lifted his coffee cup and swallowed the last dregs of oil refinery leftovers.
Barker, a.k.a. Bloodhound , peered at him from over the top of his bifocals. “You could peel paint with that stuff, JonJon. Imagine what it’s doing to your insides.”
DJ looked up from the file. “Again?”
“Again what?”
“Again with the JonJon.”
“It’s your fault, cowboy. I don’t know what life’s like down yonder in Texas, but ‘round these here parts, you don’t offer a man the noose that’s gonna hang you.”
“You need to work on that accent. A real Texan would whip your ass just for trying.”
“You’re saying you’re not a real Texan?”
DJ shook his head and grinned. Similar exchanges happened at least once a day, and he’d taken the ribbing as a sign that Barker was warming up to him five years later. Up until about six months ago, the most that could be said about their relationship was ‘same car, same job.’ But once DJ had solved a case that had perplexed even the great and mighty Bloodhound, a microscopic seam had opened in the older detective’s armor. They weren’t friends, yet, but at least DJ got to see what respect looked like when viewed through a pair of binoculars.
And in truth, ‘respect’ wasn’t the right word. He felt like he deserved it, but the way Barker treated him suggested he’d yet to earn it. Not from Barker, not from the other detectives. One day, though, they’d be looking up to him. One day.
Their three-hour window had closed thirty minutes earlier. Barker had insisted that they return to the office and review the missing husband’s file because his instinct said that Brian Winthrop was the catalyst. DJ had complied without question, partly out of deference to the senior detective, and partly because he’d witnessed the accuracy of Barker’s initial reactions so many times that he knew that it was as reliable as the sun rising.
Barker’s main mantra—the one that had resulted in so many solved cases—was simple: Nature gave us the tools, but not all of us know how to use them properly.
But now, with a short file and no new leads, DJ wished he’d pressed harder to get out into the field and start looking and asking questions. Rather than digging through one of the most confounding cases the department had seen in the past ten years, according to the notes, they needed to be focusing on the present. Detective Wallace, who’d retired a year ago, was so dumbfounded by the complete disappearance of Brian Winthrop that he had left the following in his records: “Better chance of finding Amelia Earhart.”
Barker said, “Quit looking at the clock, DJ. I know what time it is,” with the tolerance of a bemused grandfather. “If you hadn’t let Mrs. Winthrop go, we might have a little more to guide us.”
“I told you already, she handed me the note and ran out. What was I supposed to do, tackle her in the parking lot?”
“You could’ve tailed her. Less chance of a lawsuit.”
They had been through this at least three times already. “Like I said, she asked me not to follow her.” He didn’t mention that she had ordered him not to follow her.
“Since when do you listen to somebody who could be a suspect?”
“Since you taught me to trust my instincts. And she’s not a suspect.”
“People lie, DJ—”
“‘ Even when they think they’re telling the truth. ’ I know that, Barker, but whatever it was, it had to do with that note and her kids. No question.”
“She could be dead by now.”
DJ didn’t have a response for that, but he hoped it wasn’t true. He looked down at his desk, at the note Sara had found on her windshield, safely contained in a plastic evidence bag.
Are you ready to play the game?
He held it up and asked, “So what do we have here? What is this?”
Barker took off his glasses, and began chewing on the earpiece. “Conundrum,” he said. “It’s a sign
Barker, a.k.a. Bloodhound , peered at him from over the top of his bifocals. “You could peel paint with that stuff, JonJon. Imagine what it’s doing to your insides.”
DJ looked up from the file. “Again?”
“Again what?”
“Again with the JonJon.”
“It’s your fault, cowboy. I don’t know what life’s like down yonder in Texas, but ‘round these here parts, you don’t offer a man the noose that’s gonna hang you.”
“You need to work on that accent. A real Texan would whip your ass just for trying.”
“You’re saying you’re not a real Texan?”
DJ shook his head and grinned. Similar exchanges happened at least once a day, and he’d taken the ribbing as a sign that Barker was warming up to him five years later. Up until about six months ago, the most that could be said about their relationship was ‘same car, same job.’ But once DJ had solved a case that had perplexed even the great and mighty Bloodhound, a microscopic seam had opened in the older detective’s armor. They weren’t friends, yet, but at least DJ got to see what respect looked like when viewed through a pair of binoculars.
And in truth, ‘respect’ wasn’t the right word. He felt like he deserved it, but the way Barker treated him suggested he’d yet to earn it. Not from Barker, not from the other detectives. One day, though, they’d be looking up to him. One day.
Their three-hour window had closed thirty minutes earlier. Barker had insisted that they return to the office and review the missing husband’s file because his instinct said that Brian Winthrop was the catalyst. DJ had complied without question, partly out of deference to the senior detective, and partly because he’d witnessed the accuracy of Barker’s initial reactions so many times that he knew that it was as reliable as the sun rising.
Barker’s main mantra—the one that had resulted in so many solved cases—was simple: Nature gave us the tools, but not all of us know how to use them properly.
But now, with a short file and no new leads, DJ wished he’d pressed harder to get out into the field and start looking and asking questions. Rather than digging through one of the most confounding cases the department had seen in the past ten years, according to the notes, they needed to be focusing on the present. Detective Wallace, who’d retired a year ago, was so dumbfounded by the complete disappearance of Brian Winthrop that he had left the following in his records: “Better chance of finding Amelia Earhart.”
Barker said, “Quit looking at the clock, DJ. I know what time it is,” with the tolerance of a bemused grandfather. “If you hadn’t let Mrs. Winthrop go, we might have a little more to guide us.”
“I told you already, she handed me the note and ran out. What was I supposed to do, tackle her in the parking lot?”
“You could’ve tailed her. Less chance of a lawsuit.”
They had been through this at least three times already. “Like I said, she asked me not to follow her.” He didn’t mention that she had ordered him not to follow her.
“Since when do you listen to somebody who could be a suspect?”
“Since you taught me to trust my instincts. And she’s not a suspect.”
“People lie, DJ—”
“‘ Even when they think they’re telling the truth. ’ I know that, Barker, but whatever it was, it had to do with that note and her kids. No question.”
“She could be dead by now.”
DJ didn’t have a response for that, but he hoped it wasn’t true. He looked down at his desk, at the note Sara had found on her windshield, safely contained in a plastic evidence bag.
Are you ready to play the game?
He held it up and asked, “So what do we have here? What is this?”
Barker took off his glasses, and began chewing on the earpiece. “Conundrum,” he said. “It’s a sign
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