Uriah had been forced to move on, and Jude Fontaine was once again a cold case. Failed her again.
Ortega eyed him thoughtfully. “Thousand-yard stare? You could be describing yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
Ortega shrugged in disagreement and returned to the bigger issue. “We might be a city in crisis,” she said, “but we owe it to the residents to do our best. If we all do our parts, we can get back on our feet.”
The chief thought they’d recover. Thought they could hit the “Reset” button. Uriah was beginning to think otherwise. People had reached a tipping point, and the city no longer felt safe. How did you recover from that? People, even good cops, were moving away from the area, and Uriah couldn’t blame them. What Ortega hadn’t said, and something that was probably closer to the truth, was that they had to take help where they could get it, even if it meant Fontaine.
Ortega glanced across the open floor plan that was Homicide. “Here she is.” A warning. Act normal. Act like we haven’t been talking about her.
Fontaine’s height always surprised him. She was tall, lean, wearing clothing more appropriate for undercover work—jeans, an ancient leather motorcycle jacket—and carrying a black helmet. Apparently she’d checked the motorcycle off her to-do list.
“I like to be out in the open,” she explained.
Had she read his mind, or was he getting too damn transparent?
She tucked the helmet under her arm and offered more information. “I like to feel the sun and the wind.”
Three years was a lot of sun and wind to catch up on.
He’d heard she was living in what some dramatically referred to as the crime zone—an area southeast of downtown in a neighborhood that had once been on the rebound but now, thanks to the blackouts and an increase in crime, was in need of new blood and revival. Something the mayor was working on, but his promises were beginning to sound more hollow all the time. Decent citizens were leaving. Criminals were staying. And then there were the people like him and Fontaine, the ones who probably had nowhere else to go.
But she wouldn’t be around long. He’d give her a week, tops.
CHAPTER 9
W hile the disapproving shadow that was Uriah Ashby loomed nearby, Jude shook hands with Chief Ortega and thanked the woman for letting her return on a trial basis.
“Good luck on your first day back,” Chief Ortega said. “Take it slow. Communicate with me. Keep me in the loop.” Pausing on the way to her office, she said, “And remember. Even though you two are partners, Detective Ashby is in charge.”
Having her assigned as his partner had to be his worst nightmare. The old Jude would have thought the whole thing funny since no one had been more adamantly against her return than Ashby. In the past, she would have immediately set about proving him wrong. Today’s Jude accepted the pairing without feeling the need to prove anything to anybody.
“You can have that spot.” Ashby pointed to a gray metal desk tucked away in a corner. The location was probably meant to be some form of punishment or an insult, but she wouldn’t have wanted her old desk in the middle of a sea of people.
As she moved toward the corner, he continued: “Just got a report of a female body found floating in Lake of the Isles.”
So much for taking it slow. He was testing her. A body before she’d as much as put a notebook or paper clip away.
“It’s in a high-crime zone,” he added.
“I’m not afraid of high-crime zones.” Something told her this wasn’t news to him. She settled the helmet on her desk and attached her badge to her belt. Turning back to him, she said, “I live in a high-crime zone.”
“Is that wise?”
“I need space. Skyway living isn’t for me.” She couldn’t imagine herself in some glass-enclosed human Habitrail even if the elevated walkways did connect most of the downtown buildings. “Suburban living isn’t for me either.”
“So you’d rather
Ortega eyed him thoughtfully. “Thousand-yard stare? You could be describing yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
Ortega shrugged in disagreement and returned to the bigger issue. “We might be a city in crisis,” she said, “but we owe it to the residents to do our best. If we all do our parts, we can get back on our feet.”
The chief thought they’d recover. Thought they could hit the “Reset” button. Uriah was beginning to think otherwise. People had reached a tipping point, and the city no longer felt safe. How did you recover from that? People, even good cops, were moving away from the area, and Uriah couldn’t blame them. What Ortega hadn’t said, and something that was probably closer to the truth, was that they had to take help where they could get it, even if it meant Fontaine.
Ortega glanced across the open floor plan that was Homicide. “Here she is.” A warning. Act normal. Act like we haven’t been talking about her.
Fontaine’s height always surprised him. She was tall, lean, wearing clothing more appropriate for undercover work—jeans, an ancient leather motorcycle jacket—and carrying a black helmet. Apparently she’d checked the motorcycle off her to-do list.
“I like to be out in the open,” she explained.
Had she read his mind, or was he getting too damn transparent?
She tucked the helmet under her arm and offered more information. “I like to feel the sun and the wind.”
Three years was a lot of sun and wind to catch up on.
He’d heard she was living in what some dramatically referred to as the crime zone—an area southeast of downtown in a neighborhood that had once been on the rebound but now, thanks to the blackouts and an increase in crime, was in need of new blood and revival. Something the mayor was working on, but his promises were beginning to sound more hollow all the time. Decent citizens were leaving. Criminals were staying. And then there were the people like him and Fontaine, the ones who probably had nowhere else to go.
But she wouldn’t be around long. He’d give her a week, tops.
CHAPTER 9
W hile the disapproving shadow that was Uriah Ashby loomed nearby, Jude shook hands with Chief Ortega and thanked the woman for letting her return on a trial basis.
“Good luck on your first day back,” Chief Ortega said. “Take it slow. Communicate with me. Keep me in the loop.” Pausing on the way to her office, she said, “And remember. Even though you two are partners, Detective Ashby is in charge.”
Having her assigned as his partner had to be his worst nightmare. The old Jude would have thought the whole thing funny since no one had been more adamantly against her return than Ashby. In the past, she would have immediately set about proving him wrong. Today’s Jude accepted the pairing without feeling the need to prove anything to anybody.
“You can have that spot.” Ashby pointed to a gray metal desk tucked away in a corner. The location was probably meant to be some form of punishment or an insult, but she wouldn’t have wanted her old desk in the middle of a sea of people.
As she moved toward the corner, he continued: “Just got a report of a female body found floating in Lake of the Isles.”
So much for taking it slow. He was testing her. A body before she’d as much as put a notebook or paper clip away.
“It’s in a high-crime zone,” he added.
“I’m not afraid of high-crime zones.” Something told her this wasn’t news to him. She settled the helmet on her desk and attached her badge to her belt. Turning back to him, she said, “I live in a high-crime zone.”
“Is that wise?”
“I need space. Skyway living isn’t for me.” She couldn’t imagine herself in some glass-enclosed human Habitrail even if the elevated walkways did connect most of the downtown buildings. “Suburban living isn’t for me either.”
“So you’d rather
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