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Dinah

“So, you’ve been here before?” Freddie jumps on the topic the moment my butt hits the wobbly metal chair.

“I guess so?” I say dubiously. “I mean, I do like cookies and cream at times.” I glance toward the shop. “I wouldn’t put my memory against hers. Talk about a steel trap.” I nibble on the top of my cone.

“Yeah, she’d be great in a police lineup. How come we never get anyone like that?”

I snort. “Oh yes. In your vast years of experience, right?”

“Hey, am I wrong?” He puffs out his chest and has the nerve to look offended.

“You aren’t totally wrong.” I shrug and watch as a pigeon pecks at a piece of gum that’s stuck to the pavement.

“What do you think is up with Jessica? I mean, really.” He takes a giant bite of his ice cream and smacks his way through it, opening his mouth way more than necessary.

I think she’s going to die. I hide the thought in a bite of waffle cone, and take my time chewing before I answer. “I don’t think she murdered Reese. I think she found her and freaked out and ran.”

“Why don’t you think she killed her?”

Telling him the truth—that I didn’t need him to have any more interest in this case than he already did—probably wouldn’t fly.

“Look, Freddie, I know you really want this to be a murder, but like I told you before, wanting something and it being true are two different things. Jessica is, by all accounts, a sane, well-adjusted young woman, with no criminal priors, no history of violence, no motive ... So it doesn’t fit. ”

“No motive except for the life insurance policy.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. If I had a knife, I would carve them off his face.

“We checked for a life insurance policy,” I counter.

“We checked national databases, but not the secondary market.” He gives me a smug smile, and the last thing I need is a damn life insurance policy showing up.

I close my eyes, annoyed with myself for not digging deeper and finding this out. “How much is it?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Fifty thousand dollars. For Joe and me, it’d be nothing. A drop in the bucket. But for so many individuals, it was life changing and worth killing for. I’ve found murderers who had extinguished a life for as little as five or ten thousand bucks. I’ve found even more who’ve done it for free.

This is something that could cause a judge to pay attention, and that is the opposite of what I need. “Jessica is the beneficiary? Any trust or stipulations on the inheritance?”

“Sole beneficiary, and nope—fifty K, straight to her upon signature of a death certificate.”

“Have you called them to see if she has contacted them?”

He pauses. “No. Haven’t gotten that far.”

He hasn’t thought that far. There’s a difference, but I let it slide. “You read the policy? There’s no exclusion for suicide or potential foul play?”

His enthusiasm wanes further. “No, I didn’t.”

“Who’s the insurance policy through?”

“Winwood United Securities.”

I think, then shake my head. “Never heard of them. I’ll have to request a copy of the policy and talk to the agent they assign to her case.

” A car beside mine shifts into reverse and creeps out of the space, then turns to the left and heads slowly out of the parking lot.

I don’t like its pace, and I stare at the back of the car, committing the license plate—56K2D—to memory.

56K2D. Maybe nothing, but maybe something.

Every detail is innocent until it is guilty.

People are often the inverse—everyone is guilty until they are innocent, at least in my eyes.

Take Freddie. We’ve been together almost forty-five minutes now, but this is the first he’s mentioned of the insurance policy.

The only real evidence to support his obsession with Reese’s supposed murder, and he doesn’t mention it until now.

Why? It’s suspicious, and I fucking hate suspicious behavior outside one of my cases.

“Why did you sit on this?” I set my cone down on the table between us because there’s no way I’m lollipop-licking my way through it in front of him, not while I have a ring on my finger and a shred of dignity left. “Why not tell me the moment you discovered it?”

“I guess I wanted to see if you would find it.”

“You wanted to see if I would find it?” I narrow my eyes. “This isn’t a cop-off, Freddie. It’s a murder investigation.”

“Well, that’s the first I’ve heard you call it that. Let me correct what I said earlier: I wasn’t waiting to see if you would find it; I waited to see if you’d look for it.”

I let out a strangled laugh. “I’m sorry, who died to have you testing me? You’re lucky I let you tag along on this errand.”

“Reese Bishop died.” He leans forward and levels me with a look that I don’t like at all. “And Jessica Bishop isn’t the only girl who is missing on your watch. Lacey Deltour. Blythe Howard. Riley Biff. I could name a half dozen more if you want me to.”

Not a half dozen more. Four more. And he doesn’t have to name them, because their names are tattooed on my brain. I swallow, but my throat is sticky with sweet.

“I’m not a trainee, Dinah. I’m with IA.”

IA. Internal Affairs. I don’t understand it yet I do, all at once. I clear my throat. “I’m under investigation?”

No fucking wonder he’s been up my ass. Part of me thought it was a crush, had worried about Joe’s reaction, but this is so much worse.

I think of my visit to the neighbors. The deleted video.

Does he know about that? Is there a tracker on my car?

How long have I been watched—and how, in all the ineptitude of the LAPD, did I come to be on anyone’s radar?

“I wouldn’t call it an ‘investigation’; I’d call it concern from up top. You’re sloppy, Dinah.”

Sloppy. I take a deep breath. “Just because I missed the life insurance policy doesn’t mean that I haven’t— I mean, that was just one thing.”

He stands and has the audacity to take another bite of his cone, crunching through the waffle tip like he’s a six-year-old.

I remember his pause at the missing person’s board, his fixation on Riley Biff.

I should have trusted my gut. “I’ve been one step ahead of you the entire time.

I’ve been feeding you clues and watching you intentionally ignore them. ”

“You’ve been all over the board,” I shot back.

“You think Jessica’s a victim of a serial killer, then you think she killed her mom for life insurance.

Pick a damn theory. Oh, wait, you can’t, because there isn’t enough for any of them to stick!

” I rise to my feet in an attempt to be on his level.

“Screw you, Freddie. Want to write a report to IA? Go ahead. I’m the best fucking detective Beverly Hills has.

Look at my record. Do I have unsolves? Sure.

Missing persons? Who doesn’t? You want to pick apart my old cases, go ahead—but I’m not wrong on this one.

Reese Bishop killed herself. Jessica Bishop isn’t being held by a serial killer, and didn’t poison her mom and take off for Mexico.

All that is bullshit theories and will get you laughed out of the DA’s office. ”

I grab my keys off the table and pick up my ice-cream cone, which is now a mess of melted chocolate and cream. Swearing, I drop it into the trash can and wipe off my hands with the napkin, then throw it in after the cone.

“Wait, Dinah.” He stays in step with me, and I use my key to manually open my door, making sure the passenger side stays locked.

“Get your own ride back.” I get in and close the door on him. He raps on my window, but I ignore him, hitting the lock button.

I start the engine, inhale deeply, and try to center myself as best I can, despite the increased staccato of his knuckles on the window.

You’re sloppy. Is that what they think? That’s their focus?

Incompetence versus guilt? I put the car in reverse and stomp on the gas, praying that I run over his foot in the process.

I kiss my fingers, tap Oley’s whistle, and send a quick apology to the man upstairs.

Whipping the car out and forward, I gun it for the exit and leave Freddie behind, his hands up in the air, frustration all over his handsome face.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck.