Page 111 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Not a stranger. Officer Lester Timms himself, out of uniform and holding my favorite coffee mug.

“Can I help you?” I ask, striding forward with suspicion simmering in my voice and nerves bubbling in my guts.

“Well, hey there.” He flashes me a shit-eating grin, not at all bothered that I’ve just caught him touching things that don’t belong to him. “Rue Bellamy, right?”

“Yes.” I take the “Cup of Nope” mug from his hand. “And you are?”

I ask it as if I haven’t seen him yukking it up with his cop buddies at dozens of death scenes. Oh, also, I know he’s a murderer.

“I’m Officer Les Timms,” he says. He fixes his eyes below my chin and takes his time dragging them down my body, spending an inordinate amount of time leering at my peep-toe heels before finally lifting his gaze to my face. “I’ve seen you around.”

Naturally, today’s the day I’m due in court to testify in a wrongful death civil suit, so I’m in a pantsuit instead of my usual business casual—or even better, the biggest Tyvek coveralls known to man. His greasy little smirk makes me feel naked.

I step forward and insert myself between him and my desk, arms crossed, using my body to make the point that this is my space and I won’t be intimidated.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask, my tone curt.

He takes an epically slow step back, making the counterpoint that he’s only moving because he wants to.

“I sure hope you can,” he says, rocking back on his booted heels and tucking his hands into the wide pockets of his tactical jeans, where he’s likely stashed a gun he treats better than his mother.

“Is it about a case?” I look at him pointedly, making it clear that I can’t think of any other reason for him to be here, off duty, while inside, my pulse skitters away from me. There are some very good reasons for him to be here, and all I can do is pray it’s none of them.

Timms smooths a thumb along his thick ginger mustache. “Nah. I’m here about my stepbrother, Danny Vartan.” His smarm levels recede a bit, but my alarm ratchets up just from hearing Hawaiian Shirt’s name spoken by someone other than me, Hugo, or Pell. “He disappeared on Halloween weekend. No word to anybody.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry.” I turn my crossed-arm posture into something that reads as concern by lifting my right hand and pressing it gently against my heart. Unfortunately, that just directs his attention to the exposed skin above my neckline, and he sucks on his lower teeth. Gross.

“Thanks,” he says. “His car turned up in the park-and-ride lot at the end of the Blue Line, and nobody’s seen him since, him or his dog. So I stopped by to see if you’d picked up any cases with an unidentified body or maybe processed a scene showing a struggle or abduction, anything like that.”

Maybe try looking around your own living room, dude.

He picks up his phone in its scratched-to-hell Otterbox case and pulls up a photo of him and his stepbrother, back when they both had intact skulls.

They are, of course, standing on a dock, holding up fish.

To hide any microexpression that might flit across my face, I grab the stack of case notes on my desk, murmuring, “Let me review my notes.” I flip through them like I’m refreshing my memory on recent investigations, when in fact I’m remembering the feel of his stepbrother’s gun digging into my temple.

“Oh gosh, it’s what I thought,” I say, oozing sympathy. “We haven’t had anyone with that name come through, and I haven’t heard about any John Does, either. Sorry.”

His eyes narrow on me, the speculation in them making me want to squirm. But Timms is a member of the Philosopher Kings, so I know what he thinks of me. Might as well use that to my advantage.

“Then again, I sometimes forget little details.” I give a giggle and a helpless shrug, watching as Timms lowers my IQ by ten points. “I’ll have to check with my partner. He’s been here forever and knows everything.”

I catch Bart’s eye from across the open office and give a tiny jerk of my head, encouraging him to make his candy selection quickly and get over here. Bart bobs his head and drops his change into the vending machine faster.

“I’d appreciate that.” Timms reaches into his back pocket, causing his polo to stretch across his cop belly, and hands me a business card. “Call me, day or night, if he knows anything.”

I will not be doing that, but I pinch the card by the edge to avoid brushing his fingers and drop it onto the desk behind me.

But Timms doesn’t leave.

“You used to date Greg Whitfield.”

His abrupt subject change isn’t presented as a question.

“Yes,” I say shortly, even more nervous now.

“Funny.” The overhead lights catch on the sheen of sweat covering his shaved head. “He disappeared not long ago, too.”