Page 89 of Girl, Sought

The door creaked a warning a split second before Luca filled the space with his bag slung over one shoulder. His knuckles were bruised to hell, but he’d never been one to wear his pain on his sleeve.

‘Ready to put this place in your rearview, partner?’

‘Yeah, just about.’ She gestured at the controlled destruction of her workspace. ‘Where've you been?’

‘Getting you something.’ A grin split his face – the particular flavor of smirk that meant he was unreasonably pleased with himself.

‘A gift? You shouldn't have.’ And he really shouldn't have. But that was Luca - a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a walking HR complaint.

The bag crinkled as he reached inside, rooted around. ‘Stopped by to check on Vanessa. Got to chatting, and, well...’

He pulled his hand free. Ella's cop brain registered the details in snapshot flashes. Mangy fur. Marble eyes. Leathery wings. A crown of rusty nails hammered into a tiny skull.

The squirrel. Creed's taxidermy masterpiece. The thing made her concussion do backflips.

‘Jesus Christ on a unicycle. Why do you have that?’

‘Why does anyone have this?’

‘I mean, it’s…’

‘Yours, apparently. I swung by to check on Vanessa. She told me to drop by her office and pick this thing up for you. She’s having second thoughts about this whole serial killer collecting thing after, well…’

‘And she thought of me? I'm touched.’

Luca seemed to read her mind. Or maybe just her face, which she'd never been able to school worth a damn around him. ‘Seemed appropriate. Though now I'm having second thoughts about giving it to you.’

‘I’m no material girl, but you couldn’t have picked me up that five-million dollar crucifix instead?’

And then he pivoted two quick strides to the trash can in the corner. The squirrel hit the metal with a hollow thunk. It sprawled there, jejune as a discarded coffee cup, just another broken thing in a world full of them.

‘How’s that?’ he asked.

‘Wise choice. You ready to get out of here?’

‘Just try and stop me.’

She shouldered her bag, took one last look around the office that had been her home away from home for the past seventy-two hours. ‘Though we need to make a pit stop at headquarters first.’

‘What? At this hour?’

She flashed her phone. ‘Direct from the big man himself. Says it's urgent.’

‘Both of us?’

‘No. Just me.’

‘I'm sure he just wants to congratulate us on making the Bureau proud. Maybe give us some shiny new medals for our trouble.’

‘Right. And then we'll braid each other's hair and sing songs around the campfire.’

‘Now you’re talking.’

‘Then let’s go’

They walked through the precinct, past empty desks where detectives usually juggled paperwork. At this hour, only the graveyard shift maintained their lonely vigil. A few nodded as she passed – the particular chin-lift of cops acknowledging one of their own.

Three days ago, she'd walked these same halls hunting a killer who turned collectors into pieces of their own collections. Now she was leaving with a concussion, some new scars, and the nagging suspicion that Lawrence Winters wasn't the only one transformed by this case.