Lieutenant.”
He had already hung up.
I would have to rush home, take a shower, and get down to the Hall fast. Hendricks would be on his way too, and maybe he’d offer me a ride. If not, I’d call a cab.
Alan said, “You have to go.”
“It’s that obvious?” I reminded myself to enjoy the little things, that this guy had actually come over to talk to me. I checked out his black-with-white-trim Kobe high-tops and baggy shorts. Tight shirt. He was all right.
But my internal Bowen clock ticked.
“Yeah,” I said. I pushed my hair back behind my ear. “I do have to run. Wish I could stay.”
“Light up that jumper again.”
I laughed. Complimenting a girl on her game—he could do a lot worse.
“What are you?” He gestured at my phone. “Do you work for a startup? My friends with startups work all the time.”
I started shoving my basketball into my duffle, pushed an arm through a jacket sleeve.
I wanted to ask his number, get it, and run, but being so forward scared off more guys than it didn’t, in my experience.
What was even worse at scaring guys off was the truth of my job.
I drew in my breath and gave it to him straight. “I’m a cop. Homicide.”
“Oh.” His face showed surprise, then tension, then pleasure. I could live with that. Better than the usual scared reaction. “Must be something important then.”
With my jacket on both arms now, I sat to yank my sweatpants up over my Jordans. “It’s a case. So yeah, kind of.”
He turned to check his friends, who appeared to be more interested in shooting buckets than their friend talking to a woman. Maybe I really was becoming one of the guys. That or these were real ballers. I knew there was a reason Alan kept popping into my head. He wasn’t fake; he really had game.
“So, think I can get your number?”
I stopped what I was doing, sweats at midthigh, and looked up. Not my most attractive moment, I’m sure, but I’m not sure he didn’t feel as awkward as I.
I might have giggled, just a little.
I know: Clara Donner, homicide cop, is not supposed to do that, but it happened. It did.
He shrugged. “Maybe we could play ball or something else. Get together for a movie.”
“Even dinner,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s cool too.”
I stood up and showed him my phone, went through the routine where I called him so he had my number. Then I had his too. I’d add his name to it later.
Then he said, “I’m Alan.”
“Clara. Yeah. I remember.” We shook hands. Awkward. I wanted to give him a pound or a knuckle bump, but that’d have been even worse. What I really wanted to do was kiss him. But not yet.
I’d see what happened when he called.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When I got to the Hall, I found Hendricks already waiting for me at his desk, pushing paper around with a pencil. Bowen’s office was dark, blinds drawn.
“Witness in four. So much for us thinking about it, huh?”
“I was surprised it was Bowen who called us.”
Hendricks frowned. “Yeah, well. Bad news travels. You ready for her?”
He handed me the file, and I buzzed through it. Her name was Deborah Szajngarten, and I’d be damned if I’d try to say that out loud. She had walked in off the street about two hours before, talking about Dub, details of the murder scene she couldn’t have faked.
It was strange to actually get a witness, especially one who came in. Maybe that’s what interested Bowen.
“Come on.” Hendricks got up and led me around to the viewing room. We checked out Szajngarten through the two-way glass while she waited. She looked worse for wear, like a seven-month street zombie who’d gotten there in four—and was pissed off we’d kept her waiting.
I felt my adrenaline rise. No need for caffeine now.
“Let’s do this,” I said, and Hendricks led us in.
“Why you got me in here like this?” she asked as soon as we’d opened the door. “I’m not a suspect.” She pointed at the mirror. “Who’s behind there?”
“I apologize,
He had already hung up.
I would have to rush home, take a shower, and get down to the Hall fast. Hendricks would be on his way too, and maybe he’d offer me a ride. If not, I’d call a cab.
Alan said, “You have to go.”
“It’s that obvious?” I reminded myself to enjoy the little things, that this guy had actually come over to talk to me. I checked out his black-with-white-trim Kobe high-tops and baggy shorts. Tight shirt. He was all right.
But my internal Bowen clock ticked.
“Yeah,” I said. I pushed my hair back behind my ear. “I do have to run. Wish I could stay.”
“Light up that jumper again.”
I laughed. Complimenting a girl on her game—he could do a lot worse.
“What are you?” He gestured at my phone. “Do you work for a startup? My friends with startups work all the time.”
I started shoving my basketball into my duffle, pushed an arm through a jacket sleeve.
I wanted to ask his number, get it, and run, but being so forward scared off more guys than it didn’t, in my experience.
What was even worse at scaring guys off was the truth of my job.
I drew in my breath and gave it to him straight. “I’m a cop. Homicide.”
“Oh.” His face showed surprise, then tension, then pleasure. I could live with that. Better than the usual scared reaction. “Must be something important then.”
With my jacket on both arms now, I sat to yank my sweatpants up over my Jordans. “It’s a case. So yeah, kind of.”
He turned to check his friends, who appeared to be more interested in shooting buckets than their friend talking to a woman. Maybe I really was becoming one of the guys. That or these were real ballers. I knew there was a reason Alan kept popping into my head. He wasn’t fake; he really had game.
“So, think I can get your number?”
I stopped what I was doing, sweats at midthigh, and looked up. Not my most attractive moment, I’m sure, but I’m not sure he didn’t feel as awkward as I.
I might have giggled, just a little.
I know: Clara Donner, homicide cop, is not supposed to do that, but it happened. It did.
He shrugged. “Maybe we could play ball or something else. Get together for a movie.”
“Even dinner,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s cool too.”
I stood up and showed him my phone, went through the routine where I called him so he had my number. Then I had his too. I’d add his name to it later.
Then he said, “I’m Alan.”
“Clara. Yeah. I remember.” We shook hands. Awkward. I wanted to give him a pound or a knuckle bump, but that’d have been even worse. What I really wanted to do was kiss him. But not yet.
I’d see what happened when he called.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When I got to the Hall, I found Hendricks already waiting for me at his desk, pushing paper around with a pencil. Bowen’s office was dark, blinds drawn.
“Witness in four. So much for us thinking about it, huh?”
“I was surprised it was Bowen who called us.”
Hendricks frowned. “Yeah, well. Bad news travels. You ready for her?”
He handed me the file, and I buzzed through it. Her name was Deborah Szajngarten, and I’d be damned if I’d try to say that out loud. She had walked in off the street about two hours before, talking about Dub, details of the murder scene she couldn’t have faked.
It was strange to actually get a witness, especially one who came in. Maybe that’s what interested Bowen.
“Come on.” Hendricks got up and led me around to the viewing room. We checked out Szajngarten through the two-way glass while she waited. She looked worse for wear, like a seven-month street zombie who’d gotten there in four—and was pissed off we’d kept her waiting.
I felt my adrenaline rise. No need for caffeine now.
“Let’s do this,” I said, and Hendricks led us in.
“Why you got me in here like this?” she asked as soon as we’d opened the door. “I’m not a suspect.” She pointed at the mirror. “Who’s behind there?”
“I apologize,
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