Page 63 of Flint’s Strike

Before anything more happens between us, I have to tell her about the fire that almost killed me. And the man—no, the twenty-two-year-old kid—who’s dead in my place.

“Eliot?” she asks, brows drawn together. “You went somewhere.”

Fuck.

“Just thinkin’ about how much I’d like to see you knock that wannabe detective down a few notches.”

I force a smile. It’s a bullshit excuse, but it ain’t exactly a lie. I’d love to see Parker in her element. I’d love to see her in any element.

She laughs and takes a couple of steps backwards. “Sorry. Video evidence would be too damning. I’m aiming for plausible deniability. See you at seven.”

I watch her go—the hitch in her step almost imperceptible—until she reaches her dark red sedan. As I turn to head back inside, a shadow flickers at the corner of the building across the street. But it’s gone when I look again.

Fucking heat playing tricks on me. Time to get back to the Aldrich photos. The suppression system hasn’t given up all its secrets yet, and it’s time for me to figure out why.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Parker

Nate’s leaning against the Impala when I pull into APD’s lot, legs crossed at the ankles, a cup from Austin City Smoothies in one hand, his phone in the other.

“About time,” he says, the straw rattling against the bottom of the cup. Whatever’s clinging to the plastic looks a lot like pea soup. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“I’m three minutes early. Next time, get them to add carrots instead of wheatgrass to…whatever that concoction was.” I wave a hand in the general direction of the cup.

“Banana, wheatgrass, bee pollen, and arugula.” He straightens his shoulders like I should have known better. “Don’t judge it ’til you try it, Captain Chocolate Milkshake.”

“Oh, I’m judging it. Arugula doesn’t belong anywhere near a beverage. Now are we gonna ruin this asshole’s day or not?”

Nate tosses the cup into the trash. “I vote we ruin his whole goddamn year.”

I grin. “Even better.”

The desk sergeant takes one look at the stars pinned to our shirts and rolls his eyes. “Can I help you, Ranger?”

I step close enough to the partition, my breath leaves a small circle of fog on the glass. “Phil Mallon. Where is he?”

Without a word, the idjit presses a button under the desk. The buzzer’s loud enough, I dig my nails into my palms until the pain runs all the way up my arm. But I manage not to flinch or make a sound. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.

“Back corner of the bullpen,” the sergeant grits out.

Nate keeps his voice low as we pass through the security door. “Excellent service. Five stars. Would totally let that guy snap at us again.”

We find Mallon at his desk, a messy stack of file folders in front of him and his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear. He doesn’t acknowledge us. Doesn’t even bother to look up until Nate clears his throat and I drop Roger Haight’s case file in front of him.

“I gotta call you back,” he says, returns the receiver to its cradle, and stares at the folder. “What the fuck is this?”

“A John Doe. At least that’s what you called him when you found him off Burnet Road last April.” I flip to one of the crime scene photos. “Recognize him?”

Mallon’s hazel eyes narrow. “You wasted your morning comin’ down here, Captain. One phone call and I could’ve told you that guy got drunk and fell off a fire escape.”

I don’t bother reminding him about the voicemail from yesterday he ignored. “That guy has a name,” I grit out. “But you never bothered to find out what it was.”

“He was a homeless drunk who was squattin’ in the building next door with half a dozen bottles of vodka and a pile of piss-stained blankets. No ID. The man didn’t even have shoes.” Mallon shoves the folder back toward me. “Get outta here. I got work to do.”

“No.” Nate leans a hip on Mallon’s desk, slides the file back toward him, then crosses his arms with one of his patented glares. The kind he’ll follow up with a joke or some witty, dry comment that’ll leave the detective wondering what hit him. “Gotta hand it to you. Skipping the detecting part of being a detective is a bold strategy.”

“You Rangers think you’re better than everyone else. I didn’t skip shit. I closed a case that needed closin’.” He tries to push the file away again, but I snatch it back and pull out the medical examiner’s report.