The bullpen is quiet when I arrive with most of the day shift not due in for another hour. I settle at my desk with the Reeves file, the case nobody else wants to take seriously, but I can't get out of my head and start trying to build a timeline.
Three hours and two coffees later, the bullpen has filled with the usual morning chaos, and I’ve made no progress pouring back over all of her phone and bank records, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary we might have missed before. I'm rubbing my eyes, trying to focus on a column of credit card transactions, when the doors to the street slam open, and there’s commotion at the front desk.
"Move."
That voice. My stomach flips before I've even looked up.
Beau has a man in handcuffs by the back of the shirt, shoving him through the doorway. The guy is enormous. Six-foot-three, at least, with a tattooed bald head and the solid build of a boxer, he lifts his head, showing us his busted lip and a fresh bruise blooming across his cheekbone.
I recognise him immediately.
James Murphy. He’s got three priors for assault, two of them from his ex-girlfriend, and one outstanding warrant for skipping his last court date after she finally got a restraining order, and he promptly broke it trying to break into her house. The last time we hauled him in, it took Holt, Reilly, and Dawson to get the cuffs on him, and Dawson ended up with a bloody nose for his trouble.
"Skip surrender," Beau says to Martins at the front desk, voice flat. "Murphy, James. Bond was posted three weeks ago. He failed to appear last Friday."
Murphy thrashes against the grip, face almost purple with rage, snarling something I'm too far away to catch.
Without even looking at him, Beau says, “Are we going to have to have this discussion again?”
The transformation is instant. Murphy goes completely still, the fight draining out of him, as his shoulders sag and head drops. He nods once, slowly, and Beau straightens.
“Good. Now sit." Beau jerks his chin at the bench against the wall.
Murphy sits, albeit reluctantly, and stares down at his hands.
The entire bullpen has gone quiet, watching this interaction in stunned silence. Anytime he’s been in here before, Murphy’s been like a raging bull. Now, he looks like a sad puppy.
I'm staring. I know I'm being obvious, and I can't make myself stop. Beau is wearing a black T-shirt, the sleeves stretched tight around thick biceps. There's a smear of blood on his knuckles, and his jaw has a slight shadow along it making me think Murphy might have gotten one good hit in before Beau found a way to talk him into submission.
Martins slides a clipboard with some forms on it over the counter to Beau, who fixes Murphy with one last warning glare before starting to fill it in, tanned hands moving quickly across the page, veined forearms flexing with every flick of his wrist.
There's a low, slow heat building between my thighs that I'm fairly certain isn't appropriate for the workplace in broad daylight.
I shift in my chair, pressing my legs together to ease the ache, and Whisky's head snaps up.
His nostrils flare. Across the bullpen, he locks straight onto me, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He holds me there for a long, awful moment, and I could swear he knows about the damp spot in my underwear.
My face flames despite the idea being ridiculous. I jerk my gaze back down to my screen and pretend to be utterly absorbed in Amber Reeves's phone records like the coward that I am.
The shuffle of paperwork at the front desk seems to go on forever. Martins asks his usual unhurried questions. Beauanswers in clipped sentences, polite but short. Murphy stays exactly where he was put, hands folded in his lap and eyes downcast.
Eventually, two uniforms come down to escort him to booking, standing back, afraid the fighter will kick off once he's away from his captor, and Whisky is left at the desk, signing the custody transfer.
I look around. Everyone else’s attention has gone back to their work. This is my chance. Possibly my only one. I stand before I can chicken out and cross the bullpen on shaky legs.
"That was a hell of a catch."
He doesn't look up from the form, just continues to fill in the required sections. "Detective."
I clear my throat. "How'd you find him? Or even get him to come with you?"
He pauses, then shrugs. "It might surprise you to hear this, but I'm actually pretty good at my job." His pen scratches across the paper. "Was there something you needed?"
Feeling distinctly unwelcome in my own station, I lower my voice. "Beau. Can I talk to you?"
He goes still. Just for a second. Then he keeps writing. “Go on.”
Pressing my lips together, I make sure we’re still alone before continuing. This isn’t what I meant. I was hoping for some privacy, but it’ll have to do.
