“Come in,” I said as they reached my door. “Can I get you something to drink?” The longer I delayed, the better the chance of Zeke returning before we got into the nitty-gritty of why they were there.
“No, thank you,” Harrison said, at the same time as Goodwin said, “A coffee would be nice.”
Harrison squinted at Goodwin, who looked chastened.
“How do you take it?” I asked, leaping on the diversion.
“Black with sugar.”
“Perfect. Take a seat. I’ll just be a few moments.”
I bustled to the kitchen and started coffee brewing—enough for two cups because Zeke might need a pick-me-up after what he’d been through. If not, then I’d happily drink it. Once the coffee was ready, I poured, added sugar to Goodwin’s, and took it out. Zeke entered the apartment, looking uncharacteristically flustered, as I offered the drink to Goodwin.
“You want a coffee?” I asked him. “There’s one for you in the kitchen if you do.”
“No, thanks.” He pushed his fringe off his forehead and dropped onto an armchair.
“What happened to you?” Harrison demanded, staring at his swollen eyes and the traces of red on his face.
I took advantage of the opportunity to slink away and fix the remaining coffee to my own liking. When I returned and sat on the other armchair, Zeke was recounting how he’d managed to stumble to the elevator and get back up to the apartment while his eyes were spray-painted shut.
“You shouldn’t have cleaned up,” Harrison said once he’d finished. “It makes it more difficult for us to do our job.”
He smirked. “I care more about making sure I don’t go blind than I do about making your job easy.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I took a photograph,” I said quickly, hoping to dispel any tension.
She grunted. “Let’s see.”
I opened the photograph on my phone and showed it to each of them. She reached for the phone but I didn’t hand it over. I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t go through my messages while she was there. I didn’t think there was anything incriminating, but there was no telling what they might consider “evidence.”
“So, you think the fact that this person squirted spray paint in your face proves that Miss Ryan didn’t steal the painting, and that the person with the paint did,” Harrison said, her tone skeptical. “Is that right?”
“That’s about the sum of it,” Zeke agreed.
Goodwin sipped his coffee and made a sound of approval. His partner side-eyed him.
“What makes you think the assailant wasn’t a run-of-the-mill tagger?” Goodwin asked.
“It’s too much of a coincidence.” Zeke sounded as certain as he had when I’d asked the same question earlier.
“Hm.” Goodwin was clearly dubious. “This could also be something the two of you staged to throw suspicion off yourselves.”
“Oh, come on!” I rolled my eyes. “You’re determined to make everything fit the story you’ve already come up with. That isn’t what happened.”
“How do we know that?”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Zeke stood and gave me a look.
“Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a moment?” he asked.
“Fine.” I went with him, hoping neither cop took the opportunity to look around lest they find the copy of the Degas in the spare room.
“Keep your temper in check,” he murmured once we were far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to overhear. “We’ve reported the incident, they’ll have a record in their system now. They’re not going to change their minds just like that, but at least we’ve gone through official channels so we’re covered if we need to be.” He held me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Okay?”
I heaved a sigh. He had a point. I may have wanted a miracle, but that didn’t mean I’d get one. “Okay.”
