a crime scene. It wasn’t relevant to the case, and its absence wasn’t noticed, just the spoils of war. After all, his uncle had taken plenty of booty from dead soldiers on Iwo Jima. Back in the day, at Chicago PD, the evidence locker had been one big bazaar. In fact, it was there that Czarcik got his first taste of Colombian cocaine. In some ways, this sample had spoiled him. Finding a reliable supplier on the street whose shit was as pure was no easy feat.
He would of course miss IDA. Since access from the road was all but impossible, if he needed her, he would have to call Corrine, who just happened to be walking toward him at that moment.
“Speak of the devil,” he said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied.
“You need something?”
“Actually, I came to say goodbye.”
Czarcik didn’t respond.
Corrine continued. “The boss didn’t tell me much, only that you’d be on the road for a month or so and that I was to continue to support you and address any request in a timely matter.”
“There you go.”
She watched him gather his things. “You’re not coming back, are you?”
He stopped. Looked up at her. “What makes you say that?”
She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t know, really. This just has that feel to it.”
“I’ll be back,” Czarcik promised. “And you’ll have plenty of time to think of new things to bust my balls about.”
She chuckled, then said, “Paul, I know we’re not really friends. Hell, I don’t even know if I like you very much. But I will miss you. Things will be a lot less interesting without you around.”
He extended his hand. Stiff. Formal.
Corrine ignored it, stepped up to him, and punched him playfully in the chest. Then she walked away, laughing.
Once Corrine was gone, Czarcik did a final dummy check, just to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything of importance.
As he turned to leave his desk for the last time, he nearly bumped into a woman. He stammered “pardon me,” out of habit, but she was the one who had invaded his personal space.
He had never seen the woman before, and the first things he noticed were her deep-blue eyes. More opal than ice, as if their color wasn’t quite fixed but fluctuating. The shape of her face was Eastern European, but removed by a generation or two. Raven hair offset the pools of sapphire that now held him captive. She was pretty enough to be an escort, thought Czarcik. But if she was, he would have remembered her. And he was sure he hadn’t seen her before.
“Are you Detective Czarcik?” she asked, pronouncing his name correctly, which he chalked up to familiarity with a Slavic tongue.
“Czarcik, yes,” he repeated.
The woman made no apology for her bold entrance, which Czarcik found both off-putting and strangely appealing. “I was told you’re the person I should speak with.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied, unconcerned with appearances, “but as you can see, I was about to leave. Whoever directed you to me must have been misinformed.”
He walked past her, and she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. Another audacious move. “It’s about your case.”
“Any information you might have about the Fernandez murders you can share with Chief Eldridge Watkins of the Chicago Police Department. The reception desk will be able to tell you where you can find—”
“No, your other case.”
He swore he caught the hint of a smile, as if she knew she was about to spook him.
“A judge in Texas named Jeral Robertson.”
Czarcik sat right back down, as if the color that drained from his face was physically pulling him into the chair. He tried to maintain his composure and licked his lips, afraid his voice might crack if he spoke.
For a brief moment, he wished that Groucho could be here next to him. The comedian would certainly appreciate the irony. They had each tried so hard to keep the judge their little secret. And now, this secret was being casually revealed by another stranger.
Czarcik reached over, grabbed a chair from the adjacent desk, and pulled it over. He motioned for the woman to sit down. “What about Jeral Robertson?” he asked quietly, never taking his eyes off her.
“I know who his killer is.”
“The judge’s killer?” He wanted to make sure there was no miscommunication.
“Yes.”
“How do you know that?” Czarcik asked.
“Because he’s my husband.”
SIXTEEN
Twenty minutes later, Detective Czarcik found himself sitting across the table from Chloe Langdon, no closer to determining the true color of her