Page 9 of A Deeper Darkness

“No idea. Where’s the patrol?”

“Probably downstairs. I sent him to run the sheet.”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

They trooped down the stairs. Fletcher spotted the patrol he’d talked to when he arrived, standing at the open front door. The sun wanted to come up, but the sky was fighting the light. Maybe there’d be storms today. Who knew. Fletcher had stopped worrying about the weather long ago. It wouldn’t change his ability to do his job, or the inevitable outcome for the victim.

“Detective.” The patrol greeted Fletcher seriously. His name tag designated him B. Jimenez. He turned to Hart, smiling, looser. Hart was the buddy, Fletcher was the boss. Good cop, bad cop. Had to happen like that out here on the streets. At least, that’s what Fletcher told himself.

“How’s it, Lonnie?”

“Benito.Bay-neat-toe.” Hart thought he was funny. “How’s it hanging? I didn’t realize you were here. Thought you worked days—who’d you piss off?”

“Price you pay for greatness. Gotta do some scut. I’m taking the sergeant’s exam next month.”

If Fletcher had a dime for every time he heard that… The exam was easy to take, hard to pass and even harder to land a slot if you did pass. Budget cuts always meant lower personnel levels, and everyone wanted to move up. Move up or move out.

“Good luck with it. So what’s the story here? Detective Fletcher would like the rundown.”

Jimenez squared his shoulders and pulled out his notebook, and Fletcher shot Hart a look. Hart just grinned.

“Yes, sir. Call came in to 9-1-1 at 2:15 a.m. Said there was a body at this address. Dispatch put it out at 2:17 a.m. I was closest, rolled up on the house at 2:32. Officer Gefley was with me. There were no lights on in the house. The front door was unlocked. We swept the premises, found the body on the second floor in the front bedroom. I checked the decedent’s pulse, found none and called it in. Came downstairs and waited for the rest of you to show.”

“Who made that initial 9-1-1 call?” Fletcher asked.

“Hell if I know. Sir.”

“Let’s find that out,” Fletcher said, and Hart nodded. He turned back to Jimenez.

“What was the neighborhood like when you arrived?”

“Quiet. A few cars parked on the streets. No one walking around. It’s like that here usually, this late. This early. Now, a few streets west and you get the spill-off from the bars on Wisconsin and M, the Georgetown students wandering home or back to campus. It’s got folks stirring at all hours. But over here, they settle in and go to bed like good little boys and girls.”

“So why’s he dead here? What’s special about this place?”

“Well, the name Emerson is on the box. Could be family, or he was house-sitting or something, though the place was awfully clean for that. That’s all I got. I’m leaving the detecting to you fine gentlemen.”

Smart-ass.

“Did you smell anything when you got to the house?”

“Sir?”

“Detective work is more than just what you see, Jimenez. Did you smell anything?”

“Naw. Just blood, and shit. The usual.”

“Stop for a moment and think back. Close your eyes.”

Jimenez frowned, but complied, and Hart rolled his eyes in response.

“Mumbo jumbo,” he whispered, but Jimenez’s eyes shot open.

“Cigarettes. I smelled cigarettes.”

“Fresh or old? Stale?”

“No, sir. Fresh. Definitely.”