seem to think it was a good morning at all. “If you’re making coffee, get me a cup,” she muttered. “Better yet, get me a bucket.”
“Weren’t you on a stakeout last night?” Jacob asked, approaching the coffee machine. “What are you doing here?”
“Murder,” Hannah said curtly.
“During your stakeout?”
“No,” she said. “After. The captain didn’t want to disturb your beauty sleep.”
“That’s a shame,” Jacob said, blessing the captain in his heart. “Really, I wouldn’t have minded being woken up.”
“Well, then, I’ll be sure to do that next time,” Hannah said.
“Where’s Bernard?”
“Gone home. Had to sleep.”
“You should go ahead and get some sleep too. I don’t think you’re doing any good in your state.”
Hannah grunted in response.
Jacob handed Hannah a cup of coffee and sat down in his cubicle with his own cup. He opened his mailbox and stared morosely at the rejected report. He tried resubmitting it, and the computer vehemently spat it out again with the message Err-176 No Instance of Crime Found Searching . He tried fiddling with the report—changed the headline a bit, reversed the order of the detectives on it—and resubmitted it. The report was rejected once again, this time due to Err-239 Invalid Detective . Well, that was just rude.
He groaned and turned around. “So,” he said. “Tell me about that murder you’re investigating.”
Hannah was having trouble concentrating. She’d been awake for twenty-four hours, and even a river of coffee could barely stave off sleep by this point. She was trying to detail the facts of the case to Jacob, but she kept mixing up the names, times, and facts. Jacob’s blue eyes were full of confusion as he tried to untangle the mess.
“No,” she said. “Fizz was just the bartender’s nickname. His real name is, uh… Theodore.”
“And who is Damion Cosmatos again?” Jacob asked.
“He’s the victim’s… Hang on,” Hannah blinked and rubbed her eyes as she checked her notes. “Damion? Uh… Oh! He’s the taxi driver.”
“The one you called for Fizz?”
“No, the one who witnessed the suspect escaping.” Her voice was on edge. She knew she was explaining it badly, but she still felt irritated that Jacob wasn’t even trying to telepathically understand what she was trying to say.
“Good morning,” Mitchell Lonnie said, walking into the squad.
“Hey, Mitchell,” Hannah said, her heart jumping, or plunging. Perhaps both. She forced herself to meet his eyes and smile calmly as she said, “I’m just filling Jacob in about a murder case we caught last night.”
Mitchell and Hannah had joined the force together. She’d been promoted to detective before him, but he’d followed her only two months later. They’d gotten along nicely until her screwup in the Jovan Stokes case. Mitchell had reacted badly, snapping at her, and they’d hardly talked for weeks afterward, even though he had apologized several times. Though she had forgiven him, it was harder to forgive herself, and she was never entirely comfortable when he was around.
Mitchell had thick, wavy black hair, tanned skin, and wide shoulders. Like his sister Tanessa, Mitchell turned heads wherever he went, and Hannah had seen women act like fools in front of him more than once. His green eyes always seemed full of sorrow, giving him the aura of a man who understood people’s pain.
“Okay,” Mitchell said. He joined them, bending over her notes, his head nearly touching hers. “What do we have?”
His aftershave reminded Hannah of freshly cut wood and cloves. There was a note to it she couldn’t quite place. Sandalwood, maybe.
She tried to ignore his close proximity as she once again detailed the murder of Frank Gulliepe. “We have patrol officers watching Chad Grimes’s house in case he gets back,” she said. “He seems to be the primary suspect right now.”
“What about his family?” Mitchell
“Weren’t you on a stakeout last night?” Jacob asked, approaching the coffee machine. “What are you doing here?”
“Murder,” Hannah said curtly.
“During your stakeout?”
“No,” she said. “After. The captain didn’t want to disturb your beauty sleep.”
“That’s a shame,” Jacob said, blessing the captain in his heart. “Really, I wouldn’t have minded being woken up.”
“Well, then, I’ll be sure to do that next time,” Hannah said.
“Where’s Bernard?”
“Gone home. Had to sleep.”
“You should go ahead and get some sleep too. I don’t think you’re doing any good in your state.”
Hannah grunted in response.
Jacob handed Hannah a cup of coffee and sat down in his cubicle with his own cup. He opened his mailbox and stared morosely at the rejected report. He tried resubmitting it, and the computer vehemently spat it out again with the message Err-176 No Instance of Crime Found Searching . He tried fiddling with the report—changed the headline a bit, reversed the order of the detectives on it—and resubmitted it. The report was rejected once again, this time due to Err-239 Invalid Detective . Well, that was just rude.
He groaned and turned around. “So,” he said. “Tell me about that murder you’re investigating.”
Hannah was having trouble concentrating. She’d been awake for twenty-four hours, and even a river of coffee could barely stave off sleep by this point. She was trying to detail the facts of the case to Jacob, but she kept mixing up the names, times, and facts. Jacob’s blue eyes were full of confusion as he tried to untangle the mess.
“No,” she said. “Fizz was just the bartender’s nickname. His real name is, uh… Theodore.”
“And who is Damion Cosmatos again?” Jacob asked.
“He’s the victim’s… Hang on,” Hannah blinked and rubbed her eyes as she checked her notes. “Damion? Uh… Oh! He’s the taxi driver.”
“The one you called for Fizz?”
“No, the one who witnessed the suspect escaping.” Her voice was on edge. She knew she was explaining it badly, but she still felt irritated that Jacob wasn’t even trying to telepathically understand what she was trying to say.
“Good morning,” Mitchell Lonnie said, walking into the squad.
“Hey, Mitchell,” Hannah said, her heart jumping, or plunging. Perhaps both. She forced herself to meet his eyes and smile calmly as she said, “I’m just filling Jacob in about a murder case we caught last night.”
Mitchell and Hannah had joined the force together. She’d been promoted to detective before him, but he’d followed her only two months later. They’d gotten along nicely until her screwup in the Jovan Stokes case. Mitchell had reacted badly, snapping at her, and they’d hardly talked for weeks afterward, even though he had apologized several times. Though she had forgiven him, it was harder to forgive herself, and she was never entirely comfortable when he was around.
Mitchell had thick, wavy black hair, tanned skin, and wide shoulders. Like his sister Tanessa, Mitchell turned heads wherever he went, and Hannah had seen women act like fools in front of him more than once. His green eyes always seemed full of sorrow, giving him the aura of a man who understood people’s pain.
“Okay,” Mitchell said. He joined them, bending over her notes, his head nearly touching hers. “What do we have?”
His aftershave reminded Hannah of freshly cut wood and cloves. There was a note to it she couldn’t quite place. Sandalwood, maybe.
She tried to ignore his close proximity as she once again detailed the murder of Frank Gulliepe. “We have patrol officers watching Chad Grimes’s house in case he gets back,” she said. “He seems to be the primary suspect right now.”
“What about his family?” Mitchell
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