of reports. “But you’re fucking starting to annoy me. Why don’t you go get us a couple of lattés.”
“Fuck you,” Pinky said. But she got up, pulled on his nondescript gray sport coat, and headed for the door.
Personally, Louis didn’t think Pinky’s lapse was going to make any difference in the investigation. Three victims, and only one had been compromised as far as evidence. There was still plenty to work with. He was ready to forget it and move on. Louis wasn’t the kind of guy who spent much time thinking about psychology, but he had a feeling her arranging the little girl had something to do with the fact her own sister had been murdered when she was young. But he’d eat seagull shit before he brought it up with Pinky. She’d bite his head off if he got all weird with her. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone else know. Besides, it was all going to blow over. A small mark against her in the scheme of things. Just as long as it didn’t become a habit.
Maybe he’d fuck up one day and Pinky would have to cut him some slack.
Louis laughed to himself. He hadn’t fucked up yet and he wasn’t about to start now.
Louis actually had his first brush with Joe and Eddie nearly twenty-five years earlier, shortly after he first took off his patrol uniform and went to work in homicide. Tragedies like the one the Jones boys went through, though not so uncommon these days, had been a real rarity in the much-smaller Seattle of the time.
Louis never actually saw the brothers when they were little, but he had been through the crime scene, and he’d been as touched as everyone else by the story of little Eddie. Pinky had, too. It had been a strange puzzle at first, until they managed to piece together the fact that the child had tried to clean up the entire crime scene all by himself to erase any trace of what had happened.
Some kind of pathetic attempt to make things all right.
As odd as the whole case was, the strangest details never made the news. Things were different back then. But of course everyone in homicide knew about it. Something, Louis realized, that neither his bosses at the time nor the prosecutors wanted to look at too closely.
He had never known what to think about it himself.
Then, 25 years later, a grown-up Joe, flustered and unprofessional, began pestering the cops about getting crime-scene work for his janitorial business. After getting shuttled around for a while, he somehow ended up at Louis’s desk.
Rambling, stumbling Joe started babbling on about his developmentally disabled brother, Eddie, who seemed to have a special knack and a strong desire to clean up blood. Louis had no idea what Joe was talking about. He was about to shuttle him out of the office when Pinky walked over to the desk and started asking questions.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Joe.”
“Joe what?”
“Joe Jones.”
“And your brother wants to clean up crime scenes.”
“We have a janitorial business already. We’re licensed and bonded and—”
“What’s his name?”
“Sparkle Cleaners.”
“No, son, what’s your brother’s name?”
“Eddie. Eddie Jones.” Joe fumbled for a cigarette.
“You know you can’t smoke that here, right? Listen…everything’s going to be alright. Hang tight here a minute, would you? I need to talk to Detective Louis. George?”
Louis followed Pinky back to her desk. Joe was fidgeting nervously across the office, combing back his hair with a shaky hand and looking as though he wanted to jump up and run for the exit.
“You know what I think?” Pinky said. “Remember that thing in Georgetown, like—jeez, over twenty years ago? That family? You were here then, right? Shit, I was working the switchboard. Still in college. I took the 911. Big deal back then.”
“Yeah,” Louis said. “Sure. I remember. I wasn’t even homicide then.”
“Yeah. Remember the little kid who tried to clean it all up?”
“How the hell could I forget?
“Fuck you,” Pinky said. But she got up, pulled on his nondescript gray sport coat, and headed for the door.
Personally, Louis didn’t think Pinky’s lapse was going to make any difference in the investigation. Three victims, and only one had been compromised as far as evidence. There was still plenty to work with. He was ready to forget it and move on. Louis wasn’t the kind of guy who spent much time thinking about psychology, but he had a feeling her arranging the little girl had something to do with the fact her own sister had been murdered when she was young. But he’d eat seagull shit before he brought it up with Pinky. She’d bite his head off if he got all weird with her. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone else know. Besides, it was all going to blow over. A small mark against her in the scheme of things. Just as long as it didn’t become a habit.
Maybe he’d fuck up one day and Pinky would have to cut him some slack.
Louis laughed to himself. He hadn’t fucked up yet and he wasn’t about to start now.
Louis actually had his first brush with Joe and Eddie nearly twenty-five years earlier, shortly after he first took off his patrol uniform and went to work in homicide. Tragedies like the one the Jones boys went through, though not so uncommon these days, had been a real rarity in the much-smaller Seattle of the time.
Louis never actually saw the brothers when they were little, but he had been through the crime scene, and he’d been as touched as everyone else by the story of little Eddie. Pinky had, too. It had been a strange puzzle at first, until they managed to piece together the fact that the child had tried to clean up the entire crime scene all by himself to erase any trace of what had happened.
Some kind of pathetic attempt to make things all right.
As odd as the whole case was, the strangest details never made the news. Things were different back then. But of course everyone in homicide knew about it. Something, Louis realized, that neither his bosses at the time nor the prosecutors wanted to look at too closely.
He had never known what to think about it himself.
Then, 25 years later, a grown-up Joe, flustered and unprofessional, began pestering the cops about getting crime-scene work for his janitorial business. After getting shuttled around for a while, he somehow ended up at Louis’s desk.
Rambling, stumbling Joe started babbling on about his developmentally disabled brother, Eddie, who seemed to have a special knack and a strong desire to clean up blood. Louis had no idea what Joe was talking about. He was about to shuttle him out of the office when Pinky walked over to the desk and started asking questions.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Joe.”
“Joe what?”
“Joe Jones.”
“And your brother wants to clean up crime scenes.”
“We have a janitorial business already. We’re licensed and bonded and—”
“What’s his name?”
“Sparkle Cleaners.”
“No, son, what’s your brother’s name?”
“Eddie. Eddie Jones.” Joe fumbled for a cigarette.
“You know you can’t smoke that here, right? Listen…everything’s going to be alright. Hang tight here a minute, would you? I need to talk to Detective Louis. George?”
Louis followed Pinky back to her desk. Joe was fidgeting nervously across the office, combing back his hair with a shaky hand and looking as though he wanted to jump up and run for the exit.
“You know what I think?” Pinky said. “Remember that thing in Georgetown, like—jeez, over twenty years ago? That family? You were here then, right? Shit, I was working the switchboard. Still in college. I took the 911. Big deal back then.”
“Yeah,” Louis said. “Sure. I remember. I wasn’t even homicide then.”
“Yeah. Remember the little kid who tried to clean it all up?”
“How the hell could I forget?
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