Page 26 of Devil's Hour
“Sir,” a stern voice yelled from behind him. “You can’t park there. Move it, or I’ll have it towed.”
Royce stopped and pivoted, showing his badge to one of the cops assigned to keep the crowd back. “I’m Sergeant Locke with the major crimes unit.”
“Sorry about that, Sergeant. I saw casual clothes and assumed you were a civilian. Or a nosy reporter,” he added. Royce stowed away his snarky thoughts about the officer overlooking his shoulder holster. It was better to make friends than enemies with the uniforms.
“Ouch,” Royce said with a grimace. “Easy with the insults, kid.” He turned back around and headed to find Blue, leaving the laughing officer behind him. The hair stood up on the back of his neck, and Royce felt someone watching him intently. He turned his head and locked eyes with Fleabag Franklin, who gave him a little finger wave before lifting his camera and snapping a picture. It hit him then that he forgot to mention to the chief that Felix had followed them. Fuck! Then again, it was going to be hard for the mayor to keep this under wraps if The Purists were escalating their attacks.
With the spotlights aimed at the structure, the old dame stood gleaming and proud in the predawn hours. There were no outward signs of a fire—no broken windows, no soot marring the pristine paint, and no smoke coming from anywhere in the house. For all Royce knew, the fire could’ve started at the back of the house, but he doubted it. There was no sense of urgency among the fire personnel on the scene.
He spotted Blue talking to Zeke on the periphery of the gathered crew. Glancing in his direction, Blue spotted Royce and waved him over. “It’s about damn time. I thought you told the chief you’d arrive in fifteen minutes.”
“I made it in twelve but had to park down the street and hoof it. Then I got stopped by a rookie uniform who mistook me for a reporter.”
“Ouch,” both men said, echoing his reaction. They followed it up with a grimace.
“That’s what I said too. I should’ve gotten his name so Chief could put him on the Do Not Promote list,” Royce teased.
“Blevins,” another fireman shouted. “Talk dirty to your man on your own time.”
Zeke rolled his eyes and smiled at Blue. “I’ll see you later, love.”
“Yes, you will,” Blue replied with a knowing smirk.
Royce clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m happy for you, Blue.”
“I’m happy for you too, Locke. I’ve sensed the sparks coming off you and your partner from the very first day, but now you’re wearing his clothes to crime scenes.”
Royce looked down and noticed for the first time he’d grabbed Sawyer’s Emory University T-shirt by mistake when he packed an extra change of clothes. It had fond memories for him. Sawyer had worn it to stake out a suspect in their first case together. It had been a last-minute decision, and he’d grabbed whatever was clean, which happened to be this faded, almost threadbare shirt. It was too small on Sawyer, clinging to his pecs and toned arms. Royce had almost swallowed his tongue the first time he saw him wearing it. He’d worn it home from Sawyer’s after an overnight stay and had never given it back. He loved the way the worn cotton felt against his skin, but he’d never purposely wear it to work.
“I was in a hurry and grabbed the first thing I could put my hands on.”
Blue chuckled and gestured for Royce to follow him inside the house, signaling that their personal chitchat was on hold for the moment. “You’ve probably noticed there are a shit ton of firemen here for what amounts to a tiny fire.”
“I did,” Royce agreed. “Slow night?”
“It could be, or it might have something to do with the fire being at the mayor’s residence, or it could be the messages the arsonist left us.”
“Messages?” Royce asked. “Where’s the mayor?”
“Inside speaking with the chief.”
Royce groaned and looked down at his shirt.
Comprehending the situation, Blue said, “I’m sure she won’t notice.”
“You did.”
“True,” Blue conceded.
They let the subject drop when they crossed the threshold. The vibe in the house was completely different from his first visit. Crime scene techs were collecting potential evidence, dusting for prints, and photographing the—Royce screeched to a halt when he saw the reason for all the attention at the mayor’s house. A one-word message had been burned into the light oak hardwood floors.
“Whore?” he asked in a hushed whisper. “Mayor Goodwin?” Royce recollected everything he knew about the woman. Mid-forties, medium height, slender build, worked as a professor at Savannah State University, where Royce had obtained his criminal justice degree using the money from his GI Bill. Lynette Goodwin had mousy brown hair she kept pulled back from her face in either a bun, ponytail, or a braid. The woman wore minimal makeup and dressed modestly. When she ran for mayor, her campaign was threefold: family values, cleaning up crime, and restoring the city she loved to its former glory. Nothing about Lynette Goodwin said whore, not that Royce thoughtanywoman should be labeled as one.
“Turns out, the mayor wasn’t home alone.”
“Her husband told me he was flying to New York.”
“He did, and their twin daughters are on a trip out west before returning to college soon.”