking at me, rather than at his friend. Or brother. Or…partner?
No, their connection didn’t feel sexual. But it did feel personal. And deep.
“We can at least hear them out,” Austin said. “It never hurts to listen.”
“This is bullshit,” Bishop grumbled. But he sank back into his chair.
Tucker tapped the record button on his phone, still lying in the middle of my desk blotter, then he stepped back.
“I understand you want to lodge a criminal complaint against Nolan Blake, a citizen of the Mississippi Valley Pride. Please state your names for the record.”
Austin’s brows rose. “Are you also a cop?”
“No. Again, I hold no legal authority in the human justice system,” I said. He smiled, but not reallyatme. More to himself. And suddenly I understood. “Areyoua cop?”
“My name is Austin Graham,” he said for the record. “I’m on extended personal leave from the Covington Police Department.”
“He’s a detective,” Bishop added.
Which explained why he was the one willing to at least humor our process.
I glanced at Vance and found him frowning deeply. He seemed as frustrated as I was to realize we’d been unknowingly squandering a very valuable asset: one of our own with access to police resources.
“And you?” I glanced at Bishop.
“Bishop Mattheson.” He glanced at Tucker’s phone as he spoke. “I work in construction.”
“And what crime would you like to report?”
“The infection and murder of Yvette Graham,” Austin said. “By Nolan Blake.”
I leaned back in my chair. Obviously, that was a very, very serious accusation. A fact which was clearly not lost on them. “Yvette Graham. Your wife?” I asked Austin.
“My baby sister,” he said.
“Mywife,” Bishop growled, gripping his chair hard enough to make the arms creak. “And her name was Yvette Graham-Mattheson.”
And there it was. Their connection. That inexplicable bond that was personal, but not sexual. Shared grief of one man’s sister, the other’s wife.
“Well, shit,” Vance swore from behind them.
I exhaled slowly as I met his gaze. Then I turned back to the men seated in front of me. “Okay. Tell me what happened.”
THREE
“Bishop found her.” Austin’s voice cracked. His beard had a reddish cast to it, despite the deep brown of his hair, and he tugged on it briefly as he spoke. The gesture felt…anguished. An unconscious attempt at self-comfort. “He called me at work and told me to come home. Immediately.”
“You live together?”
Austin nodded. “We’ve been roommates for three years. That’s how Yvie and Bishop met.”
“I found her on the couch.” Bishop took over the narrative as if he hadn’t heard my question. Or Austin’s answer. “I came home from work, and she was just lying there, eyes closed. But she wasn’t really sleeping. She was breathing weird—shallow and fast—and her face was bright red. She was burning up. There was a bandage on her arm, right here.” He touched the underside of his left forearm. “And there was a bunch of first aid stuff on the coffee table. Hydrogen peroxide. Cotton balls. Gauze. And medical tape.”
“Scratch fever,” I whispered. “She was infected.”
