I’m not the least bit worried about getting caught. There is no chance of that at all. Not before it’s all over, anyway.
“Park in space thirty-three,” Molly says when I pull into the station lot. Sheila is still behind me, and she takes a spot a little further down. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Uh, no,” I say.
“What?” she asks as she opens her door and I turn the car off.
“I’m coming with you.”
“Lincoln, you can’t go in there, that’s crazy. You’re killing people.” She whispers it, even though we are still in the car. “It’s my job to arrest you.”
“Relax,” I say. “They don’t know anything. And I just want to see your work. Check it out. Make sure you’re safe. That’s my job.”
“It’s the police station, Lincoln. It’s safe.”
“It’s a very corrupt police station, Molly. You might’ve only been here for a couple weeks, but surely a person as in tune with the line between good and evil as you are can see that.”
She lets out a long sigh. “Just please, don’t make a scene.”
“What scene?” I wink at her. She does not think that’s funny because her mouth drops open in shock. Like, Are you kidding me? “I promise. Pinky swear and all that girly shit.”
That makes her shake her head with a smile and she gives in.
When we get inside, she greets a kid behind the desk as he buzzes us through to the interior of the department.
“Are you nervous?” Molly asks, holding on to my arm as we walk in. “You kinda look like you belong in handcuffs.”
I chuckle at that. But she’s right. I’m wearing my leather with the bright red anarchy patch on the shoulder, faded jeans from yesterday, and a white t-shirt. My hair is still slightly wet from our shower this morning, and my boots are thudding across the polished floor like they are heralding a menace. “No, I’m not nervous. Where’s your desk?”
“Over there,” she says, pointing to the far side of the room.
“Masters!” a fat man with a wrinkled white shirt and a protruding belly bellows from a fishbowl office. He must be the prick.
“Wait there, OK? I’ll be right back.”
“Got it,” I say, pulling her back for a kiss. She smiles into my mouth and I have to tuck down an urge to smack her ass. Humiliating women is not something I’m into though, so disrespecting her at work is out of the question.
She walks off and enters the fishbowl. Her boss points to me, still only twenty or so feet away, and Molly explains who I am. The boss nods, then pushes a button on the wall that lowers all the shades so I can’t watch.
I crack my knuckles, make my way over to the closed door, and lean against the wall to wait this out.
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Molly
“Who the fuck is that guy?” Chief asks me, pointing to Lincoln.
“My boyfriend. He just wanted to see where I work.”
“Hmmm,” he says, fingering a panel on the wall. The shades begin to lower and I have a moment of panic that I’m in serious trouble. Did he see that anarchy patch on Lincoln’s jacket? Does he realize I know more about the suicide cases and I haven’t even bothered to write up a report? “Since when do you have a man?”
I grunt out disgust. “What business is that of yours?” I like how I was all paranoid about breaking the law by helping a serial killer one moment, and offended by this misogynist asshole the next. I’m flexible like that.
“No need to get lippy, sweetheart. We had an incident last night.”
I glare at him, still pissed off about his question and even more angry about his derogatory term.
“Someone tried to kill Alastair Montgomery around three AM.”
“Who?” Jesus, thank God Lincoln was with me all night. I know this one wasn’t him.
“His son.”
“Atticus? What the hell? Why?”
“Apparently Junior went into his office and shot at him.”
“Did he kill him?” I have a wave of panic.
“No, but he tried. Missed, and then security came and took him down. I’m not clear on the rest of the details. They didn’t call us, instead Montgomery checked his son into Cathedral City Asylum.”
“Why would Alastair do that?” God, just hearing that name gives me the shivers. “That’s attempted murder. Atticus needs to be formally charged and booked.”
“Apparently Junior has a history of mental illness and this is not the first time it’s happened. He’s under the treatment of a psychiatrist and he was admitted as an inpatient. Judge Livingston signed off on the order, so we’re sitting this one out. But Montgomery senior wants your pretty ass over there ASAP to talk details.”
I mull that over for a minute, ignoring the fact that he once again sexually harassed me. “Why would I need to sort out anything? If Livingston signed off, then we’re done for now. I should be working on—”