Page 82 of Dancing in the Dark

Arch and I step out of the elevator on the thirty-third floor of a building nestled within the central business district on the affluent side of the Bay Bridge. Unlike city funded buildings, like our police station, and the medical examiner’s office, Slater and Datsun comes with expensive artwork on the walls, gold trim circling the hanging pendant lights, office door plaques that might actually be made of granite, and, directly facing the elevators, a receptionists desk that spans an easy twenty feet long, with three separate chicks sitting on the other side, each of them with an ear piece plugged into their brains, varying shades of blonde hair pulled into high ponytails, professionally done manicures reminiscent of the one we found on our vic, and seemingly no issue with the constant bleat of phones that-just-won’t-stop.

Wordless, Archer’s eyes come across to mine and his lips twitch in a way I know translates to ‘look at this shit’.

“Slater and Datsun, this is Krystal speaking. Could you please hold the line?”

“Slater and Datsun, this is Pamela speaking. Could you please hold the line?”

“Slater and Datsun, this is Latisha speaking. Could you please hold the line?”

“I wonder if anyone is still holding the line from last week?” I rumble. “Latisha might’ve forgotten them and taken off for the weekend.”

“Probably.”

We stride forward, shoulder to shoulder, and look like we belong in a place like this with about the same level of believability that we belong with the likes of Anderson Markum in our friend’s group.

That is, we don’t.

Approaching the desk with a smile that I hope looks at least a little friendly, I catch the first chick’s eyes. Is she Pamela? Or Sandra? Or Rita? “Hi. I’m Det⁠—”

She lifts a shushing finger and taps the thingy in her ear. “Slater and Datsun, this is Krystal speaking. Could you please hold the line?”

“I’d like to speak with⁠—”

“Slater and Datsun, this is Krystal speaking. Could you please hold the line?”

Irritated, I snatch out my badge and slap it onto the tall desk right in front of her. “My name is Detective Fletcher, and I’m gonna need you to pay attention to me for a moment.” Screw being friendly. I return to my youth and arrow straight for ‘don’t fuck with me’. “We’d like to speak to Slater and or Datsun, please.” I cast my gaze along the line of staring women. “Immediately.”

“Yes, Detective.” Krystal taps her ear and waits a beat. “Mr. Slater.” She lowers her voice. “Sir, I have a couple of police officers out here wishing to speak with you. Yes, sir.” She nods. “Yes, sir.” And again. “Of course. Right away, sir.” Bringing her eyes back up to mine, she springs to her feet and gestures to her left. “Follow me, please. Mr. Slater is with a client at the moment, but he’ll be done momentarily, then he’ll meet with you.” She leads us into a massive boardroom with glass walls, a table that spans at least twenty-five seats by my fast count, a telephone at each end, and on the far wall, a coffee nook complete with an instant pod machine, an array of pods to choose from, and I bet if I opened the lower cupboard doors, we’d find a mini fridge where they keep milk and other random shit. “Please make yourselves at home.” She waits by the door, her teeny, tiny size 0, barely out-of-her-teen-years body wrapped in a power suit, trembles as she looks up at me. “We have coffee and tea available for self-service if you’d like, or if you prefer something barista-made, I can have that sent up for you.”

“We’re good. Thanks.” Archer wanders to the far end of the table, his hands on his hips and his eyes on the bustling lobby we just left. “Have you watched the news in the last day or so?”

“T-the news?” Nervous, she looks from me to Archer. “Uh… yes, sir, I have.”

“So you know about Johanna?”

Her pulse thunders out of control against the side of her neck. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Did you know Johanna?” Slowly, he wanders back this way. “Were you friendly?”

“I knew her. But I only started working for Slater and Datsun about a month ago. I haven’t had a chance to socialize as yet.”

“Mmm. Okay.” He comes to a stop about ten feet from the door. “You didn’t receive an invitation to Carson Slater’s birthday party earlier this week?”

Her cheeks turn deathly pale. She’s not gonna be very helpful to our killer’s bullshit alibi if she’s called upon at trial. “Hmm?”

“Carson Slater,” I offer. “Arthur Slater of Slater and Datsun’s firstborn son. He turned twenty-five on Tuesday, didn’t he?”

“H-how do you⁠—”

“It’s our job to know these things.”

As a hulking, grumpy fuck who looks every day of his sixty years stops in the doorway, Arch nods and allows his grin to grow larger. “Arthur Slater.” He gestures toward the table. “Thank you for joining us.”

“Go back to your desk,” Slater barks at the scared girl.

She spins with a squeak and takes off like a shot.

Closing the door and broadening his chest, Arthur grows frustrated at the laboriousness of having to look left and right. Left and right. Damn me and Arch for standing too far apart. “How can I help you, officers?”