“It matters this time,” Cloister said. The other two men looked up from what they were doing. There was a puddle of frothy pink water around their knees. “Go get a coffee. By the time you’re back, I’ll be done.”
Hewitt made a face and scratched his jaw. His nails scraped through a working day’s worth of stubble.
“Come on, Witte,” he said. “Look at it. You think the dog is going to pick up something in this mess? It’s just bleach and soapy water. Just let us get on with this, okay? Some of us guys have families to get home to. You and me, we’re both deputies, right? If I thought there was something here that’d help, I’d be the first to—”
Cloister narrowed his eyes. “I’ma deputy,” he said. “And I’m not done with this scene. So back off, Hewitt.”
Hewitt stared at him for a minute. Then he turned his lips down sourly and huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Fuck it,” he said. “Fine. Come on, guys. Give the ‘deputy’ the room. You got five minutes, Witte. Five, then this is ours.”
He stalked up the ramp toward Ellie, arms crossed and body language sour as he gestured back toward Cloister. The other two men shrugged, got up, and left their brushes on the ground. One stretched, pushed his fists into the small of his back, and gave Cloister a wink.
“Don’t rush on my account,” he said. “All I’ve got to go home to is a cheese casserole, and that ain’t worth missing out on overtime.”
His coworker gave him a shove. “You’re going to get in trouble again, smartass,” he muttered. “Boss says we want to get home, we want to get home. Come on.”
The two men shuffled off out of the way. They loitered near the van. The one who was in no rush to get home pulled off his gloves and got a half-eaten sandwich out of his pocket. Bourneville turned her head to watch him, her ears pricked forward with interest.
Cloister tugged her lead to get her attention. “Work,” he reminded her.
The sandwich lost her attention. Bourneville snorted, shook her head until her ears flapped, and gave him an expectant “well, get on with it, then” look.
“Stay.”
She looked disappointed as she flopped down, but Cloister didn’t want bleach on her feet or up her nose. He unhooked her lead, tucked the length of canvas into his belt, and left her there as he walked around the car to look for an untainted scent source. The events of the afternoon—based on Javi’s report and Galloway’s witness testimony—played out in his head as he walked the stations from mark to mark.
Macintosh had grabbed Galloway by her car, shoved the gun into her stomach, and shot her. If he’d had the stomach for it, she’d have been dead already, but he flinched at the last minute, and she’d just have a scar. The only blood there belonged to her.
A few cars down, the splatter of blood drops on the concrete, smudged and scraped under foot, were probably Javi’s. The thought made Cloister hesitate, his mouth dry with bleak, sudden dread. It felt like a weight, and it was ridiculous. Javi was fine. He’d had eight stitches and an antibiotic shot. Andrew Macintosh might have been ruthless in the courtroom, but when real violence was involved, the only person he was a danger to was himself.
But it could have been worse, and the sour fear in Cloister’s throat didn’t care that it hadn’t been. It was the same old cold dread that lived in his nightmares, the fear that someone would… just be gone… and Cloister would never know why.
Cloister scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. He had a job to do, he reminded himself roughly, and Javi was fine—not happy, but fine.
He walked through the puddle of soapy blood and paused by the car. The solution Hewitt used had started to dry on the paintwork. It was a flaky white scum flecked with the small, hard lumps of matter.
In the underpass Macintosh had been nearly as tall as Cloister. Maybeastall, under the nervous hunch and panic. So if he had stood here and shot himself….
Cloister braced his foot on the running board at the side of the SUV and boosted himself up. Blood and hair splattered the roof, untouched by the cleanup. He looked over at Bourneville and whistled.
“Bourneville,” he said. She scrambled to her feet and grinned. Cloister snapped his fingers and pointed at the front of the car. “Up.”
She trotted forward and took a smooth, flowing leap onto the hood of the car. Her nails scraped against the metal as she landed and scrabbled for purchase. Cloistered patted the hood, and she went up the windshield in a quick jump. The roof creaked and groaned under her weight as she landed, but she put her nose down and sniffed across the blood-smeared paintwork.
The tang of spent cordite made her wrinkle her nose and snort. It always made her sneeze.
“One minute,” Hewitt yelled.
Cloister jumped down from the SUV. His feet splashed in the puddle as he walked around to the front of the car and called Bourneville to heel. She backed up to slide awkwardly down the windshield and then twisted around to jump off the car. The bill for the scraped paintwork was going to please Frome when he got it.
“Bourneville,” Cloister said as he leaned down to clip her lead back on. “Such!”
The clipped command bounced back from the walls. Bourneville gave him a confused look, her head tilted to one side and then the other as though he’d make sense at the right angle.
“Such,” Cloister repeated as he wound the lead around his fist. “Go on. Find.”
It was obvious that Bourneville wasn’t sure what he wanted. The scent wasright thereon the car and sprayed into the concrete. It was already found. Still, to show she was willing, she got up and started toward the puddle ofdead scentthat floated on the scuzzy water.
Cloister blocked her. “No,” he said as he pulled her back, away from the car. “Such, Bourneville.”
