his mind. They had a shit ton of unanswered questions. Samuel Treyson was still an enigma. He didn’t have a bead on the man. A successful businessman and all-around good guy with a wife and three full-time lovers, and yet, he ended up in a warehouse with his jugular sliced wide open. They needed to start putting together the pieces of Samuel’s last hours. He glanced at his watch. It was going to be another long fucking day.
7
Kallie unassed her desk chair, and her spine cracked in protest. They’d established their white board. They had the lovers and the wife listed. They’d accessed the man’s online calendar, and the warrant had come through for the apps on Samuel’s phone. Hope City's crime lab and tech department had printed the information for them. The questions they still had were numerous and daunting. There weren't enough waking hours in the day to get everything done. Right now, it was a matter of waiting for information and completing additional interviews as needed. She’d forgotten how much she really fucking hated waiting.
“Come on.” Brock rose and grabbed his green military field jacket, slipping it on. There was a dress code for homicide detectives, but going by the detectives in this precinct, it was ignored. Jeans and sweaters seemed to be the standard. She was going to love working here.
She didn’t question where they were going. She just slipped on her jacket, grabbed her shit, and followed her new partner. It was almost midnight. They’d rehashed the interviews, reviewed the statements, and looked at crime scene photos until she could recite in detail every article found in each photo.
"Detective King, have you made any headway on the case?"
"Detective, is this your partner? Ma'am, what's your name?"
"Detective King, care to comment on the allegations of nepotism, that you're too junior to lead this investigation?"
Kallie kept her head down, hands in her pockets, and followed Brock's wide shoulders through the crowd. Her partner didn't flinch at the attack. Stoic and unbending he moved forward. For fuck's sake, it was the middle of the night and the vultures were still circling.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. After they drove away from the station, she clutched it glanced at the text. Fucking Rich.
>I have your telephone number. I will find you.
She should have blocked his number, but her gut told her having an eye on his particular brand of crazy would be beneficial in the long run. She could get another number, but then she wouldn't have a way to monitor his insanity. So, she'd deal with the threats and taunts. Rich would be a problem, no matter what steps she took. He had friends on the force before he went to prison. If one of them had contacts, he could eventually track her to Atlanta and from there to here.
"Anything wrong?" Brock asked when she pocketed the phone.
"What? No. Nothing that needs attention right now." Soon, but not now.
Brock maneuvered the Crown Vic into a parallel parking slot in front of a brick building. The two-some exited the vehicle and trudged up four flights of stairs. Brock fished in his pocket for a set of keys and opened the door.
“What are we doing?” Kallie asked as he turned on the light and strode down the hall.
“I need to get Fester before I take you home.”
“Who the hell is Fester, and I don’t remember asking for a ride home.”
Brock swooped down and grabbed a huge cat that wandered over to him. The cat’s long orange hair looked like someone had plugged him into an electrical outlet.
“Fester, Kallie. Kallie, Fester. I’m cat sitting until my partner, Jordan, gets back. We need to grab the food and cat litter. I have a box at my apartment.”
The cat meowed and clawed Brock’s coat, pulling himself up and settling his gnarly-haired body over one shoulder. The poor thing looked like someone had given it a home perm and let it over-process. Its forelegs hung limply over Brock’s shoulder, and the cat purred like a motorboat. Brock chuckled, supporting the animal by holding a hand under its rear legs as he headed further into the apartment.
“You know, I have to ask. How the fuck is it that Samuel Treyson is screwing three lovers and a wife, and people like you and me end up cat sitting?” She was tired, but it was a good tired, and damn it, she liked Brock. The man didn’t take any shit, and his methods, so far, had been