Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“About that,” Bohannan replied.
He said no more.
Fuck.
“Let me guess, Jace doesn’t know he’s out, like you suggested, and Jesse is with his brother,” Rus said.
Unfortunately, Bohannan’s response to that was valid.
“I think we can all agree that our first instinct upon learning a woman who shared our bed got dead, especially what they did to Brittanie, we’d do something about it. I’m giving them a day to realize this is a stupid play. Then I’m reining them in.”
“I want to see him sometime soon,” Rus demanded.
Bohannan nodded. “I’ll make that happen.”
This didn’t break up their party, but since there was nothing more they could do that night, Bohannan led a team-building exercise, which was essentially shooting the shit so they could all get to know each other better.
McGill had a long drive home, since he lived in Seattle, so he left first.
Bohannan had a beautiful woman who was at home, so he left second.
Rus was travel-weary, and he needed a fresh start in the morning, so he didn’t give indication he wanted to bond further with his new partner.
No slight was taken, Moran knew it before Rus had to say it.
He was on his way out when Rus broached their last topic for the night.
“The Bureau isn’t going to pay for this room, Harry.”
“I know. Tonight is on my department. The remainder of your stay is sponsored by Cin.”
Shit.
That felt good when it shouldn’t feel anything.
“She contacted you?”
“She contacted Polly, who contacted me. She wanted you moved here from wherever you were staying, not knowing Polly put you here to begin with. Though, once Polly got a call from Cin, she changed your reservation to a suite.”
Of course she did.
He’d barely met Polly and he knew he liked her.
“I’m not sure that’s going to fly,” he noted.
Moran looked him dead in the eye and advised, “Man, take your wins where you can.”
And on that sterling piece of advice, that was the end of the discussion and the evening, because, after Moran clapped him on the shoulder, he walked out.
EIGHT
Unicorn Heads
The next morning, Rus sat shotgun next to Moran in his cruiser as they drove to Melanie Iverson’s house.
“Got official approval this morning to stick with the case,” Rus told the sheriff.
“Good news,” Moran replied, relief underlying his tone.
“And I know my guys have been over it, but I’ll want to get into Brittanie’s apartment sometime today.”
“We’ll do that next,” Moran replied. “It’s on the way to where Dakota works.”
“Great,” Rus muttered.
Moran drove.
Rus took in the landscape wondering if he’d ever get bored of fir and spruce.
He then decided he wouldn’t.
“And here’s where Brittanie grew up, feast your eyes,” Moran said as he turned them into a drive.
Outside of the natural beauty that surrounded it, it was far from a feast.
The yard was scrub. He’d say the house needed a paint job, but it didn’t. It didn’t even need two weeks of handyman services.
It needed to be condemned.
Moran parked. They got out.
As they walked up to the house, Rus had to curb his desire to phone animal welfare to report the emaciated pit bull chained to a pole cemented in the ground. The dog had an overturned water bowl and no shelter in sight. Rus then had to concentrate on not falling through the spongy boards of a deck that had once been a pretty sweet front porch.
Moran knocked while Rus was careful of their combined weight distribution on the slats.
Moran knocked again.
He was about to knock a third time when the door was pulled open, and there she was behind a dilapidated screen door.
Melanie Iverson.
Jesus Christ.
She might have three days of makeup on her face. It appeared she just painted over the last, even if some of it had made it to places it wasn’t supposed to be. Her hair was a rat’s nest, dyed a brash version of Brittanie’s natural color, with half inch white-gray roots. Her cheeks were sunken. Her skin was sallow. She was overly thin. The lines around her lips betrayed she was a lifetime smoker, even before the smell of it hit him.
And she was visibly in a very bad mood.
“You tell her fuckwit of a father someone offed her?” was her greeting.
Two seconds in her presence, he knew exactly what Lucinda was talking about.
“We’ve been unable to locate Mr. Iverson,” Moran replied.
She opened her mouth and both he and Moran leaned back at the smell that emanated from it as she—no other way to describe it—cackled.
Once she was done doing that, she said, “I’ll bet.”
“I’d like to introduce you to Special Agent Zachariah Lazarus,” Moran said.
She squinted his way like she was looking through smoke, which was either habit, or she was too vain, or poor, to get glasses.
“Special Agent? Like, FBI?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rus said.
“Ma’am, huh,” she grunted and returned her attention to Moran. “So she finally made it to the big time. FBI is on her case. Or can’t you deal with some little slut getting murdered in a motel room?”