Despite the stink, Perez’s face stayed utterly impassive. He waited while Zach opened the locker, contemplated the rotting creature inside and said, “I want pictures.”
“Fine.” Zach slammed the locker again. “Looks like I’ll be a little late getting out on patrol.”
“You shouldn’t have to clean it up,” Perez said, sounding more human.
“Yeah? Who’s going to? Andrew Hayes?” Anger vibrated in Zach’s voice.
The sergeant grimaced.
“I’ll do it,” Zach said shortly, “once there’s documentation.”
Turned out Perez was pretty good with a camera. Zach wondered if he was afraid something would happen to those pictures for some mysterious reason if an evidence technician took them. Everyone was subject to pressure.
Zach snapped on latex gloves and grabbed a couple of plastic garbage bags.
He was bending over to slide one of them around the carcass, gagging despite his determination not to, when behind him someone said sharply, “Son of a bitch!”
Zach recognized the voice. He turned slowly to see his brother, obviously breathing through his mouth. Zach stepped to one side and gestured with a flourish.
Bran’s expression hardened.
Seeing his distaste improved Zach’s mood marginally. At least his brother hadn’t been part of this.
“Lucky you got here in time to view the latest warning,” Zach said, turning back to his task.
By the time he got the damn thing in the bag, he was swallowing bile. Mumbling obscenities beneath his breath, he was surprised to turn to find Bran standing at his elbow, holding out a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle.
Zach nodded his thanks and went to work scrubbing. Finally done, he wordlessly carried the whole mess, double-bagged, out to the Dumpster. When he returned, Bran was waiting, leaning with one shoulder against a locker. He didn’t say anything as Zach took everything out of his locker and closed it.
Then Zach said grimly, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to work.”
He hoped the vile stench hung around for days. He’d made a decision: he wouldn’t be using a locker again.
* * *
BRAN WAS PLENTY pissed when he stalked into the detective bullpen. The simmer heated to a full, rolling boil when he saw a smirking Rich Delancy leaning back in his desk chair, feet stacked on his desk, hands clasped behind his head. “You might want to avoid the locker room,” he suggested.
“Been there.” Bran stopped right beside Delancy’s desk. “Was there something funny about it I missed?” he asked coldly.
“Where’s your sense of humor? You know that saying about payback being sweet?” The idiot laughed. “Sometimes it stinks to the high heavens.”
In a quick, violent motion, Bran knocked the bastard’s feet off the desk. Delancy’s chair fell backward, thumping against the desk behind him.
He roared to his feet. “What the—?”
Another detective jumped up. “Cool off! For God’s sake, we don’t brawl on the job.”
Bran speared him with an icy look. “Usually we don’t commit murder on the job, either, and assume we’ll get away with it because, hey, we’re all good ol’ boys, aren’t we?”
Neither of the two men he was facing moved. Out of the corner of his eye, Bran was aware that their lieutenant had stepped out of his office.
The smart thing would be to go sit at his desk. He didn’t know the man his little brother had become well enough to step out on a limb for him. His brain was telling him to think this through before he shot off his mouth any more than he already had.
Maybe the sickening taste in his mouth left from the fetid odor in the locker room had short-circuited his common sense. He didn’t know. Because he kept staring hard at Rich Delancy, his fingers curled into fists. “Have you ever really looked at my face?”
His fellow detective’s complete bafflement was obvious. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe I should say, ‘Have you taken a good look at Deputy Carter’s face?’”
The transformation in Delancy’s expression was slow but shock did arrive. “Hell. Are you trying to tell us...you’re related?”