Page 31 of Parting Shot

She was a trained professional, but still, the smell was overwhelming, and I knew the paper mask she wore did nothing to block out the stench.

“Oh.” Her eyes lit up when she pivoted, clearly amused. “Little smell gonna bother the big bad detective?”

I flipped her off, but she’d expected it, so I got the eyebrow raise and over-the-top cackle right back.

I had been medically cleared for active duty a month after being discharged from the hospital. Two months to fully recuperate and another month to work out, strengthen my body, and build up my left shoulder and mended right arm. Once I was ready, I had been debriefed, my transfer completed from the task force, from working undercover, and I was back in the Eighteenth District, working homicide.

It was good to be back, doing the job I normally loved, and—even better—to be reunited with my partner, James Vincent O’Meara. I’d left him after the one serious relationship I’d ever had went up in flames. It was too much to handle homicide without someone waiting for you at night, to hold you through the memories of the bad parts of your day. Major crimes wasn’t any better, though. The time and effort people took to fuck each other over was painful to see. It had never been a good fit for me, and so I had transferred back to homicide.

Being back full-time—no more undercover stings or task force drama—was necessary, because putting Aaron Sutter out of my head was a hell of a lot harder than I’d thought it would be. I had counted on spending time with him, getting to know him, and the realization it was not to be was more painful than I’d anticipated. I felt broken, hollow, and usually work fixed whatever ailed me, gave me purpose. Even after a month on the job, sixteen weeks total of being apart, I could not seem to get over him. The job, which I had always been able to count on in the past, had failed to take his place and make me forget. Worst of all, I was having trouble wrapping my brain around the fact that it wasn’t working. At night, alone in my bed, my mind always dredged up Aaron Sutter.

That morning, though, no memory or yearning—nothing—could stand up to the odor wafting through the restroom. I was one hundred percent focused because, Christ, the place just stank to high heaven.

“I need a gas mask,” I complained to Deena.

“Or something else to smell,” she offered. “I’ve got Vicks to share if you’d like.”

“Lemme think about it.”

“Aren’t you glad you came back to all this?”

I was. I had missed the part where I got closure for people. And even though I was back, I kept up with the case I had left for.

Riley Evanston, the mob enforcer, faced life without parole and fought extradition to Texas for two murders committed there. Any deal with him was off the table once Joaquin rolled on the Delgado cartel instead of facing prison himself. I could testify to Joaquin killing Benny Aruellio and DEA Agent Darryl Shoat, known as Andre Franks to me and everyone else who’d worked with him. He had been undercover for a little over two years.

Mr. and Mrs. Gibson came to see me in the hospital, and Mr. Gibson held my hand while his wife and their daughter, Raquel, cried all over me. I had done what I’d promised—tracked down the man who had killed their son and brother—and Evanston would face the maximum sentence for his crime. The idea that he might be transferred to Texas to die by lethal injection was something the family was sharply divided on. Mrs. Gibson would pay to watch a needle be put into the arm of the man who had killed her baby. Mr. Gibson didn’t believe in the death penalty, and life without possibility of parole was, to him, justice. I hoped whatever happened to Riley Evanston would not tear their family apart, but I had done all I could. I had tracked down a killer, lived, and so prevented Joaquin Hierra from getting away with murder. As a result, Esau Modella was a wanted man. Everyone would face judgment; it was simply a matter of time.

For my part, everything had worked out. I received a commendation—basically for not dying—and I made sure Darryl Shoat received a posthumous one as well. I had given a statement so his family knew he had done his job.

“Detective?”

Crap. While I’d been taking a stroll down memory lane, coroner Deena Chang was still waiting for me to decide whether I needed Vicks VapoRub.

I made my smile big. “I’m good, thanks.”

She laughed at me. “Then man up, Stiel. You don’t remember when the cat lady died downtown in that loft near Halstead?”

“Oh God.” I tried not to gag. “Yeah, all right … that was worse.”

“Shit.” Jimmy snickered as he rejoined us, having gone to check with the officers on-site. “That’s funny.”

“You’re a pig,” Deena assured him.

“You two, be nice,” I ordered.

“Gotta love homicide,” she said cheerfully. “Something new every day.”

“Not necessarily a good thing,” I muttered.

She laughed again behind her mask. “Ask me already.”

“Just wait a sec. What is with that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, people do shit themselves when they die, but that doesn’t always happen, does it?”

“No, you’re right,” she agreed. “I think our vic here was in the process of going when he was killed.”