Darker Than Any Shadow - By Tina Whittle Page 0,12
working without a partner. No, he didn’t know why, sometimes detectives just did. Yes, he remembered Cummings from his time at the APD. No, he hadn’t any idea if he was a good cop or a bad cop.
He took off his jacket and draped it over my bare shoulders. I hadn’t realized I was shivering until it settled around me, warm and smelling of him, welcome even in its dampness.
I pulled it tighter. “I can’t believe I’m cold.”
“It’s shock. You’ll feel better when you can get dry.”
I moved closer to him and dropped my voice. “Have you been able to read anyone?”
“No, not clearly anyway.”
“Damn. I was hoping your secret weapon would help me sort this out.”
It was an ability both simple and astonishing—ever since The Accident, Trey could spot a lie with uncanny accuracy. The damage to his right frontal lobe had left him with an enhanced sensitivity to micro-emotive expressions, which meant that deliberate untruths lit up people’s faces like Christmas trees.
I knew for myself how good he was—I was the uncrowned queen of the necessary fib, the not-quite-on-the-money explanation, the straight-faced whopper. Dating a man with such an ability was a precarious endeavor for someone like me, someone used to a little creative editing, but it proved useful at times.
Like when I found dead bodies.
Unfortunately, when people are confronted with a violent crime, especially murder, they immediately start lying, even the innocent ones. They blank out parts of the story and twist their involvement, aggrandizing heroic moments and minimizing problematic ones. Human are lying animals, after all. It’s our birthright, along with opposable thumbs and a taste for simple sugars.
“So what about Lex? When you found him in the parking lot?”
“Hard to determine. When I asked about Jackson, his hands were shaking, and he kept his eyes averted. That could have been nervousness, however.”
“He didn’t seem nervous when I talked to him. He was downright smug, despite the fact that Jackson had just tossed his ass into a wall.”
Rico appeared from a knot of uniformed officers, looking tired and frustrated and utterly beaten up. I reached out to him, but he shook his head. That was when I noticed the second cop right behind him.
“Rico?”
“I gotta go give a statement.”
“Why?” I pushed my way over, but the cops kept moving him on.
“It’s the machine, baby girl, and I’m stuck in it for a while. I’ll call you when I get out, all right?”
He was almost out of the parking lot when Frankie bustled right up in his face. The cops pulled up tight, like their reins had gotten a yank. She was an imposing barrier, one hand on her hip, the other pointed at Rico.
“I have to talk to him.”
The cop shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but—”
She ignored him and turned to Rico. “What happened? Why are they taking you in?”
He shook his head. “Get Tai to fill you in on the details.”
“Who?”
He pointed, and she turned my way. Sudden recognition flared in her face, then a brusque appraisal as she sized me up.
She turned back to Rico. “Call me when you get finished. We need to decide how the team is going to deal with this.”
This, she said. As if a murder were some annoying complication.
As they led Rico away, I spotted a familiar figure—short, olive-skinned, his salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a ponytail, his ever-present camera around his neck. Padre, the former team leader, Rico’s role model and poet hero. We’d met several times after Rico’s performances for drinks and general adoration. I remembered him as laughing, effusive, good-natured and jovial. Tonight his expression was pinched, his eyes dark.
Frankie skewered him with a look. “You were supposed to be here hours ago.”
“I got hung up.”
“How?”
“In an interview with the paper, what does it matter?”
“It matters a lot.”
He ignored her and looked at me. “What happened?”
I explained. His face crumpled as I told the story, his features twisting first with shock, then sadness, then sympathy. He abruptly lunged at me and engulfed me in a hug.
“Hang in there, babe. It’ll be all right.”
I let him squeeze me for a while; he smelled like cigarettes and patchouli, an oddly comforting combination. When he finally released me, he took a step toward Trey like he was gonna hug him too. But then he bounced off the invisible force field that Trey kept up and settled for standing there, hands on hips.
He shook his head. “Tough night, man.”
Trey nodded. “Indeed.”
Frankie still had a bone to pick with Padre, however.