Page 77 of Flint’s Strike

“Gee, thanks.” Despite my tone, I am hungry. And grateful my partner knows me better than most people.

I unwrap something called ChocoAlmond Protein Plus, and take a bite. It tastes like a cross between coffee grounds and a Snickers bar, but without fuel, I’ll hit a wall in under an hour.

“So, how many names do we need to run down?” I ask.

Nate stands, picks up a green dry erase pen, and uncaps it with a flourish. “Fewer than you might think.”

He writes Round Rock on the whiteboard, opens the green folder, and removes a copy of Eliot’s report on the fire. “We know the building’s sprinklers, firewalls, and secondary egress maps weren’t up to code. That narrows the number of inspections from eighty-seven—over a twelve-year period—to fifteen. Of those fifteen, three were completed by our mystery inspector with the invalid license number. Roger Haight handled seven of them. The other five all have different names and license numbers, but one thing in common.”

“You fixin’ to tell me or am I supposed to guess?” I crumple the wrapper in my fist and arch a brow.

Nate pulls one sheet after another from the folder and lays them out in front of me. “I’ll go easy on you, Captain Curmudgeon. Check out the company name.”

“Apex Building Solutions.”

“I’d give you a gold star, but you’re already wearing one.”

I groan. “Your sense of humor is best experienced when one is fully caffeinated. Go easy on me, will you, Captain Catchphrase? I’m at least two cups behind you.”

Nate reaches for the blue dry erase marker next. “Cedar Park. This is the oldest building of the bunch. The original inspections were done by three different guys—none of them associated with Apex. Fair to say the company probably didn’t exist back then, but your spectacular lack of sunshine this morning interrupted that particular search.”

I scowl, take another sip of coffee, and wave my hand for him to continue.

“If it weren’t for the retrofit, those original inspections would still be standing today and we wouldn’t have as much to go on. But any change in ownership or construction that touches more than fifty percent of the building requires new inspections.” One corner of his mouth twitches, and he finally takes a breath. “The column Eliot says was missing its fire coating? It wasn’t touched, so no new inspection. But Apex handled everything for the retrofit, so this on them too.”

“And the last fire? Aldrich?” I already know what he’s going to say. It’s in his eyes.

“The fire inspection that should’ve caught the ceiling-plane gaps, the final walkthrough that should’ve caught the incorrectly installed panic hardware, and the sprinkler acceptance test that should’ve caught the water pressure that didn’t meet spec were all signed off on by Apex Building Solutions.” He passes me three pages. “We’ve got a suspect. Time to find out what Apex knew, and when they knew it.”

For two hours, we go over all of the inspection reports again. And then a third time.

I want to stab my eyes out with a rusty spoon. Nate, however, lives for this shit.

“You’re just making up colors now.” I nod at the eighth pen he produced from a small pouch on the table, reach for a hot pink one, and wave it at him. “This one’s exactly the same.”

“Fuchsia and hot pink are not the same color, Parker. I don’t expect you to understand the nuance, just respect the process.”

“I respect you enough to tell you that you need help.”

Nate grins, uncaps the fuchsia pen, and adds a note to the board about pulling the resale paperwork for Round Rock from the county clerk’s office.

“I’ll call the clerk’s office once I get another cup of coffee,” I offer.

We each have our strengths. Nate’s is patterns. Organization. Teasing order from chaos. Mine? People. Reading a room and understanding, without a second thought, which version of myself someone needs. Knowing when to push, when to back off, and when to let silence do the work for me.

I open the conference room door and almost collide with Eliot.

“Shit!” My boot catches the carpet as I take a step back. The folder of Round Rock paperwork hits the floor, and I’m about to go down, when he catches me around the waist.

Neither of us say a word. It’s worse than one of those slow-motion movie scenes where the hero shouts “Noooooooo!” and everything goes quiet for a heartbeat too long.

“Sorry,” he says, finally, releasing me and putting some distance between us. “The…suppression panel data came back on the Aldrich fire.”

Nate rounds the table, scoops up the scattered pieces of paper, and mutters something about his system before glancing up at us. “You two want a minute? Or should I pretend there isn’t enough tension in this room to give the whole station a headache?”

I give him the side eye, and he holds up the folder like a shield.

“What’s in the report?” I ask. Maybe if I keep us focused on the case, I won’t feel this…off balance around Eliot.