What have I done?

She disappears into the bar, and I head off shaking my damp leg. Disgusted with her and with myself. My car is parked on the other side of the lot. I get the door open just as the first patrons stream out of the Paragon, glancing left and right for the man who accosted the glitter-eyed girl.

I don’t bother explaining. I couldn’t if I tried. I just leave, knowing one thing for certain.

They won’t let her drive home like that.

CHAPTER 4

About the paperwork. You spend the first hours and days waiting on reports – crime scene, autopsy, results of various tests both standard and specially requested – then suddenly, it all comes flooding in. And you go from not having enough information, building theories on hunches and the thinnest observations, to positively drowning in the stuff. Sifting the data for what’s important, that’s a skill not everyone possesses.

Take Lorenz, for instance. He sits in his cubicle, scanning an index finger back and forth over the page. I’ve been watching him for a solid minute. Every couple of seconds he licks his fingertip, turns the page, then nods slowly, as if he’s assimilating an important bit of info. Problem is, assuming our boy Octavio died from the shotgun wounds to his gut, there’s nothing in the standard tox screen that warrants assimilation.

“Something interesting?” I ask.

The funny thing is, he looks up in surprise. Like he didn’t even realize I was watching. So the whole act was for no one’s benefit, unless it’s himself he’s trying to convince.

I reach for the stack of paper at his elbow. “Mind if I – ”

His forearm drops like a gate, blocking my reach. Nice. Lorenz had some muscle on him when he joined HPD, but somewhere along the line he reversed the balance between workouts and red-meat consumption. Now his blue blazer, which he keeps buttoned even when sitting, pulls at the belly and his shoulder pads ride up around his ears. On his lapel there are series of discolorations, spilled milk allowed to encrust, then brushed away without being cleaned. For a homicide detective, this verges on the slovenly.

“I’m kind of busy here, March. If you want to make yourself useful, why don’t you start on those call-backs? A couple of tips came in over the weekend.”

“I already looked. Nothing there. Can I just get the blood report? I want to see if there’s an id on the missing victim.”

“If there even was one,” he says, not budging. “Those ties could have been there forever, you know. There’s nothing linking them to this particular incident, is there?”

“You mean it’s just a big coincidence?” I stroke my chin in consideration. “That’s a fascinating theory. Why don’t you pursue that, and meanwhile I’m gonna stick to the more obvious explanations. Maybe we’ll meet in the middle.”

I’m baiting him, I admit. But to his credit Lorenz doesn’t react. He just gives another of his slow, assimilating nods. Then he flips through his stack of reports, apparently hunting for the blood work. After reaching the bottom, he shrugs.

“Not here yet, I guess.”

“Fine. Thanks for checking. I’m gonna call and see what the delay is.”

As I turn, he grabs me by the sleeve. “Hold up a second. Have a seat.”

I try leaning against the cubicle wall, but he shoves a chair my way and I finally relent. Once I’m seated, he leans forward and starts talking in a quiet, reasonable tone.

“Listen,” he says. “I’m not an idiot. I know what’s at stake here for you. You’re thinking if you can make me look bad, the captain’s gonna keep you around – ”

“It’s not about that.”

“Let me finish. This is a big break for you, I get that. But I’ve been on Homicide for – what, a year? – so this is a big break for me, too. You’re not the only one with something to prove. So we can do this one of two ways. You can back my play, in which case I’ll be sure to throw some bones your way. Or you can turn this into a head-to-head match.” He gives me his best psych-out stare. “In which case you’ll lose.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Trust me. You won’t even finish the game.”

I vacate the chair, giving his oversized shoulder a friendly pat. “All right, then. Why don’t we both just focus on the case? You do your thing and I’ll do mine.”

“That’s not what I’m offering, March,” he calls after me. “The deal is, we both do my thing. This is my investigation. Either we’re clear on that, or we have a problem.”

Halfway to my desk I offer an insincere wave. Reading you loud and clear. My brain says I should try keeping this idiot happy, but my gut wants to throw down. The thing about threats is, people make them out of fear. Either they don’t have the power to follow through, or they don’t want to use it. In this case, Lorenz probably could pull some strings, but he’s smart enough to realize his position is only slightly less precarious than mine. At least I hope he is.

When I reach my desk, I notice Lieutenant Bascombe standing at his office door, peering over the cubicle walls. While I was watching my new partner, the lieutenant must have been keeping an eye on me. Having Lorenz for an adversary doesn’t bother me – I’m not sure I’d want it any other way. But Bascombe’s another story. Once he’s sunk his teeth in, the man doesn’t let go.

When your crime lab has had as much trouble as ours, popping in and out of the news, subject to independent investigation, with the DNA section being shut down, opened, and shut down again, nothing is ever easy. I’m not surprised Lorenz doesn’t have the blood report back yet. We send so much of the work out these days, it’s hard to keep track of where it’s gone, or what the status is.

But listen, this crime lab scandal has only been in the headlines for the past seven years or so. They’re bound to get it sorted any day now. This is the fourth largest city in America we’re talking about, not some backwater jurisdiction without two quarters to rub together.

So instead of making another pointless call to the hpd crime lab, I go to my work-around, dialing the county medical examiner’s office. The music on the other end of the line is quite soothing. I could close my eyes and imagine I’m on an elevator.

“I’m sorry,” a female voice cuts in. “Who were you holding for?”

“Bridger.”

“He’s in the lab, I’m afraid. Could I take a message?”

“I know he’s in the lab. That’s why I’m waiting. Tell him it’s Roland March. He’ll want to talk to me.”

She thinks it over. “Please hold.”

I might have stretched the truth a little saying Dr. Alan Bridger will want to talk to me. I’m pretty sure he won’t. In the history of our friendship, I’ve done him exactly one favor, which he’s returned a thousand times and counting. But it was a pretty big favor, introducing him to Charlotte’s sister Ann. Plus I was the best man at the wedding.

When he comes on the line, eternal gratitude doesn’t seem to be in the forefront of his mind.

“I’m not even going to say this had better be important, because I know it’s not. So can you at least make it quick? The bodies don’t autopsy themselves, you know.”

“You’re in a good mood,” I say.

“That’s why you called, to talk about my mood? I gotta go – ”

“Hold on a second, Alan. I need a favor.”

He coughs into my ear. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? It almost sounded like you said you need a favor, and I know we already had this conversation.”

“It’s about some blood.”

“You have your own people for that.”

“Yeah, in theory we have our own people, but you’re my workaround. And this is serious, Alan. I wouldn’t have dragged you away from your thoracic cavities otherwise.”

“What is it?” he asks, sounding unconvinced.

“That houseful of bodies from Friday. Octavio Morales, Hector Diaz -”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I cut ’em for you. What more do you want?