Page 23 of Always Murder (The Last Picks #9)

When we got to Clatsop Parcel and Freight, the parking lots were empty, and the windows were dark. A solitary box truck, unmarked, was backed up to one of the docks, and the roll-up door that connected into the building was open.

Fortunately, it was just Bobby and me—Bobby had refused to let any of the Last Picks come with us. Millie had argued. Keme had sulked. Fox had demonstrated their switchblade (which was actually a comb). Indira had ignored Bobby and gone to fetch her pistol from the coach house, which was why Bobby and I had practically run out of the house.

(To be totally honest, I had my doubts about how effective Bobby’s orders had been. I half expected the Mystery Machine, aka Fox’s van, to come trundling down the road any minute.)

The sheriff had told us she couldn’t get a warrant with what we’d told her, but she agreed to call the owner of Clatsop Parcel and Freight to see if we could walk through the facility. She had ordered us to, quote, stay in the car and don’t do anything .

Which sounded great. I enjoyed sitting. I loved doing nothing. I was a writer, for God’s sake. My bread-and-butter was doing nothing. (Plus Xbox.)

Except for the fact that, about five seconds after we pulled into the parking lot, Paul came around the corner of the building, jumped up onto the loading dock, and went into the warehouse.

Bobby said a word that happy little elves do not say. At least, not when Santa’s around.

“Maybe he—” I tried.

And then a gunshot cracked the air.

“Call nine-one-one,” Bobby said as he threw open the Pilot’s door. “And stay here.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. There was no mistaking the tone. The killer had a gun, and Bobby was the only one trained to handle this kind of situation.

But as I watched Bobby run toward the building, I couldn’t draw a full breath.

Bobby was alone. He didn’t have anybody to watch his back.

So, I called 911, told Jaklin about the shooting at CPF, and sprinted after Bobby.

At the roll-up door, I caught up to him. (I was a bit winded; Bobby was not.)

“Dash—”

“I know, I know,” I said miserably. “Please yell at me later when we’re both alive and safe.”

He gave me an unreadable look. I was sure the deputy part of him wanted to order me back to the Pilot. The boyfriend part of him, on the other hand, probably knew how well that would work. Finally, he said, “I need you to stay behind me. Shout if you see something.”

I nodded. I still couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs, and my stomach was starting to roll.

“Wait for me to say clear.”

I nodded again.

He took a few quick breaths. His expression changed, and it was like I wasn’t there anymore, and it was like he wasn’t there anymore either—he was all focus. With a suddenness that took me off guard, he darted through the open door.

I waited for a gunshot.

I waited for a scream.

That moment lasted forever.

And then Bobby said, “Clear.” His voice was rough, almost angry. But I thought that was the adrenaline more than anything.

Inside, the warehouse looked how I remembered it—the high, exposed rafters, the metal shelving that dominated the back of the building, the acres of polished concrete. It was so quiet that the buzzing of the industrial lights overhead seemed to settle into my jawbone. On our last visit, the space had been relatively warmer than the outside, but today, it felt just as cold. Maybe because everyone had gone home, or maybe because someone had left the roll-up door open. The smell of cardboard and plywood still hung in the air, but with something else now: gunpowder.

Bobby directed a questioning look at me, and I pointed to the door on the far side of the warehouse. “That leads into the offices,” I whispered. I slid my finger to point at the racks of shelving. “The door to Luz’s office is back there.”

Nodding, Bobby eased forward. Our sneakers were silent on the sealed concrete, and somehow, the buzzing of the lights seemed even louder.

Then something pinged.

It took my brain half a second to recognize that the sound had come from the metal roof. I remembered our last visit, and the conversation I’d overheard about birds getting into the warehouse. I realized I was clutching Bobby’s arm in a death grip. With an attempt at a smile, I relaxed my fingers. Bobby’s head cocked in another silent question, so I gave him a thumbs up. Then I decided I was going to have someone cut off my thumbs so I never did that again.

Bobby must have decided he was in too deep, because he started forward again. Instead of making our way toward the office, though, as Millie and I had on our last visit, Bobby cut across the warehouse on a strange, meandering path. We walked to a pallet loaded with boxes. Then we angled toward a conveyor belt. Then Bobby moved toward a stack of packing materials. We were halfway to the rows of shelving before I understood he was moving tactically, from one piece of cover to another. The point was to get us across the warehouse without ever exposing ourselves to gunfire. Bobby’s shoulders were set in a hard line, and he had his hand on his gun, but he hadn’t drawn it. I wasn’t entirely sure about that decision. If it had been me, I would have had my gun in my hand. I would have been waving it around, covering all the angles. And I probably would have fired off a few warning shots out of pure nerves. (Which was why nobody in their right mind would ever give me a gun.)

An engine rumbled to life back among the shelves.

I grabbed Bobby again.

One of us—I’m not going to say who—said a few more of those we-are-not-happy-elves words.

“Babe,” Bobby whispered.

“I know, I know.” I pried my hand loose. “It won’t happen again.”

The sound of the engine changed, and rubber squeaked. Then a long, shrill, metallic sound came from deeper among the shelves.

“Forklift,” Bobby whispered.

I nodded.

Metal screeched again, and even though I wasn’t a warehouse expert (is that a thing?), I could tell that this sound was…wrong. It was too loud, and it went on too long, and it had a strained, forced quality. I opened my mouth to ask what Bobby thought was happening, and then another gunshot rang out.

The sound was so much louder inside the warehouse. Bobby reacted automatically, grabbing the back of my neck and forcing me down behind the stack of packing materials. I was nose-to-nose with foam peanuts, unable to see anything, and Bobby’s hold on me was painfully tight.

Another shot.

And then—of all things—a door slammed.

“What the fudge?” Bobby said under his breath.

(Uh, kind of.)

And then, miraculously, his hand relaxed. I got up into a crouch. (I wasn’t literally spitting out foam peanuts, but you get the idea.) Bobby was peering around our improvised cover. After a moment, he whispered, “Stay.” And then—quite rudely—“I mean it, Dash. Wait for me to clear it.”

Before I could point out that this felt like a couples decision—not quite of the same caliber as buying matching Christmas pajamas or talking about our dream washer-dryer combo (not conversations in which Bobby typically provided much input), but a couples decision nonetheless—Bobby sprinted away.

I knew Bobby worked out. I knew he ran. Not to get into the weeds about it, but I knew firsthand the benefits of all that cardio and all those muscles.

I did not know, until that exact moment, that my boyfriend could haul, uh, butt.

Faster than I could believe, Bobby reached the wall that divided the warehouse proper from the office space at the front of the building. He hunkered down behind a metal desk that had been shoved up against the wall. He had his gun in his hand now, and his face was set in that same focus that was so intense it blanked out everything else. He must have been high on adrenaline, but he didn’t even seem to be breathing harder. After a few seconds, he called, “Clear.”

I ran to join him. And I tried not to make the comparison.

From where we hid behind the metal desk, we had a clear line of sight down the row of shelving that abutted the offices. Two things drew my attention: first, the door to Luz’s office was open; and second, a forklift was idling at the end of the row of shelving. The lift was raised to the topmost shelf. But something must have startled the driver, because the lift was turned toward the shelving unit at an angle, and the forks were pressing against the shelf itself. The result was a long, ugly scratch in the metal—which explained the sounds I’d heard earlier.

Bobby gave the warehouse another considering sweep. Then he slid out from behind the desk and signaled for me to stay. He ran in a crouch toward the door to Luz’s office. As he reached the doorway, I couldn’t help picturing what might happen: the muzzle flash, the bark of a gun.

Nothing.

He gave the office on the other side of the door a quick, considering look. And then he shut the door and kept moving down the aisle.

That was when I remembered I was supposed to be watching Bobby’s six, or whatever people said. I checked, but nobody was trying to sneak up behind us.

“Clear,” Bobby called from the end of the aisle.

I jogged over to him. The smell of gun smoke was stronger here, mixed now with the exhaust from the idling forklift.

“I need you to go back to the Pilot and wait,” Bobby said. The rumble of the forklift’s engine meant he had to speak at a normal volume; no more whispers. “I need to clear the offices.”

A beat passed before what he was saying sank in. “Bobby, you can’t go in there alone.”

“It’s one thing in the warehouse. We’ve got room to move. But it’s going to be tight in there, and if something happens, it’s going to happen fast.”

“You need help—”

“And you’re not trained.”

I ground my teeth.

“I’m not going to take any risks. I want you to watch from the parking lot in case they try to run out the front. I’m going to keep an eye on things in here.”

I wasn’t sure about that. He’d gone from It’s going to be tight in there to I’m not going to take any risks pretty dang fast, and if I knew one thing about Bobby Mai, it was that he wasn’t going to let Paul die because Bobby didn’t want to go in alone. But I also didn’t know what to say. Bobby was right: I wasn’t trained. And even though I wasn’t a police officer, I’d read enough (and heard my parents talk enough) to understand how dangerous it was to clear a building. I’d be worse than a liability; I’d be a complication.

That was when that dang pigeon decided to make itself known.

Above us, a flutter of wings exploded out from the rafters. I reacted the way any sane person would when a highly evolved mini-dinosaur suddenly surprises you: I looked up.

And that was when I saw the hand.

A woman’s hand.

It hung off the side of a pallet on the topmost shelf, visible only from this end of the aisle. I suspected, until a few minutes ago, it hadn’t been visible at all—the hand had probably been jarred loose by the impact of the forklift with the shelving unit.

She’d been up there for days. Hidden. No one even knew she’d been missing.

Millie’s ghost. The victim who had started everything.

Because it was always— always— murder.

I opened my mouth to tell Bobby.

And the lights went out.