“Two women,” Frome corrected. “And you’re from here. Ellie married a local boy. It’s mostly locals at the picket. I don’t want them to feel like we’re outsiders brought in on Hartley’s dime.”
Tancredi still looked annoyed, but she kept it behind pursed lips as she nodded. “Sir.”
“And, Deputy? That wasn’t an explanation,” Frome said as he plucked his glasses off his forehead and tucked them into his top pocket. “It was an instruction on how to approach the situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
She hopped to her feet and grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. With one hand she flicked her ponytail out over the collar as she edged around Cloister.
“Don’t get hit by any more cars,” she told him as she headed across the room to Ellie’s desk. “Your nose can’t take it.”
He gave her a single, sardonic “ha” for that, but it hurt his ribs, which he’d almost forgotten about.
“Go,” Frome told him. “Home or back to the hospital, just as long as it’s not here.”
He turned to head back to his office.
“What are you investigating Janet Morrow’s case as?” Cloister asked.
Frome stopped, sighed, and turned around. “Right. I’m not. It was misadventure. The girl was lost, drunk, and she probably got scared, fell down, and cracked her head open. It’s sad but not a crime.”
“That’s bullshit.” Cloister didn’t say it loud. The words were clipped out between his teeth with annoyance. There was still a pause in the general mutter of the office as the other deputies looked up and then quickly back down.
“You’re on sick leave, but you’re still under my command,” Frome said icily. “Watch your tone, Witte.”
A wash of disappointed frustration drove Witte to his feet. He knew Frome didn’t want to factor the hit-and-run into the case, but Janet had obviously been attacked. Someone had tried to kill her, had come back to erase the evidence that she’d even been there at all, and the case file was going to say “drunken accident”?
That wasn’t right.
“She had no shoes on. Her clothes were half ripped off,” Cloister blurted out angrily. It was always easier to get angry on someone else’s behalf. The tension in the air made Bourneville stand up and lean against his leg, the grumble in her throat more vibration than noise. “Something happened to her, and then it came back to finish the job.”
Frome looked guilty for a second, but then replaced it with frustrated irritation.
“Or she fell,” he said as he plucked his glasses off his forehead. “Until I get evidence to the contrary—until I get any evidence—what happened to Janet Morrow was a tragic accident, and you’re on sick leave. So drop it, Witte.”
He turned and stalked away. Cloister reached down and gave Bourneville’s collar a tug as she huffed after Frome. She was a good dog, the best one he’d ever worked with, but he could feel her sulk. In her worldview Frome didn’t outrank Cloister, not even if Cloister was hurt, and him not knowing that offended her idea of the world.
The tug on her collar made her subside. She sneezed and sat down to have a scratch, as though that was on her mind all along.
Frome reached the door to his office and paused. He turned around and pointed his glasses at Cloister across the room.
“You are a K-9 specialist, and you’re good at it. I’ve got all the detectives I need. So stay in your lane, Deputy.” Everyone glanced up again, and this time the pause was somehow louder. Out of the corner of his eye, Witte could see Dongrey at his desk, fingers hooked and frozen over the keys on his computer. “You can tell your special agent friend that for me too.” Frome looked around at the interested room and scowled blackly. His voice cracked out impatiently, “And the rest of you get back to work. This isn’t a spectator sport.”
The sound of half a dozen cops pointedly hammering at their keyboards resumed. Frome gave them all a disgusted look and slammed the door to his office behind him.
“Jesus,” Dongrey muttered. “That was harsh. I mean, we all think you’re not a real detective, but we don’t say it out loud.”
The joke shattered the tension. A few people sniggered, and someone muttered, “Shut up, Dongrey.”
Cloister gave Dongrey a hard look. “Bourneville’s a better detective than you, Dongrey,” he said.
The shit-eating grin on Dongrey’s bony, off-kilter face spread. “Never said anything about thedognot being a good detective,” he said. “Just you. She’s shit hot.”
He cackled to himself as he went back to his report. Cloister let him have it. He levered himself stiffly off Tancredi’s desk and limped through the desks with Bourneville at his heels. A couple of deputies looked sidelong at him, but after a quick glance toward the long windows of Frome’s office, no one said anything.
Tancredi caught up with him in the parking lot as he opened the door of his car for Bourneville to hop in.
“Witte… Cloister, wait,” she said as she hopped over the last step and onto the concrete. She jogged to him and caught his arm. A frown seamed two wrinkles into the freckled skin between her eyebrows as she eyed the truck. Whatever she’d been about to say was preempted by “Should you really be driving?”
