driver’s license, then talk things over with the chief. Anybody got an issue with that?”
Sanchez shook his head. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m the lead anyway. I’ll let Wemer know.”
Lena gave Sanchez a look and knew that he meant it. Even more, she knew that he was used to it. Rhodes’s sister had breast cancer. Over the last three months, Tito had been covering for
him, working overtime while Rhodes took days off to drive up to her farm in Oxnard.
“What about the witness?” Rhodes said. “This video’s only five seconds long. Whoever recorded it probably saw the whole thing from start to finish. And why is the
envelope addressed to Lena? Why isn’t there any postage?”
Barrera turned to her. “This didn’t come through the mail room?”
“A messenger dropped it off at the front desk.”
“I’ll check on it,” he said. “Now let’s get started. Let’s do it.”
Lena met Rhodes’s eyes. Everyone was in sync. But as she packed up, her thoughts returned to the victim—how she lived and who she was. Whether or not she had parents who might be
waiting for her. A husband, or even a child. What it would be like to tell Jennifer McBride’s family that she had been murdered. That their loved one had been mutilated by a madman.
Lena didn’t need to eat lunch to keep going.
She jotted McBride’s address on a piece of scratch paper, then looked over at Rhodes. He had returned to his desk for his keys and was getting into his jacket. He looked rough and ready
and all wound up, just like she was. She could see it on his face.
8
T hey ran across the street into the garage. Rhodes pointed at the Crown Vic backed into a space beside the guard shack.
The car looked like it had been to the body shop and returned before the job was done. It was primed, but not painted—the color of dusk, the color of junk—gun-metal gray.
“I’ll drive down,” he shouted. “You can bring us back.”
They jumped in, and he fired up the engine. Hitting the strobes on the dash, he pulled onto the street and accelerated through the red light. Ten minutes later, they were rolling down the Santa
Monica Freeway at a ragged eighty-five miles an hour. Bobbing and weaving their way through heavy traffic directly into the winter sun.
Lena lowered her visor. As she watched the city go by at high speed, her mind began to drift and she looked back over at Rhodes. He hadn’t said a word since they left Parker Center. She
could see him thinking something over. She could see the sadness in his eyes. Rhodes was a detective-three with ten years more experience than her. But he was more than that. If the timing had been
different, they easily could have become lovers.
“You okay?” she asked.
He turned and glanced at her.
“You were on the phone when I walked in. Was it your sister?”
He nodded. “They’ve set a date. Her operation’s on Monday.”
“You going up?”
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ve been talking to her off and on all morning. I left a message on your machine at home. You just haven’t gotten it yet.”
He grinned at her, then turned back to the road. Lena knew his sister was all that he had left. His parents were gone and there were no other siblings. Like Lena, if his sister’s health
failed, Rhodes would be the last one standing.
“What did she say?”
He shrugged. “She was talking about bees.”
“What do mean, bees?”
“Honeybees,” he said. “The kind that fly around in the air.”
“Okay. So why was she talking about honeybees?”
“She says they’re dying. It won’t affect her place because they grow lettuce. But her neighbor keeps orange groves. If all the bees die, then there’s no way to pollinate
the trees. She’s not worried about her surgery on Monday. She’s worried about her neighbor losing his farm. Kids growing up without knowing what an orange is. I guess that’s why I
love her so much.”
Another smile spread across his
Sanchez shook his head. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m the lead anyway. I’ll let Wemer know.”
Lena gave Sanchez a look and knew that he meant it. Even more, she knew that he was used to it. Rhodes’s sister had breast cancer. Over the last three months, Tito had been covering for
him, working overtime while Rhodes took days off to drive up to her farm in Oxnard.
“What about the witness?” Rhodes said. “This video’s only five seconds long. Whoever recorded it probably saw the whole thing from start to finish. And why is the
envelope addressed to Lena? Why isn’t there any postage?”
Barrera turned to her. “This didn’t come through the mail room?”
“A messenger dropped it off at the front desk.”
“I’ll check on it,” he said. “Now let’s get started. Let’s do it.”
Lena met Rhodes’s eyes. Everyone was in sync. But as she packed up, her thoughts returned to the victim—how she lived and who she was. Whether or not she had parents who might be
waiting for her. A husband, or even a child. What it would be like to tell Jennifer McBride’s family that she had been murdered. That their loved one had been mutilated by a madman.
Lena didn’t need to eat lunch to keep going.
She jotted McBride’s address on a piece of scratch paper, then looked over at Rhodes. He had returned to his desk for his keys and was getting into his jacket. He looked rough and ready
and all wound up, just like she was. She could see it on his face.
8
T hey ran across the street into the garage. Rhodes pointed at the Crown Vic backed into a space beside the guard shack.
The car looked like it had been to the body shop and returned before the job was done. It was primed, but not painted—the color of dusk, the color of junk—gun-metal gray.
“I’ll drive down,” he shouted. “You can bring us back.”
They jumped in, and he fired up the engine. Hitting the strobes on the dash, he pulled onto the street and accelerated through the red light. Ten minutes later, they were rolling down the Santa
Monica Freeway at a ragged eighty-five miles an hour. Bobbing and weaving their way through heavy traffic directly into the winter sun.
Lena lowered her visor. As she watched the city go by at high speed, her mind began to drift and she looked back over at Rhodes. He hadn’t said a word since they left Parker Center. She
could see him thinking something over. She could see the sadness in his eyes. Rhodes was a detective-three with ten years more experience than her. But he was more than that. If the timing had been
different, they easily could have become lovers.
“You okay?” she asked.
He turned and glanced at her.
“You were on the phone when I walked in. Was it your sister?”
He nodded. “They’ve set a date. Her operation’s on Monday.”
“You going up?”
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ve been talking to her off and on all morning. I left a message on your machine at home. You just haven’t gotten it yet.”
He grinned at her, then turned back to the road. Lena knew his sister was all that he had left. His parents were gone and there were no other siblings. Like Lena, if his sister’s health
failed, Rhodes would be the last one standing.
“What did she say?”
He shrugged. “She was talking about bees.”
“What do mean, bees?”
“Honeybees,” he said. “The kind that fly around in the air.”
“Okay. So why was she talking about honeybees?”
“She says they’re dying. It won’t affect her place because they grow lettuce. But her neighbor keeps orange groves. If all the bees die, then there’s no way to pollinate
the trees. She’s not worried about her surgery on Monday. She’s worried about her neighbor losing his farm. Kids growing up without knowing what an orange is. I guess that’s why I
love her so much.”
Another smile spread across his
Similar Books
