Page 61 of Long Way Down

He glanced back over his shoulder, expression tired, now, the portrait lights on the closest wall highlighting the dark smudges under his eyes. “Am I under arrest?”

There were so many things she wanted to say, none of which she could voice now in good conscience and still call herself a detective. She shook her head. “No.”

He nodded, and walked for the door, portfolio swinging against his leg until he pushed through the glass panel and out into the rain, head uncovered.

Thirteen

“Okay,” Contreras said when they were in the car, rain pattering lightly against the windshield. “Who did it? The vape boy? The rich boy? The pretty boy? Or the professor?”

She groaned. “God, I don’t know. I need to put it all up on the board and drink…all the coffee.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She had a headache forming behind her left eye, and her stomach couldn’t decide if it was hungry or still queasy from lunch. She was thinking far too much about the crestfallen way Tobias had looked at her before he left, like he’d expected better of her and been let down.

As if he sensed her mood, Contreras turned on the radio and the ride back to the precinct passed in silence undercut by jazz at a low volume. She had to let go of the personal, she reminded herself, lulled by the back-and-forth swish of the windshield wipers. Couldn’t allow any past experiences, prejudices, or personal tastes to steer her. It was about the evidence and the evidence only.

She felt, if not peaceful, then at least less jittery inside, by the time they parked in the alleyway lot and entered the precinct through the side door. A relaxation that lasted only until they entered the bullpen on their floor and she found that her desk was occupied.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Pongo sat with his boots kicked up on her desk, leaned back in the chair so that it tilted dangerously. He thankfully wasn’t wearing his cut, but his dark gray hoodie was silk-screened with the black running dog that was the club’s logo, and doubtless someone in his building would recognize it if they got a good look.

He pulled his feet down and thumped upright in the chair when he spotted her, grin breaking lazy and infuriating across his whole face, freckles stark beneath the harsh overhead lights. “It’s dinner time, so I brought food.” He reached forward and flicked the plastic bag he’d set right in the middle of her blotter. “Pad Thai. There’s enough for your partner, too.” He shifted to peer around her in an exaggerated way.

“No,” she said, low and hard. “Absolutely–”

Contreras stepped up beside her. “Friend of yours, Dixon?”

“No.”

“Yeah!” Pongo jumped up and thrust out a hand. “Good to meet you, man. I’m Pongo.”

Oh God.

Contreras accepted his shake readily, smiling. “Pongo? As in–”

“The Dalmatian? Yeah, that’s me.”

She was going tokill him.

“Rob,” Contreras said in return. Then, shake breaking apart, “Nice shirt.”

“This?” Pongo tugged at the front of his hoodie, flattening it out and making the dog there twice as noticeable. “Thanks.”

Melissa tried and failed to catch his eye and convey her murderous intentions through a meaningful gaze.

He hooked a thumb toward the food. “Like I said, I brought pad Thai, enough for all of us. Figured Dixie forgot to eat.”

Contreras’s brows flew up, his smile taking on a delighted edge. “Dixie?”

“Stop,” she muttered, and stepped around Pongo. “I’m getting us a conference room. Come or don’t.”

Her pulse tripped hard and it proved impossible not to march across the bullpen. When she opened the door to the first conference room, she did it so forcefully that she tripped over the threshold and had to catch herself against the doorjamb.

Four detectives stood in front of a cluttered whiteboard inside, the table scattered with photos and statement sheets. All shot her matching baffled looks.

“Sorry,” she muttered, backed out and tried the next.