“Do you think he knew?”
“No signs of radiation or chemo, so maybe not.”
“Wouldn’t he have symptoms?”
“Most assuredly at this stage, but men, and young men in particular, often ignore symptoms, which is why pancreatic cancer is called the silent killer.”
Ian didn’t know if her news was important at all. Especially if Junior didn’t know about the cancer. If he did, and if he knew he didn’t have long to live, would it have made him want to make things right? Was that why he needed to tell Malone about her parents’ car accident? But how would he even know about the accident, and how was it related to Junior?
Ian needed to get moving on answering those questions. “Anything else?”
“No,” Dr. Albertson said. “His bag of belongings are by the sink, and you can expect my official report later in the week.”
“Thank you.” Ian hurried to grab Junior’s belongings and leave the autopsy suite.
In the outer room, he stripped out of his protective gear but left his latex gloves on. He looked through the plastic bag at car keys, a wallet, small pocket knife, and breath spray. He took out the wallet and found a thick wad of twenty-dollar bills, a driver’s license, one credit card, an insurance card, and a worn photo of his parents, who Ian met at Junior’s death notification visit. No receipts, notes, pictures, or anything that could lead Ian to find the killer.
Frustrated, Ian closed the bag and discarded his gloves. He dug out his phone to type a message for Londyn.
Junior had stage 3 pancreatic cancer. Request his medical records. We’ll see if he knew about it and if it motivated any of his actions.
Malone thought about Sal’s comment for the entire drive home and during her shower, where she stayed until her fingers resembled wrinkled prunes. By the time she was dressed in her favorite jeans paired with a warm fleece top and had watched the online church service for the day, she changed her mind about Ian. She had to set aside her emotions and do what was best to find Junior’s killer. His parents deserved that. Which meant she needed to call Ian to see what he had in mind when he’d asked her to partner with him.
She dumped out her evening bag on the kitchen counter to reveal his card and settled on a barstool to make the call. She expected to get voicemail and mentally prepared her message.
He answered on the second ring, and she stumbled to think of what to say. “It’s Malone. I…I want to hear what you meant by us working together.”
He didn’t respond, and the silence stretched. Uncomfortable, she opened her mouth to say something else, but what? How could she be so wishy-washy around him when she was usually a take-charge person?
“Would it be okay if we talked in person?” he finally asked.
She let out a silent breath. “When?”
“The sooner, the better.”
Did she want that? Want to see him? She had to, she supposed, if she was to work with him. “I guess you could come by my place.”
Now, why did she suggest a private place instead of a public spot? She couldn’t take it back now.
“Great.” His enthusiasm surprised her. “I can get your address from your arrest record.”
“I just bought my childhood home. The place where we lived before our parents died.” Another thing she hadn’t needed to tell him, so she quickly gave him the address.
“I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“See you then.” She hung up and ran her fingers through her wet hair. She might be fine with letting it dry on its own if she weren’t going anywhere or wasn’t seeing anyone, but she would dry and style it for a visit from Ian.
In the bathroom with the eighties’ glass block shower, she picked up the dryer and brush and went to work. With each pull of the bristles, she wished she wasn’t so concerned with appearances—a product of losing her parents. She’d lived in three foster homes. The first two for fewer than six months. Neither were the best of situations, but the third home was wonderful. She and Reed had had two loving, caring, Christian parents to guide them.
Still, every moment of every day, she’d known her living situation was temporary. Things could change in a heartbeat. She could come home from school one day to be told she and Reed were being placed elsewhere. She had to be prepared at all times to make a good impression for that new family. Plus, if she took care of her hygiene and appearance, did well in school, followed the rules, and did everything she was asked, she wouldn’t give her foster family any reason to split her up from Reed. That would’ve been just as hard to handle as losing their parents.
Years later, she couldn’t seem to shed the need to appear put together. A shrink would likely have a field day with her insecurity.
She applied her makeup and took a last look in the mirror. Satisfied, she went to the bedroom and grabbed a professional blouse and a clean pair of jeans before going to the family room to pace and wait. She took long steps through the living room in the large craftsman house.
She’d only moved in a month before, but immediately she’d started to try to return the home to what she remembered. She’d stripped the paint from the woodwork on the banister, all the trim, and the built-ins. At the rate she was working, it would take her years to complete the house, but she didn’t care. She felt close to her parents here, and that was all that mattered.
A car pulled up outside, and she stopped at the large picture window on the way to the front door. The same drab blue sedan Ian had been leaning on outside the Justice Center parked in the drive. No way Ian would be caught dead driving such a sedan in his personal life. She figured him for a motorcycle or pickup kind of guy. This must be his police-issued vehicle.
