Page 66 of Flint’s Strike

“Kenny?”

“Yeah, the guy who restocks the machines.”

He shakes his head. “You’re on a first name basis with…the vending machine guy. I worry about your cholesterol, Parker. Every damn day.”

Eliot shoves a potato chip into his mouth and washes it down with the last of his Dr. Pepper. My peanut butter crackers are long gone, my blood sugar a hell of a lot happier now that I’ve ingested enough preservatives to keep me going for at least the next twenty years.

Nate keeps muttering about how he tried to be supportive, but he’s the only one in this office who seems to care about staying alive past the age of fifty.

The clock on the wall ticks over to three thirty, and, right on schedule, AJ opens the door and walks in, followed by Captain Ellis Vern in his APD dress blues. He holds his hat in both hands, only meeting my gaze for the length of a lightning strike before staring back down at his polished black shoes.

No one offers him a chair. Hell, the only sound in the room is the ticking clock. AJ closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed, letting the silence do the work.

Vern clears his throat. The man’s not much over six feet tall, but he’s got a beer gut that won’t quit.

“You’d be well within your rights to toss me out that door right fuckin’ now,” Vern starts. His thumb traces a grove in the brim of his hat. “I fucked up. June Castillo’s mama came to see me this mornin’, wondering why none of my guys had given her any update on the death of her only daughter.”

“And you threw us under the goddamn bus,” AJ grits out. “We had coffee the other day, Ellis. I thought we agreed that workin’ together was a hell of a lot better than bein’ at each other’s throats.”

“She was cryin’,” Vern says, still staring down at his shoes. “I ain’t married, Stone. I don’t know shit about comfortin’ a crying woman. I panicked. Blamed your department and hoped she’d go away. That was a weak-as-shit move.”

“Yup,” AJ says.

Vern’s throat works again. “Then Mallon bursts into my office, runnin’ his mouth about these two”—he gestures to me and Nate—“harrassin’ him over some case he closed more than a year ago. I was pissed. No one looped me in, and I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? He was one of my guys.”

With a shake of his head, he clutches his hat tighter to his gut. “I pulled the file an hour ago. Didn’t have to get past the first page before I suspended the idjit for three days without pay. Gonna have to audit all his closed cases now. If I find one more fuckin’ thing he buried or ignored or just decided not to care about, three days will be the least of his problems.”

“Mallon’s complete lack of investigative skills aside,” AJ says, checking his watch, “we’ve got eighteen minutes before a mess of reporters are gonna want some answers. This is a Department of Public Safety investigation. APD is assisting. We clear on that?”

Vern sweeps his gaze around the room—paperwork labeled with color-coded Post-Its, the whiteboard, Nate’s meticulous notes—and nods. “We’re clear. This is your show. Just tell me what role I’m playin’ in it.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Eliot

At a set of double doors marked Briefing Room, Parker turns, a small crease between her brows. “This your first presser?”

“Second. Why?” In the men’s room a few minutes ago, I made sure my tie was straight, shirt wasn’t stained, and there was nothing in my teeth. Now, I’m worried I missed something obvious.

“You’re a little green around the edges,” Nate says, sidling up next to me. “I warned you about the vending machine. Those Twizzlers were practically fossils.”

“They were not.” Parker shakes her head. “They were a much needed pick-me-up after the rabbit food you ordered us for lunch.”

“I’ll have you know, my blood sugar is perfectly steady.” Nate holds up his hand, palm facing the floor, fingers extended. “See?”

Captain Vern stares at the two Rangers, caught between amusement and outrage. “Are they…?”

“Always like this? Yeah. You get used to it.” If we weren’t two minutes away from informing a room full of reporters that we can’t actually tell them anything useful, I’d smile. Parker and Nate bicker like they’re family, and I’ve somehow found myself smack dab in the middle of it. Ain’t a bad place to be.

Nate rubs both hands together, takes a single step back, and squares his shoulders. “Eliot, your job is to look smart in there. Vern? Look official with a dash of pissed off. Parker’s the nice one, and I’m the data guy. You get a question you can’t—or don’t want to—answer, you either defer to me or give the standard line about this being an active investigation.”

He locks eyes with each one of us in turn, then takes a single, deep breath. “Welcome to Chaos Central in three, two, one…”

Captain Vern pulls the door open at Nate’s nod. Parker leads, followed by Nate, then me. The APD captain brings up the rear. Unlike the rest of the station, the briefing room is warm. Too many bodies, cables, camera and sound equipment, and bright lights haloing a dark wood podium in the center of a raised platform.

The rows of chairs are a little more than half full. Twenty, maybe twenty-five reporters, interns, and videographers talking amongst themselves.

Parker takes the four steps up to the platform carefully, her fingers tight on the metal handrail. Shutters click, red lights on the video cameras start blinking, and the conversation fades in seconds.