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CHAPTER 24

SONIA ALVAREZ WAS in the pod when Conklin and I returned to our desks. She was bent over her keyboard, typing fast, when I edged behind her to get to my desk.

“Hey, you guys,” she said. “I’m typing up my notes. Richie, are we still going to check out Julio’s, the bar the matchbook came from, after work?”

“Yes,” Rich said. “Dress like it’s a date.”

“Sure,” she said. “How’s this?” She was wearing black leggings, an off-white turtleneck, and a plaid blazer. “I’ll put on some lipstick.”

He said, “Fine,” and I cracked my first smile of the day. Before she came to us, Alvarez had worked as an undercover narc in Vegas for a couple of years. She’d earned her homicide chops when she and I brought in a serial killer, who’d shot a hostage in front of our eyes inside a basement room in a Vegas hotel.

Since then, she, Conklin, and I had bonded into a three-person team working from our “pod” with its million-dollar view of the bullpen and close access to the front desk and the break room.

I knew better than most that cases could be open for months or years or never solved. But this one would damn well be solved. I pictured a sunflower blooming in our lifeless case. I thought of it as hope.

“Bring backup to Julio’s,” I said to Rich.

“Will do,” Conklin said.

I emailed my own notes and research to Conklin and Alvarez and copied Brady. I was out of steam and out of ideas, so I said good-bye to my partners, wished them luck, and told them I’d keep my phone on and fully charged. Then I got the hell out of there. I had an unbreakable appointment in twenty minutes. And I didn’t want to be late.