“Jeez, Chief, you look like you just had a close encounter with Mike Tyson.”
I look up to see T.J. standing in the doorway. “Yeah, well, you should see the other guy,” I mutter. “What are you doing here?”
“Glock put out a call for assistance on the radio.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, T.J. approaches and hands it to me. “Here you go.”
“Gonna ruin it.”
“I got more. My mom buys them for me every Christmas.”
Tossing the soaked towels into a trash can, I put the handkerchief to my nose. “Thanks.”
Glock and Brower enter through the back door. An abrasion the size of a pear mars Brower’s forehead. His hair is wet with melting snow. He looks like a pit bull that just had its ass kicked by a roving band of Chihuahuas.
Glock muscles him inside. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to hit girls?”
The man with the rosacea stands at the door, craning his neck to get a better look. “Damn, that dumb sumbitch hit a cop?”
Gathering my composure, I cross to the two men and look Brower in the eye. “You want to tell us why you ran?”
“I ain’t telling you shit.”
“Either way you’re going to jail.” I look at T.J. “Pat him down and transport him, will you?”
“My pleasure.” T.J. is usually pretty laid back, but he looks pissed as he approaches Brower.
Quickly, T.J. frisks him, then checks his pockets. His hand emerges with a Baggie. “Looks like meth.” T.J. holds up the bag.
I look Brower in the eye. “If you’d just answered our questions instead of acting like an idiot, we probably never would have found this stuff.”
“I wanna call my lawyer,” he says.
“It’s going to take more than a lawyer to get you out of this one.” I look down at the handkerchief, relieved that the bleeding has stopped. I glance at Glock. “Read him his rights. Book him in. Possession. Intent to sell. Assaulting a police officer. Evading arrest. I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”
“Bitch,” Brower hisses.
Glock smacks the back of his head. “Shut up, loser.”
I smile. “Oh, and let him make his call.”
“Probably wants to call his mommy,” Glock mutters.
T.J. approaches me, his eyes taking in the blood on the front of my jacket. I’m not sure why, but the concern on his face embarrasses me. “I’m fine,” I snap.
“It’s just that your . . . um . . .” His face reddens.
I look down to see my shirt gaping. My bra is showing. The red, lacy job I ordered on a whim. Quickly, I rebutton my uniform shirt and zip my coat up to my chin. “Thanks.”
T.J. looks at the Baggie. “I’ll swing by the station, log this in and send it to BCI.”
“Any luck on the condoms?”
“Got a name on the guy who paid with cash.” Settling back into cop mode, he pulls a spiral notebook from his coat pocket. “Patrick Ewell. Lives out on Parkersburg Road.”
“That’s not far from where Amanda Horner’s body was found.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
My heart rate picks up, adrenaline of a different nature. “Get back to the station. See if he has a sheet. See if you can find a connection between Ewell and Amanda Horner. See if he was at the Brass Rail Saturday night.” That’s a lot for T.J., but I have more pressing things to take care of and time is of the essence.
“You got it, Chief.” He starts toward the door.
That’s when I spot Pickles standing by the window, smoking a cigarette, taking in the scene with the blasé expression of a seasoned cop who’s seen it all. I wonder how more than half of my small department arrived on the scene so quickly.
I start toward him. He makes eye contact with me and waits. He is a short man—not much taller than five feet—with grizzled hair and a day’s growth of whis kers. His eyes are the color of a robin’s egg and bracketed with lines as deep as a man’s finger. Wearing an old-fashioned trench and pointy-toed cowboy boots, he looks like a cross between Columbo and Gus of Lonesome Dove fame.
I extend my hand and we shake. “Welcome back, Pickles.”
He sucks hard on the cigarette and flicks it onto the floor, but not before I see the flash of emotion in his eyes. “Retirement’s for goddamn old people.”
“You up to speed on the murder?”
He nods solemnly. “Hell of a thing to happen to a young girl. Just like before. Hard to believe.”
“You do much work on the case back in the nineties?”
“Some. Seen one of the crime scenes. Gruesome shit, I’ll tell ya. I never puked so hard in my life.”
“What was the general consensus?” Pickles is smart enough to know I’m looking for information that wasn’t necessarily written in any report. Unfounded hunches or suspicions. You never know where something like that might lead.