Now Archie stood across the street, hands deep in his pockets, surveying the spectacle. A cab had dropped him off—his compromise to the pills. He was an addict, but he was a responsible one. A smile passed his lips. A. Fucking. Bank. There were already three local news vans parked in the lot around the bank building. ALL THE NEWS WORTH KNOWING, read a slogan on one of the vans. No national news yet, he noticed. But if he was right, it would only be a matter of time. He watched the reporters, clad in absurdly warm and waterproof coats, confer with their bearded cameramen. They lurched forward expectantly every time a car pulled up, then settled back to cigarettes and thermoses of coffee when the occupant became clear. They were waiting for him, he realized. Not the girls. Not the task force. Not, to be fucking sure, a story. They wanted him. The Beauty Killer’s last victim. The bones in his fingers went cold. He ran a hand through his hair and noticed it was wet. He had been standing in the slow rain for ten minutes. You’ll catch your death, he thought to himself. The words were not in his voice, but hers. Lilting. Teasing. You’ll catch your death, darling. He took a deep breath, pushed her, for a moment, from his mind, and started toward his new office.
The mob of reporters swarmed around him as soon as his shoes hit the wet concrete of the parking lot. He ignored the questions and the cameras, walking as fast as he could through the gauntlet, shoulders hunched against the rain. “How does it feel to be back?” “How’s your health?” “Have you been in contact with Gretchen Lowell?” Don’t get distracted, he told himself. He fingered the pillbox in his pocket, gaining solace from its presence. Just keep moving.
He showed his badge to the uniformed officer at the door, and slid in past the reporters kept firmly at bay outside. The bank was full of people—cleaning, tearing down the old transaction counter, moving furniture. The air was dense with the dust of smashed drywall and the hum of power tools. Archie’s eyes burned from the particulate matter as he scanned the room. Henry was standing just inside the door, waiting for him. He had shown Archie the ropes when Archie made detective and he had been looking out for him ever since. A large man with a gleaming shaved head and a thick salt-and-pepper mustache, Henry could cut an imposing figure when he chose. But his crinkled grin and kind blue eyes belied his warmer nature. Henry knew both facades, and he used them to his advantage. Today, he was dressed in a black turtleneck, black leather jacket, and black jeans. He wore a hand-tooled black leather belt with a silver and turquoise belt buckle. It was an ensemble Henry revisited with little variation.
Henry was attentively brushing white dust off his black pants when he saw Archie. “Make it past the local newsies?” he asked with amusement.
Archie had been the object of much more voracious press attention, and Henry knew it. “That’s nothing.”
“You would know,” agreed Henry. “You ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Archie looked around. “This is a bank.”
“I hope you’re not sensitive to asbestos.”
“Does this seem odd to you?” Archie asked.
“I’ve always liked banks,” Henry said. “They remind me of money.”
“They all here?”
“They’re huddled together, waiting for you in the vault.”
“The vault?”
“Kidding,” Henry said. “There’s a break room. With a microwave. And a minifridge.”
“Sure. It being a bank. How’s the mood?”
“Like they’re about to see a ghost,” Henry said.
Archie waved his fingers at his friend. “Boo.”
A sink, fridge, and countertop with cabinets dominated one wall of the break room. Several small square tables had been assembled to form an ad hoc conference table. The seven detectives were sitting or standing around it, many with travel mugs of coffee. Conversation stopped dead when Archie entered.
“Good morning,” Archie said. He looked around at the group. Five of them he’d worked with on the Beauty Killer Task Force. Two were new. “I’m Archie Sheridan,” he said in a strong voice. They all knew who he was. Even the two he hadn’t met. But it gave Archie something to start out with.
The new additions were Mike Flannigan and Jeff Heil, both of medium height and build, one dark-haired, the other light-haired. Archie immediately mentally dubbed them “the Hardy Boys.” The other five were Claire Masland, Martin Ngyun, Greg Fremont, Anne Boyd, and Josh Levy. He had worked with some of these detectives for years, night and day, and, with the exception of Henry, he had not seen any of them since being released from the hospital. He had not wanted to see any of them. They looked at him now with a mixture of affection and anxiety. Archie felt bad for them. He always felt bad for people who knew what he had been through. It made them feel awkward. He knew it was up to him to make them comfortable, so they could work effectively for him, no distractions, no pity. The best tactic, he knew, was to act as if nothing had happened, no time had passed at all. Back to work, just like that. No emotional speeches. Show them that he was up to speed, in control.
“Claire,” he said, spinning around to face the petite detective. “What’s the security situation at the other schools?”
The rest of the team had been brought in that morning. But Claire and Henry had worked the case from the beginning.
Claire sat up a little bit, surprised, but pleased to be put on the spot, as he knew she would be. “After-school activities have been canceled until further notice. We’ve got four uniforms stationed at each school, and six units patrolling around each between five and seven, when he seems to take them. They’re hosting safety assemblies today. Sending letters home to the parents suggesting they don’t let their girls walk or bike to or from school.”