She frowned, studying him. For a moment, he thought she’d push harder, but instead, she nudged his arm. “Fine. But if they try something again, you'd better tell me. I can slap harder than that guy thinks.”
A startled laugh burst out of him. The tension in his chest eased just a fraction. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it.”
That earned a grin, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Now are you buying that game or what?”
He set the box on the counter. The cashier rang it up with a smile, sliding the receipt into the bag. Andy tried to act normal, but Diego’s words clung like smoke.
We’ll chat again soon, Bing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brian hated waiting on other people’s clocks—ballistics, labs, and informants who answered when they felt like it. Justice always seemed to move with a limp.
He parked under the warped maple behind the precinct and killed the engine. The morning already carried that sticky, heavy heat that promised a miserable afternoon. When he stepped out, the smell hit him—sunbaked asphalt, hot tar, and the bitter tang of spilled coffee drying by the curb.
Rafe’s timing was, as usual, impeccable. He rounded the corner from the side lot, a paper bag in one hand and a cardboard tray with two coffees in the other. “Good news,” he said, deadpan. “We still don’t have good news.”
Brian fell into step beside him as they headed for the building, snatching the coffee cup with a handwritten B on it. “Ballistics?”
“I already checked. The report is supposedly on your desk.” Rafe held the bag aloft. “And I got BOBO sandwiches.” In other words, bacon, eggs, cheese, and hash browns on kaiser rolls.
He huffed something halfway between a laugh and a growl. “The usual heart attack wrapped up in foil. Don’t you ever get anything else for breakfast takeout?”
“Just doing my part to keep morale high and arteries clogged,” Rafe said as they reached the side door.
“Of course.”
Inside, the squad room air was a cocktail of dust, fresh coffee, the faint stench of sweat, and air-conditioning that never quite won the fight. Setting his coffee down, Brian grabbed the new folder on his desk and flipped it open to read the report. The slug from Malik Torres’s chest—nine mil, jacketed—matched striations from a shooting two counties over. Same caliber, same lands and grooves, and same chatter marks down the jacket.
“The Devil’s Crew is spreading out,” Rafe said, reading over his shoulder. “Or one of them is renting out services.”
Brian rubbed his thumb along the paper edge. The kid in the hospital—Jayden—still wouldn’t talk. If he did, they’d have a straight line to Diego. If he didn’t, they’d keep working in circles that tightened too slowly.
“Let’s run the overlap,” Brian said. “See who was in both places. Phones, cars, socials. Diego’s crew brags. Somewhere, they left a footprint.”
Rafe blew out a breath. “We already subpoenaed the tower dumps. IT’s parsing.” He tapped the bag. “Grease therapy until then?”
They sat across from each other at their joined desks, sandwiches unwrapped on napkins to the side while reports and photos covered the space between them. The quiet was filled with the rustle of paper and the low hum of the overhead light. Between bites, they compared notes, trading theories, revisiting witness statements, and cross-checking lab results that still refused to fit together.
An hour later, the coffee had gone cold, and the silence was heavier.
Then Brian’s phone buzzed.
Not a lead.
Tess:
You alive? Or buried under paperwork?
He smiled plenty at work—usually for the gallows humor that kept them all sane—but this one was different. Real.
Barely alive. You?
Tess:
I’m good. Busy. Just wanted to say hello. I’ll call you later.
Great
