It was a setup. He felt it immediately. There were stakes he wasn’t aware of.
Worse, what had he done to deserve this? He’d pissed someone off. Two years from his twenty, a decent career under his belt, and he was being thrown to the wolves on a case that looked damn close to a foregone conclusion.
Something else was up. Something big.
“I have to think about it.”
Bianco actually sat back in her chair and smiled. She had a nice smile, her parents had sprung for some orthodontics and her teeth were even and white. She ran her bottom lip up over the edge of her top teeth. The effect made her lips fuller, a move that he associated with prolonged use of a headgear. His son, Tad, had the same habit.
Stop thinking about her lips, Fletch.
He looked down at the file before him. What a mess.
“Of course you do. Go on home and get some rest. I always find a good night’s sleep helps me think clearly.” She stood then, stretching her back a little, almost as if to say, See, I’m tired, too. I’m working hard. I’m all kinked up and I know, I understand, what you’re going through, and shook his hand, effectively but kindly dismissing him.
He found Inez back at their respective desks. She had her nose deep in her laptop.
“Anything new?” he asked.
“No. Everything cool with you?”
“Sure,” he replied. “I’m going to go home and catch some z’s. You should, too. Meet me back here at nine, okay? We have a big project to tackle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Inez?”
“Sir?”
“You can call me Fletch.”
*
Fletcher left the JTTF office buzzing with adrenaline. Hand chosen to handle a fuck-all dog of a case that could wind up being his death sentence with Homicide. He wanted out, sure, but not like this. Not on a case that smelled to high heaven.
He lived in a row house on a quiet Capitol Hill street, catty-corner to the Longworth House Office Building, the very place he’d spent the better part of his afternoon trying to glean enough detail from the monosyllabic answers of Leighton’s staff to figure out what the hell was going on.
He kept a light on in the foyer so it looked like someone was around, though the neighborhood itself was very safe, and most of his neighbors knew he was a cop and kept an eye on his place in addition to their own. But tonight it was off. He had to think back—had he turned the switch off when he left God knows how many hours earlier? No, that was impossible, he never did. Maybe the light was out...but he had one of the new long-lasting compact fluorescent bulbs in there that was supposed to burn for five years or more. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed it, but it certainly wasn’t five years ago.
Curious.
He put his hand on the butt of his Glock and slid his key in the lock. The bolt was thrown, the bottom lock engaged, just like he left it. He twisted the knob and entered his foyer at an angle, sliding against the wall. He listened carefully, heard nothing but the normal night sounds of his house, the refrigerator rumbling quietly in the kitchen, the barometer clock on the wall by the door ticking the seconds away.
He moved quickly, clearing the house room by room, then returned to the foyer.
The switch had been turned off.
He holstered his weapon and flipped it back on. Sloppy of them. Whoever them was.
Shit. At least his instincts were right on the money. Something else was going on with the congressman’s case.
He searched the house again, more thoroughly this time, but saw nothing out of place. If it weren’t for the faux pas with the light, he wouldn’t have had any idea that someone had tossed him. A stupid environmentally conscious crook who couldn’t leave the light on had just left behind his markers.
It had to be someone from the JTTF, checking up on him. Making sure he wasn’t going to embarrass them. That he didn’t have a blow-up doll girlfriend or a drawer full of latex and whips.
Jesus, whatever happened to asking a man about his sensitive proclivities?
Then again, perhaps that was the mistake they had made with the congressman in the first place.
Sleep was dragging at him. He’d deal with this in the morning. He didn’t bother with his bed, just stretched out on the couch, his usual resting spot, kicked off his shoes and shut his eyes. He’d be able to figure all of this out later, after his batteries recharged.
Darkness enveloped the room, and he didn’t see the tiny glowing light secreted on the back edge of his television, a dusty Bermuda triangle that never got cleaned, or noticed.
*
Fletcher slept without dreams for four hours, then woke to the clamor of his cell phone. Cursing, he reached for the offending object, managed to open it and grunted, “What?”
“Fletch, thank God. I was starting to worry. I’ve been calling you for hours.”
Sam.
Fletcher groaned and rolled onto his side.
“Time is it?”
“Almost 7:30. Are you okay? You sound horrible.”