Page 64 of Flint’s Strike

“His name was Roger Haight. Fifty-four years old. No family. But he had a car, an apartment, and a job. You never even bothered to run his goddamn prints.”

“So?” Mallon lumbers to his feet. He’s got at least ten inches on me, with the build of a linebacker. Nate matches his movement, a lean wall of coiled strength between me and a guy who could probably crush both of us without breaking a sweat. Except guys like him always underestimate how fast my partner can move.

“So…according to the autopsy report, this homeless drunk ended up with bruises to the soft palette, marks on his jaw that are consistent with someone forcing his mouth open, and duct tape residue on his socks and his forearms. Oh, and his stomach was fuckin’ empty. A blood alcohol of point-one-four and no food? He’d have been unconscious.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” Despite his defensive tone, Mallon’s starting to figure out how fucked he is.

“I’m just spitballing,” Nate drawls, “but I think it’s called police work? Help me out, Parker. That sound right to you?”

“I’ve heard of it. Doubt Phil has, though. If so, he’d have read this report and figured out that someone duct taped his John Doe’s arms and ankles, forced alcohol down his throat, and then threw him over the side of that fire escape.”

Mallon stares down at the report, his bravado fading like someone stuck a pin into a balloon and is letting out all the air. “Look, the guy didn’t have ID. I was buried under ten other cases that needed closing. I didn’t have time⁠—”

“You’d have made time if you’d looked past the vodka bottles,” I say.

Nate gets right in Mallon’s face. “Here’s where we’re at, Phil. Roger Haight’s death is now connected to an active Ranger investigation. We’re taking the case. I need everything in your original file, as well as access to any existing evidence you or the Medical Examiner have. Today. With full chain of custody documentation. Got it?”

“You can’t just walk in here and demand⁠—”

“Yes,” Nate says. “We can.”

I smile sweetly. “And if you have a problem with that, take it up with Captain Vern. I’d be happy to show him what’s in this file.”

“That conversation won’t go well for you, Phil.” Nate smirks, his posture so loose and relaxed, most people would assume he was about to flop down in a chair and take a nap. But three years has taught me this is exactly when my partner’s at his most dangerous.

Mallon stares at us, his mouth opening and closing twice before his shoulders slump. “Fine. Take it. See if I care.” I pass him the form I filled out before I left the station last night, and he scribbles his signature at the bottom. “Done. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

As soon as we reach the parking lot, Nate pulls his keys from his pocket. “I want it on the record that I did not make the very obvious joke about Mallon not being able to see what’s right in front of him. It took real restraint.”

I laugh hard enough, I almost double over. “So noted. By the time you get back to the station, we’ll have your commendation laminated and everything.”

He unlocks the Impala, and a wave of heat escapes from the interior of the car while I hit the remote start button on my key fob. “Go ahead and laugh, Captain Speed Limits Are Merely Suggestions. I always get there in the end.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Parker

Nate and I don’t make it three steps past the bullpen before AJ pokes his head out of his office. “You two. In here. Now.”

Shit.

“I did nothing,” Nate declares. “And Parker got through the whole Mallon bullshit without punching anyone.”

AJ drops into his chair, brows shooting toward his hair line. “Are you feelin’ okay, Parker?”

I’d roll my eyes if AJ hadn’t looked so serious when he called us in. “I only punch people who threaten Grace. Or Emi. Or Isabel. Or…” I stop before I dig myself a hole I can’t get out of. “Never mind. What’s goin’ on?”

“Mallon give you any hassle about accessin’ the Haight file?” He takes a sip of coffee, grimaces, and sets the mug down.

“Nah,” Nate says. “He knows what’ll happen to him if his shoddy police work sees the light of day.”

“Good.” AJ slides a piece of paper across his desk. “The state’s communications office wants the two of you—and Flint—to schedule a press conference at four p.m. today to talk about these fires.”

I scan the printout. AJ’s being…diplomatic at best.

The Department of Public Safety Media Relations is calling a joint press conference for 1600 today. Captain Parker Elmore and Captain Nate Hardison with the Ranger Division, and Eliot Flint with SFMO will appear and speak to the deaths that occurred at the Aldrich Street fire and any possible linkage to the fires in Williamson County. This office has received four separate inquiries in the past thirty-six hours. This is non-negotiable.

“Since when does Media Relations get to tell us anything is non-negotiable?” I ask.