Page 74
Story: The Elf Beside Himself
“Why?”
I told him about the anti-Nid violence against the City Council member. “Not that it’s better here,” I continued. I’d already told him about Janice Butcher.
“You weren’t kidding when you said ‘mess,’ were you?”
“Nope.” I’m sure I sounded just as enthusiastic as I felt about that.
“Okay. I won’t make too big a stink about it, but I am going to see what we can give you. And if I can put some pressure on the local LEOs to do something, great. But no promises, Hart.”
“You never make me any promises, Tony. A man might start to think you don’t like him if you keep that up.”
Raj let out another huffed laugh. “I’m glad you called, Hart,” he said, his voice oddly serious.
“Why?”
“Because you sound a lot more likeyounow than you did when you first started talking.”
Oh. I sighed. “This has me pretty fucked up,” I admitted.
“I can tell. Don’t let it make you forget you’re a damn good cop, Hart. Whatever’s going on up there is fucked up, and you know it. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.”
“Thanks, Raj. I mean it.” I was feeling weirdly emotional, although in kind of a good way, which was at least a nice change of pace from the rest of the last two weeks.
“Don’t you get mushy on me, Keebler.”
“Who, me? Never.”
Another huffed laugh. “Okay, Hart. Let me and Kurtz get on this, and I’ll let you know if we find anything for you.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
“Take care, Keebler. I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He hung up first, and I let out a long breath, realizing that he was right—I felt a whole shit-ton better now than I had when I’d called him. I’m not sure what that says about me, that a good conversation about murder and crime will make me feel more mentally grounded than pretty much any other conversation I’d had since Elliot called me.
I let my eyes roam around Gregory Crane’s office again, just in case I’d spot something else now that my head was a little more clear.
And that’s when I noticed the smudging on one of the windows.
It’s not unusual for there to be smudges on windows, especially in this house, which had huge, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows all over the place (double-paned, because thisisWisconsin, and if they hadn’t been, the heating bill would have been astronomical). But it was unusual for them to be in Gregory’s office.
The main room had a sliding patio door, andthatwas a mess of fingerprints, especially in the warmer months when people came and went through it on their way out into the gardens. There was a sliding door in here, too, but that wasn’t where the smudges were.
I walked up to the window, trying to figure out what the fuck had caused it, trying to tilt my head to get the right angle of light against the glass to make it out.
And then I remembered the day Sylvia had gone apeshit on my desk, trying to get me to go help Ward. So I breathed on the smudge, and the condensation from my breath made a perfect palm-print—gloved in leather, by the look of it, more’s the fucking pity, but I had a hand-size at least. It was big, and it looked like there was something else besides just heat and leather-oil that had gotten smeared on the glass.
I frowned, then had the flash of an image—a smoker, coming in from having taken a quick drag on his cigarette outside, with a nose a little runny from the cold. He rubs a finger under his nose to catch a wayward drip… and it isn’t totally dry when he loses his balance trying to haul an unconscious body around the desk on his way to the beam, so he leaves it behind on the glass.
“Fucking hell.” I really,reallywished Mays were here.
Instead, I was stuck with no one to give my dirt or my button to, and no real clue how the fuck I was supposed to try to collect a two-week-old dried snot sample off a window. I didn’t even know if youcouldcollect a two-week-old dried snot sample off a window.
I pulled my phone back out, took a couple pictures to try to get a good angle on the smear, and then texted it to Mays. Then I called him.
“Uh, Hart. Hey. What can I do for you?” He sounded surprised, and I didn’t blame him, because I almostnevercalled him. Texted, yes. Called, no.
I told him about the anti-Nid violence against the City Council member. “Not that it’s better here,” I continued. I’d already told him about Janice Butcher.
“You weren’t kidding when you said ‘mess,’ were you?”
“Nope.” I’m sure I sounded just as enthusiastic as I felt about that.
“Okay. I won’t make too big a stink about it, but I am going to see what we can give you. And if I can put some pressure on the local LEOs to do something, great. But no promises, Hart.”
“You never make me any promises, Tony. A man might start to think you don’t like him if you keep that up.”
Raj let out another huffed laugh. “I’m glad you called, Hart,” he said, his voice oddly serious.
“Why?”
“Because you sound a lot more likeyounow than you did when you first started talking.”
Oh. I sighed. “This has me pretty fucked up,” I admitted.
“I can tell. Don’t let it make you forget you’re a damn good cop, Hart. Whatever’s going on up there is fucked up, and you know it. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.”
“Thanks, Raj. I mean it.” I was feeling weirdly emotional, although in kind of a good way, which was at least a nice change of pace from the rest of the last two weeks.
“Don’t you get mushy on me, Keebler.”
“Who, me? Never.”
Another huffed laugh. “Okay, Hart. Let me and Kurtz get on this, and I’ll let you know if we find anything for you.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
“Take care, Keebler. I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He hung up first, and I let out a long breath, realizing that he was right—I felt a whole shit-ton better now than I had when I’d called him. I’m not sure what that says about me, that a good conversation about murder and crime will make me feel more mentally grounded than pretty much any other conversation I’d had since Elliot called me.
I let my eyes roam around Gregory Crane’s office again, just in case I’d spot something else now that my head was a little more clear.
And that’s when I noticed the smudging on one of the windows.
It’s not unusual for there to be smudges on windows, especially in this house, which had huge, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows all over the place (double-paned, because thisisWisconsin, and if they hadn’t been, the heating bill would have been astronomical). But it was unusual for them to be in Gregory’s office.
The main room had a sliding patio door, andthatwas a mess of fingerprints, especially in the warmer months when people came and went through it on their way out into the gardens. There was a sliding door in here, too, but that wasn’t where the smudges were.
I walked up to the window, trying to figure out what the fuck had caused it, trying to tilt my head to get the right angle of light against the glass to make it out.
And then I remembered the day Sylvia had gone apeshit on my desk, trying to get me to go help Ward. So I breathed on the smudge, and the condensation from my breath made a perfect palm-print—gloved in leather, by the look of it, more’s the fucking pity, but I had a hand-size at least. It was big, and it looked like there was something else besides just heat and leather-oil that had gotten smeared on the glass.
I frowned, then had the flash of an image—a smoker, coming in from having taken a quick drag on his cigarette outside, with a nose a little runny from the cold. He rubs a finger under his nose to catch a wayward drip… and it isn’t totally dry when he loses his balance trying to haul an unconscious body around the desk on his way to the beam, so he leaves it behind on the glass.
“Fucking hell.” I really,reallywished Mays were here.
Instead, I was stuck with no one to give my dirt or my button to, and no real clue how the fuck I was supposed to try to collect a two-week-old dried snot sample off a window. I didn’t even know if youcouldcollect a two-week-old dried snot sample off a window.
I pulled my phone back out, took a couple pictures to try to get a good angle on the smear, and then texted it to Mays. Then I called him.
“Uh, Hart. Hey. What can I do for you?” He sounded surprised, and I didn’t blame him, because I almostnevercalled him. Texted, yes. Called, no.
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