“Come on,” he said as he leaned back and peeled the hot, heavy dog off him. “Ready to work?”
Bourneville pricked her ears forward and barked once in sharp agreement. She scrambled gracelessly back through the window and waited for him to get her ready. It took ten minutes to get her out, watered, and fitted in her harness. Everything was harder when you only had one free hand to do it with. Cloister ran his finger under the straps to make sure her hair wasn’t tangled while she fussed and shook her head impatiently.
Once it was done to his satisfaction, Cloister hooked her lead into place and headed across the parking lot toward the Staff Only signs at far side. Bourneville trotted eagerly at his side, and her shoulder bumped companionably against his leg.
Police tape was stretched over the entrance to the ramp to bar intruders. It apparently wasn’t enough to deter the irritated man being pushed back under the tape to the right side.
“Iknowsomething happened,” the man huffed furiously. “I saw the whole thing earlier. I was basically a victim myself. Now I’m being treated like a suspect. I want my car, goddammit.”
Behind the tape, Ellie—Ellie Smith, but there were nine Smiths in the sheriff’s department, not counting clerks and admins—went white and red with anger. Her lips were thin and colorless, red stains bright on her cheekbones and temples.
“A man blew his brains out,” Cloister interrupted as he stopped at the tape. The man, gray haired and gym fit under his scrubs, spun to glare at him, his mouth half-open. He glanced down at Bourneville, who had sat down neatly at Cloister’s heels, and pressed his lips back together as he thought better of whatever he was going to say. “So you can have your car back once we’ve picked three pounds of gray matter out of the crevices. Usually we’d get it cleaned up, but if you want it that much….”
Distaste washed over the man’s face, and he stepped back.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll get an Uber, but I’ll want my car back tomorrow.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket as he stalked away, his sour mutters just audible as they trailed behind him.
“Asshole,” Ellie muttered after him. She put her arm under the tape and lifted it up. “They taken you off desk duty?”
Cloister ducked under her arm. His bruises were a tight band of pressure around his ribs. They ached as he bent, but not as much as they had before. He was not going to admit that had anything to do with a night spent in a bed rather than on his couch.
“Not exactly,” he admitted as he straightened up.
Ellie gave him an exasperated look. “You had to tell me?”
Bourneville whined as she slunk under the barrier—she didn’t need Ellie’s help—and caught the charnel stink of the place. Her ears went down, and she pushed her way between Cloister’s legs. He reached down to stroke her narrow head, all bone under the fluff of black hair, as she panted nervously.
“It’s just a look around.” He shrugged when she frowned at him. “Frome didn’t tell me I couldn’t look.”
Ellie pursed her lips. She looked down at Bourneville.
“You sure the dog’s up to it?” she asked. “She doesn’t look happy.”
“Are you?” Cloister asked. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t my job. I can stilldomy job.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Ellie said. She wiped sweat off her forehead and glanced around as though Frome might jump out from behind a car. “All right, but if you get in trouble for this? I had no idea. You better hurry. The cleanup guys just got here.”
Cloister nodded and headed down. The smell got stronger as he reached the bottom, where the damp reek of blood mixed with the dustiness of concrete. Galloway’s car was still there, the parking permit for the morgue taped to the window, and the crime scene cleaners’ van was parked crookedly next to it.
Three men in sturdy white overalls were already at work. Two of them were on their knees, brushes in hand as they scrubbed the concrete, while a third picked gray matter off the car.
Bourneville growled nervously and pulled on her lead.
“Stay,” Cloister told her as he pulled her back. He raised his voice slightly, and it sounded like a lot in the empty space. “I need the scene.”
The man at work on the car sat back on his heels and looked around. Goggles, the lenses blotched with watermarks, covered his eyes, and a hand-sized dust mask was cupped over his mouth and nose.
“Again?”
The voice was muffled by the mask, but Cloister still recognized it—Hewitt. So did Bourneville. She muttered a growl, a low rattle of noise under her breath, and then dropped her head remorsefully before Cloister could tell her off. A bright amber eye peered up at him sidelong. He nudged her with his knee but let her get away with it.
“Are you pulling overtime, Hewitt?” he asked.
Hewitt pushed his goggles onto his forehead and pulled the mask down to dangle around his neck. There were dark circles under his eyes, ground in as though someone had used their thumb, and a crop of acne popped around his nose and chin.
“It’s a recession, Witte,” he said as he stood up and wiped his hands on his overalls. His fingers left pink stains on the crumpled white legs. “Money doesn’t flow as freely as it used to, and we can’t all have lawyers buying us fancy dinners, can we? Look, hands up. We weren’t meant to start until six, but that’s only another ten minutes. It’s never mattered before if we jump the gun a little.”
