Page 116 of Long Way Down

Blockhead nodded, shifted his grip on the sheet to his other hand, and with the gloved one lifted the hair from her back. Beneath, Pongo knew, lay the scabs and scars where a monster had carved a message into her skin.

“My guy got a hit on the plates,” Kat announced. “They belong to a gray Mercedes E-Class. Registered to Donald Waxman.”

~*~

“I’ll be in my office. Third floor, room three-oh-five,” Professor Dubois said, as class ended and the clatter of packing-up began. “Feel free to use the classroom for your interviews, and you can find me upstairs afterward, if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Melissa said, and then turned her head to search for Lana while Contreras went to wrangle the guys.

She was already packed and ready, strap of her bag over one shoulder, portfolio held again like a shield. She didn’t look any less tense than she had before class – only exhausted from having been in that heightened state for more than an hour.

“We’re gonna interview the guys,” Melissa said in an undertone, when she reached her. “Will you be okay to wait? Maybe in the café? Where it’s well lit.”

Lana let out a shaky breath, but nodded. “Yeah. Carole asked if I wanted to get coffee.” She tilted her chin to indicate the older student with the long, gray braid and the floral dress.

Melissa met the older woman’s gaze and found steely understanding there, and a single, sharp nod. Carole knew what was up, and was going out of her way to look after Lana.

“Okay,” Melissa said. “Rob and I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

When Lana joined Carole, the other student put a protective arm around her shoulders, and Melissa could at least breathe a sigh of relief on that front for the moment.

When she turned back around, Contreras stood right in front of her – close enough that she startled – and the three male students were ranged apart far enough behind him that they wouldn’t be able to overhear. Daniel looked put out; Doug looked hungover; Tobias looked on edge.

She turned her attention to Contreras. “Well, you look like you have something to say.” And she had a feeling she already knew what.

His face twisted a moment, a flinch of regret. “I think it’d be best if I talked to Tobias one-on-one.”

He might as well have slapped her.

She experienced a cascade of sharp, stomach-churning emotion in the span of a few heartbeats. The first and brightest a pulse of fury that he was calling her capabilities into question, followed by the shame-faced knowledge that she was a little bit compromised when it came to Tobias. From her initial, animal attraction, she’d swung toward suspicion, and oscillated between that and an innate wanting to trust ever since, all of which spelled UNPROFESSIONAL in all caps. Lastly, there was a wash of relief that left her feeling a little bit empty inside: relief that she wouldn’t have to look Tobias in the eye and try to parse her instincts from cold hard facts. All topped off with the cherry that was:my partner doesn’t trust me.

It moved through her, a slap to the face, a flip of her stomach, and a drain-away that left her feet tingling. She could see on his face that he wanted to take back the words – or, at least, the effect they’d had on her – but that he was going to hold firm, jaw already settled at a stubborn angle.

She took a deep breath and said, “I guess I’ll take the other two and wait out in the hall, then.”

He let out a deep, relieved exhale. “Great. We’ll do them together, after. Okay?” When she stared at him, he said, “Dixon?”

“It’s fine.”

~*~

Kat had a car, which Pongo found surprising, though maybe he shouldn’t have. A Trans Am, late nineties as opposed to classic, but still sweet in its own right. Black, of course. T-top. The glass panels were in place tonight, rain pattering off them softly as they turned down the alley a few blocks from Roger’s Antiques and wound their way through tight lanes until they reached a parking lot behind the Alpine headquarters.

“I’m kinda shocked you went for something this loud,” Pongo said, as the throaty rumble of the engine died and they climbed out.

Kat shot him a faintly curious look over the top of the car, scrunch of his brows just visible in the sputtering of the security light overhead.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like it. But you seem more like a stick-to-the-shadows guy. You know: stealth mode. Everyone can hear this little lady coming ten blocks away.”

Kat stared at him. “You ride a Harley. All of your people ride Harleys.”

“Yeah, but we’re kinda the ‘hey look at me, I’m so badass’ types.”

“You’re insufferable, is what you are.” He slammed the driver’s door and locked it with the fob, lights winking and horn barking. “Come on.”

They entered the place through a rear door, through a vestibule much like the one in front, with cameras, grungy tile, and multiple doors branching off on all sides. Kat steered them left, and they wound up in a cramped office packed with too much furniture, the only light source a bank of three computer monitors set up on a desk tangled with wires. A small, bespectacled man sat before this array, and greeted them with an absent “hey” when Kat touched his shoulder.

“This is the Scribe,” Kat told Pongo. “He can find out anything about anything, if you keep him in espresso and wasabi peanuts.”