Page 65 of Flint’s Strike

AJ eyes his coffee mug like what’s in there might have improved in the past ten seconds, then shakes his head. “Since the Castillo family went to Captain Vern at APD and asked why no one was working Delia and June’s case.”

Shit. “What did Vern say?”

“That they should talk to us.” AJ pushes to his feet and starts to pace behind his desk. “The man’s a fuckin’ idjit. I thought we’d turned a corner this past month. Hell, he even bought me coffee last time we met up. And now he pulls this shit. His chief’s puttin’ him on the podium next to you, so when he gets here, you’re gonna have to play nice.”

Nate leans closer to me. “That means no punching him.”

“I know what it means. I don’t have to like it.” I rub a hand lightly over the bandage on my thigh. The wound is healed up enough to itch, and it’s been driving me up a wall since before the sun even thought about rising. “What time is he gracing us with his presence?”

“Three thirty,” AJ says. “Get Flint over here. Prepare a statement, answers to all the usual questions, and we’ll review it before Vern shows up.”

He braces his hands on the back of his chair, gripping it hard enough some of the blood leaves his fingertips. “Three dead in less than a week. We’ve gotta get this one right. Before anyone else dies. Get out of here. You’ve got work to do.”

By three, the conference room looks like someone threw a grenade into a paint store. Nate stands at the whiteboard, five different dry erase pens tucked into his back pocket, and a sixth in his hand. There are enough colorful arrows up there to make a subway map jealous.

AJ leans against the far wall. “This is good. Disturbing, but good.”

“As long as no one says the word pattern, we might be okay,” Nate says.

Eliot looks up from his laptop. “Care to explain?”

“One reporter hears the word pattern, they’ll start asking why we’re using it for fires in two different counties. They’ll start asking about the accelerant, about what else the fires have in common, and I’ll have to recite useless facts about the origins of the word ‘pattern’ for at least two hours before everyone gets tired of listening to me and goes home.”

“Two hours. On the etymology of the word pattern? I’d like to see you try.” Eliot shakes his head, and I cringe. He has no idea what he just signed himself up for.

“Pattern. From patron. Same word, actually, all the way from its origins in Latin. Pater meant father. That evolved to patronus, then the Old French word—patron. Meant protector and template at the same time. Sometime in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, people got tired of being confused and that’s how pattern was born. Either that or the guys responsible for dictionaries got paid by the word.”

Eliot turns to me. “Is he serious?”

“About this? Yes.” I check my watch. “Nate, that was ninety seconds. Not two hours.”

“Eliot said I couldn’t go two hours. I’m just getting started,” Nate deadpans.

“No, you ain’t.” AJ pushes off the wall. “Captain Vern’s gonna walk in here any minute. Clean up this mess and get your talkin’ points in order. Press conference starts in less than an hour.”

I stare at the table. Eliot and I barely touched our lunches. Nate wanted food from some place called Om Blends and Bowls, and since I didn’t recognize a single thing on the menu, I told him to order for me.

Big mistake.

My bowl had soggy granola, a deep purple puree that tasted like wet feet, and strips of mango that had seen better days. Eliot didn’t fare much better. Though his bowl had tofu, at least.

I sweep the containers into the trash while Nate straightens the stacks of papers on the table.

“I’m goin’ to the vending machine. You want anything?” Eliot offers, a small wince tightening his lips when he gets to his feet. “I won’t make it to Rachel’s tonight if I don’t get some calories in me.”

“Peanut butter crackers. The bright orange ones. And a Dr. Pepper?” I reach for his hand, then remember we’re at work. With Nate in the room. I let my fingers slip from his. “Thanks.”

The conference room door shuts with a click that feels louder than it is. Nate finishes erasing the one section of whiteboard we decided Vern shouldn’t see yet—our suspicions about Roger Haight. “If I had reservations at Rachel’s tonight, I wouldn’t risk anything in that vending machine. Some of that shit’s been there since the Truman administration.”

I chuckle, but my partner arches a brow, his expression as serious as I’ve ever seen it. Panic takes over.

“Look, don’t tell AJ. He’ll tell Grace, and I’m not having that conversation until I’m damn sure there’s a reason to have it.”

I shouldn’t keep secrets from my closest friends, but Eliot and I have only shared a handful of kisses. We could end the night in bed—giving me plenty to talk about at girls’ night on Friday—or crash and burn the second we sit down to dinner.

Nate turns an imaginary key against his lips, then tosses it away. “I stand by my earlier statement, though. Those crackers could kill you. They glow, Parker.”

“Relax. Kenny brings a fresh stash every week.”