“Not really, but what’s that got to do with anything? She’s left me with a load of work. That’s what I’m worried about right now.” Turning away, she ignored him and shuffled through the paperwork on the desk.
Irritated, Cruz wandered outside, asked a few questions, but no one knew anything about where Angie had gone. The last person to see her was an older veteran, grizzled and boozy with vodka. “She close up late, man, ‘bout a couple hours after dark. Thass all I know.”
Cruz jumped in his jeep and drove to the Rosedale Police Department. What the hell happened to Angie? This disappearing act was not like the woman who’d dedicated the last ten years to rescuing down and outers.
A bad premonition washed over him. Sergei was right. Angie’s disappearing was a sign of trouble. Shit, would it end up being another murder?
At police headquarters Cruz examined the bored look on Officer Jeff Rawley’s face as he riffled idly through a stack of reports. Pretending he was busy while he manned the reception desk. How had a man who looked like an anorexic, balding version of a sumo wrestler made it through the Police Academy?
Across the room in the detective division, Andrew Flood glanced over at them with his usual smirk. “Ease up on Rawley, man. You know the drill, twenty-four hours at least before we can file a missing person’s report.”
“Yeah,” Rawley echoed. “It’s not like some twelve-year-old disappeared. We got better things to do, even if you don’t.”
“Angie Hunt is a responsible woman,” Cruz answered patiently. “She cares for her charges. She wouldn’t bail on them without a good reason.”
Flood shrugged. “Tell it to someone who cares.” He rose from his desk, shoved past Cruz, giving him a little bump on the way to the coffee machine.
“You know what,” Cruz said, “Rosedale PD is full of lazy bastards like you two.”
“Oh, yeah?” Rawley retorted, hands fluttering nervously over the items on his desk.
If Cruz said “boo,” the man might jump, but the parole officer decided to let it go. Finding Angie was more important. Protecting Frankie and Cole was more important. The murders were more important.
Cruz appealed to Detective Flood. Like Rawley, Flood had a lousy attitude toward the homeless population in Rosedale, and he didn’t hide it, which was one of the reasons he’d only risen to detective, second grade. When he saw Cruz walk toward him, he snarled, “Back off, Santiago. I got enough on my plate with these homicides.”
Cruz stared him down, noting the sweat that broke out on the detective’s forehead, the tight shoulders, the anxious eyes. Maybe the cases were getting to him. Leads were dwindling to nothing, and Flood acted like he’d given up.
Or didn’t care, more likely. He was a hard-ass, who basically despised the entire homeless community. He should never have headed the case.
Cruz stood close, eyeing him pugnaciously.
Flood edged backward, tried to act nonchalant. “So Angie Hunt’s got herself into trouble.”
“Why would you say that?”
“It was just a matter of time. She’s an ex-junkie, works all day with those losers, and makes my job harder than it should be.”
“How’s that?” Cruz followed Flood back to his desk. When the detective sat down with his coffee, Cruz perched on the edge without invitation.
“You don’t want to irritate me, San-tee-AG-o,” Flood warned, sipping his coffee.
Cruz leaned forward, up in Flood’s business. “Oh, yeah, why’s that?”
Flood cleared his throat, had to look up to Cruz. “Angie’s a bleeding heart do-gooder. Always on the side of ex-cons, even when they break the law – hell, especially if they break the law.”
“No one’s breaking the law right now, and Angie Hunt’s missing.” Cruz towered over Flood. “Angie could be another victim like Dickey Hinchey and Valerie Hightower.”
Flood sneered. “So now you’re a detective, is that it? Why don’t you get the hell out of my office and leave the investigation to me?”
“You just man up and do your job, Flood.” Cruz gave him an icy glare and walked away, flinging the last words over his shoulder. “Or someone will have to do it for you.”
“Oh, yeah, sez who?” Flood muttered, but not loud enough for the big man to hear.
Chapter 50
Frankie awoke from a light sleep and checked on Cole. In spite of her crude surgical techniques he was holding his own. So this is what medical practice was like a hundred years ago, she thought. Clean, cut, and wait.
He was still running a low-grade fever, possibly indicative of an beginning infection, but now rested quietly on her bed upstairs, looking much better since his wash-up. Luckily, she had plenty of pain killers on hand, along with her surgical kit supplies.
Frankie was fond of the ex-con, but knew when this ordeal was over with, she’d have to burn the sheets and bed coverings he lay on. The blood, the stains, the infected areas – she didn’t want any reminders when this ended.