It sounded like mockery, but Javi genuinely wanted to know. Cloister might “do dogs, not detection” but on some things, he had either good instincts or just too many sad stories stored in his skull. Javi would prefer a nice, clean forensic lead, but he’d take what he could get.
After a second, Cloister shrugged and admitted, “You. I thought we could… I don’t know. I didn’t expect the peanut gallery.”
Reminded, Javi checked on the cleaners. They’d finished the cigarette and exhausted their tolerance for the delay. Hewitt and his partner stood impatiently at the line of tape as they checked their phones.
“It’s not the best time,” Javi admitted.
“I could come by yours tonight?” Cloister offered. The corner of his mouth tilted into a smile that disappeared again. “They let that fried chicken place open up again.”
“Sounds delightful,” Javi said dryly.
His lips felt salted, and his balls ached, as though the man who’d been hit by a car was going to want to do anything but talk. But he had six hours of work tonight and two scheduled video conferences with the police in Mexico City and the supervisory special agent in LA tomorrow. He’d be lucky if he left the office before midnight either day, and after talking to Kincaid, he’d be in a foul mood.
And… if they talked then, he’d talk himself out of Cloister.
“But not tonight. Maybe another time?”
“Sure,” Cloister said. “Look, I should go. I need to book time on the training field for Bon if we’re going to be sidelined for a while. Let me know if you find out anything about Janet?”
“Or the man who tried to kill you with a car?” Javi suggested.
Cloister looked amused. “Or him.”
He whistled Bourneville away from the wall and headed back toward his car. The long, lazy cowboy saunter that always caught Javi’s attention was hindered by the hint of a limp. Reminded, Javi glanced down at the curb where Cloister had stood.
There was still blood on the pavement. Most of it had washed away with the rain, but the cleaners hadn’t gotten to it yet, and the paramedics had walked it into the concrete. It had soaked into the cracks. Most of it was probably the girl’s, Javi reminded himself. She was the one who’d almost died. Cloister was already up and being difficult.
Not all of it, though. Javi stared at the stain for a second, his jaw set and his mind carefully blank. Then he made himself step back.
Cloister had already pulled away as Javi turned around. He drove off with Bourneville in the front seat next to him as Javi walked back to the car.
“It’s all yours,” Javi told Hewitt as he yanked the tape loose from its moorings instead of going under it. “Get back to work.”
Relief washed over Hewitt’s face, and he gave his younger coworker a shove toward the van.
“Thanks,” Hewitt said. He coughed out a nervous laugh. “You have no idea what the boss is like about getting jobs done quickly. Man’s got no chill.”
“Good,” Javi said. “I don’t think chill is what you want in a man who cleans up murder scenes for you.”
Javi got into the car, but Hewitt grabbed the door before he could close it, gloved fingers tight around the frame.
“Deputy Witte, is he all right?”
“He was hit by a car,” Javi said. “But the hospital doesn’t seem worried. Why?”
Hewitt shrugged and let go of the door. “I bust his chops, but he’s a… well, a good guy. Never that good at being a cop, but a good guy. I’m glad he’s okay.”
He let go of the door, and Javi slammed it and drove away. He glanced in the rearview mirror as he reached the end of the road. Hewitt and the other man had already sluiced the pavement with bleach to get rid of the blood.
But no matter how hard you tried to keep things clean, there was always collateral damage. Javi needed to remember that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE WEREpolitical advantages to having a Latinx agent stationed in Plenty. No one said it directly, but what they had pointedly not said made it clear. That was fine. Javi was a good agent, but when he came to Plenty, he needed a chance to prove that. He hadn’t been tempted to look a gift horse in the mouth.
If any of his superiors thought their counterparts in Mexico would appreciate the move, they hadn’t met Inspector Damaso Yuen of the Policía Federal Ministerial. The dark, wire-thin man resented having to answer to the FBI for his country’s criminals and didn’t care if the agent was a fifth-generation Latin American or not.
Yuen grimaced around an agreement to pass on information about Alfredo Infante—a chemist who worked both sides of the border—if he left Mexico City. Then he glanced down at his desk, flicking his eyes over unseen papers.
